The Flag Captain

15. Retribution and darkness

Bolitho was standing beside an open window in the commandant’s gloomy quarters when Allday entered to announce that Hekla’s gig had arrived to collect him. It was amazing to see the change in the weather which had come about in the last few hours. It was early evening, and should have been bright sunlight. Instead, the sky was concealed by low, threatening clouds, and the flag on the upper tower was standing out stiffly to a westerly wind which showed every sign of strengthening.

He had just been leaving the elderly commandant when a sentry on the ramparts had reported the change. When he had gone to the tower to see for himself he had watched the western

headland slowly disappear beneath a great bank of rolling sand and dust, so that it had appeared as if the causeway was ended abruptly and pointing into a swirling void. Even within the bay the ships had begun to pitch, and Gillmor had sighed with relief when he had seen his first lieutenant laying out a second anchor for safety’s sake.

But safety, doubt and even the horror of Witrand’s hideous death had given way to an attentive excitement as Bolitho had told them of his discovery.

Once Alava had begun to talk he had seemed unable to desist or stem his flow of intelligence. It had appeared as if the burden of his knowledge had been too much for his bent shoulders, and with the additional shock of what lay in the small basket he wanted to rid himself of every link with his responsibilities.

Bolitho had listened to his low, cultivated voice with fixed attention, using it as a barrier against his pity for Witrand, his disgust at those who had thought the manner of his death a necessary gesture.

Now, as he heard the wind moaning against the thick walls and along the unsheltered ramparts, he still found it difficult to accept that so much of his earlier beliefs had been proved right. Witrand had been in Djafou once before, with strict orders to pave the way for further developments. How much of Alava’s information was fact and how much guesswork was hard to tell. One thing was certain, Witrand’s visits were not to merely examine the possibilities of a new French base to forestall any future British naval moves in the Mediterranean. Djafou was to be the first of several such footholds on the North African shores, a gateway to the east and the south. Troops, guns and the ships to carry and protect them would lead the enemy’s new and powerful thrust into a continent hitherto denied them, at a time when England could least afford to stop them.

Yet Alava must have known Bolitho was bluffing when he had threatened to leave the garrison and passengers to the mercies of

the Barbary pirates. Must have toyed with the idea of standing his ground until that moment when Giffard had burst in with his grisly discovery. If he had planned it himself, he could not have timed it better.

As he had spoken with Gillmor and Inch he had recalled Broughton’s warning, his lack of trust in Draffen. What would he say when he discovered the full extent of Draffen’s treachery, if such it was? Draffen might also be dead, or screaming out his life under an agony of torture.

The wind had arisen like a last touch of hope. It was obvious from the moment the horseman had hurled the basket at Giffard’s pickets that the seizure of the fortress was common knowledge along the coast. With the squadron still absent, and heaven alone knew how far they had been carried in a mounting wind, an all-out attack on the fortress was very possible. Alava had spoken of vast areas of coastline being terrorised and controlled by the pirates under their leader Habib Messadi. Chebecks, such as those which had mauled the Navarra, could work close inshore if need be, without fear of attack by heavier and more ponderous ships of war.

Messadi’s information must be as good as Draffen’s, he thought. For it was obvious the attack on the Navarra had been no accidental meeting at sea. The chebecks had been too far from land, and but for the unexpected storm would no doubt have been far greater in numbers. In which case they would not have been able to repel their attack, and Witrand would have died there and then with all the others, and the occupation of Djafou perhaps delayed long enough for the fortress to be taken and occupied by its original inhabitants. Or for Broughton to make the capture and see for himself the uselessness of the bay for a British base.

Gillmor had said heavily, “So the Frogs intend to take Malta, eh? And then on and on, with not a British ship to stand against them!”

Inch had added, “There is nothing we can do without help.”

It had been like speaking his thoughts aloud. Bolitho had

watched the doubt in their faces changing to caution and then to excitement as he had said, “I have always maintained, the fortress is Djafou. Without it the bay is unsafe for Frenchman, pirate, or for that matter ourselves. We must destroy it, blast it down so that it will take months, perhaps a year, to replace. Given that time we can return to these waters in strength, and meet the Frenchman where it hurts him most. At sea.”

Gillmor had put in a note of caution. “Sir Lucius Broughton must surely be consulted?”

Bolitho had pointed at the bay, the sea’s face ruffling in white-caps to the rising wind. “First we must strike at those who need this fortress so desperately for their own foul uses. The wind may hold, and if so, will give us an unexpected edge on them.”

That had been merely hours ago. Now it was time to act, otherwise the Hekla would have real difficulty in clawing past the fortress and to the open sea beyond. Coquette would remain at anchor, and should Bolitho’s attack fail, be prepared to act on his written orders. To demolish the fortress and remove every Spaniard, marine and other living soul with whatever resources at his disposal.

Gillmor had not let his disappointment at being left behind override his concern for Bolitho. “Supposing Alava’s information is false, sir, and you cannot find these Barbary pirates? Or you might be overwhelmed, in which case I will have to obey the orders you are leaving behind for me. It could well mean your ruin, when we all know you are only acting for the best.”

“If that occurs, Captain Gillmor, you will be spared from watching my final downfall.” He had smiled at Gillmor’s uncertainty. “For I will no doubt be dead.”

But as he picked up his hat from the commandant’s great chair Gillmor’s warning returned to him. With luck they should meet with Restless somewhere along the coast, and she, unlike the heavier frigate, would be able to give them support. With luck. It never did to rely on it too much.

He looked at Allday. “Ready?”

“Aye, Captain.”

Below on the jetty, the stonework of which still bore the scars of musket balls and Sawle’s explosive charge, the wind felt stronger. But it was clinging and oppressive and left grit or sand between the teeth. Bolitho saw several boats coming through the breached wall crammed with passengers from the Navarra and some of Giffard’s marines. Bolitho had ordered that everyone but the pickets were to be withdrawn to the safety of the fortress, and he found time to wonder what they were thinking as they stared up at the grim walls like trapped animals.

Giffard and Bickford were waiting by the gig, and the marine said gruffly, “I still think we should use my men to make a forced march across country, sir.”

Bolitho studied him with something like affection. “Given more time I might agree. But you have said yourself that a few carefully placed sharpshooters could delay an army in those hills and gullies. But have no fear, I think there will be plenty of work for you soon, enough.”

To Bickford he said, “Tell Mr Fittock to set about laying charges in the magazine and lower storerooms.” He smiled at the lieutenant’s grim features. “He will, I am sure, be delighted at the prospect.”

Then he saw Calvert hurrying down the stairs, his face set in a frown of unusual determination.

He said, “With permission, sir, I would like to accompany you in Hekla.”

Bolitho was conscious of Giffard’s mouth turning down in disapproval, of some of the gig’s crew watching Calvert with curiosity, if not actual contempt.

He heard himself say, “Certainly. Get in the boat.”

Giffard said awkwardly, “I have buried the, er, basket, sir. At the end of the causeway.”

“Thank you.” Bolitho thought suddenly of the wife who waited

in Bordeaux. He wondered if he would ever write and tell her where Witrand had died. That he lay beside a British lieutenant and a pimply-faced midshipman.

Then with a nod he jumped into the boat and snapped, “Cast off.”

Inch was waiting to greet him at the bomb’s low bulwark, his hat askew as he squinted towards the wavecrests beyond the headland. He saw Calvert, opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. He, after all, knew Bolitho better than most. And if he did something, he usually had a damn good reason.

