Conquest

She rounded to well out of range and let go a bower anchor. They were immediately met with the sight of a large fin lazily cutting through the water towards them: a great shark, thirty feet or more of deadly menace, just below the surface.

Shouts of loathing came from seamen along the deck as the monster disappeared under their keel. The sight struck a chill of horror in Kydd: some years before, in the Caribbean, sharks had attacked his sinking boat.

He fought down the memory and took in the Hollander. Would a ship-of-the-line haul down his flag to a light frigate? He would either strike his colours or make a fight of it; there was no other possibility.

‘Call away my barge, Mr Gilbey.’ As it was put in the water he went below to change into full dress uniform.

The boat, with a white flag prominent, pulled strongly towards the distant ship, but Kydd was conscious that it would be easy to antagonise the proud Dutch, an unwitting remark or perceived slight leading to resentment, gunfire and bloodshed. These were the descendants of the Dutchmen who had laid waste to the Medway in the century before.

As Kydd drew nearer, the ship’s old-fashioned build became clear but it was also evident that this was more like an 80-gun vessel, just as large as Villeneuve’s flagship at Trafalgar. Along the deck-line men were watching their approach. Surely they would not be there if their intention was to repel visitors.

He was hot. The glare of the sun glittered up from the sea, and beat down from the sky, making him itch and sweat.

As they neared the side-steps of the grand old ship, Kydd noted the wonderfully carved work at the rails, the side-galleries and sternwork. It was a standard of ornamentation that would never be seen again in this modern day of utility in a warship. A senior captain in tasselled finery on her quarterdeck bellowed, ‘Ahoj de boot! ’

Standing to let his uniform be recognised, he hailed back. ‘Captain Kydd, His Britannic Majesty’s Frigate L’Aurore. We wish to come aboard!’

‘Niet – keep clear or we fire into you!’

‘I wish to discuss—’

‘There’s nothing to discuss. We’re at war, Captain. I open fire in one minute!’

‘I have news!’ Kydd shouted back importantly.

There was a pause. ‘One only to come aboard.’

Punctiliously the boat rounded the great stern where ‘Bato’ was etched in an arch of gold letters on the lower transom. Poulden glided to a stop one inch from the side-steps and Kydd stepped across, noting on the dark hull below the surface long streamers of weed swirling in the current. This ship was sailing nowhere.

Kydd broke into the stillness of the upper deck and, removing his hat as he appeared, bowed to Bato’s haughty commander. ‘Sir, I’m commanded by the governor of Cape Town to enquire your readiness to quit this ship and turn her over to us—’

‘This is your news? A rank impertinence, sir!’

‘Here are my orders,’ Kydd said, handing over a carefully worded document telling of the surrender and enjoining him peacefully to relieve outlying commanders, signed by Baird. A similar one in Dutch was signed by Baron Prophalow, lately commandant of the castle and town.

The man scanned them quickly, then snorted angrily. ‘Zottenklap! This talks of the castle commandant signing away a naval ship. He has no jurisdiction over the Batavian Navy and therefore this is worthless.’

‘It does state, sir, “the defences of Cape Town and all appurtenances thereto”—’

‘You mean to apply that kletspraat to the capitulation of a line-of-battle ship? When our army has suffered but a temporary reverse and its general places his trust in our loyalty? Do you take us for poltroons, sir?’ the captain spat, his colour rising.

‘Not at all, sir,’ Kydd said hastily. ‘It is rather that I deplore the violence and bloodshed that must result from a misunderstanding. Should I not make myself plain, then I have failed my commodore – who is in possession of a squadron of ships-of-the-line – and unfortunate consequences must surely follow.’

From the exchanged glances Kydd knew the implication was well taken. ‘Should you concur,’ he continued smoothly, ‘then, naturally, the honours of war shall o’ course be accorded you in respect to the long traditions of your gallant navy and—’

‘You presume too much, sir!’ the captain snarled. ‘Get off this ship – now!’

‘Sir, if you would—’

‘Now!’

Kydd drew himself up and bowed. ‘Then I am obliged to point out that it is my duty to convey your . . . views to my commodore and the matter will be taken out of my hands. Sir, I beg you will reconsider, if only for the sake of the brave men who must soon die.’

The expression was stony and he went on doggedly with the only card he had left to play. ‘I’ll take my leave, sir, but shall delay my return to the commodore for the space of one hour.’

He paused significantly, looking about the other officers on the quarterdeck, then turned quickly and left. There was a chance that, even given their proud history, he would relent under pressure from the crew, hearing of a squadron of feared Royal Navy battleships nearby.

The passage back gave Kydd time to think. It was a hollow threat he had made: Popham would not take kindly to a request to deal with a situation that should have been resolved diplomatically, that risked his valuable fleet assets with damage that could never be repaired in this distant outpost. In fact, it was most unlikely that he would quit his station directly off Cape Town at this critical time.