“Not unless one calls wood fences impediments, sir,” Lewrie assured them all.
“At any rate, our sudden appearance just out of range of their heavy guns will give them no time to prepare against us,” Commodore Popham idly dismissed. “We bring the fleet to anchor … well, here,” he said, tapping a finger just West of Robben Island at the Nor’west end of Table Bay, “sort ourselves out, and begin landing the cavalry and the regiments of the Light Brigade of Foot in either Saldanha or Blaauwberg Bay a day or two later, the winds and surf allowing, we’ll be at their throats before they know it! Forewarned even a week, the Dutch would still have too little time to prepare fortifications for a siege of Cape Town.”
“Their key defences are the two fortresses, though, Commodore Popham,” Beresford hesitantly pointed out. “Is the officer in command of their forces the cautious sort, he may not wish to stray too far from their reach.”
“Then he will be lost,” Baird countered, scoffing. “Where we face the worst peril is upon the beaches, or just behind them in the hills. Counter us there, and he could delay our advance to a crawl, and a series of head-on assaults from one advantageous point of terrain to the next, especially did he deny us a crossing of the Salt River. No, Beresford, I still say their general, whoever he is, will and must meet us in the open. The Cape Colony is too large an area to be defended by infantry alone. I expect that the Dutch will have more horse than we may field, so he will possess the advantages of rapid mobility, and only a pluperfect fool would throw that edge away.”
Christ, a soldier with a brain in his head! Lewrie thought with admiration for Baird; Now there’s a rare bird!
“And, what part will Reliant and I play, sir?” Lewrie asked of Popham.
“Admiral Villeneuve and his huge fleet may be destroyed, do we believe your news, Captain Lewrie,” Popham quickly told him, with a grin, “but the French still have more than enough ships in the Indian Ocean, prowling this side of the Cape of Good Hope. ’Til we have established a firm lodgement ashore, we must keep one eye peeled seaward against their interference. Your Reliant, Leda, and Narcissus, I will keep mobile, cruising close ashore, perhaps to provide some fire support against any Dutch batteries, but still able to sortie should any French warships turn up … to protect the transports.”
“’Til we may shift them deeper into Table Bay, sir? But, what should I be doing after that?” Lewrie pressed. “If I was sent along to share my experiences ashore—”
“There is that, Commodore Popham,” General Baird said. “If there is a threat from the French, your larger ships would be more than a match to any of their frigates, hmm? Captain Lewrie here might prove to be useful and informative ashore.”
“It’ll be Navy boats that get your troops to the beaches, sir, and to sort out the cavalry, artillery, and supplies,” Lewrie quickly suggested. “I could bring along my Marines, and an equal number of armed sailors, say … eighty or so, in all. If the French show up, my First Officer is more than capable of fighting my ship for me.”
“And, your own Flag-Captain, Captain Downman, you have already assigned the role of supervising naval co-ordination of the landing, sir,” Baird added. “Indeed, let’s bring Lewrie ashore with us.”
“It will be as you say, Sir David,” Popham consented. “Well, gentlemen. Now that’s settled, let us have a ‘stirrup cup’, as it were, to bid Captain Lewrie a safe return to his ship!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Christmas came and went, with raisin duffs for each eight-man mess, and a “Splicing of The Main-Brace” issue of grog, to celebrate, minus the wilder rites of civilians, and no Lord of Mis-Rule leading a ravening pack of carolers to barge into houses and demand dinner and drink from their betters. Very quietly the next morning, Boxing Day was observed, with minor gifts for stewards and servants in the Midshipmens’ and officers’ messes, and in Lewrie’s great-cabins.
The great-cabins were also the site of the New Year’s Eve supper for the officers, with as grand a repast as could be concocted after several months on-passage, livened by music and song, and a flowing bowl of punch which had to be refilled twice over.
The First of January of 1806 the next morning was welcomed with yet another “Splice The Main-Brace” and a day of “Make And Mend” idleness for all hands, beyond necessary ship’s work. With Reliant and the invasion convoy now below the 30th Meridian, and hundreds of miles out to sea from the shores of Africa, the temperatures were once more bearable, as was the glare of the sun. Many sailors went bare-chested and hatless as they sewed to repair or alter their clothes, wrote letters or had them written by more literate mates, read books or months-old newspapers, worked small-stuff twine to fashion rings, bracelets, and lanyards for their personal knives, or more complicated brooches that they hoped to have sewn on distant loves’ gowns, someday. Some carved rock-hard salt-meat into snuff boxes, or combs. And, many “caulked”, seizing the rare opportunity to sleep without disturbance beyond their few hours off-watch in their hammocks below.
