Conquest

Should he leave Bato isolated for dealing with later? There were already soldiers heading south to Simon’s Town in a hazardous march to occupy the only pretence at naval facilities in the colony. If they were met by the murderous broadside of a ship-of-the-line . . .

Expectant faces met him in L’Aurore: was there a likelihood of prize money? They were the only ones present and rules on gun money and head money were very clear. Kydd, however, was in no mood to indulge them.

The dilemma was his alone. At the end of the hour, what should he do? Run back to Popham with his tail between his legs – or fight it out? Or wait until dark and perform a daring cutting-out operation? Against an alerted ship-of-the-line?

His thoughts raced, with no solution in sight. He couldn’t talk it over with Gilbey. A captain made his own decisions and this would be seen as a worrying weakness by his first lieutenant.

The deadline approached. Should he give them more time? How much?

Gilbey broke into his thoughts. ‘Some sort of signal, is that, sir?’

Kydd snatched the glass. ‘That’s their national Batavian flag,’ he said peevishly. ‘I’d desire you’ll take the trouble to recognise it in future.’

Something made him linger on the image. Did this mean they were about to open fire? The flag mounted up the main-mast halyards – but at the truck it rested for a moment, then slowly descended to half-mast where it remained. ‘Barge alongside this instant!’ The hoist could have only one meaning: capitulation. His heart leaped.

Kydd took the surrender in the huge old-fashioned great cabin, fighting down exultation. To his knowledge, not even at Trafalgar had a ship-of-the-line struck to a mere frigate. The terms agreed were straightforward enough: colours to be hauled down immediately and unconditionally, in return for the officers and crew to be allowed ashore to await their fate in the Simon’s Town establishment rather than endure confinement aboard. That was most convenient: only a token party from L’Aurore needed to take possession while the crew would be held in custody later by the approaching soldiers.

Kydd allowed the captain his sword in recognition of the fact that the capitulation was force majeure other than an act of war by L’Aurore. That it was the threat of an English battle-squadron in the offing remained unspoken.

Even as they returned to the upper deck, boats were being swung out and manned by Dutch seamen. The captain kept aloof, avoiding Kydd’s eye.

The seamen, dark-tanned and lithe, tumbled into the boats with their sea-bags as if desperate to be quit of the scene, and it wasn’t long before the captain went to the side, turned stiffly and, after a short bow to Kydd, looked up to where the Batavian flag still flew and removed his hat. After a few moments, and without a second glance, he swung over the ship’s side and was gone, leaving Kydd gloriously alone on the quarterdeck.

He savoured the moment, taking in the forlorn disorder about the decks and the odd smell of a Dutch ship, then strode to the side and signalled for his barge. It came alongside and he motioned the rest of the crew aboard. ‘Haul down the colours, Poulden,’ he ordered. His coxswain had an English ensign under his waistcoat and proceeded to bend it on, sending it soaring up.

‘A fine day’s work,’ Kydd pronounced, to the grinning men, ‘as will give you a dog-watch yarn none may beat.’ There were eight altogether. With none of the usual challenges of a new-captured ship – securing prisoners, frantic pumping to keep afloat and the rest – it would be enough.

L’Aurore was under orders to keep off until he returned, in case of a trick, but it didn’t matter for he’d simply leave a couple of hands and, on return, send back more. He smothered a sigh and sent his men to carry out a quick inspection – it would not do to have to rouse out later any drunken and resentful crew who’d remained onboard.

The afternoon sun beamed down, and while he waited, Kydd considered what to do next. To keep men aboard Bato in idleness while L’Aurore sailed away was not the best use of a frigate’s prime seamen. If he delayed for a day or so he could send to Cape Town for guard-duty soldiers, but his orders were for critical haste.

A muffled cry came up the main hatchway – and another. If it was a trap it made no sense: Kydd and his men had been outnumbered before – why wait until now to spring it? Kydd raced over to the hatchway as two of his men burst up from below, horror on their faces.

‘S-Sir! Ship’s afire, sir!’

Over the fore-hatch Kydd saw a shimmering that did not owe itself to noon-day heat. Somewhere below . . . ‘Follow me!’ he roared. The Dutch had fired the ship, but if they moved fast they had a chance. It was worth taking almost any risk – at stake was a ship-of-the-line. The guns alone were . . .

He raced down the fore-hatch. The air below was hot and acrid with resinous smoke from Stockholm tar, which was almost certainly what they had used to start the blaze. It was a sailor’s worst nightmare, but Kydd knew his men were with him. He flew down the steps to the next deck. Now smoke was swirling around him but there were no visible flames.

Was it even further below? The orlop? He made out a flickering orange glow in the gloom forward. Coughing, he plunged into it, tripping on rubbish strewn about the decks, and soon saw a hasty pile of carpenter’s stores – chippings, glue, resin – well alight.

‘The fire engine! Find it ’n’ rig it!’ he shouted hoarsely. Poulden beckoned a seaman and hurried aft. ‘The rest, grab a hammock to smother it – move y’rselves!’

He looked round wildly: there was a roll of old canvas to one side. ‘Get the other corner,’ he spluttered at a seaman, and they drew it clumsily at the fire. It died away for a moment but, choking, they had not managed to aim well and flames began licking out from under the material.

One seaman screamed, the whites of his eyes vivid in the gloom. He fell back, mesmerised. Kydd tried to reposition the canvas but now it was only fuelling the fire.

‘Sir – we found an engine but it was in pieces, like,’ Poulden shouted nervously from behind.

Flames eagerly took to the canvas flaring some old paint encrusted on it and Kydd felt real heat now. The fire engine was wrecked: what else was to hand? He shielded his eyes from the glare, looking about wildly. The cunning Dutch had started the fire low in the ship – a bucket brigade was useless this far down and even a whole crew