It was astounding: arrow-straight for the enemy’s vitals and still no gunfire, only the gentle whisper of wind in the sails, the familiar creaking and slatting to be heard in any ship under sail, and ahead the entrance broadening.
A sudden thud – the white of a discharge from the fort rose and swelled in the light airs. The ships stood on. Two more from the casemates. Did they not see the flags of truce? If so, they were ignoring them. Then an uneven firing came on, which hid the fort in roiling gunsmoke.
They had engaged too soon! In the time of reloading the four ships were up with the entrance and then inside, insanely close to the fort, with the town slipping by closer than Portsmouth Point.
Then the light morning breeze hesitated – and backed into the north. Instantly the moment became fraught with peril. Headed by a foul wind, the ships slowed and began to yaw. It was the worst of luck, and Kydd’s mind raced as he tried to think how Brisbane could retrieve their predicament. No complex signals were possible in the rapidly changing circumstances and it was inconceivable that four ships in the tight space could back away now.
Then, as if relenting, the winds veered back to the east and they took up again on their perilous course.
There was a burst of musket fire from the left side as soldiers ran up, and then they were past, heading for the anchored thirty-six. Aboard there was frantic activity on her deck. Men boiled up from below but stopped, paralysed with fear at the sight of the heavy frigate about to pass by her stern to smash in a pulverising broadside. But she did not, for the flag of truce was still flying and not a single shot had been fired from any British ship.
Arethusa’s helm went over and in the same instant her anchor plunged down and she slewed about, her bowsprit crazily jutting over the little seawall and path, pointing directly into the town. By now gunfire had broken out generally in a bewildering chaos of noise and powder-smoke.
L’Aurore followed and, passing Arethusa, did the same, clearing the way for Anson to take position mid-channel. Peering back through the rolling smoke it looked as if Fisgard had taken the ground with the foul wind and was swinging across the water but then she broke free and, as planned, heaved to ready.
Kydd saw that something was going on in Arethusa. A group of officers were clustered around the capstan as Brisbane conspicuously bent to a task: the air was filling with the whip and slam of shot, but he was writing. He finished, folded a note and handed it to a midshipman with a strip of white cloth pinned around his hat.
The brave lad tumbled into the gig and under a large white flag was pulled frantically to a landing place at the Waaigat, a side-water for small craft. Kydd gave a grim smile: Brisbane was giving them chance of surrender before broadsides at point-blank range devastated the town. It was a terrible risk, though, for at any time the Dutch artillery could arrive to smash the ships to ruin.
There was no slackening in the gunfire from the shore and first one then another man fell in Arethusa, and L’Aurore took her first casualty, a fo’c’sle hand, Timmins, who dropped into a motionless huddle.
Kydd felt anger rise. Then the midshipman came into view and scrambled up the side to report to Brisbane.
The white flag at the masthead soon whipped down and Arethusa’s boats were in the water, striking towards the stunned thirty-six, Brisbane waving his sword like a madman.
‘Boarders, awaaaay!’ Kydd roared, and stood aside as men raced to take up their weapons and man the boats. Gilbey seemed to have been infected with the same frenzy and, with drawn blade, bellowed warlike curses at them while they stretched out to take the enemy from the other side. The gloves were off now.
In minutes it was all over in the thirty-six, and Brisbane himself hauled down its colours.
With rising feeling Kydd looked around. Anson had sent boats, which were now alongside the corvette, and fighting was taking place on its upper deck. There could be only one outcome there.
‘Stand to, the stormers!’ he called. It had to be soon or not at all: the enemy could not be given time to bring up forces in mass.
Then he saw what he had been waiting for: Brisbane had taken boat and the men bent to their oars to head for the jetty followed by his other boats.
‘Flying column, away!’ he roared. ‘Mr Curzon, warp alongside the thirty-six and take possession. Stormers, away!’
Kydd took the tiller of his boat as it filled. This was the vital flying column that had to succeed. Beside him a set-faced Renzi sat. Kydd grinned at him and ordered the boat to bear away inshore, bellowing at them as he, too, was caught up in the excitement.
The zing and smack of musketry was all about them but Kydd, with a storm of emotion, had seen that every one of the frigate captains was now in a boat heading in. He waved his sword aloft in a crazy show and saw them all return the gesture.