Flag Captain (34 page)

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.”

15
R
ETRIBUTION AND DARKNESS

B
OLITHO
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 allout 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.