The Flag Captain

14. “a Fearsome place…”

The curving flight of stone steps to the top of the ramparts seemed endless. As Bolitho dashed breathlessly towards the open ledge where smoke still drifted across the stars he was aware of a rising chorus of shouts and cries, the occasional bang of muskets, and above all the urgent blare of a trumpet. Inch’s mortars had fallen silent right on the arranged minute, and but for the careful planning and timing of the attack a further shot from Hekla might well have killed the yelling seamen before they could even reach their first objective.

Below, where the barge had grounded alongside the jetty, Bolitho heard more shouts and bellowed orders as one by one the boats surged through the broken entrance, their crews spilling out into the smoke even before the craft were made fast.

He felt the cooler air on his face as with Allday beside him he found himself on the broad expanse of the main battery. He could see the smaller central tower, the regular crouching shapes of the heavy guns, and darting figures which seemed to come and go from every direction at once.

The Spanish soldiers had at last realised that one deafening explosion which had torn them so violently from their sleep had not been from a mortar. Now, as they hurried from the central tower, they were already firing and reloading as they ran, some of the balls shrieking impotently into the night, while others brought down a running seaman or raised a scream of pain in the deeper shadows by the ramparts.

He shook his sword at Bickford, as with his own party of men he blundered up the steps and almost fell across two interlocked corpses.

“The tower! Fast as you can!”

Bickford did not answer, but ran desperately across the open

space, his mouth like a black hole in his face as he yelled at his men to follow.

Bolitho halted and peered towards the steps. Where was Lucey? He should be here by now to help attack and seize the deep courtyard on the opposite side of the lower fortress. Shots cracked and flashed against the inner wall, and he heard steel clashing on steel, interspersed with short, desperate cries and curses.

Allday shouted, “The guardboat’s followed them in, Captain!” He gestured with his cutlass through a deep embrasure. “Mr Lucey’s lads are closing with them!”

Some of Lucey’s men were already running up the steps, while others were still locked in close combat with the guardboat’s crew across the jetty and out of sight below the wall.

Someone gave a hoarse cheer, and Bolitho saw another low shape edging through the breach, and heard Allday say fervently, “’Tis the gig, and not a blasted moment too soon!”

The additional weight of attackers was enough for the guard-boat, and caught between two prongs of the attack they started to throw down their arms, their voices almost drowned by the jubilant cheers from the seamen.

But that one delay caused by the guardboat’s unexpected appearance had cost Bolitho the precious minutes needed to reach the other stairway which led to the courtyard. Even as he waved his men forward he saw a serried line of musket flashes, heard the thud of a ball smashing into muscle and bone and screams on both sides of him.

The seamen hesitated, some pausing on the steps even though pushed forward by those from the boats behind them.

Bolitho rasped, “Come on, Allday! Now or never!”

Allday brandished his cutlass and bellowed, “Right, lads! Let’s open the door to the bloody bullocks!”

Once again they lunged forward. Beside Bolitho a man shrieked and toppled to the ground, his neck impaled by a musket ramrod.

The soldier must have been so confused by the swiftness of the attack that he had failed to withdraw it after reloading.

All at once there seemed to be figures striking forward from every angle. The next instant they were locked steel on steel. As men reeled and kicked in the darkness, or fell on the blood of their comrades, Bolitho saw a Spanish officer hack down a screaming sailor and run towards him. Bolitho tugged a pistol from his belt and fired. In the bright flash he saw the top of the officer’s skull blasted away to spatter the wall behind him with bloody fragments.

Lucey ran past him, sobbing violently, his jaw clenched as he was carried forward by the wild mob of seamen.

Allday shouted, “There are the steps!” He swung his cutlass at a man kneeling by the wall. He could have been reloading his musket or using it as a crutch because of a wound. He dropped dead without even a whimper.

There was a lantern burning in the lower courtyard, and as they ran or fell down the steep steps Bolitho saw another force of soldiers already forming into line to resist them. Some of them were only partly dressed, others were covered with dust and chippings from the mortar’s bombardment, like workers in a flour mill.

An officer dropped his sword and a loud volley banged out from the wavering muskets. A few seamen fell dead or wounded, but the enemy’s aim had been bad, and they had no time for a further attempt.