He watched the boat being swayed inboard on its tackles and shouted, “Stand by the capstan!” Then he looked enquiringly at Bolitho. “When you are ready, sir?”

Their eyes held. Across the years like a conspiracy. He grinned and replied, “Directly, Commander Inch!”

Inch bobbed with pleasure. “Directly it is, sir!”

After his own quarters in Euryalus the bomb’s stern cabin was like a rabbit hutch. Even here her sturdy build was very apparent, and the massive deckhead beams gave the impression they were pressing down forcibly to further restrict movement and space.

Bolitho sat on the bench seat and watched the salt spray dashing across the thick glass, feeling the shallow hull staggering and groaning in a steep beam sea as she plunged awkwardly on the larboard tack. The deckhead lanterns were gyrating wildly, and he pitied the helmsmen on the unsheltered upper deck, and those unfortunate souls aloft at this moment trying to take in another reef.

The door banged open and Allday appeared carrying a jug of coffee. He rocked back on his heels, swayed and then hurtled towards the table, cracking his head on a low beam as the Hekla pitched sickeningly into a deep trough. Miraculously none of the scalding coffee was lost, and Bolitho marvelled at the cook’s skill in such a sea.

Allday rubbed his skull and asked, “Can’t you sleep, Captain? ’Tis four hours before daylight.”

Bolitho let the coffee explore his stomach and was grateful for it. His mind had defied rest while the Hekla had clawed her way clear of the coast, but now that time was running out he knew he should try to sleep. Calvert was rolled in a blanket in one of the two boxlike cabins, but whether he was asleep or brooding over Lelean’s death it was hard to say. He should have left him in Djafou, he knew it. Just as he was certain that Calvert would have gone out of his mind at being abandoned to his tortured thoughts.

He said, “I will rest in a moment!”

Inch entered the cabin, his tarpaulin coat glistening with salt rime as he staggered towards the coffee jug. He wiped his streaming face and said, “Wind’s veered a piece, sir. Gone round to west nor’ west, as far as I can tell. I’ll go about in an hour.” He hesitated, suddenly aware of his authority. “If that is suitable, sir?”

Bolitho smiled. “You are the captain. I am sure it will be convenient for our purpose. At daylight we may sight Restless.” He forced his mind to stop probing and reexamining his doubts. “But now I will sleep.”

Allday followed Inch towards the companion ladder and muttered, “My God, sir, I thought I yearned for small ships again!”

Inch grinned. “You are getting old!”

The sea thundered over the upper deck, and a goodly portion of it cascaded down the ladder towards them.

Allday swore and replied, “And, with respect, I should like to get older before I die!”

“Good morning, sir.” Inch touched his hat as Bolitho appeared at the companion and stepped over the coaming.

Bolitho nodded and walked to the lee rail, the sleep already gone from his mind in the keen, damp air. The daylight was as

yet only a glimmer, and now that Hekla had gone about to run almost parallel with the coast he guessed they were barely more than two miles offshore. The wind had veered still more and now pushed steadily across the larboard quarter, the spray leaping occasionally above the stout bulwarks to sluice noisily away into the scuppers. He could see the land, although it was little more than purple shadow, and it was strange to accept the fact that due to the slow necessity of clawing away from it to gain the wind’s advantage, Djafou now lay less than thirty miles ahead of Hekla’s blunt bows. Inch had done well, and there was nothing in his long horseface to show he had been on deck for most of the time while his ship had tacked and beaten around one great circle to her present position.

Astern they were being followed by a thick sea mist, so that it gave a false impression of being motionless, an impression made a lie by the flying spray around the bowsprit and the bulging tan sails above the deck.

As he peered forward he saw a sheen of dull silver on the dancing wavecrests, and knew dawn was nearby, but as yet the eastern horizon was still lost in spray and shadow. A few gulls drifted and shrieked above the topmasts, and he wondered whether eyes other than theirs had seen their careful approach. Careful for reasons other than surprise. Even as he considered the treacherous coastline so close abeam he heard the leadsman chant from the chains, his cry almost lost in the crack and thunder of the sails.

“By the mark seven!”

But Inch appeared satisfied, and Bolitho knew he knew his shallow hull better than Bolitho did.

Shadows around the bomb’s decks were already taking on strength and personality, and he saw the hands at work around the guns, while others moved restlessly on the forecastle where Mr Broome, Inch’s elderly gunner, was examining his mortars.

But mortars were not the only teeth in Hekla’s defences. Apart

from a few swivels, she mounted six massive carronades. Altogether they would certainly find any weakness in her stout construction and timbers.

“By the mark five!”

Inch called, “Bring her up a point, Mr Wilmot!”

His first and only lieutenant walked straddle-legged up the slanting deck, and as the helm squeaked over he shouted “Steady, sir! East by south!”

“By the mark seven!”

Inch said to no one in particular, “Damme, it’s like a sailor’s lot hereabouts. All ups and downs!”

Bolitho set his teeth against the screech and scrape of a grindstone from below the foremast where some of the seamen were busily putting new edges to their cutlasses. How overcrowded the deck appeared, mainly because in addition to her normal complement the Hekla carried the survivors from the Devastation as well as the remnants of his own landing party.

Inch rubbed a hand across his wind-reddened face. “Won’t be long now sir.” He gestured aloft. “I’ve a good man to watch for Restless.”

Bolitho said, “There is supposed to be an inlet where this Messadi takes refuge. Shelter enough for his chebecks, and within reach of several villages for his needs.” He looked searchingly at Inch. “You will be able to fire the mortars without anchoring, I hope?”

“Aye, sir.” Inch frowned. “We have never done it before, of course.” He chuckled, all doubt gone. “But then we had never fired at a fortress either!”

“Good. Once you have awakened their nest, we will engage whoever comes out.” He looked at the sky. “Restless will close and give ready support once we have made contact.”

Inch eyed him soberly. “And if she is not available, sir?”

Bolitho shrugged. “Then she is not available.”

Inch grinned again. “It’ll be like stirring wasps with a stick!”

Another cry from the leadsman took him away again and left Bolitho to his thoughts.

He watched the land hardening and taking on its true form, and recognised the same bleak hills and desolation as they had found in Djafou. It looked uneven but as yet unbroken by any sign of a cove or inlet, but he knew from boyhood it was deceptive. Once when a mere child he had taken out a small boat from Falmouth and had been horrified to find himself carried away on a swift coastal current. There should have been a safe cove nearby, but as the light faded he could see nothing but those grim, hostile cliffs. With all hope and most of his courage gone he had suddenly found it. Almost hidden by an overlap of cliffs, beyond which the water was flat calm, and his relief had given way in a flood of tears.

His father had been away at sea. It had been his brother Hugh who had come to find him and had boxed his ears for good measure.

Thin sunlight filtered above the cruising haze and he heard the masthead lookout call, “Oi think ’tis there on the lee bow, zur! Broken water!”

Bolitho raised a telescope and eagerly scanned the murky shoreline. Then he saw the telltale cluster of small breakers marking the inward curve of a headland. He trained his mind until he fitted it into the mental picture of Inch’s chart, the place as described by Alava in his soft, gentle voice.

He heard a man slip and apologise awkwardly in the half-light, and saw Calvert feeling his way along the lee bulwark. He looked pinched and strained, and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

Inch cupped his hands. “Masthead! Any sign of Restless?”

“None, zur!”

Inch said with unusual irritation, “That damn fellow must have lost himself!”

