It was true. Already the boarders were retreating along the gangway, leaving their dead and wounded to be trampled under-foot as the battle swayed back and forth above the deck.

Bolitho pushed past several yelling Spaniards and stood beside Allday, his sword parrying a scimitar and opening the shoulder of its owner in a long scarlet gash. Allday watched the man reel towards the side and slashed him down with his heavy cutlass, gasping, “That’ll speed him on his way, by God!” Bolitho wiped his streaming face and peered down into the boat alongside. Already it was being poled clear, and he could see some of the boarders leaping back on to its narrow side deck, beneath which the hidden oarsmen were trying to free their blades from the Navarra’s side.

Several muskets were banging from below, and he felt a ball rasp against the rail by his fingers, and saw a red-robed figure pointing him out to some marksmen on the chebeck’s slender poop.

But the oars were gaining control, and as the drumbeat rose above the yelling Spanish seamen, the screaming wounded and those of her own crew who were floundering in the water, the chebeck began to move down the ship’s side.

Bolitho noticed that her consort was some mile distant, and must have stayed out of range for the whole fight.

He thought of Meheux in the cabin and shouted hoarsely, “I must tell them to use the gun!”

He turned to run aft and almost fell across a sprawled corpse, its face glaring fixedly at the lifeless sails and one hand still grasping a bloodied sword. It was Grindle, the master’s mate, his grey wisps of hair giving the impression that it was somehow managing to stay alive without him.

Bolitho said, “Take him, Allday.”

Allday sheathed his cutlass and watched Bolitho hurrying away.

To the dead master’s mate he said wearily, “You were too old for this kind of thing, my friend.” Then he dragged him carefully into the shade of the bulwark, leaving a smeared trail of blood behind him.

Meheux managed to get one more shot into the enemy before the power of their oars carried them safely out of range. The chebeck which had so daringly boarded the Navarra had dropped almost three cables astern when Meheux was satisfied enough to fire. The ball smashed the other vessel on the poop, carrying away the small lateen mizzen and ripping through the carved scrollwork before plunging into the sea in a welter of spray.

The leading chebeck had sunk, leaving only a few pieces of flotsam and corpses as evidence. The rest made off to the south as fast as their oars could drive them, while the Navarra’s dazed and bleeding defenders stared after them, still unable to accept their own survival.

Bolitho returned to the poop, his legs heavy, his sword arm throbbing as if from a wound.

The Spanish seamen were already heaving the enemy’s corpses overboard, to bob alongside in a macabre dance before they drifted away like so many discarded rag dolls. There were no prisoners, for the enraged Spanish were in no mood to give quarter.

Bolitho said to Meheux, “They’ll not attack us again today, I’m thinking. We had best get the wounded below. Then I will inspect the damage to the hull before it gets dark.” He looked round, trying to free his mind from the dragging aftermath of battle.

“Where’s Pareja?”

Allday called, “He took a musket ball in the chest, Captain. I tried to keep him from showing himself!” He sighed. “But he said that you would expect him to help. To keep the crew’s spirits up.” He gave a sad smile. “He did too. Funny little fellow.”

“Is he dead?” Bolitho recalled Pareja’s eagerness, his pathetic subservience in his wife’s presence.

“If not, Captain, then it will soon be so.” Allday ran his fingers through his thick hair. “I had him put below with the rest.” Witrand crossed the blood-spattered deck and asked calmly,

“Those pirates will return, Capitaine?” He glanced round at the limping wounded and the exhausted, lolling survivors. “And what then?”

“We will fight again, m’sieu.”

Witrand eyed him thoughtfully. “You saved this hulk, Capitaine. I am pleased I was here to see it.” He pursed his lips.

“And tomorrow, who knows, eh? What ship will come and discover us, I wonder?”

Bolitho swayed and then said tightly, “If we are met by one of your frigates, m’sieu, I will surrender the ship. There would be no point in letting these people suffer any more.” He added quietly,

“But until that time, m’sieu, this ship, like her flag is mine.” Witrand watched him go and shook his head. “Stupefiant!” was all he said.

Bolitho ducked his head beneath the low deck beams and looked gravely at the untidy lines of wounded. Most of them lay quite still, but as the ship yawed sluggishly and the lanterns spiralled from the deckhead it seemed as if every shape was writhing in agony, condemning him for their suffering.

The air was foul with a stench of cooking oil and blood, of bilge and vomit, and he had to steel himself before he could continue on his way. Allday was holding a lantern in front of him, so that some of the faces of the injured and wounded leapt into focus as he passed, only to fade into darkness again, their pain and despair mercifully hidden.

Bolitho wondered how many times he had witnessed sights like these. Men crying and weeping for forgiveness. Others demanding assurances that they were not really dying. That by some miracle they would live to see daylight. Here, the language and intonation were different, but all else the same. He could recall the time as a frightened midshipman aboard the Manxman, an eighty-gun ship-of-the-line, seeing men fall and die for the first time and watching their agony after the fight was finished.

He could remember being ashamed, disgusted with himself for feeling nothing but an overwhelming joy and relief at being whole and spared the agonies of the surgeon’s saw and knife.

But he had never been able to conquer his feelings completely.

As now, compassion and helplessness, something as impossible to control as his fear of heights.

He heard Allday say, “There he is, Captain. Down by the lamp room.”

He stepped over two inert shapes, their faces already covered by scraps of canvas, and followed closely on Allday’s heels. Around and beyond the swaying lantern he could hear voices moaning and gasping and the gentler crooning assurances of women. Once when he turned his head he saw several of the Spanish peasant women resting momentarily from their work on the pumps. They were naked to the waist, their breasts and arms shining with sweat and bilge water, their hair matted in the filth and the effort they had given to their work. They made no attempt to cover their bodies, nor did they drop their eyes as he had passed, and one gave him what might have been a smile.

Bolitho paused and then knelt down beside Luis Pareja’s body.

He had been stripped of his fine clothes, and lay like a fat child staring at the gently swaying lanterns, his eyes unmoving, dark pools of pain. The great bandage around his chest was sodden with blood, the centre of which gleamed in the dim light like a bright red eye as his life continued to pump steadily away.

Bolitho said softly, “I came as soon as I could, Señor Pareja.” The round face turned slowly towards him, and he realised that what he had taken for a pillow was in fact a soiled apron spread across someone’s knees to keep his head from the deck. As the lantern lifted higher he saw it was Pareja’s wife, her dark eyes not on her dying husband but staring fixedly away into the darkness.

Her hair was hanging loose and disordered about her face and shoulders, and yet her breathing seemed regular, as if she was composed, or perhaps numbed by what had happened.

Pareja said thickly, “You saved these people, Captain. From those murderous Saracens.” He tried to reach up for his wife’s hand but the effort was too much and his fist dropped against the bloodied blanket like a dead bird. “My Catherine will be safe now. You will make sure.” When Bolitho did not reply he struggled violently on to one elbow, his voice suddenly strong again.

“You will, Captain? You give me your word, eh?” Bolitho nodded slowly. “You have it, señor.” He glanced quickly at her face, half hidden in shadow.

Catherine was her name, but she seemed as distant and unreal as ever. When Pareja had spoken her name Bolitho had expected her to break, to lose her reserve and aloof poise, but instead she had continued to stare beyond the lanterns, her mouth glistening slightly in the smoky glare.

Ashton stumbled through the gloom and said, “Beg pardon, sir, but we have managed to rouse the drunken seamen at last.

Shall I muster them aft for your attention?” Bolitho snapped, “No. Put them on the pumps!” He spoke so harshly the midshipman recoiled. He continued in the same tone,

“If the women see them, so much the better. They were too useless to fight, so they can work at the pumps until they drop as far as I am concerned!”

Behind his back Allday shot the midshipman a quick glance of warning, and without another word the boy hurried away.

Bolitho said to Pareja, “I could have done nothing without your assistance.”

Then he looked up as she said tonelessly, “Save your words, Captain.” She reached over and closed her husband’s eyes. “He has left us.”

The candle flame in Allday’s lantern flickered and leaned towards the glass, and beneath his knees Bolitho felt the deck’s sudden tilt, the attendant clatter of loose gear, as if the ship was awakening from a sleep.

Allday whispered, “The wind, Captain. It’s here at last.” But Bolitho remained beside the dead man, trying to find the words, and knowing that, as ever, there were none.

Eventually he said quietly, “Señora Pareja, if there is anything I can do to help, please say. Your husband was brave, very much so.” He paused and heard Meheux’s voice shouting orders on the poop. There was much to do. Sail to be set and a course shaped to get the ship to the squadron if at all possible. He looked at her hands resting on her lap beside Pareja’s still face. “I will send someone to assist you as soon as I have been on deck.” Her voice seemed to come from far away. “You cannot help me. My man is dead, and I am a stranger to his people once more.

I have nothing but the things I am wearing and a few pieces of jewellery. Not much for what I have suffered.” She eased Pareja’s head away and let it rest on the deck. “And it is thanks to you, Captain.” She looked up, her eyes glinting in the lights. “So get back to your duties and leave me in peace!” Bolitho rose and walked aft towards the companion ladder without a word.

On the open poop again he made himself stand quite still for several minutes, breathing the cool evening air, watching the dull red glow of sunset along the horizon.

Allday said, “Pay no heed to that one. It was no fault of yours.

Many have died, and a good few more’ll go afore this war’s done.” He grimaced. “She’s lucky to be alive tonight, as we all are.” Meheux came aft and said, “Can I put the Dons to work, sir?

I thought we might set the tops’ls and forecourse to get the feel of her again. If the strain is too much we can reef or strip down to jib and main tops’l.” He rubbed his hands noisily. “To be moving again is a miracle!”

“Carry on, Mr Meheux.” Bolitho walked to the rail and stared up at the first pale stars. “We will lay her on the larboard tack and steer east sou’ east.” He glanced towards the helmsman, almost expecting to see Grindle watching him. “But at the first sign of strain call all hands and shorten sail immediately.” As the lieutenant hurried away to rouse the weary seamen Allday asked, “Shall I go and find the cook, Captain? ’Tis my belief that a hot meal can work wonders when all else has failed.” He stiffened as Witrand’s figure moved below the poop. “And him, will I clap him in irons as he deserves?” Bolitho studied him impassively. “He’ll be no more trouble, Allday. While there is a fear of pirates hereabouts, I think our authority will stand.” He turned away. “Yes, you may put the cook to work.” As Allday walked to the companion he added, “And thank you.”

Allday paused with one foot hanging in space. “Captain?” But Bolitho did not say any more, and after a further hesitation Allday clattered down the ladder, his mind grappling with this new and strangely disturbing mood.

At midnight, as the Navarra sailed slowly into a deepening darkness Bolitho stood by the lee gangway, his hair stirring in the cool wind, while more of the dead were buried. He had no prayer book, and there was no Spanish priest amongst the passengers to read over those who had died in or after the fighting.

In a way, he thought, the silence was more moving and sincere, and he was conscious of the other sounds: of sea and canvas, of shrouds and the creak of the tiller. A more fitting epitaph for men who had once lived off the sea which was now to receive them forever.

Grindle and Pareja had been buried together, and Bolitho had seen Ashton rubbing his eyes as the master’s mate had splashed down alongside.

Meheux called, “That’s the lot, sir.” His voice was hushed, and Bolitho was thankful to have him here. Meheux understood without being told that the dead were being buried at night to make it as easy as possible for those who remained alive. There was absolutely no sense in adding to their grief, and there would be more dead tomorrow, he was certain of that.

He replied, “Very well. I suggest you trim the main yard, and then dismiss the watch below. You and I will stand watch and watch, though I doubt anyone will want to usurp our doubtful privilege.”

Meheux said simply, “I am proud to share it with you, sir.” Bolitho turned and walked up the tilting deck until he had reached the taffrail. The western horizon was very dark, and even the ship’s lively wake was difficult to see.

Below his feet, in the gutted stern cabin he could hear McEwen whistling softly as he fussed over his thirty-two-pounder. It was strange how safe they all seemed to feel. How assured.

He turned his head as the Spanish seamen finished trimming the main yard and noisily secured the braces to their belaying pins. Even they—who because of the stroke of some politician’s or monarch’s pen were deemed to be enemies—appeared content under his command.

He smiled wearily at his grotesque thoughts, the ramblings of his mind, and began to pace slowly back and forth across the poop. Once, as his eye fell on the nearest hatchway, he recalled the bearded giant with his axe, and wondered what would have happened but for Witrand’s quick action. With his second pistol he could just as easily have killed him too. In the grim business of hurling the boarders back over the side no one would have noticed an additional shot. Perhaps even Witrand felt safer with him alive.

Bolitho shook himself with sudden irritation. His fatigue was playing tricks on him. Tomorrow might find their roles changed once more, with himself a prisoner and Witrand going about his mysterious affairs again, and this a mere interlude. Part of the pattern for the whole.

And that was how war must be faced. To give an enemy personality was too dangerous. To allow him to share your own hopes and fears was asking for self-destruction.

He wondered what Broughton would have done under similar circumstances, and was still thinking about it when Meheux came to relieve him.

And so, under a light wind and her sparse sails drawing well, the Navarra continued on her journey. The only sounds to mark her passing were those of the pumps, the occasional cry of a wounded man between decks and to Bolitho as he lay sleepless in his makeshift cot they seemed to sum up completely what together they had achieved.

He was shaving in the stern cabin, a broken mirror propped against a sagging bookshelf, when Meheux hurried in to announce that a sail had been sighted, almost dead astern, and moving very fast.

Bolitho looked at his torn and blackened shirt and then reluctantly pulled it over his head once more. Maybe the shave was a waste of time, but he felt better for it, even if he did still look like a ragged scarecrow in the mirror.

Meheux was watching him with silent fascination. Bolitho could feel his eyes on the razor as he wiped it on a scrap of cloth before dropping it into a bulkhead locker where he had found it.

He said slowly, “Well, Mr Meheux, there is not much we can do about it this time.”

He picked up his sword and fastened it around his waist before following Meheux on to the poop. It was early morning, and the air still fresh before the heat which would come later. He noticed the shrouds were hung with clothing, mostly women’s garments, and Meheux’ muttered apologetically, “They asked to be allowed to wash ’em, sir. But I’ll have the lot hauled down now that you are on deck.”

“No.”

Bolitho took the telescope and raised it to his eye. Then he tossed it to a seaman saying, “The glass is smashed. We will just have to wait and see.”

He walked to the taffrail and shaded his eyes against the growing glare to search for the other vessel. He saw the telltale pyramid of sails on the fine horizon line almost immediately, shining in the sunlight and very clear. A step on the deck made him turn and he saw Witrand watching him.

“You are an early riser, m’sieu.”

Witrand shrugged. “And you are very calm, Capitaine.” He looked at the sea. “Even though your freedom may be short.” Bolitho smiled. “Tell me, Witrand, what were you doing in this ship? Where were you bound?”

The Frenchman smiled broadly. “I have lost my memory!” The masthead lookout yelled, “She’s a frigate, sir!” Meheux asked quietly, “What do you think, sir? Shall we alter course and make a run for it?” Then he smiled sheepishly as Bolitho pointed at the reefed topsail and listing deck. “I agree, sir. There is little point.”

Bolitho thrust his hands behind him, trying not to show his disappointment. A frigate could mean only one thing. An enemy.

Witrand said quietly, “I understand your feelings, Capitaine.

Can I do something to assist you? A letter per’aps to a loved one?

It might take months otherwise . . .” His eyes fell to the sword as Bolitho’s fingers touched the hilt. “I could send the sword to England.” He added gently, “Better that than to let some dock-side dealer get his claws around it, eh?” Bolitho turned to watch the other ship which was so rapidly overhauling the crippled Navarra it made him feel as if they were on converging courses. He could see her bulging topsails and topgallants, the bright tongue of her masthead pendant as she pushed and plunged across the dancing water in full pursuit.