Again it was hand to hand, with blood splashing victor and vanquished alike, with no thought or hope but that of killing and staying alive.

From a corner of his eye Bolitho saw Midshipman Dunstan, who had commanded the gig, leading his party round the curve of the wall towards the massive double gates. A soldier darted towards him and aimed a pistol at point-blank range. But it was a misfire, and before the luckless Spaniard could fall back again

he was hacked down by a burly gunner’s mate, and received several more cuts from the other yelling seamen as they scurried past.

Allday said between breaths, “Look, Captain! Mr Bickford’s taken the inner tower!” His teeth were white in his face as he pointed upward, and Bolitho saw someone waving a lantern from side to side from the upper rampart where only hours before the Spanish flag had appeared to mock them.

At that moment the gates were flung open, and as Bolitho ran across the uneven courtyard he realised with sudden shock there was nothing beyond them.

Allday said, “Jesus, where are the bloody bullocks?”

More soldiers were running from another gate at the foot of the inner wall, and at a shouted command opened fire across the front of their scattered comrades. Then, fixing bayonets they doubled forward towards the invaders.

Bolitho held his sword in the air. “Stand fast, my lads!” His voice brought the men round to face the new threat, and he was amazed how steady he sounded. Yet his mind was reeling and grappling with the realisation that Giffard’s marines had not arrived, that already his limited force of seamen had been split in two. Bickford held the inner tower, but without the lower garrison and courtyard being seized also he was more prisoner than conqueror.

Snarling and yelling like enraged demons the lines of shadowy figures came together. The seamen with boarding pikes were able to meet the bayonets as equals, but those armed only with cutlasses were already dying, their bloodied corpses held upright in the press of combat.

Bolitho slashed down on a soldier’s neck, saw his face change to a grotesque mask of agony before he was carried past in the swaying, hacking mass of men. Another was trying to reach him with a bayonet across the shoulder of a comrade, but disappeared as a pike found its mark.

But the line was breaking. Even as he pushed his way to the

opposite end of the wavering pattern of seamen he heard a terrible scream and saw Lieutenant Lucey rolling over on his stomach, while a tall trooper stood astride his body with an upraised musket. In the glare from the lantern Bolitho saw the blood gleaming on the bayonet before it went down again with all the force of the man’s arms. Another scream, and even though the soldier had one foot on the lieutenant’s spine he was unable to tear the bayonet free.

And Lucey was still alive, his screams like those of a woman in agony.

Allday gasped, “In God’s name!” Then he was across the small strip of cobbles, his cutlass swinging in a tight arc before the soldier realised what was happening. The heavy blade hit him across the mouth, and Bolitho heard the man’s bubbling cry even above the sound of the cutlass biting through flesh and bone.

But it was no use, any of it. Bolitho dragged his sleeve across his eyes and parried a soldier’s sword away, swinging him around and then driving the blade beneath his armpit. His sword arm was so weighty he could hardly raise it, and with sick despair he saw two pigtailed seamen beyond the gate waving their hands in surrender.

In those brief seconds he saw everything which had brought them here. His own pride, or was it only conceit? All the men who had depended upon him were dead or dying. At best they would end their lives in misery in the Spanish galleys or some rotting prison.

The soldiers paused and then retired to a further shouted command. Leaving the corpses and writhing wounded in the centre of the courtyard they fell back and formed into their original lines, only this time they were reinforced by more Spaniards from the lower fortress.

Bolitho let his sword fall to his side and looked at the remainder of his men. Gasping for breath, clinging to each other for support, they were standing dull-eyed to watch their own execution.

And that is what it would be unless he surrendered at once.

As if from another world he heard a harsh voice bellow, “Front rank kneel!” And for a moment he imagined the Spanish officer was giving his commands in English to add to his misery.

The voice continued, “Take aim!” The order to fire was lost in the blast of muskets, and Bolitho could only stare as the ranks of Spanish soldiers reeled about in disorder under the deadly volley.

Of course, it was Giffard’s voice. He had heard it countless times on the quarterdeck at drills and ceremonial occasions. Giffard, plump, bombastic and pompous. A man who liked nothing better than to show off his marines. As he was doing now.

His voice was like a trumpet, and although hidden by the arched gateway, Bolitho could picture him exactly.

“The marines will advance! By the centre, quick march!”