Bolitho looked at him. Maybe Inch was more worried than he showed, to be groping his way along this treacherous coast. Or

perhaps he was masking his true feelings about the task he had been given? It was not going to be easy for him. He watched Inch nodding and whispering with his gunner and first lieutenant. Or was it that he was unwilling to be the one to witness Bolitho’s failure?

Slowly but surely the rounded headland was moving out to greet them, its summit already shining dully in the dawn light. Very soon now.

Inch came aft. “With your permission, sir, I will fire the mortars as we come abeam of the point. That will give my people time to reload for the next shots as we pass the entrance. Mr Broome is confident that we will make a good deal of confusion, even if we hit nothing!”

Bolitho smiled. Inch had certainly discovered new confidence, and that in itself was infectious.

“Good. Then carry on.”

Inch shouted, “Send the hands to quarters, Mr Wilmot! You know what we have to do today.”

The carronade crews had been up and about for several hours, and apart from dousing the galley fire there was little else to do but wait and watch Mr Broome with his men grouped like high priests around their two crouching mortars.

Allday murmured, “They’ll wake the bastards up, God rot them!”

“By the mark three!”

The headland was hard and clear against the skyline now, leaning out into the lively wavecrests as if to nudge the bowsprit.

Broome raised his hand. “Stand clear o’ they mortars, lads!”

Bolitho saw the spark of a fuse, the momentary jerk of the gunner’s shoulder, and held his breath.

The mortars fired within seconds of one another, and he was surprised the noise was negligible compared with the terrific shock of their recoil. He felt the deck bounce and vibrate beneath his feet with such force that his teeth were jarred painfully and

his neck felt as if he had just been thrown bodily from a stampeding horse.

Inch was peering at him. “Fair shots, I believe, sir.”

Bolitho nodded, not trusting his voice. Then he hurried to the rail and watched as the top of the headland glowed dull red, and seconds later the air trembled to a double, muffled explosion.

He heard Broome yelling at his crews to reload, the excited chatter from the waiting men on the main deck. What a strange, unnerving form of warfare, he thought. To be able to fire high over a solid land mass, unseen and unhampered by what lay beyond.

Inch rapped, “Watch your helm, Mr Wilmot!” He ran to the side and stared towards the nearest line of breakers. “We will have to wear ship if we draw much closer.”

Broome bellowed, “Ready, sir!”

Bolitho said, “Hold your fire.” He waited as a line of spray-dappled reefs drifted past the lee side. “We will be across the point at any moment.”

He tore his eyes from the glistening rocks and imagined what would have happened if the hull beneath him had been any deeper.

Inch said, “Here it comes.” Then, “There’s a fire of some sort, so we must have hit the land.”

Bolitho tried to hold his telescope steady against the jarring pitch of the swirling currents. It was very dark inside the cove, and the glowing fire which was already dying appeared to be at the far end of it, like gorse alight on a tinder-dry hillside.

“Again.” He opened his mouth and was relieved to find the shock of the next salvo was less painful to his teeth. Even so, the violent leap of the deck planking spoke much for Hekla’s builders.

There was a single bright flash, blossoming out into a great wall of fire, reflected on the sheltered water inside the cove so that it appeared to double and treble in power and size. In the few seconds before it wavered and died he saw the low black shapes of several motionless craft, and felt almost sick with sudden relief.

Allday said, “They’re in there all right.” He shifted impatiently against the rail. “I’ll lay odds that singed their bloody beards!”

Bolitho did not hear him. “Close enough, Commander Inch. Put her about and we will see what happens next.”

He walked aft to the taffrail to keep clear of the hurrying seamen as they ran to braces and halliards in readiness for wearing ship. So far, so good. The next minutes would tell whether he was wasting his time. If the pirates decided to remain in their deep cove, there would be nothing for it but to maintain a bombardment from the sea. The mortars had been impressive, but in fact could do little more but create panic under such conditions. They needed stability and a good anchorage, with spotting parties ashore to signal success and failure after each shot.

He held the rail firmly as with blocks and rigging banging and humming in protest the Hekla swung her stern across the wind, canting still further in response to rudder and canvas.

Her deck seemed very wide for her stubby length, and every foot of it appeared to be crammed with scampering men as the manoeuvre was completed and the bomb laid close-hauled on the larboard tack, her stern once more towards the land.

She was a difficult ship to handle, he thought, and for the first time that he could recall in years he felt his stomach contracting with uneasy nausea.

But Inch was grinning and waving his arms, his voice quite lost in the din of wind and sea. Hekla was more than a command to him. She was like a new toy, still possessing secrets to excite him.

It took another half-hour to complete the manoeuvre and bring the ship back again to her original position with the headland on her lee bow. By that time the light had grown to such an extent it was possible to see the next line of round hills beyond the sea’s edge, the occasional small crescent of beach, as well as far more reefs than he had first imagined.

Inch said thoughtfully, “Wind’s dropping, sir.” He rubbed his

chin, his palm rasping across bristles as he added, “May be a hot day after all.”

But there was plenty of mist and spray to hide the horizon, and in spite of the mounting patterns of light there was no warmth to case the chill from their sodden clothing.

Bolitho turned his back on the others. Inch was probably worried at the prospect of being so close to the land now the wind was falling away. He could tell from the manner in which some of the seamen were fidgeting and muttering on the main deck that they were uneasy, too.

It was unfair to keep Inch in such danger, but he must wait just a few moments longer. He kept hearing Giffard’s comments, like an epitaph. Perhaps he should have ordered the marines to march across country after all, regardless of human losses. But he knew he was only groping for misgivings. He was right, he must be. Even if all the marines available had reached the cove there was nothing to prevent those chebecks from slipping out to sea unhindered by their puny muskets.

He looked round as Calvert said, “Listen!” He dropped his eyes under their combined stares but added quickly, “I am sure I heard something.” It was almost the first time Calvert had spoken since he had come aboard.

Then Bolitho heard the sound, and sensed the same chill he had experienced aboard the Navarra. The steady, resonant beat of drums, so that without difficulty he could picture those lean chebecks with their powerful banks of oars, their grace and latent cruelty as they swept in to the attack.

He saw Inch watching him anxiously and snapped, “Stand by! They are coming out!”

A ripple of excitement transmitted itself along the deck, and he saw the gun-captains pulling their men down from the bulwarks and breaking the tension of the moment with threats and curses.

Inch murmured, “We have them, sir. They cannot take the advantage from us.”

Bolitho crossed to him, his hand resting on his sword. “They need no advantage. They carry their own power.”

A dozen voices shouted excitedly as the first of the chebecks thrust clear of the shadows, their long prows throwing back foam and spray as they rode over the low breakers.

The drums became clearer and more menacing as one by one they pulled away from the land, and Bolitho heard Inch counting aloud, realising perhaps for the first time the extent of his enemy.

Allday said quietly, “There are many more of ’em than last time, Captain.” He licked his lips. “Twenty, maybe twenty-two.”

Bolitho watched them narrowly, his face a mask to hide his mounting concern. As soon as they were clear of the rocks the chebecks began to open out in a huge fan, so that the whole area of lively water was filled with flashing oars and intermingled bow waves.

On Hekla’s decks was total silence, the gun crews standing like statues to watch the oncoming horde of craft. It was a veritable fleet, the like of which none of them had ever seen, nor would live to describe if they failed to destroy it.