* * *
“It is now official,” Sailing Master Caldwell declared after he lowered his sextant and scribbled his sums on a scrap of paper. “May I now wish you all a Happy New Year, sirs.”
“Ehm … would the new year actually have started at Eight Bells of the Night Watch, sir?” Midshipman Shannon piped up.
“For landlubbers, aye, Mister Shannon,” Caldwell grudgingly allowed. “For them, the last stroke of midnight would do, along with all the church bells, but … the ship’s day begins at Noon Sights. Happy New Year, Captain Lewrie.”
“And the same to you, Mister Caldwell,” Lewrie answered, admittedly a trifle blearily. His supper party the evening before had polished off a round dozen bottles of various wines, two massive bowls of punch heavily laced with rum, gin, some precious champagne, and great sloshes of his personal store of aged American bourbon whisky, and it had taken a hard look and a long try to rouse himself when wakened at 4 A.M. at the change of watch. There were some bohemian types and young sprogs of the sporting set who wore coloured glasses, and today Lewrie wished that he had a pair, for the bright and lovely day was painful on his eyes, and enflamed the dull headache that throbbed behind them.
I do b’lieve a passionate kiss, or a cold breakfast, might kill me, he told himself in moody misery, stifling yet another belch from his dicey stomach. All he wished was a very quiet few hours below in the relative silence, and dimness, of his cabins ’til sundown.
“I reckon us to be here, sirs,” Caldwell happily babbled on, “and am most pleased that most of the younkers’ reckonings agree with me.” He cast a chary eye upon Shannon. “We are actually a bit Sou’west of the Cape of Good Hope, and still on larboard tack. Almost in the latitudes of the prevailing Westerlies, hmm.”
“Do any of you young fellows have an explanation why Commodore Popham would lead us so broad?” Lt. Westcott posed to the Mids.
“Well, sir, sailing this far South, perhaps he intends to fetch the North-most fringes of the Westerlies,” Midshipman Eldridge said. “In that way, we could approach the Cape below it, then alter course and sail up to Cape Town and Table Bay on the Sou’east winds, from a quarter which the Dutch would not expect.”
“The Commodore is a very clever fellow,” Midshipman Rossyngton quickly agreed. “Why, the Dutch might even take us for a large French trade making its way to Europe from their Indian Ocean possessions!”
“Did we continue our slow approach from the North, they would spot us and be on the alert for days, else,” Midshipman Munsell speculated. “But, coming from the South, we’d be on the Cape, and along the shore, as quick as one could say ‘Knife’! Right into Table Bay in the middle of their dinners! Catch them with their breeches down!”
“Not into Table Bay itself, no,” Lewrie grumbled. “Can anyone tell me why? No? Pray do refer to the other chart.”
Once rolled out and pinned to the traverse board, Lewrie jabbed a finger at several features depicted, saying nothing,
and leaving it for the Mids to figure out.
“Ehm … there are those two forts,” Midshipman Grainger shyly said. “Fortresses, really, especially this one on the West side of Cape Town, guarding the seaward approaches.”
“And here, and here?” Lewrie prompted, pointing to the mountains South of the town and the bay. “First, there are the Twelve Apostles along the shore. Above them on the West side of town are the Lion’s Head and the slightly lower Lion’s Rump. South of town is the Tafelberg … ‘Table Mountain’ … and, the lesser mounts of Signal Hill by Green Point, and the Devil’s Peak below Table Mountain’s foot. Any of them are tall enough for any watchers to see twenty miles or more out to sea on a good day, so there’s little chance of catching them with their breeches down. An approach from the South, as it appears that Commodore Popham prefers, might give the Dutch a day less to get ready to resist us, but I doubt they’d take us for a French commercial trade. And why is that, young sirs?”
“That they no longer have any, sir?” Munsell guessed.