And then it was all over. Like the passing of a cruel nightmare.

The marines, perfectly dressed as if on parade, their bayonets making a lethal glitter in the lantern light, their crossbelts very bright against the surrounding shadows. Behind them the next rank followed in stiff precision, reloading from their first volley, while Boutwood, the colour-sergeant, beat out the time with his half-pike.

Muskets clattered on the cobbles, and almost gratefully the Spaniards clustered together by the steps, the fight gone out of them.

Giffard stamped his boots together. “Halt!” Then he wheeled round and brought his sword hilt to his nose with a flourish which would have turned the head of King George himself.

It was suddenly very quiet, and once again Bolitho was aware of several vivid details, like parts of a pattern. Giffard’s boots squeaking. The smell of rum on his breath. And a wounded seaman crawling into the circle of lantern light, very slowly, like a broken bird.

Giffard barked, “Beg to report the arrival of my marines, sir!

All present and correct.” The sword came down with a swish. “Request instructions, sir!”

Bolitho looked at him for several seconds. “Thank you, Captain Giffard. But had you left your attack any longer, I am afraid you would have found the gates shut in your face again.”

Giffard turned to watch his lieutenant supervising the prisoners. “Heard the explosions, sir. Saw the musket fire on the ramparts an’ put two an’ two together.” His voice took on a hurt note. “Couldn’t have you taking the fort without my marines, sir. Not after being out in the bloody sun all day, what?”

“You received no message then?”

He shook his head. “None. We did hear musket fire towards the beach, but the whole place is full of skirmishers and damned felons. I had cause to hang one meself in the afternoon. Tiresome fellow was trying to steal our rations!”

Bolitho said quietly, “Lieutenant Calvert should have reached you with news of the attack.”

Giffard shrugged. “Probably ambushed.”

“Probably.” Bolitho tried not to recall Calvert’s fear.

Giffard looked around at the weary, gasping seamen. “But you did very well without our help, it seems, sir.” He grinned. “But you can’t beat a bit o’ discipline and cold steel when it comes to real fighting!”

When Bolitho looked up at the towering wall again he saw that almost every window and slit was alight. There was such a lot to arrange before dawn. He rubbed his eyes and realised the sword was still firmly grasped in his hand. His fingers ached as he slid the blade into the scabbard. Ached as if they would never come free from it.

He said, “Secure the prisoners and have the wounded taken into the lower fortress. Coquette and Hekla will enter the bay at first light, and there is a world of work to do before then.”

Bickford clattered down the steps and touched his hat. “All

resistance finished, sir.” His eyes fell on Lucey’s corpse, the bayonet still upright in his back, as if pinning him to the ground. “God,” he muttered shakily.

“You did well, Mr Bickford.” He walked slowly towards the steps, the tension still within him like the spring of a pistol. “As you are the only lieutenant left…”

Bickford shook his head. “No, sir. Mr Sawle is safe. Your barge picked him up. And Mr Fittock.”

Bolitho turned and looked back at Lucey’s body. It was strange how the Sawles of this world always seemed to survive, when others… He pulled himself from his brooding thoughts and snapped, “See to our wounded and then recall all the boats. I want a close watch kept on the anchored brig in case she tries to escape before daylight!”

“She might be scuttled, sir.”

Bolitho looked at him. “I think not. This is Djafou, Mr Bickford. They have nowhere else to go.”

Something was still keeping him here on the blood-spattered steps when he should be inside the fortress. Meeting the garrison’s commander and attending to countless other details before the squadron returned.

Giffard seemed to have been reading his thoughts. And that was strange too, for Bolitho had never given him credit for having any imagination. He asked, “Would you like me to send some of my men to search for the flag-lieutenant, sir?” He waited, squeaking back on his heels. “I can spare a platoon long enough for that.”

Bolitho imagined Calvert and his four companions out there somewhere in the darkness, terrified and helpless. Better they were dead than to fall into the bands of some of the marauding tribesmen described by Draffen.

He replied, “I would be grateful.” He made himself add, “But do not risk their lives to no purpose, Captain Giffard.”

The marine said, “They will obey orders, sir.” Then he grinned,

as if more at ease with his usual pomposity. “But I will pass your order to them immediately.”