Bolitho strode to the rail, feeling the early excited anticipation giving way to sudden anxiety. He saw their faces turn towards him as he shouted, “Remember, they will no more have seen anything like your Hekla than you have laid eyes on them. I doubt they have faced a carronade before, so stand to and be ready.” He saw some of them glancing at each other and added harshly, “Let each gun-captain select his own target. Shoot as you have never done before, lads.” He looked towards the seamen by the swivels and those who crouched along the bulwarks with loaded muskets. “Keep firing no matter what is happening. If they board us, we will be swamped.” He let his lips turn into a smile. “So make every ball strike home!”

He heard a scrape of steel and saw Inch drawing his curved hanger and tying it to his wrist with a gold lanyard. He looked at Bolitho and grinned almost apologetically. “It was a present,” he said.

A sullen bang echoed back from the shore and a ball whimpered low above the deck. A gun-captain stood back from his carronade but Bolitho shouted, “Hold your fire!” He felt the deck jerk as a chebeck’s bow gun belched smoke and a ball smashed hard into the Hekla’s waterline. The enemy’s formation had fanned out even wider now, so that the ship was almost encircled by them, the furthest ones like the extremes of the crescent flags which some of them were flying above their furled sails.

He watched the range falling away, heard the drums beating faster as the long oars drove the craft towards the slow-moving Hekla like cavalry charging a square of foot soldiers.

He tugged out his sword and held it above his head. “Easy, lads!” Some of the men near him were sweating in spite of the cool wind. To them it must seem as if the chebecks would drive right through their own ship.

The sword caught the frail sunlight as he swung it down. “Fire as you bear!”

Below the rail the nearest carronade exploded with a deafening roar, hurling its blunt barrel inboard on its slide while the crew darted towards it with their sponges and rammer. Bolitho felt the detonation in his head like some terrible pain, and watched the great sixty-eight-pound ball burst into the nearest bank of oars in a blinding orange flash. As the ball exploded to discharge its scything mass of grape the oars broke and flew in all directions, and he saw the hull lurching round to drive against the next chebeck in the converging line. Another carronade belched smoke and fire, and then a third from the opposite side as a chebeck pushed too near to the Hekla’s larboard bow to receive the heavy ball full in the prow. Yelling figures, the raked foremast and the chebeck’s unfired gun all vanished in a pall of choking brown

smoke. As it fanned away Bolitho saw the boat already rolling over, the sea boiling across the submerged oars to finish the kill.

Swivels cracked and banged from both forward and aft, hurling their canister amongst the white-clad figures who still crowded the chebecks’ gangways, waving their scimitars and firing muskets to add to the frightful din of battle.

The hull shivered again, and Bolitho saw a ball smash into the bulwark, scattering seamen and leaving a trail of blood and flesh in its wake.

A chebeck crashed below the taffrail, her helmsman either dead or too crazed by the roar of guns to gauge his approach. As she ground and bumped across the stern the swivels raked her from stem to stern, and as she fell away the larboard carronades put two balls into her so that she broke apart and began to founder.

But two more were already alongside, and as seamen dashed to repel boarders the first yelling figures started to claw their way up and into the nets which Inch had rigged before dawn.

Bolitho cupped his hands. “Now, lads!” And through the hatch came the rest of the extra hands, amongst them many of his own ship’s company who had already faced death in the fight for Djafou.

Yelling and cheering they charged forward, thrusting with pikes and cutlasses at the boarders who hung kicking in the slack nets, impaled by the razor-sharp steel before they could get free.

Somewhere in the smoke he could hear warning cries and knew that up forward at least some of the attackers had hacked their way through the nets.

He shouted at Inch, “Stay here!” To Allday, “Follow me! We must keep these carronades firing or we are done for!”

Sparks flew from the capstan and iron ricocheted overhead. More balls slammed into the lower hull, although the chebecks’ gunners were probably killing as many of their own men as the Hekla’s as they fired their long cannon into the dense smoke.

He saw several seamen falling around the forward carronade,

heard their cries as the first of the attackers loomed into view, scimitars and broadswords slashing and cutting in crazed fury.

A swivel barked from the forecastle and several of them fell kicking in their blood, but others were swarming through a great gap in the nets and locking steel with the seamen.

Bolitho seized a gun-captain’s shoulder and yelled into his face, “See if you can put a ball into this one!” He saw the man nod dazedly before turning to call to his crew to reload.

Allday swung round and cut down a boarder who had somehow fought his way through Lieutenant Wilmot’s men in the bows. The man slithered along the deck, his teeth bared in a another wild shriek as a seaman drove a pike into his ribs.

Bolitho waved his sword and beckoned to another group of seamen below the mainmast. He felt a pistol ball fan his cheek and turned to see Wilmot fall, blood flowing from his mouth, when seconds before he had been leading his men into the attack.

He saw Inch yelling to some of his deck party to take up sweeps and stave off a blazing chebeck which was drifting dangerously close alongside. Above the crackle and roar of flames Bolitho heard terrible screams, and realised the oarsmen must be slaves, held captive by chains to their oars to endure the most horrible death of all.

A man dropped from overhead, his face smashed away by musket fire, another rolled kicking from a carronade, his foot crushed by the slide as the heavy muzzle blasted out into the dense smoke.

Bolitho saw the gun-captain waving at him, his teeth white in his blackened face, and knew he had managed to get a ball into the chebeck below the rent in the nets.

A bearded figure ducked beneath a pike and came towards him, his heavy sword scything in line with his stomach. He stuck out with his sword, saw a spark jump from the steel as the shock darted up his arm. It was enough to turn the man in his charge, and before he could recover he was beaten to the deck by a belaying pin wielded by Broome, the gunner.

Inch was suddenly beside him yelling, “They’re done for!” He was almost capering with wild excitement. “We’ve sunk more’n half and the others are in a bad way!”

He waved his hat in the air, and as the smoke thinned above the sweating gun crews Bolitho saw the sea’s face littered with battered hulls and wreckage, while here and there a damaged chebeck pulled hurriedly towards the land. It would be a long time before Messadi’s name brought terror to these shores again, he thought dazedly. Broome roared, “By God, sir! There’s one across the bows!”

Through the smoke Bolitho saw the dovetailed flag very near, and somehow knew this was the leader’s chebeck. Messadi himself trying to get past the Hekla’s fury and escape to the cove once more.

He followed Inch aft to where the helmsmen stood astride two of their dead comrades and gestured with his sword, his voice suddenly loud over the silent carronades. “A guinea for the gun-captain who can bring her down!”

The realisation that they had won, the sudden understanding they had beaten an overwhelming force of a terrifying enemy, was enough. Cheering, or sobbing with exhaustion, they ran back to their tackles, while the swivels and even muskets cut the air apart in their efforts to pursue the fast-moving chebeck.

Bolitho saw a massive carronade lurch inboard, and the flash as its ball burst close under the chebeck’s raked stem. He turned his head as a second slammed into her ornate poop, scattering the packed figures in bloody gruel.

Everyone was yelling and shouting, and Bolitho clung to the shrouds trying to peer over the rolling bank of smoke as the enemy’s twin masts began to tilt over.

He heard Inch calling to him, but as he swung round to listen he felt something like a blow in his right shoulder. It was not much and yet he was falling, and as he dropped to his knees he stared with dulled surprise at the blood which ran down across his

white breeches and covered the deck around him. But something else was happening. He was on his side, the great mainsail high above him, and beyond it a wedge of pale cloud.

Voices were calling, and he saw Inch running towards him, his face frozen with dismay.

Bolitho opened his mouth to reassure him in some way, but as he did so the pain came. So great and so terrible that a merciful darkness closed over him. Then there was nothing.