“Spot on,” Lt. Westcott said with a laugh. “The French lost all their trade from China and India in the first months of the first war in 1793, and never could revive it, even during the Peace of Amiens. They’ve been driven from their few footholds in India, and only hold naval bases in the middle of the Indian Ocean. The Dutch might expect to see one or two frigates or large privateers coming round the Cape to put into Table Bay for provisions, but not a fleet such as ours.”
“So, even coming from the South, on favourable winds, there’s no chance of surprise,” Midshipman Warburton concluded.
“Well, some surprise, but not a total surprise,” Mr. Caldwell said with a grunt of satisfaction.
“If the fortress on the West of Cape Town commands the way into the Bay, where are we to land the Army, then, sir?” Midshipman Shannon hesitantly asked, his head laid over to one side in puzzlement.
“North of Robben Island, on the Nor’west side of Table Bay, Commodore Popham favours either Saldanha or Blaauwberg Bay. Blaauwberg lies much closer to our objective,” Lewrie told them. “Depending on the wind, weather, and the surf conditions, of course. That’s where we will land General Sir David Baird’s soldiers, God help ’em.”
“They’re rather open to the sea, really,” Grainger pointed out.
“So’s Table Bay, when ye get right down to it,” Lewrie said. “I spent weeks anchored there repairin’ Proteus, and when the winds got up, we did drag a little, even with both bowers and kedge anchor down. And us with no rudder! That’ll keep one up at night!”
“Once Cape Town is taken, sir, might there be a chance for us to go ashore?” Rossyngton asked. “I’d imagine that every Man Jack’d be keen to see the sights.”
“Go for a ride on an ostrich?” Lewrie suggested.
“Oh, surely, sir!” Eldridge hooted, leery of such an implausible notion. Even gullible little Shannon pulled a wary face.
“I’ve seen it done,” Lewrie declared. “S’truth! Not that I did so. But, there’s lashings of fresh water, fresh fruits and vegetables, vineyards everywhere ye look, and the Dutch’ve managed t’produce very good wines … whites, mostly. Their red wines are fine if drunk here, but they don’t travel well. And, bein’ Dutch and all, their beers are hellish-good. Aye, Mister Rossyngton, I’d imagine that once the Army is successful, we’ll be here awhile, and can land liberty parties for a whole day or so … once the working-parties’ chores are done, mind.”
“Long enough to go hunting and riding, sir? Long enough to see elephants and lions and such?” Shannon enquired, so eager that he seemed to bounce from one foot to the other.
“Well, one’d have t’ride rather far abroad t’see the wildlife,” Lewrie told him. “and I don’t think we could spare you that long. The Dutch have been here for centuries, and have driven most of the lions and all far away from their farms. That’d be like tryin’ t’find bears and stags roamin’ Islington, these days. Elands, kudus, and gnus are still near the settled lands, and you must have at least one meal when ashore. The game meat’s marvellous! I had a chance to shoot a few, when I was here last, and even bagged a rare crocodile. Still have its teeth back home in England. Some say that crocodile tail-meat is as good as chicken, but I found it rather tough.”
“Lord, how many odd creatures’ flesh is compared to chicken!” Lt. Merriman exclaimed. “Snakes and I don’t know what-all. Why can’t we just stick with good old barnyard chicken and have done?”
“One might hope that there is more for us to do than landing the Army and then just waiting round ’til they take the Cape Colony, sir,” Lt. Westcott, ever in search of glory, honour, action, and favourable notice at Admiralty, groused. “Some way to take an active part?”
“And be among the first to encounter any fetching blond-haired Dutch maidens, do you mean, Mister Westcott?” Lt. Merriman teased.
“Well, there is that,” Westcott rejoined with a shrug and one of his brief, almost feral tooth-bearing grins. “Perhaps, sir, when you next meet with the Commodore,” Westcott said to Lewrie, “the offer of our services ashore might be deemed … welcome?”
“Get into some action alongside the Army?” Lt. Simcock, their Marine officer, stuck in with an eager look. He had been drowsing on his feet, drawn to the quarterdeck for the daily Noon Sights for lack of something better to do, but came awake at the prospect of gunfire.
“I will, of course, suggest such to the Commodore, but he and General Baird may think their five thousand men sufficient,” Lewrie told them. “I wouldn’t mind a chance t’do more than sit and twiddle my thumbs, either. Aye, we’ll see, Mister Westcott, Mister Simcock. The Day Watch is set, Mister Merriman? Very good. Carry on with the ‘Make And Mend’ ’til the First Dog. I will be below.”