The central tower was divided up mainly into living quarters for the garrison officers, three of whom were accompanied by their wives. As Bolitho trod carefully over scattered stone chip-pings and various items of personal clothing and equipment he wondered briefly what sort of a life a woman could expect in a furnace like Djafou.

The commandant’s quarters were at the top of the tower and looked out across the bay towards the beaked headland.

He was sitting in a huge, high-backed chair, and made to rise as Bolitho, followed by Bickford and Allday, entered the room. He had a neat grey beard, but his face was the colour of faded parchment, and Bolitho guessed he had been the victim of a severe fever on more than one occasion. He was an old man, with wrinkled hands which hung as if lifeless on the arms of the big chair, and had probably been given the post of commandant because nobody else wanted it, or him.

Fortunately, he spoke good English, and had a gentle, courteous voice which seemed so out of place in the fortress’s grim and uncompromising surroundings.

Bolitho had already been told by Bickford that his name was Francisco Alava, once a colonel in the dragoons of His Most Catholic Majesty’s household. Now, and until the day he died, he was designated commandant of the most dismal place in the Spanish chain of possessions in the Mediterranean. He had probably committed some petty breach of etiquette or misdemeanour to receive such a post, Bolitho thought.

He said, “I would be pleased if you would make your quarters available to me for the present, Colonel Alava.”

The two hands lifted shakily and then fell back on the chair again. Sickness, old age and the awful explosions of Inch’s mortars had taken a hard cost of his frail resources.

Alava said, “Thank you for your humanity, Captain. When your soldiers arrived I feared they would slaughter all of my people here.”

Bolitho smiled grimly. Giffard would certainly take exception to hearing his marines called soldiers.

He said, “At daylight we will see what can be done to restore the defences here.” He walked to an open window and looked across the dark, swirling currents below the fortress. “I will be expecting other ships soon. Also a vessel which will need to be beached so that repairs can be made to her hull.” He paused and then swung round from the window so that even Allday started. “You may know her, Colonel. The Navarra?”

Just for a fraction of a moment he saw a spark of alarm in the old man’s eyes. Then the hands twitched again, dismissing it.

“No, Captain.”

Bolitho turned back to the window. He was lying, and that was as good as proof Witrand had indeed been intended for this desolate place. Probably the brig was the vessel which had been waiting to make the transfer at sea.

But there would be time for that later. Time to allow the commandant to reconsider, to decide where his own safety lay now his defences had fallen.

He nodded to Bickford. “Escort him to the other room and have the officers kept apart.”

As the commandant hobbled through a door, Sawle entered on the opposite side, his shirt sodden and torn, and carrying his coat casually over one arm.

“You did the task very well.” Bolitho watched the new light in the lieutenant’s eyes. A kind of contained wildness, a confidence born of a single dangerous act. He had been more afraid of showing fear than of fear itself, and now that he had survived he would expect his reward and more.

Sawle said, “Thank you, sir.” He did not attempt to hide the

new arrogance which his triumph had roused in him. “It was easy.”

You only think it was easy, my friend, now the danger is past. Aloud Bolitho said, “Report to Mr Bickford and he will give you your orders.”

Allday watched him leave and murmured, “Weasel!”

Bolitho looked past him. “Go and take care of Mr Lucey.” He sat down suddenly in the commandant’s great chair. It was just as if his legs had given way under him. He added, “See if you can find something to drink. I am like a kiln.”

Alone, he stared round the gloomy, barren room. Perhaps one day, because of a bad wound or disability, he would be given a task like Alava’s. An outpost with the grand name of governorship where he would spend the days trying to hide his bitterness, and the ache for a ship from home, from his subordinates.

He realised his eyelids had started to droop and that Giffard had entered the room without his hearing.

Giffard said, “My men found Mr Calvert, sir.” He looked uneasy. “He was wandering around lost, and near out of his mind to all accounts.”

“And the others?”

“No sign of the three seamen, but he was carrying the midshipman on his back.” He shrugged wearily. “But he was already dead.”

“Who was it?”

“Mr Lelean, sir.”

Bolitho rubbed his eyes to hold the dragging tiredness and strain away. Lelean? Lelean? Which one was he?