16 an Affair of honour

Slowly, almost fearfully Bolitho opened his eyes. It seemed to take an age for his vision to clear, and he felt his mind bunching itself to withstand the terrible pain which must surely come. He could feel the sweat running down his face and neck like iced water, but as he waited, dreading the return of torment, he realised he could find no other sensation. He tried to move his body, straining his ears to catch the sound of sea or creaking timbers, but there was neither, and as his uncertainty changed to something like panic he realised he was surrounded by total silence, and that the light was so dim he could have been in a tomb.

As he struggled to lift himself he felt the searing thrust of red-hot agony lance through his shoulder until he thought his heart would fail under it. He gritted his teeth, shutting his eyes tightly against the pain, and felt himself slipping back again into the nightmare. How long had it lasted? Days, hours, or was it an eternity since… He concentrated his failing reserve of will-power to try to remember, to keep his mind from cracking under the pressure in his body.

Figures and voices, looming faces and the vague motions of a ship were parts of the confused memories. Some episodes, although brief, stood out more than others, although they had

neither order nor apparent relevance. Inch cushioning his head from the deck. And Allday’s agonised face coming down at him from every angle, again and again. And he had heard himself speaking too, and tried to listen, as if he had already become completely detached, his spirit hovering to watch the dying husk with nothing more than idle curiosity.

There had been other faces too, unknown to him, yet somehow familiar. Serious and young, calm and sad. His voice had come and gone repeatedly, and once when Bolitho had heard himself crying out in the enclosing darkness the stranger had said quietly, “I am Angus, sir. Coquette’s surgeon.”

Bolitho tensed, feeling the sweat flooding across him as an extension of his own rising terror. The face and the stark memory of those quiet words brought back some of the reality like the shock of the wound.

He had been protesting, his reeling mind fighting against the pain and the unconsciousness to make the surgeon understand. To stop him from touching him.

With a desperate sob he tried to move his shoulder, to discover some feeling in his arm and fingers. Nothing.

He let himself go limp again, ignoring the heated pain, and conscious only of a stinging despair which was blinding him.

As if torn from his innermost soul he heard himself cry out, “Oh, Cheney! Cheney, help me! They’ve taken off my arm!”

Instantly a chair scraped across stone and feet pattered towards him. He heard someone call, “He’s coming out of the coma! Pass the word!”

A cool cloth, was laid carefully over his forehead, and as he reopened his eyes he saw Allday peering down at him, his hard hands supporting his head so that someone else could sponge away the sweat of pain and fear.

He remembered the hands now. They had held him, pressing into his head as if to shut out the first pressure of Angus’s knife.

From a great distance he heard him ask, “How is it, Captain?”

Bolitho stared up at him, so astonished at seeing tears in Allday’s eyes that he momentarily forgot his own suffering.

He replied, “Easy, Allday. Rest easy.” How hoarse his voice sounded.

More faces swayed over him and he saw Angus thrust the others aside as he removed the sheet from his chest, felt his fingers probing before the pain struck at him again, making him gasp aloud.

He managed to say, “My arm. Tell me.”

Angus glanced at him calmly. “Believe me, sir, it is still there.” He did not smile. “However, these are early days. It is well to be prepared.”

He moved out of Bolitho’s vision and said, “New dressing at once. And he must eat something. Broth maybe, and a little brandy.”

Bolitho strained his eyes up to Allday’s face. “Where am I?”

“The fortress, Captain. Hekla brought you in two days back.”

Two days. He persisted, “And before?”

“Hekla took two days to reach here, Captain. The wind went against us.” He sounded desperate. “I thought we’d never reach this damned place.”

A total of four days then. Time enough for the wound to worsen. Why should he not face the truth as Angus was doing? God knew, he had seen it happen often enough to others.

He said quietly, “Tell me, and no lies for my sake, is my arm to come off?”

Again he saw the wretched helplessness in Allday’s eyes.

“No, Captain, I am sure of it.” He tried to smile, the effort only adding to his misery. “We’ve been through worse than this before. So let’s have no more such talk.”

“That is enough talking.” Angus’s face swam above him once more. “You will rest until the dressing is changed. Then I want you to take some food.” He held something against the light, dull-coloured and half flattened by the force of impact. “Some of

these Arab muskets have great accuracy. This ball would have certainly killed you had you not turned your body at the time of delivery.” He smiled severely. “So we must be thankful for that at least, eh?”

A door grated and he added, “But then you have an excellent nurse.” He nodded curtly. “Over here, Mrs. Pareja. The captain will be ready in a moment.”

Bolitho watched as she moved down the side of the bed. Perhaps after all he was still drifting in unreality, or maybe even dead.

She paused and looked down at him, her face very pale against the long black hair, grave and unsmiling. And beautiful. It was hard to picture her aboard the Navarra, nursing her dead husband against her bloodied dress and watching him with such anger and bitter despair.

She said, “You look a lot better.”

“Thank you for all you have done.” He felt suddenly helpless and empty under her calm stare and could not continue.

She smiled, showing her strong white teeth. “Now I know you are getting well. Your language has been a challenge for the past two days.”

She was still smiling as Angus cut away the dressing and replaced it methodically with a new one.

Bolitho studied her in silence. She had been here with him all the time. Seeing his fight against pain, tending to his body’s wants when he could do nothing to help himself or know what he was doing. He was conscious of his nakedness under the sheet, the hair matted over his forehead in sweat, and was ashamed.

She added quietly, “It seems you are a hard man to kill.”

As Angus removed his bowl of bloodstained rags she looked at Allday and said, “Go and rest.” When he hesitated she added sharply, “Away with you, man! God knows you have not rested since your return, and from what I have heard, not since our charge here fell wounded!”

Bolitho shifted his left arm beneath the sheet and said hoarsely, “My hand!”

Allday lifted the sheet and seized Bolitho’s fingers with his own. Bolitho felt the sweat running across his bared chest as he used his failing strength to grip the hand tightly.

“You do as she asks, Allday!” He tried not to watch his face. “I’ll rest easier if I know you’re fit and ready when I need you.” He forced himself to smile. “True friends are hard to come by!”

Allday moved away and Bolitho heard the door close.

“He’s gone.”

When Bolitho looked at her again he saw that her eyes were gleaming with tears.

She shook her head angrily. “Damn you, Captain, it is true what they say! You bewitch all those who come near! It must be the Cornish magic in you!”

“I fear the magic, as you call it, comes from others, Mrs. Pareja.”

She sat down on the bed and stirred some broth in a bowl. “My name is Catherine.” She smiled, and for an instant he saw some of the same boldness he had noticed aboard the Navarra. “But you call me Kate. I was known by that name before I married Luis.”

She lifted his head to arrange a pillow carefully and then dipped a spoon into the bowl.

He said quietly, “I am sorry about your husband.”

The spoon did not waver, and he allowed the thick soup to explore his throat, reviving him in spite of the pain.

She said, “You called out several times for Cheney. Your wife?”

He looked at her. “She is dead.”

“I know. One of your officers told me.” She wiped his lips with a clean cloth before adding, “You talked a lot, although much of it I didn’t understand. Sometimes you spoke of home and some portraits on a wall.” She studied him gravely. “But we will not speak of such things just now. You are very weak and must rest.”

Bolitho struggled to move his arm. “No. I do not want to be

left.” Almost desperately he added, “Tell me of yourself!”

She sat back and smiled as if recalling some event long past. “My home was London. Do you know much of it?”

He shook his head slightly. “I have visited there.”

Surprisingly, she lifted her chin and laughed. It was a throaty, uninhibited sound, as if he had said something hilarious.