There was a puff of brown smoke, gone instantly in the wind, and then a bang. Seconds later a tall waterspout shot skywards within fifty feet of the larboard quarter.

Muffled cries floated through the open hatches, and Bolitho said dully, “Heave to, Mr Meheux.” He glanced up at the mainmast and asked, “Where is the flag?”

“I am sorry, sir.” Meheux seemed stunned. “We used it to cover Mr Grindle before he was buried.”

“Yes.” Bolitho twisted round so that they should not see his expression. “Well, run it up now, if you please.” Meheux hurried away, calling the seamen from the gangways and ratlines where they had been clinging to watch the newcomer.

Minutes later, with her ensign flapping against the dear sky, the Navarra rounded into the wind, her loose canvas banging in protest, her decks crowded with figures who had swarmed up from below to see what was happening.

Bolitho steadied himself against the uneven motion and walked slowly to Witrand’s side.

“Your offer, m’sieu. Was it genuine?” Bolitho moved his fingers around the buckle of the sword-belt, his eyes hidden as he said,

“There is someone. I . . .”

He broke off and swung round as a great burst of cheering floated across the water.

The frigate was sweeping down to run across their quarter, and as she tacked violently in the wind he saw a flag breaking from her gaff. It was the same as his own, and he had to look away once more, unable to hide his emotion.

Ashton was dancing up and down yelling, “She’s Coquette, sir!” Meheux’s face was split in half with a huge grin, and he slapped Allday’s shoulder as he shouted wildly, “Well then!” Another slap.

“Well then, eh?” It was all he could find to say.

Bolitho looked across at the Frenchman. Then he said, “It will not be necessary, m’sieu.” He saw the understanding in the man’s yellow eyes. “But thank you.”

Witrand moved his gaze to the frigate and said quietly, “It would seem that the English have returned.” 11 an end to the W aiting

IT TOOK a further two days to find the squadron, and during that time Bolitho often wondered what might have occurred but for Coquette’s timely arrival. The Navarra’s chronometer was smashed, and she was without either sextant or reliable compass. Even if she had been spared the additional battering of the storm, Bolitho knew he would have been hard put to it to estimate his position, let alone shape a course to the squadron’s area of rendezvous.

Gillmor, the Coquette’s tall and gangling captain, had called it the devil’s luck, and there seemed much to suggest it was so. For had he kept to his original station, scouting and patrolling across the squadron’s wake, he would certainly never have found the battered and partly disabled Navarra. But instead he had sighted a sail and had altered course to investigate, only to lose it during the night of the storm. The next day he had found it again, to discover it was a British sloop from Gibraltar. Further, the sloop was in fact searching for him. She had arrived at the Rock within twenty-four hours of the squadron’s departure with a despatch for Broughton, and having passed it to Gillmor had made off again in great haste, no doubt very aware of her own vulnerability in such hostile waters.

Gillmor knew nothing of the contents of his sealed envelope, and could speak of little but his amazement at sighting the Navarra and then her flag flying above so much damage. His astonishment was considerably increased when he found the stained and ragged figure who greeted his arrival on board to be his own flag captain.

With so many women displayed on the ship’s decks it was no surprise to Bolitho that the Coquette’s company offered plenty of volunteers when it came to selecting men for work on the repairs.

Even the frigate’s first lieutenant, well known it seemed for keeping a cold eye on his ship’s supply of spare spars and cordage, allowed a jury-mast to be sent across to replace the broken mizzen.

Several times during working hours Bolitho had heard shrill laughter and discreet giggles from between decks, and guessed that some of the Coquette’s seamen were making their presence felt.

And on the morning of the second day, while he stood by the Navarra’s weather rail, he felt something like pride as he watched the sun shining on the familiar topsails of the squadron, the speedier shape of the sloop Restless as she dashed away from her consorts to investigate the new arrivals.

Meheux said quietly, “They look fine, sir.” He too seemed touched by the occasion. “I’ll not be sorry to quit this floating ruin.”

Then, while the Coquette made more sail and hurried ahead of her battered companion, her yards already alive with signal flags, Bolitho watched his own ship, shining brightly in the glare, her tan sails quivering in haze as she moved slowly on the starboard tack. Like the other three ships-of-the-line, she appeared motionless above her reflection, with only the smallest crust of white around her stem to indicate her steady approach.

Bolitho said, “She will be sending a boat directly. You will retain command here, Mr Meheux, until the Navarra’s future is decided. I doubt you will have long to wait.” Meheux smiled. “I am relieved to hear it, sir.” He gestured towards an open hatch whence came the unending groan and clank of pumps. “What about our men down there? Shall I send

’em over under guard, sir?”

Bolitho shook his head. “They have worked well enough, and I suspect they’ll think twice in future before they take on a free cargo of brandy.”

Ashton called, “The flagship has signalled the squadron to heave to, sir.” He looked stronger again, although his eyes were squinting as if he was suffering from a headache.

Bolitho heard Allday growl, “My God, here comes your barge, Captain! I’ll kill that cox’n for the way he steers her!” He said, “Fetch Witrand up here. We will take him to Euryalus with us.”

The next moments were unreal and not a little moving for Bolitho. As the barge came alongside, the tossed oars shining like twin rows of polished bones, and Meheux followed him to the gangway, he realised that most of the Navarra’s passengers were crowding the side to see him depart. Some were waving to him, and several of the women were laughing and weeping at the same time.

He thought he saw Pareja’s widow watching from the poop, but could not be sure, and wondered what he should do to help her.

Witrand stood beside him and shook his head. “They are sorry to lose you, Capitaine. Our common suffering of the past days has united us, eh?” Then he glanced at the Euryalus and added soberly,

“’Owever, that was yesterday. Tomorrow all is different again.” Bolitho followed Ashton and the Frenchman down into the barge where Allday was hissing threats at a rigid-faced seaman by the tiller. For a moment longer he glanced up at the rows of faces, the shot holes and the many scars where the dark-skinned attackers had hurled their grapnels to swarm aboard in a yelling horde. As Witrand had said, that was yesterday.

The return to his own command was no less overwhelming.

The seamen who clung to the shrouds or swayed precariously on the yards were openly grinning and cheering, and as he clambered through the entry port, his ears almost deafened by the shrill of fifes and drums from the small marine band, he found time to notice that the normally wooden-faced marines in the guard were far from still.

Keverne stepped forward, trying not to let his gaze wander across Bolitho’s tattered clothing. “Welcome back, sir.” Then he smiled. “I have won my wager with the master.” Bolitho tried to keep his mouth under control. He saw Partridge craning forward to see him between the swaying lines of marines and called, “You thought I would never return, eh?” Keverne said hastily, “No, sir. He thought you would be here yesterday.”

Bolitho looked around at the massed faces. They had all come a long way together. Once, during the wretched Auriga affair, he had imagined he had seen hostility. A sense of disappointment in what he had done or tried to do. The fact that they had known him better than he had perhaps realised stirred him deeply.

He said, “I must report to the admiral.” He studied Keverne’s dark features, but even he appeared genuinely pleased to see him return to the ship. He could not have blamed him for showing opposite feelings, especially after his earlier setbacks.

Keverne said, “Sir Lucius instructed me to tell you he will be reading the despatches brought by Coquette. ” He gave a wry smile.

“He intimated, sir, that you might wish to take an half hour to, er, refresh yourself.” He let his eyes move to Bolitho’s torn coat.

“He was watching your return from his quarter gallery.” At that moment Witrand was assisted through the port, and Bolitho said, “This is M’sieu Paul Witrand. He is a prisoner, but will be treated with all humanity.” Keverne looked at the Frenchman doubtfully and then said, “I will attend to it, sir.”

Witrand gave a stiff bow. “Thank you, Capitaine.” He glanced aloft at the great yards and loosely flapping sails. “A prisoner per’aps, but to me this ship must still be like a part of France.” Lieutenant Cox of the marines, a sleek young man whose immaculate uniform fitted so tightly that Bolitho imagined it impossible to stoop in it, marched forward and touched Witrand’s arm. Together they walked towards the head of the companion.

Bolitho said, “Come aft, Mr Keverne. Tell me all the news while I change.”

Keverne followed him past the watching seamen and marines.

“I would think that you have it all, sir. Sir Hugo Draffen rejoined the squadron, but I have heard little beyond that he met his agent and obtained some information about Djafou’s defences.” Inside the cabin it was cool after the quarterdeck and the day’s mounting heat. He stared with surprise at several pieces of furniture which had not been present before.

Keverne said, “Captain Furneaux was aboard during your absence, sir. He was acting flag captain, but returned to Valorous when we received Coquette’s signals.” Bolitho glanced at him, but Keverne’s face was devoid of amusement. Furneaux had obviously expected his new and coveted role to be permanent.

He said, “Have them sent back to him when convenient.” Keverne leaned against the quarter windows and watched as Bolitho stripped and sluiced his weary body with cold water.

Trute, his servant, took the filthy shirt, and after the smallest hesitation dropped it from an open window. Bolitho’s appearance as he had entered his cabin had made a deep and obvious impression on Trute, and he could hardly drag his eyes from him.

Bolitho pulled on a clean shirt and then sat in a chair while Trute deftly fashioned his hair into a short queue at the nape of his neck.

“Then there has been no change since my leaving the ship?” Keverne shrugged. “We sighted a few sail, sir, but Restless was unable to close with them. So it is unlikely they saw us either.” He added, “I spoke with the sloop’s commander, but he saw nothing of Sir Hugo’s agent. He was in an Arab fishing boat, and Sir Hugo went across to her alone. He insisted.” Bolitho waited impatiently for Trute to finish tying his neckcloth and then stood up. The wash and change of clothing had wiped away the dragging tiredness, and the familiar faces and voices around had done much to restore him.

Nevertheless, Keverne’s news, or lack of it, was very worrying.

Unless something was achieved quickly they would be in serious trouble. Word of their presence would soon reach Spain or France, and even now there might be a powerful force on its way to seek them out.

Allday entered the cabin carrying Bolitho’s sword. He shot a glare at Trute and said, “I’ve oiled the scabbard, Captain.” He raised the tarnished hilt a few inches and let it snap down again.

“Like new, she is.”

Bolitho smiled as he slipped the belt around his waist. Allday was frowning as he readjusted the clasp, and he knew that but for Keverne’s presence he would probably be grumbling that it was the second time he had done so in a month. He would make heavy suggestions that he should eat more, for like most sailors Allday placed much value in eating and drinking to the full whenever possible.

Overhead a bell chimed the hour and Bolitho walked to the door. “I am sorry I have not been able to assist you in your promotion, Mr Keverne. But I have no doubt as to an opportunity very soon.”

Keverne smiled gravely. “Thank you, sir. For your concern.” Bolitho walked quickly down the companion ladder to the middle deck, thinking of Keverne’s reserve, the permanent defence against showing his inner feelings. He might make a good captain one day, he thought. Especially if he could keep his temper in hand.

The marine sentries stamped to attention and a corporal opened the double doors for him.

He heard Broughton’s voice long before he had reached the stern cabin and braced himself accordingly.

“God damn your eyes, Calvert! This is appalling! You had best go to one of the midshipmen and discover how to spell!” Bolitho entered the cabin and saw Broughton in black silhouette against the tall windows. He threw a screwed-up ball of paper at the flag-lieutenant who was sitting at the opposite side of the desk to his clerk, shouting violently, “My clerk can do twice as much in half the time!”

Bolitho looked away, embarrassed for Calvert and with himself for being here to see his humiliation. Calvert was quivering with both nervousness and resentment, while the clerk was smiling at him with obvious relish.

Broughton saw Bolitho and snapped, “Ah, here you are. Good.

I will not be long.” He snatched up another sheet of paper from beneath Calvert’s fingers and turned it to the windows, his eyes darting along the scrawling writing at great speed. There were shadows beneath his eyes, and he looked extremely angry.

He glared at Calvert again. “My God, why were you born such a fool?”

Calvert half rose, his shoes scraping on the deck covering. “I did not ask to be born, sir!” he sounded almost ready to burst into tears.

Bolitho watched the admiral, expecting him to explode at the lieutenant’s rare show of defiance.

But he said indifferently, “If you had, the request would probably have been denied!” He pointed at the door. “Now get to work on those orders and see they are ready for signature in one hour.” He swung on his clerk. “And you can stop grinning like an old woman and help him!” His voice pursued him to the door. “Or I’ll have you flogged for good measure, damn you!” The door shut and Bolitho felt the cabin closing in on him in the oppressive silence.

But Broughton said wearily, “Be seated.” He walked to the table and picked up a decanter. “Some claret, I think.” Almost to himself he added, “If I see one more snivelling subordinate before I take a drink I feel I must surely go out of my mind.” He walked to Bolitho’s chair and held out a glass. “Your health, Captain. I am surprised to see you again, and from what Gillmor of the Coquette has been babbling about, I think you too must feel some relief at being spared.” He walked to the quarter windows and stared towards the Navarra. “And you have a prisoner, they tell me?”

“Yes, sir. I believe him to be a courier. He was carrying no letters, but it seems he was to be transferred to another vessel at sea. The Navarra was well off her course, and I think he may have been intended to land in North Africa.” Broughton grunted. “He may tell us something. These French officials are well versed in their duties. After watching their pre-decessors losing their heads in the Terror, they have to be. But a promise of a quick exchange with an English prisoner might help loosen his tongue.”

“My cox’n got to work on his servant, sir. A plentiful cargo of wine was very helpful. Unfortunately, the man knew little of his master’s mission or destination, other than that he is a serving officer in the French artillery. But I think we might keep our knowledge a secret until we can make better use of it.” Broughton watched him bleakly. “That will be too late anyway.”

He crossed to the decanter again, his face set in a frown. “Draffen has obtained an excellent plan of Djafou and its defences. He must have some very remarkable friends in such a loathsome area.” He added slowly, “Coquette brought me bad news. Apparently there has been some extra Spanish activity, especially at Algeciras. It is feared the two bomb vessels cannot sail without an escort. And with the threat of another Franco–Spanish attempt on our blockade, no such frigates can be spared.” He gripped his fingers together and snapped, “They seem to blame me for Auriga’s desertion to the enemy, damn them!” Bolitho waited, knowing there was more. It was very bad news indeed, for without bomb vessels this particular assault might have to be postponed. But he could appreciate the decision not to send them without escort. They were unwieldy in any sort of a sea and easy prey for a patrolling enemy frigate. The Auriga could indeed have been held at Gibraltar for the task, and the Commander-in-Chief probably thought Broughton’s inability to hold on to her a good excuse for not releasing any of his own from the blockade of Cadiz and the Strait of Gibraltar.

Or perhaps the fact was there simply were no available vessels left spare or within call. It was strange he had hardly thought of the mutiny since leaving the Rock, although it was obviously on Broughton’s mind for much of the time. Even now, as they sat drinking claret, with the bright sunlight throwing a dancing pattern of reflections across the deckhead and furniture, the French might be landing in England, or encamped around Falmouth itself. With the fleet in turmoil it was possible. He dismissed it immediately, cursing his returning drowsiness for allowing his mind to follow Broughton’s.

The admiral said, “We must act soon, or by God we’ll be fighting some French squadron before we know where we are. Without a base or anywhere to repair damage, we’ll be hard put to reach Gibraltar, let alone take Djafou.”

“May I ask what Sir Hugo advises?”

Broughton eyed him calmly. “His task is to form an administration in Djafou on our behalf, once it has been taken. He knows the place from past experience, and has been accepted by local leaders.” Some of his anger made his cheeks flush. “Bandits, the whole bunch, by the sound of ’em!”

Bolitho nodded. So Draffen had laid the foundations of the whole operation, and would manage affairs for the British government once the place had been occupied and perhaps until the fleet returned in real strength to the Mediterranean. Before and after. The piece in between was Broughton’s responsibility, and his decision could make or break not only the mission but himself as well.

