new arrivals fell in line, and like men under sentence of death Bolitho and the others followed the official through the gates.
Another delay, and then an elderly militia captain entered the room where they had been left standing against a wall and said, “I am Capitaine Michel Cloux, commandant here.”
He had a narrow, foxy face, but his eyes were not hostile, and if anything he looked troubled with his command.
“You will remain as prisoners of France, and will obey whatever instruction I give without question, you understand? Any attempt to escape will be punished by death. Any attempt to overthrow authority will be punished by death. But behave yourselves and all will be well.” His small eyes rested on Allday. “Your servant will be shown what to do, where to go for your requirements.”
Neale gave a groan and staggered against Browne for support.
The commandant glanced at his papers, apparently unnerved. In a gentler tone he added, “I will request aid from the military surgeon for er, Capitaine Neale, yes?”
“Thank you, I would be grateful.” Bolitho kept his voice low. Any sign that he was trying to assert his rank might destroy everything. Neale’s distress had made a small bridge. The commandant obviously had distinct instructions about the care and isolation of the prisoners. But he was probably an old campaigner who had lost comrades of his own. Neale’s condition had made more sense to him than some coldly worded orders.
The commandant eyed him warily, as if suspecting a trap.
Then he said, “You will attend your quarters now. Then you will be fed.”
He replaced his cocked hat with a shabby flourish.
“Go with my men.”
As they followed two of the guards up a winding stone stairway, supporting Neale in case he should slip and fall, Allday murmured, “They can’t steal anything from me here. I’ve naught left!”
Bolitho touched his throat and thought of the locket, her face as he had last seen her. And he thought too of Belinda the day he and Allday had found her in the overturned coach on the road from Portsmouth. Allday was probably right. The locket had been a link with something lost. Hope was all he had now, and he was determined not to lose it.
For Bolitho and his companions each day was much like the one which had preceded it. The food was poor and coarse, but so too was it for their prison guards, and the daily routine equally monotonous. They soon discovered they had the little prison to themselves, although when Bolitho and Browne were allowed to walk outside the gates with an armed escort, they saw a heavily pitted wall and some rough graves to show that previous occupants had met a violent end here before a firing-squad.
The commandant visited them every day, and he had kept his word about sending for a military surgeon to attend Neale.
Bolitho watched the surgeon with great interest. He was the same one he had seen at Nantes who had removed the young lieutenant’s arm. Later Browne told him that he had heard him saying he must get back to his barracks, a good three hours ride.
To men kept deliberately out of contact with the rest of the world, these small items of news were precious. They calculated that Nantes was to the east of their prison, twenty or thirty miles inland. That would fix the prison’s position no more than twenty miles or so north of where they had stumbled ashore from the wreck.
It made sense, Bolitho thought. They had been taken inland, then brought back to the coast again, but nearer to the Loire Estuary. In his mind’s eye Bolitho could see the chart, the treacherous reefs and sand-bars, the start and end of many a voyage.
He had noticed that the commandant only allowed two of them to take a walk or exercise outside the walls at any given time. The others remained as surety and hostages. Maybe the graves marked where others had tried to outwit the little commandant and had paid the price.
On one hot August morning Bolitho and Browne left the gates, but instead of heading for the road, Bolitho gestured westwards towards the low hills. The three guards, all mounted and well armed, nodded agreement, and with the horses trotting contentedly over the grass they strode away from the prison. Bolitho had expected the guards to break their usual silence and order them back, but perhaps they were bored with their duties and glad of a change.
Bolitho tried not to quicken his pace as they topped the first rise.
Browne exclaimed, “God, sir, it looks beautiful!”
The sea, a deeper blue than before, spread away on every side, and through the dazzling glare and drifting heat haze Bolitho could see the swirl of currents around some tiny islets, while to the north he could just discern another layer of land. The far side of the estuary, it had to be. He glanced quickly at the guards but they were not even watching. Two had dismounted, the other still sat astride his horse, a bell-mouthed blunderbuss resting across his saddle, ready for instant use.
Bolitho said, “There should be a church, if I’m right.”
Browne made to point, but Bolitho snapped, “Tell me!”
“To our left, sir. On the blind side of the prison.”
Bolitho shaded his eyes. A square-towered church, partly hidden by the hillside, and nestling into the ground as if it had been there since time had begun.
“We’ll go back now.” Bolitho turned reluctantly away from the sea. “Someone might be watching.”
Browne fell in step, completely mystified.
Bolitho waited until he heard the jingle of harness behind him and then said, “I know exactly where we are, Oliver. And if I’m not mistaken, that church tower is occupied by French sailors rather than priests!” He glanced at the lieutenant, the urgency making his voice desperate. “I would lay odds that it is the last semaphore link this side of the estuary.” He strode towards the prison, his hands clasped behind him. “If only we could break out long enough to destroy it.”
Browne stared at him. “But they will build another, surely, sir, and we…”
“I know. Executed. But there has to be a way. If our ships attack, and I believe they will, if only to prove Beauchamp’s plan too hazardous, they will be completely destroyed. And as to time, my friend, I think there may be little enough of it left. England will know of Styx ’s loss, and efforts begun to obtain exchanges at least for the surviving officers.”
Browne bit his lip. “Captain Neale will be reported missing, some of Styx ’s people are bound to speak out and say what happened to him and ourselves.”
Bolitho smiled gravely. “Aye. Neutral sources will soon be selling that information to the right ears. My guess is that the French intend to delay matters over releasing any of Styx ’s people until they are ready and their new invasion fleets are in position. Admiral Beauchamp was right.”
“He chose wisely for his commander,” said Browne.
Bolitho sighed. “I would like to think so, Oliver. The longer I remain in captivity and useless, the more I think about that attack. I should have seen the flaw in the plan, ought to have allowed for it, no matter what intelligence the Admiralty was able to offer.” He stopped and looked Browne squarely in the eyes. “When I saw Phalarope stand away, I nearly cursed her captain’s soul to damnation. Now I am not so convinced. He may have acted wisely and with some courage, Oliver. I have always said a captain should act on his initiative if his set orders tell him nothing.”
“With respect, I must disagree.” Browne waited for a rebuke then hurried on. “Captain Emes should have risked a hopeless battle against odds rather than leave Styx unaided. It is what you would have done, sir.”
Bolitho smiled. “As a captain perhaps. But when my flag fell, Emes took over command. He really had no choice at all.”
Bolitho could feel Browne’s disagreement more strongly than a shouted argument.
Allday was waiting in the upper part of the tower, and as the two officers, sweating from their walk in the sunlight, climbed the curving stairway, he said, “The surgeon’s been back, sir. Cap’n Neale is pretty bad.”
Bolitho brushed past him and hurried into the larger of the two rooms. Neale lay on his back, his eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling, while his chest heaved and fell as if it would burst. One of the guards was removing a bucket which contained some bloodstained dressings, and Bolitho saw the little commandant standing by the barred window, his face grave.
“Ah, Contre-Amiral Bolitho, you are here. Capitaine Neale is worsening, I fear.”
