Flag Captain (33 page)

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 flag-stones, 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?”