Then he remembered. Keverne leaning over the quarterdeck rail to relay his instructions to the gundecks. Three apprehensive midshipmen. One upturned face had been covered with pimples. Lelean. He had been fifteen years old.

“Ask Mr Calvert to report to me.” He looked at Giffard’s red face. “I will see him alone.”

Allday arrived with a large glass jug filled to the brim with dark red wine. It was very bitter, but at that moment tasted better than any admiral’s claret.

Allday said, “Mr Calvert’s here, Captain!”

“Show him in, and then wait outside.” He watched Allday leave, his shoulders set in stiff disapproval.

Calvert was swaying from exhaustion, and as he stood staring listlessly at Bolitho he looked almost ready to fall.

“Easy, Mr Calvert. Take some of this wine. It will refresh you.”

Calvert shook his head. “I would rather speak, sir.” He shuddered. “I cannot think of anything else.”

In a strange flat voice, broken only occasionally by deep shudders, he told his story.

From the moment he had been landed from a boat things had started to go wrong. The three seamen had deliberately misunderstood his every order, probably testing for themselves the lieutenant’s incompetence which was common gossip throughout the ship.

Lelean, the midshipman, had attempted to restore discipline, but had been unnerved by Calvert’s inability to take charge of three ordinary seamen.

They had made their way inland, pausing frequently while one seaman or the other complained of sore feet, exhaustion and other trivial excuses to rest. Calvert had grappled with the vague map and had tried to gauge their distance from Giffard’s pickets.

He said brokenly, “I got lost. Lelean was trying to help me, but he was just a boy. When I told him I did not know where we were he stood up to me and said that I ought to know.” He moved his hands vaguely. “Then there was the attack. Lelean was hit by a musket ball and two of the seamen killed outright. The third ran off and I never saw him again.”

Bolitho watched his agonised face, seeing the sudden terror in the darkness, the swiftness of death. Probably tribesmen, lurking

like jackals for pickings after the fight between Spaniard and Englishman.

Calvert was saying, “I carried Lelean for miles. Sometimes we hid in the scrub, listening to the others talking. Laughing.” His voice broke in a sob. “And all the time Lelean kept repeating how he trusted me to get him to safety.” He looked at Bolitho, his eyes blurred and unseeing. “He actually relied on me!”

Bolitho stood up and poured a goblet of wine. As he thrust it into Calvert’s hand he asked quietly, “Where were you when the marines found you?”

“In a gully.” Some of the wine ran down his chin and across his soiled shirt. Like blood. “Lelean was dead. The wound must have been worse than I realised. I didn’t want to leave him there like that. He was the first one who ever trusted me to do anything. I knew…” He faltered. “I thought no one would come to search. There was the attack. All this.”

Bolitho took the empty glass from his nerveless fingers. “Go and rest, Mr Calvert. Tomorrow things may seem different.” He watched the other man’s eyes. Tomorrow? It was already here.

Calvert stared at him with sudden determination. “I will never forget that you sent men to look for me.” The determination faded. “But I couldn’t leave him there like that. He was just a boy.”

Bolitho recalled Broughton’s scathing comment, as if it had been spoken aloud in the room. Do him good! Well, perhaps after all he had been right.

He said gravely, “Many good men have died today, Mr Calvert. It is up to us to see their efforts are not wasted.” He paused before adding, “And to ensure that young Lelean’s trust is not betrayed.”

Long after Calvert had gone Bolitho sat slumped in the chair. What was the matter with him to offer Calvert such comfort?

Calvert was useless, and probably always would be. He came of a background and social climate which Bolitho had always mistrusted and often despised.

Was it because of that one spark which had been given him by the dead midshipman? Could he really hold on to such ideas in a war which had passed all reason and outwitted traditional sentiment?

Or was it that he had replaced Lelean with his own nephew? Would it have been fair to add to Calvert’s misery when inwardly he knew he would have acted the same had it been Adam out there in an unknown gully?

When the first grey fingers of dawn explored the wall of the commandant’s room Bolitho was still in the chair, dozing in exhausted sleep, and awakening at intervals to new doubts and problems.

On the top of the central tower Bickford was already awake and watching the probing light. After a while he could wait no longer and beckoned to a seaman who was standing nearby.

“Good enough, eh?” He could not stop grinning. His part of the action was done, and he was alive. “Run up the colours! That’ll make Coquette sit up and beg!”