“I can see by your face you do not like London, my dear Captain. But I suspect that your London was different from mine. Where ladies danced the quadrille and hid their blushes in bouquets while the young blades made fine postures to excite their attention.” She tossed her head, so that the hair fell loosely around her throat. “It is a way of life I have tried to learn. But it now seems that my efforts were wasted.” For a moment her eyes became wistful, and then she said shortly, “Life can be cruel.”

She stood up and placed the bowl on a table, and Bolitho saw that she was wearing a different gown, of yellow silk, low cut and painstakingly embroidered around the waist. She saw his eyes and remarked, “One of the Spanish ladies here gave it to me.”

He asked, “Did you meet your husband in London?” He did not wish to disturb her memories, but somehow he needed to know.

“The first one.” She watched his puzzled expression and gave another bubbling laugh. “Oh yes, I have buried two husbands, in a manner of speaking.” She moved swiftly to the bed and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Do not look so worried. It is history. The first was a real dashing person. Together we were going to set the world ablaze. He was a soldier of fortune, a mercenary, if you like. After we were wed he took me to Spain to fight against the Frogs. But all the battles he fought were in taverns, over some woman or other. One day he must have met his match, for he was discovered dead in a ditch outside Sevilla. That was where I met Luis. He was twice my age, but seemed to need me.” She sighed. “He was a widower and had nothing but his work to sustain him.” In a quieter tone she said, “I think he was happy.”

“Of that I am certain.”

“Thank you, Captain.” She turned her face away. “You did not need to say that.”

Once again the door scraped open but this time it was Gillmor. He bobbed his head politely to her before crossing to the bed.

“I am sincerely glad to know you are recovering your health, sir.”

Bolitho saw the strain on his face and guessed Coquette’s captain had had more than his share of worry because of his own incapacity.

Gillmor hurried on, “The lookouts have just sighted the squadron returning, sir.” He breathed out slowly. “At last.”

“What are you hiding?” Bolitho felt a sudden touch of apprehension. “Something is wrong.”

“Euryalus is under tow, sir. She appears to have lost her bowsprit and fore topgallant mast. I have sent Mr Bickford in a cutter to meet the admiral.”

“I must get up!” Bolitho tried to free himself from the sheet. “Take me to my ship, for God’s sake!”

Gillmor stood aside and allowed the woman to press Bolitho back against the bed. “I am sorry, sir, but we have decided against it.”

Bolitho clenched his teeth against the pain. “We have decided?”

Gillmor swallowed but stood his ground. “Commander Inch and I, sir. There is no sense in having you die now that the worst is past.”

“Since when do you give me my orders, Captain Gillmor?”

The frustration and helplessness, the realisation he had thought more of his own suffering than of his duty to the squadron, filled him with an unreasoning anger.

She interrupted before Gillmor could reply. “Now, that is being childish! Do not excite yourself or I will call Mr Angus to you!”

Gillmor said, “I am sorry, sir. But I think we will need you very soon, and in good health.”

Bolitho closed his eyes. “No. I am the one to apologise. To you both.” Then he asked, “Is Restless with the squadron?”

Gillmor hesitated. “No, sir. But maybe she is too far to seaward to be observed by Giffard’s men.”

“Perhaps.”

Bolitho could feel himself getting drowsy again, the throbbing in his shoulder growing more insistent. It was difficult to concentrate on what Gillmor was saying, harder still to sort his thoughts into any semblance of order.

Gillmor said, “I will leave you, sir. As soon as we have any news…” He backed out of the room before Bolitho could protest.

“A good officer.” He felt her sit down again on the bed, the cool touch of a cloth across his forehead. “When I was his age I had a ship like Coquette. In the Great South Sea. That was another world.” It was growing more difficult to remember. “Lizards three feet long, and turtles big enough to carry a man. Unspoiled by civilisation…”

“Rest, Captain.” Her voice faded away as Bolitho sank into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Some hours later he awoke shivering violently and ice cold. Although the shutters were closed across the windows he knew it was night, and as he moved his head from side to side he heard Allday say, “He’s awake, ma’am!”

A small lantern appeared around a screen and he saw their two figures peering down at him.

Allday whispered, “My God, I must call Mr Angus!”

“Wait.” She stooped over the bed so that he could feel her hair touching his face. Then, “Don’t fetch him yet. You know what these surgeons are like. They understand little more than the saw of the knife.” She spat out the word. “Butchers.”

“But look at him!” Allday was desperate. “We can’t leave him like this!”

Bolitho could not speak. He was very weak, and yet for the first time he could feel his right hand. His arm was too painful

and stiff to move, but he could feel it. The sudden excitement of the discovery only added to his sweating fever, and he could not stop his teeth from chattering.

He heard her say quietly, “Go to the next room, Allday.” Then more firmly, “It is all right. I know what to do.”

The door opened and closed, and Bolitho vaguely imagined Allday crouching like a dog on the other side of it. Then he heard a swift rustle of silk, and before the lantern vanished behind the screen he saw her body very white against the shadowed wall, her hair loose across her naked shoulders. The sheet was pulled down, and with hardly a sound she slid in beside him, her breast and thigh closely pressed against his body while she cradled his head into her arm. As the night passed, and between moments of deep sleep and distorted dreams, he heard her speaking softly to him, like a mother to a sick child, the sounds more reassuring than actual words. The heat of her body enfolded him like a warm cloak, driving out the chill and bringing a sense of peace to his throbbing mind.

When next he opened his eyes there were chinks of bright sunlight slanting through the shutters, and for a moment longer he thought all else had been another dream. Allday was lolling in his chair, and he saw the gleam of a yellow dress beside one of the windows where she sat in a high-backed seat.

She stood up and murmured, “You look so much better.” Then she gave a small, secret smile, and Bolitho knew it had not been any dream. “How do you feel?”

He felt his lips giving way to her smile. “Hungry.”

Allday was on his feet. “A miracle.”

Feet clattered in the stone corridor beyond the door and Keverne, followed by Calvert, entered the room. Keverne’s dark features relaxed slightly as he saw Bolitho smiling.

He said, “I came as soon as I was able, sir.”

Bolitho propped himself on his elbow. “What happened?”

The lieutenant shrugged wearily. “We sighted two French

seventy-fours and gave chase. Darkness came down, but Sir Lucius insisted we keep after ’em,” he sounded bitter, “and in close formation.”

“Continue.” Bolitho could see it all in his mind. The ships trying to maintain Broughton’s fixed formation under full sail. The wind and noise, the frantic efforts to watch the other ships’ stern lights.

Keverne said, “Just after dawn we sighted the enemy again. The admiral ordered Zeus to tack independently, but because of the close formation the signal was misread. Tanais got into difficulties and we collided with her larboard quarter. We lost the bowsprit and brought down the topgallant for good measure. By the time we got ourselves disentangled the Frogs were out of sight, heading north with every square of canvas to the wind, damn their eyes!”

“The damage?”

“It will only take a day to repair. I’ve already had the topgallant replaced, and they are working on the bowsprit and jib boom now.”

Bolitho looked away. If the enemy frigate which had destroyed the bomb vessel had not discovered all about the squadron, the two 74s would have no such doubts.

Keverne added, “Sir Lucius sent his compliments and says he will see you when convenient!” He looked curiously at the woman. “You did a fine piece of work here, if I may say so, sir. I heard about Witrand. I’m sorry.”

Calvert said, “I had best return to the ship, sir.” He did not sound happy at the prospect.

Keverne ignored him. “What shall we do, sir?” He walked to the window and peered through the slats. “To me it all seems hopeless!”

