The Flag Captain

It was not surprising the fort had managed to survive and had fallen to the Spaniards only because of some alliance with a local tribal leader. The latter had since died and his people scattered beyond the forbidding mountains which were often visible from the sea.

But once in the hands of the French, with all their military skill and territorial ambition, Djafou would become an even greater menace. A place of shelter for their ships while they waited to dash out on some intruding British squadron.

It was all he could do to hide his despair from the others. Why was it there never seemed enough of anything when it was most needed? With twenty sail-of-the-line and a few transports filled with seasoned soldiers and horse artillery they might have achieved in days what the French must have been planning for many months.

Witrand probably knew the answer to the whole puzzle. That was another surprising thing. When Bolitho had mentioned the Frenchman to Draffen he had merely shrugged and remarked, “You’ll get nothing out of him. His presence here is enough to show as a warning, but little else.”

He glanced through the stern windows. Already the sea was breaking into small fresh white horses, and he could see Valorous’s pendant standing out stiffly to the wind as an additional warning.

“That is all for the present, gentlemen. Lieutenant Calvert will give each of you his written orders. We will proceed to Djafou without further delay and cross the bay tomorrow morning.”

Broughton stood up and studied all of them coldly. “You have heard my intentions, gentlemen. You know my methods. I will expect all signals to be kept to a minimum. The squadron will attack from east to west and take full advantage of the sun being in the enemy’s eyes. Bombardment from the sea and a combined land assault from both directions at once should suffice.” He paused and added quietly, “If not, we will attack again and again until we have succeeded. That is all.” He turned and walked from the cabin without another word.

As the other captains paid their respects and then hurried away to summon their barges, Bolitho saw Draffen peering down at the chart and frowning.

The door closed behind the last captain. Draffen said heavily,

“I hope to God the wind drops. It might at least stop Sir Lucius from carrying out the attack.”

Bolitho stared at him. “I thought you were as keen as anyone to see Djafou fall, sir?”

Draffen grimaced. “Things have changed now. We need allies, Bolitho. In war we cannot be too choosy about our bedfellows.”

The door opened and Bolitho saw Keverne watching him. Waiting for orders, or with a fresh list of demands and needs for the ship and the squadron.

He asked slowly, “Are there such allies?”

Draffen folded his arms and met his gaze. “I am certain of it. I still hold some influence out here. But they respect only strength. To see this squadron beaten in its first battle with the Spanish garrison will do nothing to bolster our prestige.” He waved one hand across the chart. “These people live by the sword. Strength is their only unity, their one true god. Our need of Djafou is a temporary thing, something to sustain our cause until we have re-entered the Mediterranean in real strength. When that happens it will be forgotten, a miserable, barren hole as it was before. But not to those who have to continue an existence there. To them Djafou is the past and the future. It is all they have.”

Then he smiled and walked towards the door. “I will see you tomorrow. But now I have work to do.”

Bolitho turned away. It was strange how different Djafou had been made to appear by two men. Broughton and Draffen. To the admiral it was an obstacle. One hindrance in his overall strategy of command. To Draffen it seemed to represent something else entirely. Part of his life perhaps. Or of himself.

Keverne said, “All captains have returned to their ships, sir.” If he was feeling any anxiety he was not showing it. One day perhaps he would be in a position to worry like Broughton. But now he had to do his duty and nothing more. Maybe it was better that way.

He said, “Thank you, Mr Keverne. I will be up directly. But now you may have Mr Tothill make a signal to the squadron to take stations as ordered.” He paused, sick of the delays and the constant uncertainties. “We attack tomorrow if the wind holds.”

Keverne showed his teeth. “Then there’s an end to the waiting, sir.”

Bolitho watched him leave and then returned to the windows. Aye, an end to it, he thought. And with any luck, a beginning too.

12. the Fortress

“Wake up, Captain!”

Bolitho opened his eyes and realised he must have fallen asleep across his desk. Allday was peering down at him, his face yellow in the glow of the single deckhead lantern. Both candles on the desk were guttered and dead, and his throat felt dry and smoky. Allday placed a pewter cup on the desk and poured some black coffee into it.

“It will be dawn soon now, Captain.”

“Thank you.”

Bolitho sipped the scalding coffee and waited for his mind to repel the last dragging claws of sleep. He had been on deck several times during the night, checking last details before daylight, studying the wind, estimating the squadron’s course and speed. He had finally fallen into deep sleep while going over Draffen’s notes, but in the sealed cabin he could feel no benefit from it.

He stood up, suddenly angry with himself. They were all committed to the coming day. Nothing could be gained by supposition at this early stage.

“A quick shave, Allday.” He downed the coffee. “And some more of that.”

He heard something clatter in the cabin below, and knew Broughton’s servant was about to call his master. He wondered if he had been sleeping, or just lying in his cot, fretting over the coming battle and its possible consequences.

Allday returned carrying another lantern and a jug of hot water.

“Wind’s holding steady from the nor’ west, Captain.”

He busied himself with the razor and towel as Bolitho threw his shirt on the bench and slumped back in his chair again.

“Mr Keverne called all hands an hour since.”

Bolitho relaxed slightly as the razor scraped over his chin. He had not even heard a sound as Euryalus’s company of several hundred souls had come alive to the pipe’s bidding. While he had lain on the desk in an exhausted sleep they had been fed and had set about cleaning down decks in spite of the surrounding darkness. For, no matter what lay ahead, there was no sense in allowing them to brood about it. When they commenced to fight they would expect the ship around them to be as normal as possible. It was not only their way of life, but their home also. Like the faces at the mess tables, the ones which would soon be peering through open gun ports, everything was as familiar as the spread sails and the sluice of water against the hull.

While Allday completed the hasty shave with his usual dexterity, Bolitho let his mind drift back over the previous day’s frantic preparations. The whole complement of marines from all the ships had been divided into equal halves. Half had been transferred to Rattray’s Zeus at the head of the line. The remainder to Valorous astern. Almost all the squadron’s large pulling boats had been divided in the same way, and Bolitho could pity the two ships’ uneasy night with so many extra people to accommodate.

He stood up and wiped his face, peering as he did so through the stern windows. But outside the cabin it was still too dark to

see anything but a brief scattering of spray from around the rudder. The ships were heading almost due east, with the coast some five miles on the starboard beam. Broughton had been right to continue as before, with the wind comfortably across the quarter, instead of trying to complete the final manoeuvre for his approach towards the land. The vessels might have become scattered, whereas now, with a favourable wind and the usual discreet stern lanterns, they would be able to halve the time when the admiral made his signal.

In the thick glass he could see his own reflection, with Allday standing behind him like an additional shadow.