He said, “Spain has been too involved in recent years in maintaining her colonies in the Americas to spare much money or help for a place like Djafou, sir. She has been beset with fighting local wars in and around the Caribbean. With privateers and pirates as well as the accepted powers, according to her shift of allegiance!” He leaned forward. “Suppose the French are also interested in Djafou, sir? Spain might easily change sides against her again in the future. Another sure foothold in the African mainland would be exactly to the French liking. It would give Djafou an additional value.”

He watched Broughton sipping his claret. Gaining time before committing himself to an answer. He could see the small lines of worry about Broughton’s eyes, the way his fingers tapped against the arm of his chair.

Throughout the ship and the squadron Broughton’s rank and exalted authority must seem like something akin to heaven. Even a lieutenant was so far above a common seaman as to be unreachable, so how could anyone really understand a man like Broughton? But now, to see him pondering and mulling over his own scanty suggestions gave him one of those rare and surprising glimpses of what true authority could mean to the man behind it.

Broughton said, “This man Witrand. Do you see him as a key?”

“Partly, sir.” Bolitho was thankful for Broughton’s quick mind.

Thelwall had been old and sickening for all of his time in Euryalus.

Bolitho’s previous superior, a wavering, dilatory commodore, had all but cost him his ship and his life. Broughton at least was young and ready enough to see where a local move by the enemy might point to something far greater in the future.

He added, “My cox’n did discover from Witrand’s servant that he has done some work in the past arranging for quartering of troops, siting artillery and so forth. I believe he is a man of some authority.”

Broughton gave a faint smile. “Sir Hugo’s twin in the enemy camp, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In which case time might be shorter than I feared.” Bolitho nodded. “We were told of ships gathering at Cartagena.

It is only one hundred and twenty miles from Djafou, sir.” The admiral stood up. “You are advising me to attack without waiting for the bombs?”

“I cannot see any choice, sir.”

“There is always a choice.” Broughton eyed him distantly. “In this case I can decide to return to Gibraltar. If so, then I must carry with me an excellent reason. But if I decide to mount an attack, then that attack must succeed.”

“I know, sir.”

Broughton walked to the quarter windows again. “The Navarra will accompany the squadron. To release her would be spreading the news of our presence and strength with better efficiency than if I wrote Bonaparte a personal invitation. To sink her and scatter her crew and passengers through the squadron might be equally unsettling at a time when we are about to do battle.” He turned and looked at Bolitho searchingly. “How did you fight off the chebecks?”

“I pressed the passengers and crew into the King’s service, sir.” Broughton pursed his lips. “Furneaux would never have done that, by God. He would have fought bravely, but his head would now be adorning some mosque, I have no doubt.” He added brusquely, “I will call my captains on board for a conference in one hour. Make a signal accordingly. We will then set sail and use the rest of the day to form the squadron into some order. The wind is nothing to wonder at, but it remains steady from the north-west. It should suffice. You will make it your business to study Draffen’s plan and acquaint yourself with every available detail.”

Bolitho smiled gravely. “You have decided, sir.”

“We may both regret it later.” Broughton did not smile.

“Attacking harbours and defended pieces of land is always a chance affair. Show me a set plan of battle, an array of enemy ships, and I will tell you the mind of their commander. But this,” he shrugged disdainfully, “is like putting a ferret to the hole. You never know how the rabbit is going to run, or in which direction.” Bolitho picked up his hat. “I placed Witrand in custody, sir.

He is a clever man and would not hesitate to escape and use his knowledge if he saw a chance. He saved my life in the Navarra, but I’ll not underestimate his other qualities because of that.” The admiral did not seem to be listening. He was toying with his watch fob and staring absently towards the windows. But as Bolitho walked to the door he said sharply, “If I should fall in battle . . .” He hesitated while Bolitho stood quite still watching him—“and I think it is not unknown for such things to happen—

you will of course be in overall command until otherwise ordered.

There are certain papers . . .” He seemed to become angry with himself, even impatient, and added, “You will continue to assist Sir Hugo.”

Bolitho said, “I am sure you are being pessimistic, sir.”

“Merely cautious. I do not believe in sentiment. The fact is I do not entirely trust Sir Hugo.” He held up his hand. “That is all I can say. All I intend to say.” Bolitho stared at him. “But, sir, his credentials must surely be in order?”

Broughton replied angrily, “Naturally. His status with the government is more than clear. His motives trouble me, however, so be warned and remember where your loyalty lies.”

“I think I understand my duty, sir.” The admiral studied him calmly. “Don’t use that offended tone with me, Captain. I thought my last flagship was loyal until the mutiny. I’ll have nothing taken for granted in the future. When you are looking into the cannon’s mouth duty is a prop for the weak. At such a time it is true loyalty which counts.” He turned away. The brief confidence was over.

The conference was held in Bolitho’s day cabin, and everyone present seemed well aware of its importance. It was obvious to Bolitho that the news of the impending attack on Djafou and the lack of support from the bomb vessels had already reached each of the men now facing him. It was the strange, inexplicable way of things in any group of ships. News flashed from one to another almost as soon as the senior officer had decided for himself what was to be done.

As he had struggled through the mass of notes and scribbled plans which Broughton had sent for his examination he had wondered too if the admiral was testing him. It was, after all, their first real action together where the squadron would be used as a combined force. The fact that Broughton had pointedly suggested he should hold the conference in his own quarters added to the growing conviction that he was now under his scrutiny no less than any other subordinate.

He had met Draffen only once since his return on board. He had been friendly but withdrawn, saying very little about the impending action. Maybe like Broughton he wanted to see the flag captain at work on his own ground, unaided by either of his superiors.

He was sitting now beside Broughton at the cabin table, his eyes moving occasionally from face to face as Bolitho outlined what they had to accept regardless of opposition.

The deck was swaying heavily, and Bolitho could hear the scrape of feet on the poop, the dull mutter of canvas and spars as the ship heeled to a slow larboard tack. Astern, he could see the Valorous, her topsails drawing well, and knew that the steady north-westerly was already freshening. He had to be brief. Each captain had to return to his ship as soon as possible to explain his own interpretation of the plan to his officers. And their bargemen would face a long hard pull from the flagship, without having to fight the growing weight of the wind.

He said, “As you have seen, gentlemen, the bay at Djafou is like a deep pocket. The eastern side is protected by this headland.” He tapped the chart with his dividers. “It is like a curved beak and affords good protection to ships at anchor inside the bay.” He watched their faces as they craned forward to see it better. Their expressions were as mixed as their characters.

Furneaux, looking down his nose disdainfully, as if he already knew all the answers. Falcon of the Tanais, his hooded eyes thoughtful but giving very little away, and Rattray, with his bulldog face set in a grim frown of fierce concentration. He most of all seemed to find it difficult to visualise a plan of battle when set down on paper. Once in action, he would trust to his unyielding stubbornness, facing what he could see with his own eyes until he was a victor or a corpse.

The two younger captains, Gillmor, and Poate of the sloop Restless, were less reserved, and Bolitho had seen them jotting down notes from the beginning of the conference. They alone would be unhampered by the line of battle, could patrol or dash in to attack whenever their sense of timing and initiative dictated.

They had all the independence which Bolitho so dearly envied, and missed.

“In the centre of the approach is the castle.” He was already seeing it in his mind as he had constructed it from Draffen’s memory and newly acquired reports. “Built many years ago by the Moors, it is nevertheless very strong and well protected with artillery. It was constructed on a small rocky island, but has since been connected to the western side of the bay by a causeway.” Draffen had told him briefly that the work had been done by slaves. Then, as now, he wondered just how many had died in pain and misery before seeing its completion. “There is said to be a Spanish garrison of about two hundred, also a few native scouts.

Not a great force, but one well able to withstand a normal frontal assault.”

Rattray cleared his throat noisily. “We could surely tack straight into the bay. There would be some damage from the fort’s battery, but with this prevailing nor’ westerly we’d be through and inside before the Dons could do more’n mark us.” Bolitho looked at him impassively. “There is only one deep channel and it lies close to the fort. Well within a cable at one place. If a ship was put down by the battery in the first attack, the rest of us would be unable to enter. If it was the last in the line, none of us would get out again.” Rattray scowled. “Seems a damn stupid way to build a forti-fied harbour, if you ask me, sir.”

Captain Falcon smiled gently. “I suspect there has not been much cause to welcome large vessels in the past, Rattray.” Draffen spoke for the first time. “That is true. Before the Spaniards seized the port as their own it was constantly changing hands amongst local leaders. It was used by small coastal shipping.” He looked calmly at Bolitho. “And chebecks.” Bolitho nodded. “There is one additional entrance to the fort.

By water. Sometimes in the past, when under siege, the defenders received supplies directly by sea. Small vessels can enter beneath the north-east wall. But even then they come under constant watch from inner and outer ramparts.” There was a momentary silence, and he could almost feel their earlier excitement giving way to gloom. It looked hopeless. Within the two bombs anchored round the beaked headland they could have carried out a steady bombardment of the fort. The upper works would be in no condition for such heavy treatment, and the Spanish gunners would be unable to hit back because of the outthrust headland. No wonder Draffen seemed withdrawn. He had planned and investigated almost every detail of approach for his venture. But because of the bomb’s delay in sailing, and indi-rectly the loss of the Auriga, he was now watching all of it fade into doubt and uncertainty.

He continued, “The bay is about three miles wide and two deep. The town is small and barely defended. So this must be a landing operation from east and west simultaneously. Half of the squadron’s marines will land here, below the headland. The rest will march inland after being ferried ashore here.” The points of the dividers rapped the chart, and he saw Falcon biting his lower lip, no doubt seeing the difficulties which the marines were going to face from both directions. The whole coastal area was grim and unfriendly, to say the least. A few steep beaches backed by massive hills, some of which had crumbled into cliffs and deep gullies, any of which would make excellent places for ambush.

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 F ortress

“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 dex-terity, 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. His own shirt was still open and he saw the locket swinging slowly to the ship’s motion, the dark lock of hair hanging rebelliously above his eye.

Involuntarily he reached up and touched the deep scar beneath the lock of hair gently with one finger. It was automatic, yet he always expected to feel heat there, or pain, like the actual memory of the time he had been cut down and left for dead.

Behind him Allday smiled and relaxed slightly. The familiar action, the apparent surprise Bolitho always seemed to show when he touched the scar, were always reassuring. He watched as Bolitho tied his neckcloth carelessly around his throat and then stepped forward with coat and sword.

“Ready, Captain?”

Bolitho paused with one hand in a sleeve and turned to study him, his grey eyes calm again.

“As I will ever be.” He smiled. “I hope God is merciful today.” Allday grinned and extinguished the lanterns. “Amen to that, I say.”

Together they went out into the cool darkness.

“Deck there! Land ho!” The masthead lookout’s voice sounded very loud in the clear air. “Fine on the starboard bow!” Bolitho paused in his pacing and peered through the black lines of rigging. Beyond the gently spiralling bowsprit and flapping jib he could see the first flush of pink dawn spreading down from the horizon. A little to starboard there was what appeared to be a sharp sliver of cloud, but he knew it was the crest of some far-off mountain, tipping itself in colour from the hidden sun.

He tugged out his watch and held it close to his eyes. It was already getting lighter, and with luck Valorous would now be hove-to while she unloaded her cargo of marines into the boats, casting them adrift to make their own way ashore. Euryalus’s Captain Giffard was in command of that landing party, and Bolitho could pity him. It was bad enough to lead some two hundred marines with their heavy boots and weapons across rough, unknown ter-ritory, but when the sun found them it would become torture.

Marines were disciplined and drilled like soldiers, but there the similarity ended. They were used to their strange shipboard life.

But because of it and its cramped lack of space and exercise they were no match for the hard slogging required in a forced march.

Keverne said, “I can see Tanais, sir.” Bolitho nodded. The pink glow was etched along the seventy-four’s main yard like fairy fire in a Cornish wood, he thought.

Her stern light already appeared fainter, and when he glanced up at the masthead pendant he saw the main topsail was shining with moisture and gaining colour with every slow minute.

There was a scrape of feet and Keverne whispered, “The admiral, sir.”

Broughton strode on to the quarterdeck and stared towards the distant mountain as Bolitho made his formal report.

“Cleared for action, sir. Chain slings rigged to the yards and nets spread.” Broughton could hardly not know of these things with all the noise they made. Screens torn down, guns released from their lashings; and the patter of many feet as the seamen prepared their ship and themselves to do battle. But it had to be said.

Broughton grunted. “Are we in sight of the squadron yet?”

“Tanais, sir. We will be able to signal the rest directly.” The admiral walked to the lee side and peered towards the land. It was not much more than a darker shadow, above which the crested mountain seemed suspended in space.

He said, “I’ll be pleased when we can put the squadron about.

I hate being on a lee shore and unable to see where I am.” He fell silent again, and Bolitho heard the regular clump of shoes back and forth along the starboard gangway, like someone hitting a tree with a hammer.

Broughton snapped, “Tell that officer to stay still, damn him!” Keverne relayed his sudden burst of irritation and Bolitho heard Meheux call, “I beg your pardon, Sir Lucius!” But he sounded cheerful for all that. Bolitho had recalled him from the Navarra to resume charge of his beloved upper battery of twelve-pounders, and Meheux had hardly stopped smiling since his return.

Nevertheless, it did reveal something of Broughton’s uneasi-ness.

Bolitho said, “I had the prisoner taken below to the orlop, sir.” The admiral sniffed. “Damn Witrand! It would do him good to stay up here with us.”

Bolitho smiled. “One thing seems certain. He knows more of this place than I first suspected. When Mr Keverne went to escort him below he was dressed and ready. No surprise, sir, not what you would expect at all from a man innocent of military affairs.” Broughton said, “That was shrewd of Keverne.” But it was only a passing interest, and Bolitho guessed his mind was still firmly fixed on what lay behind the shadows.

More feet clattered on the deck and Broughton swung round as Calvert stepped awkwardly over a gun-tackle.

“Mind your feet! You make more noise than a blind cripple!” Calvert mumbled something in the gloom, and Bolitho saw some of the nearby gun crews grinning knowingly at each other.

It must be over the whole ship about Calvert’s conflict with his admiral.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” Draffen came from beneath the poop, dressed in a frilled white shirt and dark breeches. He had a pistol in his belt, and sounded very refreshed, as if he had just emerged from a dreamless sleep.

Midshipman Tothill called, “Zeus in sight, sir!” Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and stared along the length of his ship. The Tanais was growing steadily from the shadows, and beyond her, a little to larboard, he could just make out the leading seventy-four, her upper yards already shining in the reflected glow.

The sun’s rim lifted over the horizon, the warm light reaching away on either bow, touching the lively wave crests, spreading still further, until Tothill exclaimed, “There’s the land, sir!” It was hardly a proper sighting report, but in the sudden excitement no one else seemed to notice. Which was just as well, Bolitho thought, in view of Broughton’s edginess.

“Thank you, Mr Tothill,” he replied coldly. “That was very prompt.”

The strengthening sunlight made the midshipman’s face glow like one enormous blush, but he had the sense to remain silent.

Bolitho turned to watch the land gaining personality as the shadows were pushed aside. Long rolling hills, grey and purple for the moment, but already showing their barren slopes with the deeper patches of darkness where gullies and other steep clefts remained hidden to the watching eyes.

“Valorous is in sight, sir.” Lucey, the fifth lieutenant, who was also in charge of the quarterdeck nine-pounders, kept his voice low. “She has set her t’gallants.”

Bolitho walked up the tilting deck to the weather side and stared across the hammock nettings. The rearmost seventy-four made a fine picture as she forged after her slower-moving consorts, topsails and topgallants shining like polished shells, while her hull remained in shadow as if unwilling to show itself.