Bolitho thought of Draffen, of his lies and deceit, and felt the blood begin to pump painfully in his shoulder.

And out there aboard his flagship Broughton was imprisoned with his own doubts and apprehensions. But his pride would not

allow him to ask Bolitho or anyone else for advice, so his burden must be all the greater. Bolitho could admire him for his pride, but could not accept Broughton’s unfailing rigidity.

Captain Giffard appeared panting in the doorway, his face the same colour as his tunic.

“Restless is rounding the headland sir!”

Bolitho struggled up on his elbow again, shutting his mind against the pain.

“Signal her captain to report to me immediately!” He held Giffard’s eyes with his own. “To me, you understand?”

As Giffard bustled away he added, “Return to the ship, Mr Keverne, and give my respects to the admiral. Tell him I will be returning aboard very soon.” He saw Allday dart a quick glance at the others. “Very soon. Just tell him that.”

To Calvert he said quietly, “Sir Lucius suggested that you should be employed ashore. You will remain here for the present.” He saw the relief and gratitude and added, “Now go and watch for the sloop.”

When they were alone again he said, “I know what you are about to say, Mrs. Pareja.” He smiled gently. “Kate.”

“Then why are you being so obstinate?” Her cheeks were suddenly flushed, and he could see the quick movement of her breasts.

“Because it is now that I am needed!” He gestured to Allday. “I must be shaved and I’ll need a clean shirt.” He made himself grin at Allday’s stubborn expression. “Now.”

With Allday out of the room he said, “It is strange, but I am able to think more clearly than for some time.”

“It is because you have so little blood left!” She sighed. “But if you must, then I suppose you must. Men are made for war, and you are no exception.”

She moved to the bed and supported his shoulders until he was propped in a sitting position.

He asked slowly, “What will become of you after this affair is done?”

“I will not return to Spain. Without Luis I am a stranger there again. Perhaps I will go to London!” She smiled gravely. “I have my jewels. Far more than I had when I left there.” The smile became a chuckle. “You might visit me in London, eh, Captain? When you come to receive some high and mighty appointment?”

But when he looked at her he saw the smile was hiding something deeper. Pleading? It was hard to tell.

He leaned gently against her. “I will. Believe me.”

Allday was putting finishing touches to Bolitho’s shirt and stock when Commander Samuel Poate of the Restless strode into the room.

He was small and pink, with the aggressive eagerness of a young pig, Bolitho thought. Now, as he stood with his hat beneath his arm, his upturned nose seemed to quiver with urgency and suppressed anger so that the similarity was even greater.

Bolitho snapped, “Your report, Commander, and be quick with it. There is a feeling within me that we may soon be called to act.”

Poate had a clipped way of speaking, like a witness at a court-martial, wasting neither words nor time.

“After I landed Sir Hugo Draffen and the prisoner I stood out to sea to await his signal, sir. I waited but nothing happened, and when the wind fell away I had to anchor lest I be driven ashore. We heard the explosions and guessed that a further attack was being made on Djafou, although I did not know by what means. There was still no sight of Sir Hugo, and when the wind got up I beat out to sea again and patrolled along the coast.”

“Why did you allow the prisoner to be taken ashore?”

“Sir Hugo’s orders, sir. I had no option. He said something about his being a hostage, but I was kept too busy to fathom his reasoning.” His eyes gleamed coldly as he added, “But we did sight a man waving from a beach, and when I put a boat down I soon discovered him to be one of your seamen, sir. The survivor of a party sent to escort Lieutenant Calvert. He was near demented with terror, and I thought him half mad. But later he

admitted to leaving the flag-lieutenant and a midshipman after an attack by tribesmen, and told of how he ran and hid for hours until he found a cave in the hillside.”

Bolitho stood up very carefully, supporting himself against Allday.

Poate said, “From the cave he said he saw Witrand tortured and then beheaded, although I do not know how much of that is true.”

“It is fact, Commander.”

“But then he went on to say that as he hid there, watching this horror below him, he also saw Sir Hugo.” He took a deep breath. “Any seaman trying to ingratiate himself with his officers after deserting in the face of the enemy would hardly be likely to invent such a story. He said he actually saw Draffen speaking with those who were torturing the prisoner!”

“I see.” He looked up, realising there was more to come. “Well?”

“I have since heard of how you were wounded and others killed aboard Hekla because you lacked my support, sir. But I was so enraged and sickened by what I had heard that I took my ship further along the coast where eventually, and with God’s good fortune, I discovered a small dhow.”

“Draffen?” Bolitho felt his blood churning in his veins like fire.

Poate nodded. “I have him below, sir. Under guard.”

“Bring him here.” He looked towards the sunlight and heard the wind hissing gently through the shutters. “You have done very well. Probably better than either of us can yet realise.”

He heard Poate barking orders in the corridor and said, “Leave me, Kate. You too, Allday.” He smiled at their concern. “I will not start to wave my arms just yet.”

Alone, he leaned against a chairback and moved his arm cautiously within a makeshift sling.

When Draffen entered with Poate, and Calvert bringing up the rear, there was little about him to betray either alarm or uncertainty.

He said calmly, “Perhaps you would be good enough to take me to the admiral? I am not content at being so badly handled by these people.”

Calvert stammered, “You are under arrest…”

Draffen turned towards him, his eyes cold with contempt. “Be silent, puppy!”

Bolitho said flatly, “It is useless to deny that you contrived to have Djafou reoccupied for your own future gain, Sir Hugo.” How strange that he could speak so calmly when his mind was sick with disgust. “Whatever the outcome here, you will be made to stand trial in England.”

Draffen stared at him and then laughed. “My God, Captain, what world do you live in?”

“Our world, Sir Hugo. I think that what we have discovered at Djafou will be more than enough to break your mask of innocence.”

Draffen spread his hands. “Slavery is a fact, Captain, no matter what the law might proclaim publicly. Where demand exists, so too must supply. There are those in the City of London who would place more value on the head of one fit slave than a whole boatload of your sailors who have died in battle, let me assure you of that! Learn your lesson well, as I have. Law and justice are for those who can afford it!”

Poate opened his mouth to interrupt as a bright spot of blood appeared suddenly on Bolitho’s clean sling. But he shook his head towards him and said, “Then I hope that those people will support you well, Sir Hugo, for I am sure the rest of England will condemn you for what you are. A liar, a cheat and…” he clenched his teeth against both pain and anger, “a creature who could stand by and watch a man tortured and then murdered. A prisoner under the King’s protection!”

For the first time he saw a spark of alarm in Draffen’s eyes. But he answered harshly, “Even if it were true, Witrand had no

such protection. As an army officer hiding under civilian guise he must be accepted as a spy.”

His mouth tightened as Bolitho said calmly, “No one but the admiral and I knew that, Sir Hugo. So unless you knew him already, which I believe is so, since you made no effort to see him aboard Euryalus, then you must have heard him give out his identity under torture. Either way you are branded!” He could feel the blood seeping down inside his bandages but could not stop himself. “By God, I detest the naked ritual of a hanging, but I’d give a month’s bounty to see you dance at Tyburn!”

Draffen watched him warily. “Send these others from the room.”

“No bargains, Sir Hugo. You have caused enough death and suffering.”

“Very well. Then I will speak in front of them.” He placed his hands on his hips and said in a calmer tone, “I have, as you observed, powerful friends in London. They can make your future very hard, and put a blight on what hopes you might still have for advancement.”

Bolitho looked away. “Is that all?”