At noon Bolitho climbed to the top of the central tower and leaned over the battlements to study the activity in the bay. Just after dawn the frigate Coquette, followed by Inch’s Hekla had passed through the narrow channel below the fortress, and within an hour had been joined by the battered and listing Navarra. Now, as he watched the boats pulling busily back and forth from the shore to the ships, from the marine outpost on the beaked headland to the pickets on the causeway, it was hard to remember it as the empty place it had once been.

He raised a telescope and trained it across the anchored bomb vessel until he had discovered Lieutenant Bickford and his landing party searching amongst the low-roofed buildings at the top of the bay. Giffard had already reported the village-for it was little more than that-to be quite deserted. The fishing boats which they had sighted before the first attack proved to be derelict

and had not been used for many months. Like the village, they were part of some ghost habitation from the past.

The one good capture had been the little brig, named Turquoise. She was a merchant vessel, armed only with a few outdated four-pounders and some swivels, but refitted and properly equipped would make a very useful addition to the Navy List. She also represented a command for a junior officer. Bolitho had promised himself that Keverne should get her as his just reward.

He moved the glass slightly to watch the Navarra being warped closer and closer to the beach. The master’s mate sent to command her had made sail as fast as he had been able, just as soon as he had sighted the British ensign flying over the fortress. The makeshift repairs had begun to give way, and it had been all he could do to reach Djafou before the sea overtook the pumps for the final plunge.

Bolitho was glad Keverne had selected the master’s mate in question. A less intelligent seaman might have obeyed his last order to stand clear of the land until the squadron’s entrance, for fear of incurring the displeasure of his superiors. Had he done so, the prize ship would indeed have been lost, for within thirty minutes of her arrival the wind had died completely, and the sea, from the headlands to the burnished horizon, was like a sheet of dark blue glass.

Boats were all around the listing vessel, and he could see parties of men from the other ships busily unloading stores and heavy spars, swaying out guns and anchors to lighten the hull as much as possible in readiness for beaching.

Like the crew of the little brig, who had surrendered without a murmur of protest, the arrival of the Navarra’s company and passengers posed another real problem. He saw many of them being gathered in lines on the beach, the women’s clothing contrasting vividly with the silver-coloured sand and the hazy hills beyond the village. They had to be fed and quartered, as well as protected from any marauding tribesmen who might still be

nearby. It was not going to be easy, and he doubted if Broughton would view their presence as anything but an unwanted nuisance.

The squadron was probably just below the horizon, and he could picture the admiral fretting and fuming at being becalmed, and still in ignorance of the success or failure of the attack. But the lack of wind was an ally, too. For if Broughton could not reach Djafou, then neither could an attacker.

Metal groaned and clattered on the lower rampart, and he saw Fittock, the gunner, supervising the removal of one of the iron-mounted cannon so that the damaged wall could be partially repaired. The guns had already shown they could hold the entrance against powerful ships of war. And with the innocent-looking Hekla anchored in the centre of the bay, even a heavy attack along the coast by troops was a bad risk.

He lowered the glass and tugged at his shirt which was clinging to his skin like a hot towel. The more he mulled over what they had found at Djafou, the more convinced he became that it was useless as a base. Automatically he thrust his hands behind him and started to pace slowly back and forth on the heated flagstones, his feet measuring almost exactly the span of the Euryalus’s quarterdeck.

If he had held the final responsibility, would he have acted differently from Broughton? Return to Gibraltar and admit failure, or go further east in the hope of discovering a suitable bay or inlet without informing the Commander-in-Chief?

He felt his scabbard slapping against his thigh as he paced, and let his mind stray back to the grisly hand-to-hand fighting during the night. Every time he allowed himself to be drawn into these reckless raids he was narrowing his own chances of survival. He knew it, but could not help himself. He guessed that Furneaux and some of the others imagined it was conceit, a desperate yearning for glory which made him leave his proper role of flag captain to take part in such dangerous forays. How could he explain his true feelings when he did not understand them himself? But he

knew he would never allow his men to risk their lives because of some hazy plan from his own mind without his being there with them to share its reward or failure.