Soon now a lookout would sight the frigate standing well out to seaward, and then the little Restless, creeping closer inshore, and the last to be freed from the night’s darkness. The prize, Navarra, would remain within visual signalling distance but no nearer. It would do no harm for the defenders of Djafou to think Broughton had at least one other ship-of-war at his disposal. Bolitho had even advised the master’s mate sent across to relieve Meheux to make as many signals as he liked to give the impression he was in contact with more ships below the horizon.

So much depended on the first attack. The enemy, especially Spaniards, might feel less willing to fight against a growing force of ships if the early assault went against them.

Bolitho made himself walk slowly up and down the weather side, leaving the admiral standing motionless by the foot of the mainmast.

The poop and nettings seemed strangely bare without the customary reassuring scarlet lines of marines. But for the rest, his ship appeared to be ready. He could see both ranks of guns on the upper deck now, their crews stripped to near nakedness, with coloured neckerchiefs tied around their ears as protection against the cannons’ roar. Above, through the spread nets he saw the swivel guns manned in the tops, while more seamen waited at braces and halliards momentarily unemployed and watching the quarterdeck.

Partridge blew his nose violently into a green handkerchief, and then froze as Broughton shot him a savage glance. But the admiral said nothing, and the white-haired master thrust the offending handkerchief into his coat, grinning sheepishly at Tothill.

Bolitho rested one palm on his sword. The ship was alive, a vital, intricate weapon of war. He recalled his last fight aboard the Navarra, the stark contrast between this ordered world of discipline and training and the other ship’s crude defences. The frightened Spanish seamen as they allowed their terror to change to bloody ferocity, hacking at the retreating boarders until there was none left alive. The half-naked women resting from their efforts at the pumps, shining in their sweat as he had passed.

Meheux cursing as he had slipped in the Spanish captain’s blood, and Ashton’s youthful voice rising above the din as he had urged his gunners to fire and reload in his amateur Spanish.

And little Pareja. Wanting to please him. Feeling really needed, perhaps for the first time in his life. He thought too of his widow, wondering what she was doing at this moment. Hating him for leaving her without a husband? Regretting all the things which had brought her to Spain in the first place? It was hard to tell.

A strange woman, he thought. He had never met anyone quite like her before. Wearing the finery of a wealthy lady, yet with the bold and fiery arrogance of one used to a much harder life than Pareja had given her.

Tothill’s voice shook him from his thoughts. “Signal from Zeus, sir. Repeated by Tanais. ” He was scribbling busily on his slate.

“Enemy in sight, sir.”

Broughton swore silently. “Hell’s teeth!” Tanais’s topsails and rigging had hidden Rattray’s signal from the flagship, so time had been lost in repeating it down the line.

Bolitho frowned. It was another argument for having Euryalus leading, he thought. He could imagine Rattray passing his order to a midshipman like Tothill. He would be very aware of his position in the van and would want to get his signal hoisted as soon as possible. There was nothing in the signal book which would suffice for a word like Djafou. Wanting to make haste and avoid spelling it out letter by letter, he had made a more familiar signal instead. Captain Falcon would have devised something more imaginative, or said nothing at all. How easy it was to know a ship’s ways once you knew her captain.

The land had changed colour as the sun climbed higher above its own image, the purples giving way to scorched green, the grey rocks and gullies becoming sharper defined, as if from an artist’s drawing in the Gazette.

But the overall appearance had not changed. Treeless and without any sign of life, above which the air was already distorted in haze, or perhaps it was dust swirling around on the steady sea breeze.

There was the western headland, and overlapping it, its nearest side still in deep shadow, the one shaped like a great beak.

Exactly abeam was a round hill, the side of which had cracked and fallen into the sea. It was a good four miles distant, but Bolitho could see the sea breaking in white feathers across the crumbled rocks, driven along the cheerless shoreline by the wind, as if searching for an inlet.

Zeus would be level with the nearest headland now, and able to see the fort in this visibility. Rattray might already be in a position to gauge for himself what he was expected to face within the next few hours.

Broughton snapped, “Tell Zeus to make more sail. She can get on with landing her marines.” He glared at Calvert. “You see to the signal and try to be of some use.” To Bolitho he added more calmly, “Once Rattray has got his boats away, make the signal to wear in succession. We will have seen the outer defences and be able to measure our approach.” Bolitho nodded. It made sense. To go about and return along this same course was safer than to make the attack now as ship by ship they crossed the bay’s entrance. If the first sight of the fort proved different from the plans and scribbled reports, they would still have time to claw away from the shore. Nevertheless, when Zeus turned to lead the line back again it was to be hoped Rattray would keep an eye firmly fixed on the closeness of the land and the behaviour of the wind. If the wind got up suddenly, or veered, they would all be hard put to it to work clear of the rocks, let alone find time to give battle.

He watched the flags dashing up the yards and breaking to the wind, and moments later the answering activity above Zeus’s decks as more and still more canvas billowed out in response to Broughton’s signal.

So far everyone was doing and acting exactly as Broughton had laid down. It might take Rattray an hour to get all his boats away, and by that time the remaining ships would be in position beyond the bay’s entrance.

Bolitho glanced up as a voice called, “Thar’s the Coquette, sir!

Two points abaft the weather beam!” Bolitho plucked at the front of his shirt. It was already damp with sweat, and he knew that in a short while it would be even hotter. He smiled in spite of his thoughts. Hotter . . . in more ways than one.

Partridge, seeing the small smile, nudged the fifth lieutenant and whispered, “See that? Cool as a chambermaid’s kiss!” Lieutenant Lucey, who was usually cheerful and easygoing, had been dreading the daylight and what it might mean for him. Now as he saw the captain smiling to himself he felt a little better.

All at once they were level with the first headland. After the long, slow approach it seemed to take everyone by surprise. As the edge of land peeled back Bolitho saw the great fort, blue-grey in the morning sunlight, and felt strangely relieved. It was exactly as he had pictured it in his mind. One massive circular building and a smaller round tower within. A bare flagpole was centred on the smaller tower, gleaming in the sunlight like a white hair. But there was no flag as yet, nor any sign of alarm. It looked so still that he was reminded of a great, lonely tomb.

As the ship moved steadily across a sluggish offshore chop he saw deeper into the bay. One small vessel at anchor, probably a brig, and a few fishing dhows. He wondered how far Giffard and his marines had managed to march, and whether they would be able to cross the causeway.

He saw the Restless tacking carefully away from the headland, and was thankful to see that Poate, her young commander, had two leadsmen busy in the chains. The sea bottom shelved very steeply, but it was always possible someone had overlooked a rocky ledge or reef when the charts were last corrected.

Because of its overlap, the second headland passed much closer, and as it crept out to hide the silent fortress from view Keverne exclaimed, “Look, sir. Someone’s awake!” Bolitho took a telescope and trained it towards the sloping side of the beak. Two horsemen, quite motionless, but for an occasional flick of a tail or the wind ruffling the long white burnous which each rider wore. Looking down on the ships as they tacked slowly into the growing sunlight far below them. Then, as if to a signal, they both wheeled their horses and disappeared below the ridge, not hurriedly, nor with any sign of excitement.

Bolitho heard a voice say, “The word is goin’ out about us, lads!”

He glanced at Broughton, but he was staring at the empty skyline, as if the horsemen were still watching him.

And apart from the normal sounds of sea and wind everything was too quiet, the waiting made more obvious and unsettling.

Giffard had even taken the marine band with him, and for a moment Bolitho toyed with the idea of getting the fiddler to strike up some familiar shanty for the seamen to sing. But Broughton seemed in no mood for any distraction and he decided against it.

He glanced from Broughton’s stiff back to some of the nearby seamen at the nine-pounders. The latter were standing to peer over the nettings at the slow-moving wall of rock and stone. How strange it must seem to most of them. They might not even know where they were, or see the worth of their being maimed or killed for such a dismal place. And Broughton, he was probably just as doubtful of the reasons for bringing him here, yet could share his apprehension with no one.

Bolitho turned to watch Draffen, but he had already gone below, content, it appeared, to leave it all to the professionals. He walked slowly to the weather side again. In war, as he had learned from experience, there was no such creature. You never stopped learning. Unless you were killed.

“Zeus is drawing abeam th’ headland, sir!” Bolitho walked to the lee side of the quarterdeck. “Thank you, Mr Tothill.”

It was all he could do to keep his voice even and unruffled.

The final manoeuvre of reassembling the squadron and then wearing ship in succession to return along the same stretch of barren coastline had taken far longer than expected. Rattray had got all of his boats away quickly enough, but once inshore it was obvious the oarsmen were having great difficulty in getting their overloaded craft to the proposed landing places. There were half-submerged rocks as well as a hitherto unsuspected current which swung the boats around like leaves on a millrace, their oars flailing in confusion until finally brought under control.

Even Broughton had conceded they should have allowed extra time, and as the Zeus made more sail again to resume station at the head of the line he could barely hide his anxiety.

The sloop had anchored as close as she dared to the great beaked headland, her masts spiralling uncomfortably in the swell, the slim hull made to seem puny by the mass of dark rock behind her.

But now they were approaching the bay once more, with Zeus passing the anchored Restless so close he appeared to be heading straight for disaster on the point of the great beaked headland.

All the ships were close hauled on the starboard tack, their yards braced tightly to give them maximum advantage from the fresh wind. The two leading ships had already run out their larboard guns, and as he trained his telescope over the nettings Bolitho saw Zeus’s lower battery was lifted to what must be maximum elevation, the double line of black muzzles appearing to scrape against the headland as she forged past. It was of course yet another illusion brought about by distance. She was a good two cables clear, and he hoped Rattray had some good helmsmen who would be ready to act very smartly when required.

Tothill shouted, “Signal from Restless, sir! The marines have reached the top of the headland!”

Bolitho turned and saw the big blue flag rippling from the sloop’s main yard, and as he moved his glass slightly beyond her he saw some of the marines scurrying around the tip of the hillside, shining in the fierce sunlight like a horde of bright red insects.

Broughton snapped, “Good. If they hold that hill nobody can shoot down on us from it.” He moved to the quarterdeck rail and watched Meheux walking slowly along the larboard line of guns.

Bolitho looked at Keverne. “You may run out now. Pass the word to Mr Bickford on the lower gundeck to gauge each shot well. His are the heaviest pieces we have today.” Keverne touched his hat and beckoned to three midshipmen who were messengers for the gundecks. As he leaned over the rail, speaking in a sharp, urgent whisper, Bolitho watched their faces. Ashton, still pale, with his bandage around his head. Little Drury, the inevitable smudge on his round face, and Lelean of the lower gundeck, whose extreme youth was badly marred by the most pimply skin Bolitho had ever seen.

When they scurried away Keverne yelled, “Run out!” And as the order was piped from deck to deck the hull shook inwardly to the sudden rumble of trucks, the shouts of gun-captains to their crews to take charge as the massive weapons trundled down the tilting decks and through the open ports.

The air quivered suddenly to a slow and measured bombardment, the sound dragging itself out and rolling back against the headland until it seemed as if every ship had fired. In the van Zeus was wreathed in her own smoke, her black muzzles gone from view as her men sponged out frantically for another broadside.

Bolitho watched the smoke rolling inshore and being sucked into the bay by some freak down eddy. If the Spanish garrison were in any doubt earlier, they knew now, he thought grimly.

Another broadside, again perfectly timed, the guns shooting out their long orange tongues, the ship’s reefed main topsail jerking violently in the upthrust of heated air.

Every glass was trained on the dancing lines of white-horses around and beyond the leading seventy-four. But there was still no sign of a falling shot, or any intimation that the enemy had returned fire.

Broughton said harshly, “Fair. Very fair.” Bolitho glanced at him. Perhaps Broughton was still testing his flag captain. Feeling him out for suggestions which he might accept or scornfully reject. But he could add nothing for Broughton’s benefit. It was still too early.

He lifted his glass again as a voice yelled, “There’s a ball! Fine on Zeus’s larboard quarter!” Bolitho watched the ball’s progress, counting seconds as the feather of white spray slashed viciously from wave to wave, throwing up a waterspout a good mile beyond the Zeus like a sliver of ice.

He heard Lieutenant Lucey whisper to Partridge, “By God, that was a long shot!”

There was another, almost exactly along the same line as before, and no less powerful.

Broughton remarked, “One gun, Bolitho. If that is all they have we need not wait much longer.”

“Signal from Zeus, sir.” Tothill was clinging to the lee shrouds to watch the leading ship. “Disengaging.” Bolitho looked at Partridge. “How long was that?” The master examined his slate. “Ten minutes, sir.” Ten minutes to cross the fort’s arc of fire, during which time they had only got off two balls.

“Tanais is closing the range, sir.” Keverne steadied his glass against his forearm. “She’ll be ready to fire in a minute or so.” Bolitho did not reply, holding his breath until the big red and black flag broke from Tanais’s topsail yard to show she was within sight of the enemy.

Falcon did not wait as long as Rattray, and his guns started belching fire and smoke almost immediately. The gunnery was impeccable, with the forward ones firing their second balls almost before the aft sections had run in for reloading.

Broughton rubbed his hands. “That weight of metal’ll give the Dons sore heads, eh?”

But the enemy remained silent as before, and Bolitho said quickly, “I think the Spaniards are using a fixed battery, sir. They were sighting shots used on Zeus, but this time . . .” He broke off as the reverberating crash of gunfire welled out of the bay, followed by a terrible sound of splintering wood.

As he strode to the rail he saw the smoke spurting from the Tanais’s poop, and a black tangle of broken rigging pitching overboard as the shots slammed into her. Two, maybe more, he thought, with another which had missed, whipping the wave crests apart like an enraged dolphin.

Something like a sigh came from the watching men as more shots hammered into the Tanais’s hull and pieces of wood whirled high into the air before splashing into the sea on either side of her.

Falcon’s men fired again, but the rhythm was gone, and here and there along her tumblehome Bolitho could see an angled muzzle to show a gun was unmanned, or an empty port which told its own story better than words.

Keverne said, “Four guns at a time, I’d say, sir.” He sounded cool and detached. An onlooker.

Lucey remarked, “Quite big too, by the look of them.” Bolitho glanced at him. Lucey was only twenty and had been terrified. Bolitho knew all the signs, the constant swallowing, the inability to find anything for the hands to occupy themselves with, all the little things which told of a man’s mounting terror.

Now Lucey was swopping comments with Keverne like an old campaigner. He hoped the pretence would last, for his sake.

Broughton said, “I can’t see for the damn smoke! What is Falcon doing?”

The smoke was funnelling through the Tanais’s stern windows, but whether from a fire or the exertions of the guns it was hard to tell. She was still managing to shoot, but she looked in a bad way. Her braced sails were easy targets and were pitted with holes, the latter from her own wood splinters as much as the enemy’s gunfire. Long trailers of severed rigging hung over her gangways, and Bolitho could see men already hacking it away with axes, the distance making their efforts all the more frantic.

Partridge cleared his throat. “She’s dipped ’er flag, sir.” He squinted at his big turnip watch. “Nigh on fifteen minutes that time.” Broughton said, “I hope your thirty-two-pounders earn their keep, eh?” He was smiling, the skin drawn back tightly from his even teeth to make his efforts a lie.

But Bolitho was thinking of other things. Fifteen minutes, during which time his ship would be subjected to another merciless bombardment. The Spanish gun crews did not even have to alter their elevation. They merely waited and fired, as ship after ship the squadron sailed across that strip of open water. Sun in their eyes or not, it was as easy as shooting birds off a branch.

“I suggest you signal the squadron to discontinue the action, sir.” He kept his voice low, but saw the words affecting Broughton as if he had cursed him. He added quickly, “Independent action in support of the landing parties would . . .” He got no further.

“Never! Do you imagine I’ll let a few bloody Dons make me withdraw?” He glared at him with something like contempt. “By God, I thought you were made of sterner stuff!” Bolitho looked past him and called, “Shake out the forecourse, Mr Keverne! Then hands aloft and get the t’gallants on her!” He held the lieutenant’s eyes with his own. “As quick as you can!” As the men swarmed up the ratlines in response to the order he made himself walk slowly to the quarterdeck rail. He knew Broughton was staring after him but shut him from his mind.

