There was desultory conversation. This farmhouse did not have the cool tiled floor of the other and it was hot and close. Kydd felt an urge to get outside, but not far away, near the waterhole, a field surgeon’s tent had been erected and carts of wounded were arriving, their cries piercing the air. He stayed where he was.
Time dragged. Then a thud of hoofs and a breathless dispatch rider appeared at the doorway. Baird looked up in sudden interest.
‘General, sir!’ the officer acknowledged, extracting a message, which he carried over to Kydd.
It was in Bowden’s young, bold hand. Hurried but precise, it detailed a landing – an unauthorised but successful assault by the Royal Marines under cover of
It seemed they had brought a small gun with them, which they had set up atop the dunes and were firing directly into the encampment. A hurried defence had been improvised but had been beaten back by the marines. At the time of writing, his camp denied him, Janssens was attempting a rally further inland.
Baird met the news with barely concealed delight. ‘He’ll have to act boldly if he’s to preserve his army,’ he said gruffly, ‘but Janssens is a wily old bird. Let’s just see what happens.’
Barely an hour later another rider brought a message from scouts out to the south-east. There was no doubting it: the whole Dutch army was on the move. But not to strike back at the weary British – puzzlingly, they were marching at right angles away to the dry, wild country leading to the interior.
‘That will do,’ Baird said crisply. ‘We advance and occupy Riet Vlei. Gentlemen, we’ll sleep in beds tonight. I’m to set up headquarters where the Dutch commander did, I believe.’
The farm buildings at Riet Vlei were extensive and comfortable. In the glory of a setting sun, camp was established and foraging parties fanned out. As the evening drew in, a most extraordinary odour began to hang on the air. It was a space before Kydd could identify it: roast lamb! For the first time in many weeks they were to be granted fresh meat.
Later, replete, and grateful for the absent farmer’s taste in wines, the officers pondered the enemy’s next moves.
‘Then he’s running, sir?’
‘No, Colonel,’ Baird said thoughtfully. ‘But I fear we’ll hear more of Mr Janssens. No – he’s heading for the Tygerbergs no more than five miles or so off, a thousand feet high and steep. My wager is that he’s to throw up a redoubt there while he gathers strength.’
‘Ah – there we have our dilemma, do we not, sir?’ another interjected. ‘Should we move on Cape Town, he lies in our rear and we cannot face both ways.’
‘So I must go after him? There’ll be no easy storming of the Tygerbergs. And I conceive it would be a fine trap for us, should he be luring us to the reserves he’s concealing there.’
‘Then to invest and storm the castle?’
‘Without I have a siege train? Rather the opposite – recall that the majority of Dutch troops must be in the Castle of Good Hope and may sally against us at any time to reverse their fortunes.’
‘The Navy to lay ruin to it?’
Kydd came back immediately. ‘No! The fortifications are too strong and we’d be under fire from heavy guns the whole time. And to lie off in this westerly . . .’
After an awkward silence around the table Baird slowly and deliberately emptied his glass. ‘Then, gentlemen, I’m presented with a quandary. Quite apart from the French arriving at any time to relieve, where are the provisions and water that will supply my soldiers for a lengthy siege? The nearest friendly territory is to be reckoned in thousands of miles away, I’ll remind you.’
‘Er, may we know what you plan now, sir?’ one ventured.
At first Baird didn’t answer. Then his face closed and he said abruptly, ‘I see no alternative but to go against the castle – and we cannot delay.’
Kydd took in the now-familiar bustle as the hoarse commands of an army on the move filled the morning air. The troops were forming up in disciplined columns to march the final five miles to the gates of the castle. It was a sombre advance: no piping, no good-natured chaffing, just subdued singing in the ranks. Ahead lay a formidable and bloody task: to reduce a powerful fortification and storm it with nothing but bayonets and heroism.
Kydd rode behind Baird at some way back. There was still awkwardness between them after he had stood firm on the impossibility of a seaward bombardment close in. Situated in the crook of Table Bay, the castle had many guns and there were batteries up and down the shoreline; it was only too apparent to Kydd how these could completely dominate the stretch of water opposite.
There was no doubting the general’s imperative to do something about the odds facing his men but what could he offer? And if it came to rescuing a desperate situation Popham would never allow the larger ships in such shallow, crowded conditions. In any event, given the possibility of a sudden appearance by a French battle squadron, his first duty was to remain ready to stand to seaward.
The tramping column passed Riet Vlei lagoon, a reedy mere with clouds of birds rising to dispute their presence. The coastal road was deserted, not a sign of life on either hand, but Baird had a rearguard posted that could give warning of the sudden issuing of Janssens from his mountain retreat, and others far out on the wing to keep watch for the Dutch reinforcements.
The bay curved around, and as they neared their objective, Kydd felt Table Mountain’s huge presence, frowning on their impertinence, the spacious white streets and houses of Cape Town seeming too fair and charming at this distance to contemplate inflicting military horrors upon them. What terror must be going through the minds of the inhabitants at their approach? They would be aware also that, at any moment, the long-expected Dutch reinforcements might appear over the crest of the foothills and they would be caught between two armies.