Behind him he heard Draffen catch his breath and then reply harshly, “You have a nephew in the Navy, I believe? Your late brother’s bastard?”

Bolitho stood quite motionless, hearing Poate’s feet moving on the stones and Calvert’s gasp of alarm.

Draffen continued, “How will he feel when he learns that his late father turned a blind eye to my slavers when he commanded a privateer? That he grew rich from his connivance?”

Bolitho turned towards him, his voice very calm. “That is a lie.”

“But some will believe it, and most of all, your nephew’s future will be finished, am I right?”

Bolitho blinked his eyes to clear away the mist of pain. He must not faint now. Must not.

“Had I some pity or regard for you at all, Sir Hugo, it would

now be gone. Any man who could threaten the life of a young boy, who has had nothing in his upbringing but misery, deserves none.” He looked at Poate. “Take him out.”

Draffen said quietly, “You have accused me of many things. Whatever others may say, you shall give me satisfaction when you have the strength!”

“As you wish. You will find me ready enough.”

He sat down heavily as Draffen was escorted from the room.

Then she was beside him again, scolding him as she guided him back to the bed.

He said, “I cannot write, so will you do so if I dictate? I must send my report to the admiral at once.”

She studied him curiously. “Was that true about your brother?”

“Some, but not all.”

The door swung open again and Poate burst into the room. “Sir! Lieutenant Calvert must have gone mad!”

Bolitho gripped the chair. “What’s happened?”

“He has taken Draffen to the top of the tower and locked the hatch on us. When I demanded that it be opened he said nothing.” Poate sounded incredulous.

“Listen!” They all looked at Allday who was leaning from a window. Above the sigh of sea and wind Bolitho heard the sudden clash of steel, and felt moved.

It did not last long. Calvert appeared in the doorway, two swords beneath his arm, his face extremely composed, even sad.

He said, “I am placing myself under arrest, sir. Sir Hugo is dead.”

Bolitho replied quietly, “I was the one he challenged, Calvert.”

He shook his head. “You forget, sir. He called me puppy before that.” He turned away, not even seeing Poate and the others who crowded outside the door.

“Anyway, sir, you’d never match him in a duel. Not with a sword in your left hand.” He shrugged wearily. “You are a fighter, sir, but, I suspect, not used to the more precise art of duelling.”

He swung round, his eyes flashing. “You saved me, and more than that, you gave me back my honour. I’ll not stand back and see you destroyed when I can help, perhaps better than anyone else.”

Angus, the surgeon, pushed through the crowd and shouted, “What madness is this? Can’t you see the state the captain is in?”

Bolitho eyed him coldly. “Go to the top of the tower. You will find a body there.”

Then he said to Calvert, “You mean well, but…”

Calvert shrugged. “But. What a great span that word can cover. I know what may become of me, but I do not care. Perhaps I did it to avenge Lelean, I am not certain of that either.” He met Bolitho’s eyes with sudden determination. “Lelean needed me, just as the squadron needs you at this moment. Maybe that is the best reason for killing Draffen.”

He unbuckled his swordbelt and handed it to Captain Giffard.

The faces at the door melted away as Broughton’s voice rasped, “Give him back his sword, Giffard!”

He strode into the room, nodding curtly to Bolitho before saying, “Once I wronged you, Calvert. I cannot spare you the trial for your act.” He studied the lieutenant’s face with obvious interest. “But if and when we return to England, I will see to it that you are ably defended!

Calvert looked at the floor. “Thank you, Sir Lucius!”

Broughton turned to Bolitho. “Now, seeing that you seem able and strong enough to conduct my affairs, it appears I must come to you, eh?” He glared round the room. “Get these people out of my sight!” He relented slightly. “Except you of course, dear lady, for I have learned that but for your, er, ministrations I would now be without my flag captain!” He smiled coolly as he ran his eye over her. “Which would never do.”

She met his eyes unflinchingly. “I agree, Sir Lucius. It would appear you have great need of him.”

Broughton frowned and then gave a small shrug. “That was a fair match of words, ma’am.”

To Bolitho he said, “This is what I intend!”

There was no hint of shock or anger at the manner of Draffen’s death. As in the past, Broughton had already discarded him. A memory, and nothing more. Later, in England, he might find it less easy to ignore.

He said, “It seems almost certain the French will try and drive us from here.” He paused as if expecting an argument. “Sighting those ships and then losing them because of Rattray’s stupidity over my signal makes me more inclined to accept your earlier remarks!” He nodded. “You certainly left Gillmor a good report before you sailed on that fool errand against the pirates.” He sighed. “Really, Bolitho, you must learn to accept that you are already out of reach of those more lighthearted events!”

“It seemed advisable to remove one threat before we took on another, sir.”

“Maybe.” He sounded cautious. “But by now the Franco- Spanish alliance will know that the squadron which left Gibraltar is here on their porchway. Urgency to complete their plan will become even more apparent.” He nodded as if to confirm his thoughts. “I am not waiting for them. I propose to take the squadron towards Cartagena. For if only half the reports are true, that is where the enemy has been concentrating his transports and war vessels. What could be more likely? A further attempt to strengthen the relationship between the two countries after their defeat at St Vincent.”

Bolitho nodded. It was obvious the admiral had given the matter a great deal of thought during the past day or so. As well he might. For to return to Gibraltar and report that Djafou had been found useless, and Draffen had been killed by one of his own officers, would be asking for certain retribution. Broughton had already incurred the Admiralty’s displeasure over his part in the Spithead mutiny and the loss of the Auriga, and he more than anyone needed to obtain some credit, which the capture of the Navarra and a small brig hardly represented.

He replied, “It is very likely, sir. It is equally possible we may meet with the enemy in open water.”

“That is what I pray for.” Broughton paced to the window, showing some signs of agitation. “If we can bring them to grips we will have shown them that we are not merely a cat’s-paw. And that others will follow us in even greater strength.”

“And if we discover nothing at Cartagena, sir, what then?”

Broughton turned and looked at him calmly. “Then, Bolitho, I am a ruined man.” He seemed to realise he had shown too much of a confidence and added abruptly, “We will weigh tomorrow morning. Commander Inch will return to Gibraltar with the brig and Navarra. He will also carry all the garrison and other, er, people we have gathered. I have no doubt the governor there will be pleased to use them for exchange with British prisoners of war.”

“I have ordered charges to be laid in the fortress magazine, sir.”

“Good. We will fire them as we leave.” He sighed. “So be it.”

As he made as if to depart Bolitho asked quickly, I am hoping you may recommend Mr Keverne for command of the brig, sir?”

The admiral turned his eyes instead on the woman. “I am afraid not. You already have shortages, and we will need every experienced officer. I will tell Furneaux to supply a prize officer.”

He nodded to Angus as he came in wiping his hands.

The surgeon said, “He was dead, sir.”

The admiral said indifferently, “As I expected. Now, Mr Angus, Captain Bolitho will remain here until half an hour before sailing tomorrow. Make all arrangements. Then send someone to find Calvert and tell him I wish some orders to be drafted for the squadron immediately.” He smiled suddenly, so that he looked years younger.

“Do you know, Bolitho, I was once tempted to match rapiers with Calvert, just to teach him a lesson! If I had, you would now be in command here, and your head instead of mine would be on the block!” It seemed to amuse him, for he was still smiling as he strode out of the room.

Bolitho leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, feeling the energy and tension draining from him, leaving him spent.

Half to himself he said, “One more night.”

She touched his hair with her hand, her voice husky. “Yes. One more night.” She hesitated. “Together.”