Conquest

The swell urged them inshore with dismaying rapidity. Kydd glanced at Poulden at the tiller; unusually, his calm features were set in a frown. It was a delicate judgement in seamanship: wind abaft, the swell translating to white-capped seas driven ever higher as they surged in, and the small jetty with barely a boat’s length to come up to. In this craft it would be lunacy to make a direct approach, the seas only too ready to smash against its pretty but squared-off transom before Kydd could make it to dry land.

He said nothing, letting Poulden make his decision. A hundred yards off, both sails came down at the run and oars thumped into their thole pins. For a moment there was an awkward slewing as the boat lost way before they could find their rhythm, but then Poulden saw his chance and brought the boat round, head to seas.

It was masterly: now the barge was keeping position against the onrushing combers, edging across until it was within oar’s length of the jetty.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Poulden said, trying to work out what was happening ashore.

Any but a lubberly crew would see the need for a rope thrown to bring them in the last few yards but the reception party just stood like statues. ‘I’ll go for’ard,’ Kydd said, finding his way down to the bows, and when Poulden brought them in at an angle, he would be ready for that split-second moment when bow touched jetty.

He saw his chance: he would seize one of the vertical top timbers of the jetty and pull himself over. The bow approached, touched, and he sprang for the upright, heaving up with all his strength. The barge fell away immediately – but suddenly there was a rending crack of old timber and he dropped to his waist in the swash of the next wave.

Energised by anger, he performed a topman’s trick, rotating to let his feet walk up as he hauled in on the sagging timber until he could twist up and on to the ramshackle decking, in the process losing his gold-laced cocked hat to the waves.

He straightened, trying to fix a smile as he faced the five rather quaint-looking soldiers and their elderly officer, who had wisely not ventured out on the old jetty. A moment of mutual incomprehension passed, and then a quavering but jaunty air arose from the fife-player.

Sloshing forward, Kydd approached the little group, the smile still fixed. The officer drew his sword and energetically saluted him, his gaze carefully averted. Without a hat to raise and feeling more than a little mutinous, Kydd bowed shortly.

Knowing that the Batavians and French were allies he declared importantly, ‘Je transmets les salutations de sa majeste le roi George, et les freres neerlandais, felicitations— ’

‘Do you come from the Grand Admiraal Nelson, sir?’ the officer asked abruptly, in English.

Nettled, Kydd ignored the question. ‘I am here to treat with your fort commandant on an important matter. Be so good as to take me to him.’ His wet clothes clung annoyingly.

‘I am he,’ the officer admitted, the sword-point drooping a little. ‘Ritmeester Francken. And these are my men.’

‘Ah. Captain Thomas Kydd, my ship L’Aurore of thirty-two guns,’ he said, indicating the frigate nobly at anchor out in the bay. ‘May we go to your fort to discuss a delicate matter, sir?’

‘We must surrender to you, hein?’ Francken asked politely.

Kydd blinked, then collected himself. ‘Er, shall we go to the fort?’

‘Het spijt – and it’s not fit for such as you, sir,’ Francken said admiringly.

Kydd took his arm and propelled him away from the gaping onlookers. ‘You’ve heard of Blaauwberg?’

‘Sadly, yes. The fishermen. Sir, are you sure you’re not sent by Admiraal Nelson at all?’

It was becoming clear. ‘He has other business and asks me to treat with the gallant defenders directly. Sir, do you—’

‘Certainly. But with the conditions.’

‘Sir, you lie helpless under our guns! And you talk of conditions?’

Francken drew himself up. ‘I must insist,’ he said stiffly. ‘Sir – we are a nation of honour! I cannot allow—’

‘Very well. What are these conditions? Be aware that I cannot speak for my commander-in-chief should these terms be adverse to His Majesty’s arms.’

Stubbornly, the officer tried to explain. Eventually Kydd understood. He excused himself and went once more to the jetty. ‘One boatkeeper,’ he bellowed to his barge laying off. ‘The rest to step ashore.’ A shame-faced urchin came up with his sodden hat, retrieved from the breakers, which he shook and clapped on, glowering.

The boat’s crew scrambled up and assembled behind Kydd. He bowed to the officer and turned to address his bewildered men. ‘Stand up straight, y’ scurvy villains!’ he growled. ‘We’re about to take a surrender from the Dutch but he’s insisting on a good show in front of the locals. We’ve no Jollies right now so you’ll have to do.’

Stirk caught on quickest and wasted no time in hurrying out to take charge as ‘sergeant’.

‘Stan’ to attention!’ he roared hoarsely, glaring at them.

They obeyed with enthusiasm, if in highly individual poses. ‘Belay that, Toby!’ Poulden blurted in dismay. ‘I’m cox’n an’ it’s me as—’

‘Silence in th’ ranks!’ Stirk ordered gleefully, then twirled about and knuckled his forehead to Kydd. ‘Surrender party ready f’r inspection, sir!’

So it was that grave military courtesies were exchanged that marked the reluctant yielding by one to the overbearing forces of the other, and while Kydd and Francken solemnly conferred, the barge was sent back with orders for the ship.

On the flagpole at the landing place, the Batavian flag descended as a gun salute thudded out importantly from