Payin’ for the sin of inebriation, Lewrie thought, wincing at the twinkling glare of the sun off the wavetops, and wondering if the “hair of the dog” was a legitimate treatment for hangover.
He made it down the windward ladderway to the ship’s waist and tarried to pay attention to Bisquit, who was proud to show off his new collar, which was of red leather with ornate sennet work all round it. The dog put his front paws on Lewrie’s waist and whined for petting, his tail whipping like a pendant in a gale as Lewrie obliged him with head rubs, ear rubs, and soft words of praise.
Two loud thuds erupted from somewhere, taking Lewrie, and his attention, back to the quarterdeck.
“‘General Signal’ with two guns from Diadem, sir!” Midshipman Eldridge was calling out to Lt. Merriman, the Officer of the Watch, with a long telescope to one eye. “It is … ‘Fleet … Will … Alter … Course’. Due East!”
“Bosun Sprague?” Merriman shouted down to the waist. “Do you pipe ‘All Hands’, Mister Sprague. ‘Stations for Wearing About’!” Then he looked to Lewrie, excitement all over his usually jovial countenance. “Huzzah, sir! It is beginning, at last!”
“Indeed it is, Mister Merriman,” Lewrie replied, remembering to play-act stern and stoic, and clasping his hands in the small of his back, and looking up the long line of warships. “I would expect the next order will be to ‘Wear in Succession’. Carry on, sir.”
“Aye aye!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ships’ Masters sailing from Europe to the West Indies fell down to the latitude of Dominica before turning Due West to ride the Trades, for the towering height of Dominica’s mountains could be seen over sixty miles out to sea on good days, a sure sea-mark, and a merchant captain, even one less-skilled at navigation, could count on spotting them and adjusting his course after determining his position.
So it was with the fleet’s first sight of Table Mountain, and the welcome cries of Land Ho on the 3rd of January 1806. It was much closer to the sea than Dominica’s peaks, and nearly 3,600 feet high, a massive, looming blotch on the horizon which first could be mistaken for the thunderheads of a black-hearted and murdering storm. But, as the ships of the expeditionary force slogged on Nor’eas
terly with the prevailing Trades abeam, its solidity became apparent, dark blue-grey and streaked with wisps of clouds streaming past its tops. From that point on, even the most in-experienced helmsman on the wheel, or the cox’n at the tiller of a small boat, could steer for it and be sure of an eventual safe landfall.
An hour or two after Table Mountain had been deemed solid and not an apparition, the signal for “Captain(s) Repair On Board” went up HMS Diadem’s halliards, summoning all naval captains to a conference with Commodore Popham aboard his flagship.
* * *
“Ah, welcome back aboard! Will you take a glass, Lewrie?” the ebullient Popham gaily offered as the other officers gathered. Cabin servants were circulating with coin-silver trays of glasses and white wine, and Popham was turned out in his very best uniform, complete with the sash and star of the Order of The Bath, and he gave Lewrie a quizzical look to note that Lewrie’s everyday uniform coat was bare.
“No matter,” Popham poo-pooed. “You remember Sir David Baird, and Brigadier Beresford and their aides? Uhm, good! Allow me to name to you your fellows … gentlemen, I give you Captain Sir Alan Lewrie of the Reliant frigate. Sir Alan, this is my Flag-Captain, Downman. Josias Rowley, of Raisonnable … George Byng, of Belliqueux; Captain Honyman who has the Leda frigate; Ross Donnelly, of the Narcissus … Commander Joseph Edmonds, Acting-Captain of the old Diomede … and Lieutenants William King and James Talbot, of the Espoir and the Encounter, respectively.”
A burble of “Happy to make your acquaintance”, some nods, and the lifting of glasses in welcome followed Popham’s introductions.
“Stout, canny, and adventurous souls, all, I vow,” Popham said in praise, “and each that eager to be at the Dutch and conquer, ha ha! You will all have taken note of the various charts laid out upon my dining table? Let us gather round it and make our plans.”
Happy as a boy with a jam jar! Lewrie thought, noting Popham’s almost playful demeanour, and eager, forceful motions.
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