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
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
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
“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!
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?”
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.”
