headland.
He was sitting in a huge, high-backed chair, and made to rise as Bolitho, followed by Bickford and Allday, entered the room. He had a neat grey beard, but his face was the colour of faded parchment, and Bolitho guessed he had been the victim of a severe fever on more than one occasion. He was an old man, with wrinkled hands which hung as if lifeless on the arms of the big chair, and had probably been given the post of commandant because nobody else wanted it, or him.
Fortunately, he spoke good English, and had a gentle, courteous voice which seemed so out of place in the fortress’s grim and uncompromising surroundings.
Bolitho had already been told by Bickford that his name was Francisco Alava, once a colonel in the dragoons of His Most Catholic Majesty’s household. Now, and until the day he died, he was designated commandant of the most dismal place in the Spanish chain of possessions in the Mediterranean. He had probably committed some petty breach of etiquette or misdemeanour to receive such a post, Bolitho thought.
He said, “I would be pleased if you would make your quarters available to me for the present, Colonel Alava.”
The two hands lifted shakily and then fell back on the chair again. Sickness, old age and the awful explosions of Inch’s mortars had taken a hard cost of his frail resources.
Alava said, “Thank you for your humanity, Captain. When your soldiers arrived I feared they would slaughter all of my people here.”
Bolitho smiled grimly. Giffard would certainly take exception to hearing his marines called soldiers.
He said, “At daylight we will see what can be done to restore the defences here.” He walked to an open window and looked across the dark, swirling currents below the fortress. “I will be expecting other ships soon. Also a vessel which will need to be beached so that repairs can be made to her hull.” He paused and then swung round from the window so that even Allday started. “You may know her, Colonel. The
Just for a fraction of a moment he saw a spark of alarm in the old man’s eyes. Then the hands twitched again, dismissing it.
“No, Captain.”
Bolitho turned back to the window. He was lying, and that was as good as proof Witrand had indeed been intended for this desolate place. Probably the brig was the vessel which had been waiting to make the transfer at sea.
But there would be time for that later. Time to allow the commandant to reconsider, to decide where his own safety lay now his defences had fallen.
He nodded to Bickford. “Escort him to the other room and have the officers kept apart.”
As the commandant hobbled through a door, Sawle entered on the opposite side, his shirt sodden and torn, and carrying his coat casually over one arm.
“You did the task very well.” Bolitho watched the new light in the lieutenant’s eyes. A kind of contained wildness, a confidence born of a single dangerous act. He had been more afraid of showing fear than of fear itself, and now that he had survived he would expect his reward and more.
Sawle said, “Thank you, sir.” He did not attempt to hide the
new arrogance which his triumph had roused in him. “It was easy.”
You only think it was easy, my friend, now the danger is past. Aloud Bolitho said, “Report to Mr Bickford and he will give you your orders.”
Allday watched him leave and murmured, “Weasel!”
Bolitho looked past him. “Go and take care of Mr Lucey.” He sat down suddenly in the commandant’s great chair. It was just as if his legs had given way under him. He added, “See if you can find something to drink. I am like a kiln.”
Alone, he stared round the gloomy, barren room. Perhaps one day, because of a bad wound or disability, he would be given a task like Alava’s. An outpost with the grand name of governorship where he would spend the days trying to hide his bitterness, and the ache for a ship from home, from his subordinates.
He realised his eyelids had started to droop and that Giffard had entered the room without his hearing.
Giffard said, “My men found Mr Calvert, sir.” He looked uneasy. “He was wandering around lost, and near out of his mind to all accounts.”
“And the others?”
“No sign of the three seamen, but he was carrying the midshipman on his back.” He shrugged wearily. “But he was already dead.”
“Who was it?”
“Mr Lelean, sir.”
Bolitho rubbed his eyes to hold the dragging tiredness and strain away. Lelean? Lelean? Which one was he?
Then he remembered. Keverne leaning over the quarterdeck rail to relay his instructions to the gundecks. Three apprehensive midshipmen. One upturned face had been covered with pimples. Lelean. He had been fifteen years old.
“Ask Mr Calvert to report to me.” He looked at Giffard’s red face. “I will see him alone.”
Allday arrived with a large glass jug filled to the brim with dark red wine. It was very bitter, but at that moment tasted better than any admiral’s claret.
Allday said, “Mr Calvert’s here, Captain!”
“Show him in, and then wait outside.” He watched Allday leave, his shoulders set in stiff disapproval.
Calvert was swaying from exhaustion, and as he stood staring listlessly at Bolitho he looked almost ready to fall.
“Easy, Mr Calvert. Take some of this wine. It will refresh you.”
Calvert shook his head. “I would rather speak, sir.” He shuddered. “I cannot think of anything else.”
In a strange flat voice, broken only occasionally by deep shudders, he told his story.
From the moment he had been landed from a boat things had started to go wrong. The three seamen had deliberately misunderstood his every order, probably testing for themselves the lieutenant’s incompetence which was common gossip throughout the ship.
Lelean, the midshipman, had attempted to restore discipline, but had been unnerved by Calvert’s inability to take charge of three ordinary seamen.
They had made their way inland, pausing frequently while one seaman or the other complained of sore feet, exhaustion and other trivial excuses to rest. Calvert had grappled with the vague map and had tried to gauge their distance from Giffard’s pickets.
He said brokenly, “I got lost. Lelean was trying to help me, but he was just a boy. When I told him I did not know where we were he stood up to me and said that I ought to know.” He moved his hands vaguely. “Then there was the attack. Lelean was hit by a musket ball and two of the seamen killed outright. The third ran off and I never saw him again.”
Bolitho watched his agonised face, seeing the sudden terror in the darkness, the swiftness of death. Probably tribesmen, lurking
like jackals for pickings after the fight between Spaniard and Englishman.
Calvert was saying, “I carried Lelean for miles. Sometimes we hid in the scrub, listening to the others talking. Laughing.” His voice broke in a sob. “And all the time Lelean kept repeating how he trusted me to get him to safety.” He looked at Bolitho, his eyes blurred and unseeing. “He actually
Bolitho stood up and poured a goblet of wine. As he thrust it into Calvert’s hand he asked quietly, “Where were you when the marines found you?”
“In a gully.” Some of the wine ran down his chin and across his soiled shirt. Like blood. “Lelean was dead. The wound must have been worse than I realised. I didn’t want to leave him there like that. He was the first one who ever trusted me to do anything. I knew…” He faltered. “I thought no one would come to search. There was the attack. All this.”
Bolitho took the empty glass from his nerveless fingers. “Go and rest, Mr Calvert. Tomorrow things may seem different.” He watched the other man’s eyes. Tomorrow? It was already here.
