Conquest

‘It’s Mossel Bay – you’re takin’ on Hooft.’ His face creased with mirth and he became animated. ‘That rakker Hooft! Not easy, not a-tall. He’s three hund’erd Pandours in that fort – Ndebele, no good. How many men you got in that ship?’

Kydd hesitated to take a stranger into his confidence, especially a country trader like this. But if he didn’t, there could be no move against Hooft.

‘I’m not starting a war with Major Hooft, Mr Bemby. Just a-persuading him is all. My plan is to bring ashore a howitzer – an army gun that throws a shell that explodes where it lands.’

There was a pair in L’Aurore’s hold from the Blaauwberg battle not yet returned to stores and one would make an excellent frightener for troops not expecting it. Stirk and Poulden exchanged knowing glances.

‘Where you take it on land?’ M’Bembe demanded.

‘I thought to come in just before nightfall as if we were watering. There’s that stream by the pier?’

‘Ever’one uses it, this is true.’

‘We sling the gun under a raft of four barrels, wait for dark and, um, get it up on the heights behind the fort ready for daybreak. I take it there’s no guns pointing inland?’ It would be strange if there were.

‘No. A good plan – and will never work.’

‘Oh?’

‘The soldiers will be curious why you water at night. The road to the top, ver’ steep, ver’ long. You never do this in time. An’ peoples will see.’

‘Then we’ll have to—’

‘No, man, we can fix.’ M’Bembe reflected for a moment then said, ‘I like your plan. This what we do.’

The timing was perfect. As the sun went down over Hartenbos peak in Mossel Bay a well-known livestock coaster doused her sails and found a place among the scatter of fishing boats off the beach.

The boat-boys sang cheerfully as they rafted the water-barrels together alongside, then seemed to think better of working into the night and instead set up an awning and lantern on the after-deck for an evening’s conviviality.

As the warm violet dusk faded into night, anyone looking closely might have made out a few figures busy with block and tackle on the opposite side who had not yet joined the party. But before it could get under way there was an irritated bellow from the beach. It seemed that there would be no slacking until the water-casks had been brought ashore ready.

The little double-ended boat was manned, Lieutenant Bowden himself taking an oar and suppressing a giggle at the sight of other L’Aurore seamen disguised in low conical hats, faces and limbs well daubed with galley soot, and muttering under their breath at the indignity.

The raft was ponderous and slow with the weight of the concealed gun but, of course, these were resentful sailors not about to exert themselves unduly and it was pitch dark before the gun grounded and was dragged ashore.

A low curse and a frighteningly loud wooden squealing and jingle of harness came out of the night as the promised ox-wagon came over the sand, animal snorts with the rank smell of the barnyard heavy on the air.

The squat bronze gun was small but heavy; hidden in a square box, it was satisfactorily anonymous. Ropes were brought and it was heaved around to the tail of the cart. More men jumped down to help, their white teeth showing as they grinned in delight at being part of the adventure.

Suddenly two soldiers materialised out of the blackness and asked suspiciously, ‘Wat doen jy?’ All movement ceased.

An easy chuckle came from the drover. ‘Het hulle jou nie vertel nie?’ He sauntered up and held out a packet. The soldiers muttered between themselves, then took it, waving them on before they left.

‘Quick!’ the drover hissed. The gun was heaved into the wagon with nervous energy, the cart settling with a thunderous creak. The boat arrived with the carriage and five heavy bags – shells and charges.

Bowden hauled himself up to the seat next to the drover. ‘How did you—’

‘Gave him bung for Hooft,’ the drover said, lightly cracking his whip over the leading oxen, which stolidly started the wagon in motion.

Curiously he asked, ‘Er, how much did you give him?’

‘A lot – of ol’ paper!’ he chortled. The ox-wagon dipped and swayed as it ground up a steeply sloping road into the night.

Some miles past Mossel Bay L’Aurore came to and anchored in ten fathoms. Kydd was taking a grave risk by stripping the frigate of every last man save a token five; all had a crucial role in a very few hours and to hold back could be fatal.

One by one the ship’s boats pulled ashore, landing the L’Aurore’s at the end of a wide beach, which marked the beginning of the heights above Mossel Bay. Kydd had the men mustered and they set out up a steep track into the African dusk, led by guides, the Royal Marines following and insisting on marching in proper form.

Sweating in the hot night, Kydd was thankful when they reached the top. Following the guides, they swung right and moved out on a turtle-back of high ground. Beneath, the lights of the settlement twinkled, but the massive dark bulk of the fort lay closer.

Now all depended on Bowden’s arrival. It was not until a bare hour before dawn that the unmistakable sound of the ox-wagon intruded into the stillness from the other direction. The men positioned themselves in accordance with orders, hunkered down and out of sight of the fort.