The Flag Captain

15. Retribution and darkness

Bolitho 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 all-out 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.”