Broughton had made his decision, and the order had to be obeyed.

But the Euryalus was his ship, and he would fight her to the best of his ability, and Broughton could think what he liked.

The big forecourse billowed out with a clap like thunder, the seamen scampering wildly as the wind momentarily took charge.

Bolitho felt the deck tilting still further as the fore topgallant was released and hardened its belly to the wind, the additional thrust making the spray fly above the figurehead and jib boom.

To Partridge he snapped, “Steady as you go!”

“Steady she be, sir. West by north.” The dark headland was slipping past more rapidly as the ship spread her canvas tautly in the sunlight. High above the decks the topmen worked like demons, and when he raised his glass Bolitho saw some marines dancing up and down on the headland and waving their muskets as the flagship plunged level with the out-thrust beak of land.

There was the opposite side of the bay now, misty with haze, or perhaps still foggy from Tanais’s own smoke. How blue the water looked below that far headland. Blue and unreachable. He touched his lips with his tongue but they were bone dry.

He heard Lucey whisper shakily, “My God. My God.” He probably imagined he was speaking to himself, or not at all.

Up forward, with one foot resting casually on a carronade slide, Meheux was peering into the bay. He had drawn his sword, and as Bolitho watched he lifted it very slowly above his head. He stood motionless in the sunlight, and Bolitho was reminded of an old heroic statue he had once seen on a visit to Exeter.

The sword moved slightly and he heard Meheux shout, “Target in sight, sir!”

Bolitho cupped his hands, aware of the stiff, gripping tension all around him.

“Fire as you bear!” He saw some of the crouching seamen peering up at him, their faces like masks. He twisted his mouth into a grin and yelled, “A cheer, lads! Show ’em we’re coming!” For an instant longer nothing happened, and while the ship forged steadily past the last piece of cliff Bolitho thought they were too stricken to respond. Then a seaman jumped up beside a twelve-pounder and shouted, “Huzza for the Euryalus! An’

another huzza for our Dick!”

Bolitho waved his hat as the wild cheering swept along the upper deck and was taken up by the men in the crowded batteries below. The madness was beginning, nor would it stop until the next time. And the time after that.

Meheux’s voice was almost drowned as he bellowed, “Fire as you bear!”

Bolitho gripped the rail as the first trio of guns roared out from forward. The harsh bark of the upper deck battery swallowed completely by the deafening thunder of the thirty-two-pounders. He wiped his streaming eyes as the smoke lifted above the larboard gangway and swirled and plunged around him, watching the distant fort, the waterspouts below and beyond as the ship’s first attack smashed home. What looked like white powder was drifting from the fortress wall, the only sign that they were hitting it also.

He heard Keverne rasp, “God, ’tis like trying to fell an oak with a toothpick!”

Still the firing continued, three by three, with the guns hurling themselves inboard where they were seized and reloaded by men already dazed beyond reason. Beyond anything but the need to load and run out. To keep on firing no matter what was happening.

Meheux was walking behind the guns now, his sword tapping a breech or pointing towards the fort for another captain’s benefit, his face frowning with concentration.

Broughton asked, “Where are the other marines? Your Captain Giffard should be at the causeway by now.” Bolitho did not reply. His mind was rocking to the crash of guns, his eyes almost raw with smoke and strain as he concentrated everything on watching the fort. He could see the dark smudge below its circular wall where the sea entrance was situ-ated. The double line of square windows, like gunports, which appeared to circle the whole building.

Two of them suddenly flashed with fire, and he imagined he saw the line of the nearest ball streaking across the sea towards him. The thud against the lower hull was muffled, and he saw the other ball throwing up a burst of spray far abeam.

He glanced astern. The ship was almost halfway across the bay, and with all sails drawing well would reach the opposite headland in about five minutes.

Again the telltale tongues of fire, and this time both balls smashed into the Euryalus’s side with the force of hammers striking a wooden box.

Three hits, and he did not yet know how serious. Yet the fortress was outwardly unmarked, with just a few patches of fallen chippings to show for their efforts.

Astern he could see the Valorous’s topmasts rounding the headland, and knew what Furneaux must be thinking as he watched the flagship under the onslaught of those great guns.

He turned to the admiral, who was standing with his hands on his hips, his eyes fixed on the fort as if mesmerised.

“May I signal Valorous to stand off, sir?”

“Stand off?” Broughton’s eyes moved slightly to fix him with an unmoving stare. “Is that what you said?” A muscle jumped in his cheek as the lower battery roared out again, the smoke driven downwind by the darting tongues of flame.

Bolitho studied him for several seconds. Perhaps Broughton was caught off balance by the squadron’s inability to hurt the fort, or maybe he was dazed by the continuous crash of cannon fire.

He said bluntly, “Ships are being damaged to no purpose, sir.” He winced as the planking beneath his shoes gave a violent jerk.

Another hit somewhere below the quarterdeck.

All at once, as the wind whipped the smoke clear of the deck, he saw Broughton’s face clearly in the sunlight and knew what was wrong. Broughton had not been testing him in the past, or trying to gauge the extent of his capability. The realisation was like a dash of icy water on his spine. Broughton did not know what to do next! His plan of battle was too rigid, and, found wanting, had left him with nothing to replace it.

He said, “It is all we can do at present, sir.” Partridge called, “Eight minutes, sir!” Suddenly Broughton nodded. “Very well. If you think so.” Bolitho shouted, “Cease firing! Mr Tothill, signal Valorous to stand off and discontinue action immediately!” The fortress fell silent as soon as Euryalus, and he guessed the garrison had to keep a careful watch on supplies of powder and shot. Not that they need have much fear of being beaten, he thought bitterly. Almost every ball fired from the fortress had hit home.

“Valorous has acknowledged, sir.” Bolitho watched the two-decker’s shape lengthening as she began to tack, her sails almost aback as she swung heavily into the wind.

He called, “Report casualties and damage, Mr Keverne.”

To Broughton he said quietly, “We will have to support the marines, sir. They will be waiting for help.” The admiral was studying the passing shoreline with something like resignation. Below a man was screaming and whimpering, and Bolitho felt the growing need to tend to his men and his ship.

But he persisted, “What instructions, sir?” Broughton seemed to shake himself, and when he replied his voice was stronger again, but without conviction.

“Signal the squadron to close around the flagship.” His lips moved as if trying to form an order which would not come.

Bolitho looked at Tothill. “Make that signal at once.”

“Then I think we might land a second force, of seamen.” Broughton was pouting his lower lip. “Some guns too, if we can discover a favourable beach.”

Bolitho looked away. “Very well, sir.” Already he could visualise the tremendous effort and strain of getting even one thirty-two-pounder ashore and hauled up the hillside. And nothing but a gun of that size would do any good against the fortress.

It would take a hundred men, maybe more, and others to be nearby to ward off any sudden attack by enemy skirmishers. A Long Nine weighed over three tons, and one such weapon would not be enough.

But it was better than having the squadron pounded to fragments in a senseless procession back and forth across the bay’s entrance.

He turned, caught off guard as Tothill said, “Sir!”

“What is it? Have they all acknowledged?”

“Not that, sir.” The midshipman pointed across the starboard nettings. “Coquette is off station and making more sail, sir.” As he raised his telescope Bolitho saw the telltale balls dashing to the frigate’s yards and breaking out in bright patches of colour.

Tothill said, “Signal, sir. Strange sail bearing north-west. ”

Bolitho lowered the glass and looked at Broughton. “Shall I order Coquette to give chase, sir?” Tothill’s voice cut across Broughton’s reply. “Coquette is making another signal.” A pause, and Bolitho watched the muscle jerking in sharp, regular intervals in Broughton’s cheek. Then,

“Strange sail has gone about, sir.” Broughton let his arms fall to his sides. “Probably an enemy frigate. Coquette would have been able to close with her had she been anything else.” He looked at Bolitho. “She’ll be screaming our presence to the world now.”

“I suggest we recall the marines, sir.” Bolitho pushed away his earlier ideas about landing guns and all the tackle and boats it would have required. There was no time for that now, and they might be lucky to regain all their marines if an enemy squadron was nearby.

“No.” Broughton’s eyes were like stones. “I will not withdraw.

I have my orders. So have you.” He gestured towards the line of barren hills. “Djafou must be taken before any enemy ships reach here! Must be, do you understand?” He was almost shouting, and several of the seamen by the guns were staring up at him.

Draffen’s voice cut through the brief silence like a knife. Where he had been during the action Bolitho did not know, but now he looked very calm, his eyes cold and steady, like a hunter at the kill.

“Let me make a suggestion, Sir Lucius.” As Broughton turned to him he added quietly, “For I think you will agree we have wasted quite enough time with conventional methods.” For a brief instant Bolitho expected the admiral to show some of his earlier defiance.

But instead he replied, “I will agree to hear your suggestions, Sir Hugo.” He looked round as if seeking the companion ladder.

“In my quarters, I think.”

Bolitho said, “I will signal the squadron to steer due west, sir.

With Restless and Coquette remaining on station at present.” He waited, seeing Broughton’s mind wrestling with his words.

Then he replied, “Yes.” Nodding more firmly, “Yes, attend to it.” As they left the quarterdeck Keverne said softly, “We fared better than Tanais, sir. She lost twenty killed. We have seven dead and five with splinter wounds.”

Bolitho was still looking towards the poop and wondering what Draffen could suggest at this late stage.

“Damage?”

“Sounded worse than it was, sir. The carpenter is below now.”

“Good. Tell Mr Grubb to get his men to work on it as soon as he can.”

He paused as the first corpse was carried through the main hatch and dropped loosely to await burial. In the space of a few minutes they had lost seven lives. About one a minute.

Bolitho clasped his hands behind him and walked slowly towards the weather side, his face suddenly angry. Euryalus was the most modern device known to man’s ingenuity at making war.

Yet an ancient fort and a few soldiers had made her as impotent as a royal barge.

He snapped, “I am going to see the admiral, Mr Keverne.”

“Sir?”

“I too have some ideas which I will put to him directly!” Allday watched him pass and gave a slow smile. Bolitho was angry. It was about time the captain took charge, he thought, for all their sakes.

VICE-ADMIRAL Broughton looked up from his desk, his expression a mixture of surprise and annoyance.

“We had not quite finished, Bolitho.” He gestured towards Draffen, who was leaning against the cabin bulkhead. “Sir Hugo was just explaining something to me.” Bolitho stood firmly in the centre of the cabin which seemed vaguely empty without its more valuable fittings and furniture.

These has been taken below the waterline for safety before the fruitless attack on the fortress. Nevertheless, Broughton was lucky to have been spared the usual disorder which would be found in a British built three-decker. Then, his quarters, like all the rest of the ship, would have been stripped bare, the normally hallowed cabins wreathed and stained in smoke from their own guns. But the nearest cannon were safely beyond the bulkhead, so that after the air of alertness and battle tension on the upper deck this cabin added to Bolitho’s sense of frustration and growing anger.

He replied, “I would suggest we act quickly, sir.” Broughton raised one hand. “I am aware of the urgency.” He seemed to sense Bolitho’s anger and added coldly, “But speak your mind if you wish.”

“You have seen the fortress, sir. The futility of trying to beat it into submission from the sea. Using ships against sited shore batteries and defences has never, in my experience, been of any use.”

Broughton eyed him bleakly. “If you want me to admit that you advised me against such action in the early stages, then I will do so. However, as we have neither the facilities nor the strength for a combined attack, nor the time available to starve the garrison into submission, I do not see we have any alternative.” Bolitho breathed out slowly. “The only thing which has made Djafou a thorn in the side of every maritime nation using these waters is the fort, sir.”

Draffen said shortly, “Well, Bolitho, that is surely rather obvious?”

Bolitho looked at him. “I would have thought it obvious also to whoever devised this plan in the first place, Sir Hugo.” He turned back to the admiral. “Without it this bay is valueless, sir.” He waited, watching Broughton’s eyes. “And with it, this bay is still quite useless to us.”

“What?” Broughton sat upright as if he had been struck. “You had better explain!”

“If we succeed in taking the fortress we will still be hard put to hold the bay as a base, sir. Given time, the enemy, particularly the French army, would land artillery further along the coast and make the anchorage untenable for our ships. So we would be like the present defenders. Driven back inside that stone pile and able only to stop others from using the bay for shelter or whatever use they might see in it.”

Broughton stood up and walked slowly to the quarter windows.

“You have still made no mention of an alternative.” He sounded less abrupt.

Bolitho said slowly, “Return to Gibraltar. Inform the Commander-in-Chief of the true facts, and I am sure he will give you the support and the ships for making another attempt to obtain a base.” He expected Broughton to turn on him, but when he said nothing continued firmly, “A base where we would be better placed to widen the scope of future fleet operations. Further east, where we still have friends who would be prepared to rise against their new oppressors, given enough help and encourage-ment.”

Broughton said, “You say that Djafou is useless?” He appeared unable to get it out of his mind.

“Yes, I do. I am certain that if the powers in Admiralty were properly aware of its conditions and facilities they would never have agreed to the first suggestion.” Draffen said sharply, “In case you did not know, Bolitho, it was agreed on my suggestion.”

Bolitho studied him calmly. At last, after all the uncertainties and missing parts to the puzzle, something was coming out into the open.

He said, “Then it would be better to admit you were wrong, sir.” He hardened his voice. “Before any more of our people are killed.”

Broughton snapped, “Easy, Bolitho! I’ll have no petty argument under my flag, dammit!”

“Then let me just say this, sir.” Bolitho kept his voice very even, although inwardly he could feel nothing but anger and despair.

“Unless you put the squadron in such a position where we have more sea room to fight, you may be caught on a lee shore. With the prevailing nor’ westerly, and no space to regain an advantage, you will be in real danger should an enemy arrive here. In open sea we can still give the enemy a bloody nose, no matter what the odds prove to be.”

Broughton said, “Sir Hugo has already suggested a further plan.”

Draffen pushed himself away from the bulkhead. He was smiling, but his eyes were very cold.

“You have been too long on your feet, Bolitho. I am sorry I did not appreciate the fact earlier. This is my idea. It is only a framework, of course, but I am almost sure I can obtain the aid we now desperately need.”

Broughton said in a weary tone, “Sir Hugo’s agent can be contacted somewhere along the coast, it seems.”

“Exactly!” Draffen was relaxing very slowly. “I have had deal-ings with a powerful tribal leader. I have even met him on some occasions. Habib Messadi has much influence along these shores, and no love for the Spanish intruders!” Bolitho replied quietly, “But we will be intruders if the Spanish garrison is made to go. Where is the difference?”

“Oh, in heaven’s name, Bolitho!” Broughton sounded angry.

“Will nothing satisfy you?”

Bolitho kept his eyes on Draffen. “This Messadi is, I presume, an outlaw of some kind, otherwise how could he exert such power on a coastline like this?”

Draffen’s smile faded. “He is not the sort of man you would let loose in Westminster Abbey, I will allow you that.” He shrugged. “But to make this mission successful I would accept aid from Newgate or Bedlam if I thought it might help.”

“Well, Bolitho?” Broughton was looking from one to the other with obvious impatience.

But Draffen spoke first. “As I said to you earlier, one day Djafou will be discarded by us for something better. Like the proposal you have just made to Sir Lucius. Messadi controlled Djafou for many years and has no love for the French or the Dons. Surely it would be better to keep him as an ally, some additional thorn to prod the enemy’s side?”

Broughton snapped, “I agree.”

Bolitho turned away. Without effort he could see the yelling figures swarming across the Navarra’s bloodied decks, the terror on the crew’s faces when the chebecks had been sighted. And now Broughton was about to take such people as allies, merely because he could not accept the prospect of returning empty-handed to Gibraltar.

He said, “I am against it.”