He smiled grimly to himself. Which was why he would never attain flag rank. He would go on facing battle after battle, passing experience to the barely trained officers who were being promoted to fill the growing gaps left by the war’s harvest. And then one day, in a place like this, or on the deck of some ship, he would pay the price. As always, he found himself praying fervently it would be instant, like the closing of a door. Yet at the same time he knew it was unlikely. He thought of Lucey, and those others who were down below in the great cool storerooms which were being used as a hospital. Coquette’s surgeon would do his best, but many of them would die slowly, with no relief from pain but the fortress’s supply of wine, which was mercifully plentiful.

Bolitho paused by the battlements and saw a boat shoving off from the Coquette and turning towards the fortress. Another was leaving the bomb vessel, and he realised he had been so busy with his thoughts he had almost forgotten he had invited Inch and Captain Gillmor to dine with him. One of them might think of some idea, no matter how vague, which would throw light on Djafou’s total lack of strategic value.

Later as he stood in the commandant’s cool room sharing a jug of wine with the two captains, he marvelled at the way in which they could discuss and compare their experiences and viewpoints of the brief, fierce battle. It was hard to realise none of them had slept for more than an hour or so at a time, nor did there seem much likelihood of rest in the near future. The Navy was a good school for such stamina, he thought. Years of watchkeeping and snatching catnaps between all the endless necessities of making and shortening sail, going to quarters or having to repair storm damage under the most severe conditions hardened even the laziest man to going without proper rest almost indefinitely.

Inch was describing the excitement aboard Hekla as the marine

spotters had recorded his first fall of shot when Allday entered to announce that Lieutenant Bickford had returned from his expedition to the village.

Bickford looked weary, his uniform covered with sand and dust, and he downed the wine with obvious relish before saying, “I am afraid it is a fearsome place, sir.” He shook his head as he recalled his grim discovery. “It has not been lived in for years. Not by villagers, that is.”

Gillmor said chidingly, “Come now, Mr Bickford, surely it is not the home of goblins!”

“No, sir.” Bickford’s serious face was strained. “We found a great pit behind the dwellings. Full of human bones. Many hundreds must have been thrown there to be picked clean by all the vermin from the rocks.”

Bolitho watched him, and was aware of a coldness growing in his heart. It had been here all the time, and he had not seen it. The next part of the puzzle.

Bickford was saying, “Most of the dwellings are mere shells. But there are chains…”

They all stared at Bolitho as he said quietly, “Slaves.” It was incredible it had taken him so long to accept the obvious. Or maybe his mind had rebelled against it. Why else would Draffen have had business here in the past? A business which had taken him as far as the West Indies and Caribbean where he had met Hugh during the American Revolution. The Moors had built the fortress to protect and further this obscene trade in human lives, and after them had come others. Barbary pirates, and Arab slavers, who could sweep far and wide to bring their helpless victims here, the fountainhead of their rich trade.

How easy it had been made for Draffen. Disguised by an apparent genuine offer to help further British naval activities in the Mediterranean, he had been ensuring his future profits, and by having Broughton destroy the Spanish garrison had paved the way for the continuance of his supply.

He added, “They must have been brought here from many parts of the country. There are caravan trails to the mountains, which have probably been there for centuries” He could not hide the bitterness of his thoughts. “I have no doubt that in the Indies and Americas there are many growing rich at the expense of these poor wretches.”

Gillmor said uneasily, “Well, there has always been a trade in slaves…”

Bolitho eyed him calmly, “There has always been scurvy, but that does not mean anyone but a fool would allow it to continue!”

Gillmor swung away, his voice suddenly angry. “God, how I loathe the land! As soon as you touch it you feel infected, unclean!”

Inch said, “Sir Hugo Draffen will not be pleased, sir.”

“As you say.” Bolitho refilled the glasses, feeling the jug quivering in his grasp. Speaking with his own kind it all seemed so clear and very simple. But he knew from past experience that nothing ever appeared quite so neat and cleancut in the austere surroundings of a court martial, many miles from the occurrence, and maybe many months after it had happened. Draffen was an influential man, his very scope of operations had shown that. Even Broughton was afraid of him, and there would be many in England who would be quick to take his side. He had, after all, discovered a base for the squadron’s first probe into the Mediterranean. In war you must make do with what you had. His glib promise of a new ally to harass the enemy’s coastal movements might well cover his other, more personal ambitions.