Broughton sat down heavily. “I have great respect for your past record, Bolitho. I know you to be a loyal officer, but I also realise you are often plagued by too much idealism. There is no officer in the squadron I would rather have as my flag captain.” His tone hardened. “But I will suffer no insubordination. And if necessary I will have you removed.”

Bolitho felt the sense of helplessness returning, the contest of desires pulling at him like claws. He wanted to throw the words back in Broughton’s face, yet could not endure the prospect of Furneaux in control of the squadron’s small resources.

He heard himself say tightly, “It is my duty to advise you, sir, as well as obey orders.”

Draffen beamed. “There you are, gentlemen! We are agreed at last!”

Bolitho looked at him bitterly. “What do you intend?”

“With Sir Lucius’s permission I will make use of the sloop again. I have no doubt my agent will be expecting some sort of news from me, so the rest should be made easier for us.” He looked shrewdly at Bolitho’s grave features. “As you have said yourself, the squadron is better fitted for fighting in open waters than exposing itself to unnecessary risk inshore. I will need no more than two days, and by that time we should be ready for a final and conclusive assault.” He smiled, and Bolitho saw a new light in his eyes. For a few seconds his expression was one of complete cruelty. “A flag of truce to the garrison, an explanation of what will assuredly happen if Messadi’s men take the fortress, to the defenders and their womenfolk . . .” He said no more.

Broughton muttered, “For God’s sake, Sir Hugo, it won’t come to that surely?”

“Of course not, Sir Lucius.” Draffen was openly cheerful again.

Broughton seemed suddenly eager to finish the conference.

“Signal the Restless, Bolitho. Coquette can take over watch on the bay.”

As he left the cabin Draffen followed him, his voice almost gentle as he murmured, “Do not take it so seriously, Captain. I have never doubted your qualities as a sea officer. So you must trust my ability in these matters, eh?” Bolitho paused and looked at him. “If you mean I am no match for your politics, Sir Hugo, then you are right I want no part of them, ever!”

Draffen’s face hardened. “Do not overreach yourself, my friend. You may attain high command in the Navy one day, provided . . .” The word hung in the air.

“Provided I hold my tongue?”

Draffen swung towards him angrily. “You, of all people, can hardly afford the re-telling of your past if you wish to better yourself! Do not forget, I knew your brother. There are some in high places who might reconsider any officer’s chances of advancement once they were reminded of some flaw in his family background, so watch your manners, Captain!”

Bolitho felt suddenly very calm. As if his body was suspended in the air. “Thank you for reminding me, Sir Hugo.” He was amazed at the sound of his voice. Like a complete stranger’s. “At least we will be able to dispense with all pretence from this moment onward.” He turned and walked quickly towards the companion ladder.

He found Keverne pacing back and forth on the quarterdeck, his face deep in thought.

“Signal Valorous to relay the admiral’s order to Restless. She is to up anchor and close with the flagship immediately. She will then take Sir Hugo Draffen aboard and act under his instructions.” He ignored Keverne’s curious stare. “You may then secure all guns and have our people fed. Well?” Keverne asked, “Shall we withdraw, sir?”

“Attend to the signal, Mr Keverne.” He looked dully at the distant hills. “While I do some thinking.” He turned as Lieutenant Sawle appeared below the quarterdeck accompanied by Witrand.

“Where are you taking the prisoner, Mr Sawle?” The lieutenant stared at him blankly. “He is to be transferred to the sloop, sir.” He seemed confused. “Lieutenant Calvert says it is at the admiral’s bidding.”

“Come here.” Bolitho watched the Frenchman climbing lightly up the ladder, forgetting for the moment his earlier contempt and anger at Draffen’s threat.

“I will say farewell, Capitaine.” Witrand stretched and sniffed the warm sea air. “I doubt we will meet again.”

“I did not know of this, Witrand.”

“That I will believe, Capitaine.” Witrand eyed him curiously.

“It seems that I may be expected to aid your cause. A joke, eh?” Bolitho thought of Broughton’s growing desperation. He might have agreed with Draffen to allow Witrand’s transfer to the sloop in the hopes he would give away some secret about his own mission.

He replied quietly, “A joke. Perhaps.” He shaded his eyes to watch the Valorous as she hoisted Broughton’s signal to her yards. Somewhere, hidden around the beaked headland the anchored sloop would see it and come hurrying to do his bidding. Witrand would probably stay aboard her and later be conveyed with despatches to Gibraltar.

Bolitho held out his hand. “Goodbye, m’sieu. And thank you for what you did on my behalf.”

The Frenchman’s grasp was firm. “I ’ope that one day we will meet again, Capitaine.” He shrugged. “But . . .” He broke off as Sawle and two armed seamen appeared on the quarterdeck. He added quickly, “If anything should ’appen to me.

There is a letter. For my wife in Bordeaux!” He dropped his voice.

“I would be grateful!”

Bolitho nodded. “Of course.” He watched Witrand being escorted to the entry port to await a boat. “Take care.” Witrand tossed him a casual wave. “You also, Capitaine!” An hour later Bolitho was still pacing up and down the weather side oblivious to the searing heat which had turned his shirt into a sodden rag, or the blinding glare thrown back from the sea.

Draffen had been transferred to the sloop and had already disappeared around the out-thrust curve of the coastline, yet he had hardly been aware of anything but Witrand’s simple request.

Lieutenant Weigall was officer of the watch and was content to keep well clear of his captain. Alone with his deafness, he stayed on the lee side, his prizefighter’s face set in its usual frown as he surveyed the men working along the upper deck.

By the poop Allday watched Bolitho’s anguish and wondered why he could think of nothing to help him. He had refused to leave the deck for a meal, and had turned on him with something like blind anger when he had tried to coax him below for a brief respite from the heat.

“Deck there!” The lookout’s voice was like a croak. The seaman was probably parched dry with thirst, “Sail on th’ weather bow!”

Allday glanced at Bolitho expectantly but he was still pacing, his face grave and expressionless. A quick look towards Weigall told him that he had heard nothing at all.

Already flags were soaring aloft on the Tanais’s yards, and Allday strode quickly to a dozing midshipman and prodded him sharply in the ribs.

“Stir yourself, Mr Sandoe!” He saw the boy staring at him with fright. “There’s work to be done!”

Then he crossed to the other side and waited until Bolitho had completed another turn along the deck.

“Captain?”

Bolitho paused and swayed wearily on the tilting deck. He saw Allday’s face swimming before him, and realised that he was smiling.

Allday said firmly, “Sail on th’ weather bow, Captain.”

“What?”

He looked aloft as the voice pealed down. “One ship, sir!” Weigall had at last realised something was happening and was moving about the deck like a caged animal.

Far above the deck the small figure of the midshipman could be seen moving up to join the lookout. Moments later his voice floated down to all the upturned faces.

“She’s a bomb vessel, sir!”

When Allday looked at Bolitho again he was stunned to see his eyes were blurred with emotion.

Bolitho said quietly, “Thank God.” He reached out and seized Allday’s thick forearm. “Then there’s still time.” He turned away to hide his face and added, “Call the master. Tell him to lay off a course for the squadron to intercept and then,” he ran his fingers through his hair, “then we shall see.” Later, as the Euryalus swung heavily across the wind and started on a new tack towards the small sliver of sail, Bolitho stood very still at the quarterdeck rail, while every other officer stayed at a respectful distance on the opposite side, their voices murmuring with busy speculation.

Broughton came on deck and walked to Bolitho’s side. His voice was offhand and remote.

“What is she?”

Bolitho saw Tothill’s men with their next hoist of flags and said, “There is only the one, sir, but she will suffice.” Broughton stared at him, confused by his vague reply.

Then Tothill shouted, “Signal, sir. Hekla to Flag. Request instructions. ”

Once again Bolitho felt his throat quivering with suppressed strain and emotion. The Hekla had arrived. Somehow Inch had managed to join them with neither escort nor another bomb for company.

Without awaiting the admiral’s comments he said, “Signal her captain to repair on board forthwith.” Then he turned and looked at the admiral, his eyes calm again.

“With your permission, sir, I would like to attempt what we came to do.” He paused, seeing the flush mounting to Broughton’s checks. “Unless you would still prefer to ally yourself with pirates?” Broughton swallowed hard and then replied, “Report to me when Hekla’s captain is come aboard.” Then he turned and walked stiffly towards the poop.

Bolitho looked down at his hands. They were shaking, yet quite normal in appearance. His whole body seemed to be quivering, and for a brief instant he imagined his old fever was returning.

But it was not the fever. It was something far more powerful.

Keverne crossed the deck and touched his hat. “Strange-looking craft, sir.” He faltered under Bolitho’s gaze. “The bomb, I meant, sir.”

Bolitho smiled, the tension draining out of him like blood.

“Just now she is the most welcome sight I have seen for a long, long while, Mr Keverne.” He plucked at his shirt and added, “I will go aft and change. Call me when the Hekla’s boat is near. I want to greet her captain myself.” Then he strode away.

Keverne said, “You know, I think I may never understand our captain.”

Weigall swung round from the rail. “What? What did you say?”

“Nothing.” Keverne walked to the opposite side. “Return to your dreams, Mr Weigall.”

He glanced up at Broughton’s flag flapping from the foremast and found himself wondering at the swift change in Bolitho’s mood. But it did appear as if the waiting was done, and that at least was something.

After the furnace heat of the day the night air was almost icy.

Bolitho stood up in the sternsheets of his barge and signalled to Allday with his arm.

Allday barked, “Easy all!” and as one the oars rose dripping from the water and remained still, so that the dying bow wave gurgling around the stem seemed suddenly very loud.

Bolitho turned and strained his eyes into the darkness astern.

They were following, and he could see the dancing phosphorescence around the two leading boats like bright clinging weed and occasional white feathers from the muffled oars.

The first boat loomed from the darkness and hands reached out to seize the gunwales to prevent further sound from any sort of collision. It was Lieutenant Bickford, his voice serious and quite normal, as if he were reporting his division for inspection.

“The rest are close astern of me, sir. How much further, do you think?”

Bolitho felt the two hulls rising and falling on the deep inshore swell, and wondered where the squadron had reached when the wind had at last decided to fade to a light breeze. All day, as he and the others had worked to put his plan of attack into motion, he had expected it to drop, a kind of inbuilt instinct which he could never properly explain. If it had done so before he was ready the plan would have had to be postponed, perhaps cancelled altogether.

He replied, “About three cables, I believe. We will carry on now, Mr Bickford, so keep a good lookout.” At a further command the boats drifted apart once more, and as the oars started to move Bolitho sat down on the thwart, his eyes trained slightly to starboard where he would first see the bay’s western headland. Provided he had not misjudged the drift or the uneasy power of the swell.

He made himself think back over the busy afternoon, trying to discover any flaw in his hazardous plan. Yet each time he seemed to see Inch’s face, hear his voice as he had sat in the Euryalus’s stern cabin. A voice so weary and drained of life that he had seemed much older than his twenty-six years.

It was hard to recall Inch as he had once been as a junior lieutenant, eager but bumbling, loyal but without experience, more so when Bolitho considered what he had just done on his behalf.

Inch had waited fretting at Gibraltar for an escort, knowing how desperately the two bombs were needed, and realising too that no such escort might ever arrive. He had taken his courage in both hands and had confronted the local admiral for permission to sail unaided. Typically, the admiral had granted permission, on the written understanding that whatever happened as a result would be Inch’s own responsibility. The other bomb vessel, Devastation, had also up-anchored without delay, and together they had headed out from the Rock’s protection, both commanders expecting to be attacked within hours by the patrolling Spanish frigates which had been so much in evidence.

As he had told his story Bolitho had been reminded of his own words to Draffen at Gibraltar about Inch’s luck. That luck had certainly held, for they had not sighted a single ship. Until that very morning, when out of a sea mist Inch’s lookout had reported a fast-moving Spanish frigate. There was little doubt in Bolitho’s mind that it was the one sighted by Coquette turning to dash back to Spain with the news of Broughton’s attack on Djafou. Perhaps her captain had imagined the two small and ungainly bombs were part of a trap being sprung to catch him before he could escape.

Otherwise, he would hardly have been likely to have engaged them.

Inch had sent his small company to quarters, and with his consort some half mile abeam had prepared to give battle.

With all sail set the thirty-two-gun frigate had gone about to take advantage of the wind, her first broadside dismasting the Devastation and raking her decks with grape and chain shot. But the little bomb was sturdily built, and her guns had replied with equal vigour. Inch had seen several balls hitting the enemy’s hull on the waterline before a second savage broadside had smashed the Devastation into silence.

Inch had expected the same treatment, but had put his ship between the frigate and the other bomb and had opened fire.

Maybe the Spanish captain had counted upon Inch to turn and run after witnessing the fate of his companions, or perhaps he still expected to see the Coquette’s topgallants above the horizon in hot pursuit. But the challenge was enough. The frigate had gone about again, leaving Inch to lower boats and pick up the survivors from the other bomb, which had turned turtle and started to sink.

It was obvious to Bolitho that Inch was torn between two real emotions. He was brooding over the loss of the Devastation and most of her company. But for his own eagerness she would still be anchored at Gibraltar, safe and unharmed.

Yet when Bolitho had outlined what he intended to do this same night he had seen something of the old Inch, too. Pride and a light of complete trust which had made him so very important in Bolitho’s memory.

Now, in Hekla his first and only command, Inch was anchored beyond the opposite headland, and within a very short while would be attempting something untried in naval history. With Bolitho and his own gunner he had climbed to the top of the beaked headland where the marines lolled like corpses in the scalding glare, and had carefully constructed a map of the fortress.

Bolitho had said nothing which might have broken Inch’s concentration, and had been very aware of the deftness with which he went about his work. Ranges, bearings and measurements were added to the map, while the gunner had murmured occasional hints about charges, amounts of powder and fuses, most of which had been a foreign language to Bolitho.

Whatever Inch might say or think about his strange command, he certainly appeared to have found his right niche. It was to be hoped his zeal was matched by his aim. Otherwise these boats and their armed seamen would all be blown to oblivion.

If Inch could have fired his mortars in daylight he would have been quite sure his calculations were accurate. But Bolitho knew the defenders would have that much warning and make their own preparations. More time, to say nothing of lives, would be wasted, so Bolitho’s idea of a night attack was accepted without dissen-sion, even by Broughton. Bolitho knew from experience that night attacks on shore defences were to be preferred. Sentries became tired, and there were usually so many strange noises abroad at night that one more shadow or additional squeak would excite little attention.

And why should it? The fortress had withstood siege after siege. Had seen the British squadron made to withdraw, leaving only a landing force of marines to fend for themselves amidst the rocks and scrub above the bay. They had very little to fear.

Allday hissed, “There’s the headland, Captain! Fine on the starboard bow!”

Bolitho nodded. He could see the vague necklace of white spray at the foot of the rocks, the darker blur of shadows where the land piled up into a craggy cliff beyond. Soon now.

He tried to picture his little flotilla in his mind. His barge and Bickford’s cutter would enter the bay first. Then four more boats would follow at regular intervals. One, under the command of Lieutenant Sawle, contained a large pouch of gunpowder, and once laid between the apprehensive oarsmen had all the appearances of a giant corpse being taken for burial. Sewn in greased leather, with a handmade fuse lovingly constructed by Fittock, the Euryalus’s gunner, it was to be in position just minutes before Inch’s mortars started to fire.

Bolitho wished he had Keverne with him. But he was better used in handling the ship during his absence. Meheux was too valuable a gunnery officer, and Weigall too deaf for night action, so that left only the more junior lieutenants for the boat attack.

He frowned. What was the matter with him? A lieutenant, any lieutenant, should be capable if he was worth his commission. He smiled in spite of taut nerves, thankful the darkness was hiding his face. He was beginning to reason like Broughton, and that would never do.

He thought too of Lieutenant Lucey, the young officer who had been so frightened before the first attack on the fort. He was astern somewhere in another cutter, waiting to lead his men into the breached wall with only the haziest idea of what was awaiting him.

And Calvert, he wondered how he was managing, out there on the hillside. When Bolitho had explained how he wanted the marines under Giffard to play their part in the final assault across the causeway, Broughton had snapped, “Calvert can convey the instructions to Captain Giffard.” He had studied the flag lieutenant without pity. “Do him good!” Poor Calvert had been terrified. With a midshipman and three armed seamen for protection he had been taken ashore at dusk to face a dangerous and painful march across the hills to carry the orders to the marines, who should by now be ready and waiting to move. Giffard must be thankful, Bolitho thought. After sweating and panting in the sun’s glare all day, with only their pack rations and water flasks to sustain them, they would be in no mood for half measures.

The tiller squeaked and he felt the hull lift sluggishly across a fast ripple of water. They were rounding the headland now, the bay opening up beyond the bargemen’s heads in a pitch-black curtain.

He held his breath. And there it was. The fortress, like a pale rock, unlit but for a solitary window high up in the nearest wall, and strangely threatening against the other darkness.

“Very quietly, lads!” He stood to peer above the oarsmen, very conscious of the noises of boat and water, of heavy breathing and his own heart.

The current was carrying them to the left of the fort, and he was thankful that one calculation at least was proving correct. He saw another pin-prick of light far beyond the fortress, and guessed it was the anchored brig’s riding lantern. With any luck Broughton would have a small addition to his squadron before dawn.

He dropped on one knee and very gently opened the shutter of a lantern just a fraction of an inch, yet for those brief seconds as it played across his watch it seemed like a mighty beacon.

He stood up again. In spite of the deep swell outside the bay, the distance the men had pulled their great oars and all the other nagging delays, they were arriving at the prescribed moment.

The fortress was much nearer now, not more than a cable away.

He imagined he could see the darker shadow below the north-west comer where the sea entrance lay, protected it was said by a rusting but massive portcullis. Where Fittock’s explosive charge would soon be laid and a way blasted for their attack.

He gritted his teeth as somewhere astern a metallic click came from one of the boats. A careless seaman must have kicked against his cutlass. But nothing happened, nor any shout of alarm from those high, forbidding walls.

Which was just as well, he thought grimly. Broughton’s ships would be well clear of the land by now, and without any real wind to fill their sails they would be in no position to send aid.

Something white flashed in the darkness, and for an instant he thought it was an oar blade cutting through the water. But it was a fish jumping, falling with a flat slap within feet of the boat.

When he looked for the fort again he saw it was very close.

He could distinguish the individual slits cut in the walls for the guns, the paler patches to show where some of the squadron’s guns had made their mark.

“Easy all!” He saw Bickford’s boat gliding slowly abeam and the others fanning out within easy hailing distance. It was time.

The one boat which was still moving under oars pulled steadily past, and he saw Lieutenant Sawle’s figure upright in the stern, and another, probably Mr Fittock the gunner, stooping below him. This was the vital part of the whole attack, and it was also Sawle’s chance to distinguish himself to such a degree that, bully or not, his future in the Navy would be assured and profitable.

He had an equally good chance of being blown to pieces if the fuse was mishandled. He was a competent officer, but if he were to die tonight, Bolitho was aware he would not be mourned aboard the Euryalus.

Allday muttered, “We’ve seen a few, eh, Captain?” Bolitho did not know if he was speaking of the lieutenant or the actual attack. Either could be true, but he had other things on his mind.

He snapped, “We have five minutes or thereabouts.”

Oars moved restlessly abeam and he saw Bickford’s men back-paddling to stop their boat from being broached sideways on the swirling current.

He thought of Inch again and pictured him aboard the Hekla making final preparations for firing his squat mortars high over the beaked headland. He would have no problems with secrecy now. He could use all the lights he required, knowing there were marines on the hillside above his ship waiting to signal the fall of shot as well as to protect him from unwanted intruders.

A strange craft, Keverne had said. Hekla was little more than a floating battery, with just enough sail power to carry her from one theatre of operations to another. Once in position she was anchored firmly at bow and stern. By slackening or hauling on either cable Inch could move the hull and therefore the twin mortars to the desired bearing with very little effort.

“Mr Sawle’s boat is below the wall, Captain!” Allday sounded tense.

“Good.” He accepted Allday’s word, for there was nothing but the slash of black shadow at the foot of the fortress to distinguish boat from entrance.

A midshipman squatting by his feet yawned silently, and Bolitho guessed he was probably fighting his own sort of fear.

Yawning was one of the signs.

He said quietly, “Not long now, Mr Margery. You will take charge of the boat once the attack is begun.” The midshipman nodded, not trusting himself to reply.

Allday stiffened. “Look, Captain! There’s a boat to the left of the wall!”

Bolitho saw the telltale froth of oars and guessed the garrison had taken the precaution of having a guardboat patrolling around the bay. Probably it was intended to prevent any attempt at cutting out the anchored brig, but it was just as deadly as an army of sentries.

Up and down, the oars dipped and rose with tired regularity, the green phosphorescence around the stem marking the boat’s progress better than daylight.

The movements halted, and he guessed they were resting on their oars, letting the current carry them along before starting on the next leg of the patrol.

Allday muttered between his teeth, “Mr Sawle should have the charge laid by now.”

As if in response to his words there was a brief, spurting gleam of light like a bright red eye below the wall, and Bolitho knew Fittock had fired the fuse. The light would be hidden from the guardboat by the wall’s curve, but once Sawle’s men pulled clear the alarm would be sounded.

Bolitho bit his lip, imagining Sawle and his men clinging against the great iron portcullis, listening for the guardboat moving again and hearing the steady hiss of the lighted fuse.

Almost to himself he said, “Come on, man, get away from it!” But nothing happened to break the dark patch beneath the wall.

There was a sudden jarring thud and he saw the eyes of the nearest oarsman light up with an orange glow, as if the sailor was staring directly at a freak sunrise. He knew it was the reflected glow from one of Inch’s mortars beyond the opposite headland, and as he swung round in the boat he heard a sharp, abbreviated whistle, like a marsh-bird disturbed suddenly by a wildfowler. The crash of the explosion was deafening. He saw the far side of the fort light up violently, the billowing smoke very pale before darkness closed in again, leaving him momentarily blinded.

But it had been long enough to tell him Inch’s first shot had been near perfect. It had hit the fortress on the opposite rampart, or perhaps below the wall itself. He could hear the grinding sounds of falling masonry, the splash of larger pieces hitting the water.

Another thud, and the next shot fell in much the same place as the first. More crashes and rumbles, and he saw the smoke drifting in a thick bank low above the bay like a dust cloud.

The guardboat had been hidden by the smoke, but he could hear voices yelling in the darkness and then the sudden blare of a trumpet from the direction of the fortress.

The Hekla’s third shot overreached, and he heard the splintering crash of stonework and guessed it had hit the causeway or part of the islet below the walls. The marines would be using their shuttered lanterns to signal the news to Inch, and fresh adjustments would have to be made to the charges or elevation before another attempt.

Allday said, “Mr Sawle is pulling away now.” He sounded relieved. “He cut it fine, an’ no mistake!” Bolitho called, “Pass the word, Mr Bickford! We are about to attack!”

No need to be quiet now. There was enough clamour from the fortress walls to awaken the dead as the dazed Spaniards ran to their defences. Some might have guessed what was being used against them, others would be too terrified to think as the fortress shook to the battering from Inch’s mortars.

It was at that moment Sawle’s charge exploded. Bolitho saw the low entrance erupt in a great gushing tongue of fire, watched with fixed fascination as a small tidal wave surged out from below the wall to hurl Sawle’s cutter on to its beam ends, spilling men and oars into the sea in a kicking tumult, like a whaleboat before a wounded narwhal.

As he drew his sword and waved it towards Bickford he saw part of the upper rampart fall slowly across the belching flames, taking with it an iron-wheeled cannon and a length of heavy chain, which he guessed was part of the portcullis hoisting gear.

“Right, lads! Give way together!” He almost fell as the boat surged forward beneath him, feeling the hot smoke fanning above his head to mark the power of the last detonation.

The upended cutter passed in the gloom, and here and there he saw a pale face, thrashing arms and legs, to show that some at least had survived the explosion.

Then he forgot everything but what he had to do, as like a gaping mouth, the blasted portcullis protruding from the breached wall like rotten teeth, the opening was right ahead and then over the bows.

A musket ball slammed against the gunwale, and somewhere a man screamed in sudden agony.

He waved his sword above his head and yelled, “Pull, lads!” The barge seemed to be hurling itself through the smoke at a tremendous speed. He saw pieces of scorched woodwork floating on the surface, and then two grotesque sternposts of what must be old galliasses which the fortress had once used to defend the coast against pirates. Oars crashed against wood and stone alike, and he saw Bickford’s boat following dangerously close astern, the oarsmen momentarily illuminated as someone fired a pistol from the wall above.

“Easy!” Allday’s voice was almost lost as an explosion shook the air to announce the arrival of another of Inch’s bombshells.

“Toss your oars!”

Grinding savagely against a low jetty, the barge lurched to a halt. A figure charged from the darkness, but reeled and fell without a sound as a seaman fired his musket at point-blank range over the edge of the jetty.

Bolitho clawed his way on to the wet stone, feeling the wildness all about him and trying to recall the layout of this alien place as he had seen it on the plan.

Too late to change anything now. Too late for second thoughts.

He pointed with his sword towards some stone steps, and yelling like fiends the seamen charged across the jetty. They were inside. What happened now could only be decided one way.

With Allday at his side he ran up the steps towards the smoke, his mind empty of everything but the madness of battle.

THE CURVING flight of stone steps to the top of the ramparts seemed endless. As Bolitho dashed breathlessly towards the open ledge where smoke still drifted across the stars he was aware of a rising chorus of shouts and cries, the occasional bang of muskets, and above all the urgent blare of a trumpet. Inch’s mortars had fallen silent right on the arranged minute, and but for the careful planning and timing of the attack a further shot from Hekla might well have killed the yelling seamen before they could even reach their first objective.

Below, where the barge had grounded alongside the jetty, Bolitho heard more shouts and bellowed orders as one by one the boats surged through the broken entrance, their crews spilling out into the smoke even before the craft were made fast.

He felt the cooler air on his face as with Allday beside him he found himself on the broad expanse of the main battery. He could see the smaller central tower, the regular crouching shapes of the heavy guns, and darting figures which seemed to come and go from every direction at once.

The Spanish soldiers had at last realised that one deafening explosion which had torn them so violently from their sleep had not been from a mortar. Now, as they hurried from the central tower, they were already firing and reloading as they ran, some of the balls shrieking impotently into the night, while others brought down a running seaman or raised a scream of pain in the deeper shadows by the ramparts.

He shook his sword at Bickford, as with his own party of men he blundered up the steps and almost fell across two interlocked corpses.

“The tower! Fast as you can!”

Bickford did not answer, but ran desperately across the open space, his mouth like a black hole in his face as he yelled at his men to follow.

Bolitho halted and peered towards the steps. Where was Lucey?

He should be here by now to help attack and seize the deep courtyard on the opposite side of the lower fortress. Shots cracked and flashed against the inner wall, and he heard steel clashing on steel, interspersed with short, desperate cries and curses.

Allday shouted, “The guardboat’s followed them in, Captain!” He gestured with his cutlass through a deep embrasure. “Mr Lucey’s lads are closing with them!” Some of Lucey’s men were already running up the steps, while others were still locked in close combat with the guardboat’s crew across the jetty and out of sight below the wall.

Someone gave a hoarse cheer, and Bolitho saw another low shape edging through the breach, and heard Allday say fervently,

“’Tis the gig, and not a blasted moment too soon!” The additional weight of attackers was enough for the guardboat, and caught between two prongs of the attack they started to throw down their arms, their voices almost drowned by the jubilant cheers from the seamen.

But that one delay caused by the guardboat’s unexpected appearance had cost Bolitho the precious minutes needed to reach the other stairway which led to the courtyard. Even as he waved his men forward he saw a serried line of musket flashes, heard the thud of a ball smashing into muscle and bone and screams on both sides of him.

The seamen hesitated, some pausing on the steps even though pushed forward by those from the boats behind them.

Bolitho rasped, “Come on, Allday! Now or never!” Allday brandished his cutlass and bellowed, “Right, lads! Let’s open the door to the bloody bullocks!” Once again they lunged forward. Beside Bolitho a man shrieked and toppled to the ground, his neck impaled by a musket ramrod.

The soldier must have been so confused by the swiftness of the attack that he had failed to withdraw it after reloading.

All at once there seemed to be figures striking forward from every angle. The next instant they were locked steel on steel. As men reeled and kicked in the darkness, or fell on the blood of their comrades, Bolitho saw a Spanish officer hack down a screaming sailor and run towards him. Bolitho tugged a pistol from his belt and fired. In the bright flash he saw the top of the officer’s skull blasted away to spatter the wall behind him with bloody fragments.

Lucey ran past him, sobbing violently, his jaw clenched as he was carried forward by the wild mob of seamen.

Allday shouted, “There are the steps!” He swung his cutlass at a man kneeling by the wall. He could have been reloading his musket or using it as a crutch because of a wound. He dropped dead without even a whimper.

There was a lantern burning in the lower courtyard, and as they ran or fell down the steep steps Bolitho saw another force of soldiers already forming into line to resist them. Some of them were only partly dressed, others were covered with dust and chippings from the mortar’s bombardment, like workers in a flour mill.

An officer dropped his sword and a loud volley banged out from the wavering muskets. A few seamen fell dead or wounded, but the enemy’s aim had been bad, and they had no time for a further attempt.

Again it was hand to hand, with blood splashing victor and vanquished alike, with no thought or hope but that of killing and staying alive.

From a corner of his eye Bolitho saw Midshipman Dunstan, who had commanded the gig, leading his party round the curve of the wall towards the massive double gates. A soldier darted towards him and aimed a pistol at point-blank range. But it was a misfire, and before the luckless Spaniard could fall back again he was hacked down by a burly gunner’s mate, and received several more cuts from the other yelling seamen as they scurried past.

Allday said between breaths, “Look, Captain! Mr Bickford’s taken the inner tower!” His teeth were white in his face as he pointed upward, and Bolitho saw someone waving a lantern from side to side from the upper rampart where only hours before the Spanish flag had appeared to mock them.

At that moment the gates were flung open, and as Bolitho ran across the uneven courtyard he realised with sudden shock there was nothing beyond them.

Allday said, “Jesus, where are the bloody bullocks?” More soldiers were running from another gate at the foot of the inner wall, and at a shouted command opened fire across the front of their scattered comrades. Then, fixing bayonets they doubled forward towards the invaders.

Bolitho held his sword in the air. “Stand fast, my lads!” His voice brought the men round to face the new threat, and he was amazed how steady he sounded. Yet his mind was reeling and grappling with the realisation that Giffard’s marines had not arrived, that already his limited force of seamen had been split in two. Bickford held the inner tower, but without the lower garrison and courtyard being seized also he was more prisoner than conqueror.

Snarling and yelling like enraged demons the lines of shadowy figures came together. The seamen with boarding pikes were able to meet the bayonets as equals, but those armed only with cutlasses were already dying, their bloodied corpses held upright in the press of combat.

Bolitho slashed down on a soldier’s neck, saw his face change to a grotesque mask of agony before he was carried past in the swaying, hacking mass of men. Another was trying to reach him with a bayonet across the shoulder of a comrade, but disappeared as a pike found its mark.

But the line was breaking. Even as he pushed his way to the opposite end of the wavering pattern of seamen he heard a terrible scream and saw Lieutenant Lucey rolling over on his stomach, while a tall trooper stood astride his body with an upraised musket. In the glare from the lantern Bolitho saw the blood gleaming on the bayonet before it went down again with all the force of the man’s arms. Another scream, and even though the soldier had one foot on the lieutenant’s spine he was unable to tear the bayonet free.