He crossed slowly to the window, feeling their eyes on his back. He could turn his back on Draffen’s action just as easily as he was on them. He was the flag captain, and had little say in wider decisions. No one could hurt him for it, and few would blame him. While Broughton’s flag flew over the squadron’s affairs, so too was it his responsibility.

As he tortured himself a few moments longer he thought suddenly of Lucey and Lelean, of all the others who had died

and would die before they were rid of this hateful place.

Draffen must have been trying to prepare him for it, he thought bitterly. When he had described how the squadron would soon quit Djafou for good he had not been thinking of the local people, for there were none. None but a regular stream of slaves and those who guarded them for the traders like Draffen. He was probably somewhere along the coast right at this minute, explaining to his agent what he required to make his own victory complete and lasting.

He asked sharply, “How long did Restless take to make contact before?”

Bickford shrugged. “No more than a day or so. She’ll be becalmed too, if I’m any judge.”

Bolitho faced them. “Then the meeting place cannot be far.” He crossed quickly to the door. “I must see the commandant. So take your ease, my friends!”

As the door closed Gillmor remarked, “I have never seen him like that before.”

Inch swallowed his wine. “I have.” The others waited. “When I was serving under him in the old Hyperion.”

Gillmor said testily, “Bring it out of the oven and on to the table, man!”

Inch replied simply, “He has a hatred of treachery. I doubt that he will sit quietly with this burr under his saddle!”

Bolitho found the commandant sitting beside a window, his tired face relaxed in thought, so that he looked like a piece of church carving in the filtered sunlight.

He waited until the man’s shadowed eyes turned towards him. “Time is now in much demand for there is little of it. There are certain things I must know, and I believe you are the only one who can tell me.”

The withered hands lifted slowly. “You know that my oath forbids me to speak, Captain.” There was no anger, nothing in

his tone but resignation. “As commandant I have…”

Bolitho interrupted harshly, “As commandant you have a duty to your people here. Also the crew and passengers of the Navarra who are citizens of Spain!”

“When you seized Djafou, you also took that responsibility!”

Bolitho walked to a window and leaned on the warm sill. “I know of a French officer called Witrand. I believe you know him also, and that he has perhaps been here before!

“Before?”

One word, but Bolitho heard a catch in the man’s breath.

“He is a prisoner of war, Colonel. But I wish you to tell me now what he has been doing and the reason for his interest in Djafou. Otherwise…”

This time Alava interrupted. “Otherwise? I am too old to be threatened!”

Bolitho turned and regarded him impassively. “If you refuse I will have to destroy the fortress!”

Alava smiled gently. “That of course is your privilege.”

“Unfortunately,” Bolitho spoke harshly to cover the nagging uncertainty of his thoughts, “I do not have the ships available to remove all these extra people and your garrison to safety.” He relaxed slightly, seeing his words strike home, the sudden quivering in the withered hands. “So, although the necessities of war dictate that I destroy the fortress and remove any future threat from it, I cannot leave you any protection.”

He looked down from the window again, hating what he was doing to the old titan. He saw Sawle leaning against the parapet, his head within inches of a black-haired Spanish woman’s, one of the garrison officers’ wives. She was moving her body closer, and he could see Sawle’s hand resting on her arm.

He turned his back on them and asked, “You have heard of one Habib Messadi?” He nodded slowly. “Yes, I see from your face you have.”

Bolitho swung round angrily as the door banged open and Captain Giffard marched into the room. Behind him was a young marine carrying a small basket.

“What in hell’s name do you mean by bursting in here?”

Giffard remained rigidly at attention, his eyes on some point above Bolitho’s epaulette.

“A horseman came riding hard towards the causeway, sir. Arab of some sort. My men challenged him, and when he galloped off they took a shot but missed him.” He gestured with his hand towards the marine by the door. “He left the basket, sir.”

Bolitho tensed. “What is in it?”

Giffard dropped his eyes. “That Frog prisoner, sir. It’s his head.”

Bolitho gripped his fists so tightly he could feel the bones throbbing. Somehow he managed to withstand the rising nausea and horror as he faced Alava’s shocked eyes and said, “It seems that Messadi is closer than we thought, Colonel.” Behind him he heard the young marine retching uncontrollably. “So let us begin at once.”