And Lucey was still alive, his screams like those of a woman in agony.

Allday gasped, “In God’s name!” Then he was across the small strip of cobbles, his cutlass swinging in a tight arc before the soldier realised what was happening. The heavy blade hit him across the mouth, and Bolitho heard the man’s bubbling cry even above the sound of the cutlass biting through flesh and bone.

But it was no use, any of it. Bolitho dragged his sleeve across his eyes and parried a soldier’s sword away, swinging him around and then driving the blade beneath his armpit. His sword arm was so weighty he could hardly raise it, and with sick despair he saw two pigtailed seamen beyond the gate waving their hands in surrender.

In those brief seconds he saw everything which had brought them here. His own pride, or was it only conceit? All the men who had depended upon him were dead or dying. At best they would end their lives in misery in the Spanish galleys or some rotting prison.

The soldiers paused and then retired to a further shouted command. Leaving the corpses and writhing wounded in the centre of the courtyard they fell back and formed into their original lines, only this time they were reinforced by more Spaniards from the lower fortress.

Bolitho let his sword fall to his side and looked at the remainder of his men. Gasping for breath, clinging to each other for support, they were standing dull-eyed to watch their own execution.

And that is what it would be unless he surrendered at once.

As if from another world he heard a harsh voice bellow, “Front rank kneel!” And for a moment he imagined the Spanish officer was giving his commands in English to add to his misery.

The voice continued, “Take aim!” The order to fire was lost in the blast of muskets, and Bolitho could only stare as the ranks of Spanish soldiers reeled about in disorder under the deadly volley.

Of course, it was Giffard’s voice. He had heard it countless times on the quarterdeck at drills and ceremonial occasions.

Giffard, plump, bombastic and pompous. A man who liked nothing better than to show off his marines. As he was doing now.

His voice was like a trumpet, and although hidden by the arched gateway, Bolitho could picture him exactly.

“The marines will advance! By the centre, quick march! ” And then it was all over. Like the passing of a cruel nightmare.

The marines, perfectly dressed as if on parade, their bayonets making a lethal glitter in the lantern light, their crossbelts very bright against the surrounding shadows. Behind them the next rank followed in stiff precision, reloading from their first volley, while Boutwood, the colour-sergeant, beat out the time with his half-pike.

Muskets clattered on the cobbles, and almost gratefully the Spaniards clustered together by the steps, the fight gone out of them.

Giffard stamped his boots together. “Halt!” Then he wheeled round and brought his sword hilt to his nose with a flourish which would have turned the head of King George himself.

It was suddenly very quiet, and once again Bolitho was aware of several vivid details, like parts of a pattern. Giffard’s boots squeaking. The smell of rum on his breath. And a wounded seaman crawling into the circle of lantern light, very slowly, like a broken bird.

Giffard barked, “Beg to report the arrival of my marines, sir!

All present and correct.” The sword came down with a swish.

“Request instructions, sir! ” Bolitho looked at him for several seconds. “Thank you, Captain Giffard. But had you left your attack any longer, I am afraid you would have found the gates shut in your face again.” Giffard turned to watch his lieutenant supervising the prisoners. “Heard the explosions, sir. Saw the musket fire on the ramparts an’ put two an’ two together.” His voice took on a hurt note.

“Couldn’t have you taking the fort without my marines, sir. Not after being out in the bloody sun all day, what?”

“You received no message then?”

He shook his head. “None. We did hear musket fire towards the beach, but the whole place is full of skirmishers and damned felons. I had cause to hang one meself in the afternoon. Tiresome fellow was trying to steal our rations!” Bolitho said quietly, “Lieutenant Calvert should have reached you with news of the attack.”

Giffard shrugged. “Probably ambushed.”

“Probably.” Bolitho tried not to recall Calvert’s fear.

Giffard looked around at the weary, gasping seamen. “But you did very well without our help, it seems, sir.” He grinned. “But you can’t beat a bit o’ discipline and cold steel when it comes to real fighting!”

When Bolitho looked up at the towering wall again he saw that almost every window and slit was alight. There was such a lot to arrange before dawn. He rubbed his eyes and realised the sword was still firmly grasped in his hand. His fingers ached as he slid the blade into the scabbard. Ached as if they would never come free from it.

He said, “Secure the prisoners and have the wounded taken into the lower fortress. Coquette and Hekla will enter the bay at first light, and there is a world of work to do before then.” Bickford clattered down the steps and touched his hat. “All resistance finished, sir.” His eyes fell on Lucey’s corpse, the bayonet still upright in his back, as if pinning him to the ground.

“God,” he muttered shakily.

“You did well, Mr Bickford.” He walked slowly towards the steps, the tension still within him like the spring of a pistol. “As you are the only lieutenant left . . .” Bickford shook his head. “No, sir. Mr Sawle is safe. Your barge picked him up. And Mr Fittock.”

Bolitho turned and looked back at Lucey’s body. It was strange how the Sawles of this world always seemed to survive, when others . . . He pulled himself from his brooding thoughts and snapped, “See to our wounded and then recall all the boats. I want a close watch kept on the anchored brig in case she tries to escape before daylight!”

“She might be scuttled, sir.”

Bolitho looked at him. “I think not. This is Djafou, Mr Bickford. They have nowhere else to go.” Something was still keeping him here on the blood-spattered steps when he should be inside the fortress. Meeting the garrison’s commander and attending to countless other details before the squadron returned.

Giffard seemed to have been reading his thoughts. And that was strange too, for Bolitho had never given him credit for having any imagination. He asked, “Would you like me to send some of my men to search for the flag-lieutenant, sir?” He waited, squeaking back on his heels. “I can spare a platoon long enough for that.” Bolitho imagined Calvert and his four companions out there somewhere in the darkness, terrified and helpless. Better they were dead than to fall into the bands of some of the marauding tribesmen described by Draffen.

He replied, “I would be grateful.” He made himself add, “But do not risk their lives to no purpose, Captain Giffard.” The marine said, “They will obey orders, sir.” Then he grinned, as if more at ease with his usual pomposity. “But I will pass your order to them immediately.”

The central tower was divided up mainly into living quarters for the garrison officers, three of whom were accompanied by their wives. As Bolitho trod carefully over scattered stone chippings and various items of personal clothing and equipment he wondered briefly what sort of a life a woman could expect in a furnace like Djafou.

The commandant’s quarters were at the top of the tower and looked out across the bay towards the beaked 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, courte-ous 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 Navarra? ” 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 des-olate 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 governor-ship 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 misun-derstood 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 relied on me!” 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.

Calvert stared at him with sudden determination. “I will never forget that you sent men to look for me.” The determination faded.

“But I couldn’t leave him there like that. He was just a boy.” Bolitho recalled Broughton’s scathing comment, as if it had been spoken aloud in the room. Do him good! Well, perhaps after all he had been right.

He said gravely, “Many good men have died today, Mr Calvert.

It is up to us to see their efforts are not wasted.” He paused before adding, “And to ensure that young Lelean’s trust is not betrayed.” Long after Calvert had gone Bolitho sat slumped in the chair.

What was the matter with him to offer Calvert such comfort?

Calvert was useless, and probably always would be. He came of a background and social climate which Bolitho had always mistrusted and often despised.

Was it because of that one spark which had been given him by the dead midshipman? Could he really hold on to such ideas in a war which had passed all reason and outwitted traditional sentiment?

Or was it that he had replaced Lelean with his own nephew?

Would it have been fair to add to Calvert’s misery when inwardly he knew he would have acted the same had it been Adam out there in an unknown gully?

When the first grey fingers of dawn explored the wall of the commandant’s room Bolitho was still in the chair, dozing in exhausted sleep, and awakening at intervals to new doubts and problems.

On the top of the central tower Bickford was already awake and watching the probing light. After a while he could wait no longer and beckoned to a seaman who was standing nearby.

“Good enough, eh?” He could not stop grinning. His part of the action was done, and he was alive. “Run up the colours!

That’ll make Coquette sit up and beg!” At noon Bolitho climbed to the top of the central tower and leaned over the battlements to study the activity in the bay. Just after dawn the frigate Coquette, followed by Inch’s Hekla had passed through the narrow channel below the fortress, and within an hour had been joined by the battered and listing Navarra.

Now, as he watched the boats pulling busily back and forth from the shore to the ships, from the marine outpost on the beaked headland to the pickets on the causeway, it was hard to remember it as the empty place it had once been.

He raised a telescope and trained it across the anchored bomb vessel until he had discovered Lieutenant Bickford and his landing party searching amongst the low-roofed buildings at the top of the bay. Giffard had already reported the village—for it was little more than that—to be quite deserted. The fishing boats which they had sighted before the first attack proved to be derelict and had not been used for many months. Like the village, they were part of some ghost habitation from the past.

The one good capture had been the little brig, named Turquoise.

She was a merchant vessel, armed only with a few outdated four-pounders and some swivels, but refitted and properly equipped would make a very useful addition to the Navy List. She also represented a command for a junior officer. Bolitho had promised himself that Keverne should get her as his just reward.

He moved the glass slightly to watch the Navarra being warped closer and closer to the beach. The master’s mate sent to command her had made sail as fast as he had been able, just as soon as he had sighted the British ensign flying over the fortress. The makeshift repairs had begun to give way, and it had been all he could do to reach Djafou before the sea overtook the pumps for the final plunge.

Bolitho was glad Keverne had selected the master’s mate in question. A less intelligent seaman might have obeyed his last order to stand clear of the land until the squadron’s entrance, for fear of incurring the displeasure of his superiors. Had he done so, the prize ship would indeed have been lost, for within thirty minutes of her arrival the wind had died completely, and the sea, from the headlands to the burnished horizon, was like a sheet of dark blue glass.

Boats were all around the listing vessel, and he could see parties of men from the other ships busily unloading stores and heavy spars, swaying out guns and anchors to lighten the hull as much as possible in readiness for beaching.

Like the crew of the little brig, who had surrendered without a murmur of protest, the arrival of the Navarra’s company and passengers posed another real problem. He saw many of them being gathered in lines on the beach, the women’s clothing contrasting vividly with the silver-coloured sand and the hazy hills beyond the village. They had to be fed and quartered, as well as protected from any marauding tribesmen who might still be nearby. It was not going to be easy, and he doubted if Broughton would view their presence as anything but an unwanted nuisance.

The squadron was probably just below the horizon, and he could picture the admiral fretting and fuming at being becalmed, and still in ignorance of the success or failure of the attack. But the lack of wind was an ally, too. For if Broughton could not reach Djafou, then neither could an attacker.

Metal groaned and clattered on the lower rampart, and he saw Fittock, the gunner, supervising the removal of one of the iron-mounted cannon so that the damaged wall could be partially repaired. The guns had already shown they could hold the entrance against powerful ships of war. And with the innocent-looking Hekla anchored in the centre of the bay, even a heavy attack along the coast by troops was a bad risk.

He lowered the glass and tugged at his shirt which was clinging to his skin like a hot towel. The more he mulled over what they had found at Djafou, the more convinced he became that it was useless as a base. Automatically he thrust his hands behind him and started to pace slowly back and forth on the heated flag-stones, his feet measuring almost exactly the span of the Euryalus’s quarterdeck.

If he had held the final responsibility, would he have acted differently from Broughton? Return to Gibraltar and admit failure, or go further east in the hope of discovering a suitable bay or inlet without informing the Commander-in-Chief?

He felt his scabbard slapping against his thigh as he paced, and let his mind stray back to the grisly hand-to-hand fighting during the night. Every time he allowed himself to be drawn into these reckless raids he was narrowing his own chances of survival.

He knew it, but could not help himself. He guessed that Furneaux and some of the others imagined it was conceit, a desperate yearn-ing for glory which made him leave his proper role of flag captain to take part in such dangerous forays. How could he explain his true feelings when he did not understand them himself? But he knew he would never allow his men to risk their lives because of some hazy plan from his own mind without his being there with them to share its reward or failure.

He smiled grimly to himself. Which was why he would never attain flag rank. He would go on facing battle after battle, passing experience to the barely trained officers who were being promoted to fill the growing gaps left by the war’s harvest. And then one day, in a place like this, or on the deck of some ship, he would pay the price. As always, he found himself praying fervently it would be instant, like the closing of a door. Yet at the same time he knew it was unlikely. He thought of Lucey, and those others who were down below in the great cool storerooms which were being used as a hospital. Coquette’s surgeon would do his best, but many of them would die slowly, with no relief from pain but the fortress’s supply of wine, which was mercifully plentiful.

Bolitho paused by the battlements and saw a boat shoving off from the Coquette and turning towards the fortress. Another was leaving the bomb vessel, and he realised he had been so busy with his thoughts he had almost forgotten he had invited Inch and Captain Gillmor to dine with him. One of them might think of some idea, no matter how vague, which would throw light on Djafou’s total lack of strategic value.

Later as he stood in the commandant’s cool room sharing a jug of wine with the two captains, he marvelled at the way in which they could discuss and compare their experiences and viewpoints of the brief, fierce battle. It was hard to realise none of them had slept for more than an hour or so at a time, nor did there seem much likelihood of rest in the near future. The Navy was a good school for such stamina, he thought. Years of watchkeeping and snatching catnaps between all the endless necessities of making and shortening sail, going to quarters or having to repair storm damage under the most severe conditions hardened even the lazi-est man to going without proper rest almost indefinitely.

Inch was describing the excitement aboard Hekla as the marine spotters had recorded his first fall of shot when Allday entered to announce that Lieutenant Bickford had returned from his expe-dition to the village.

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 Restless take to make contact before?”

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 Hyperion. ” 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 Navarra who are citizens of Spain!”

“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!

“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.”

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 whitecaps 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.”

“Thank you.” Bolitho thought suddenly of the wife who waited in Bordeaux. He wondered if he would ever write and tell her where Witrand had died. That he lay beside a British lieutenant and a pimply-faced midshipman.

Then with a nod he jumped into the boat and snapped,

“Cast off.”

Inch was waiting to greet him at the bomb’s low bulwark, his hat askew as he squinted towards the wavecrests beyond the headland. He saw Calvert, opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. He, after all, knew Bolitho better than most.

And if he did something, he usually had a damn good reason.

He watched the boat being swayed inboard on its tackles and shouted, “Stand by the capstan!” Then he looked enquiringly at Bolitho. “When you are ready, sir?” Their eyes held. Across the years like a conspiracy. He grinned and replied, “Directly, Commander Inch!” Inch bobbed with pleasure. “Directly it is, sir!” After his own quarters in Euryalus the bomb’s stern cabin was like a rabbit hutch. Even here her sturdy build was very apparent, and the massive deckhead beams gave the impression they were pressing down forcibly to further restrict movement and space.

Bolitho sat on the bench seat and watched the salt spray dashing across the thick glass, feeling the shallow hull staggering and groaning in a steep beam sea as she plunged awkwardly on the larboard tack. The deckhead lanterns were gyrating wildly, and he pitied the helmsmen on the unsheltered upper deck, and those unfortunate souls aloft at this moment trying to take in another reef.

The door banged open and Allday appeared carrying a jug of coffee. He rocked back on his heels, swayed and then hurtled towards the table, cracking his head on a low beam as the Hekla pitched sickeningly into a deep trough. Miraculously none of the scalding coffee was lost, and Bolitho marvelled at the cook’s skill in such a sea.

Allday rubbed his skull and asked, “Can’t you sleep, Captain?

’Tis four hours before daylight.”

Bolitho let the coffee explore his stomach and was grateful for it. His mind had defied rest while the Hekla had clawed her way clear of the coast, but now that time was running out he knew he should try to sleep. Calvert was rolled in a blanket in one of the two boxlike cabins, but whether he was asleep or brooding over Lelean’s death it was hard to say. He should have left him in Djafou, he knew it. Just as he was certain that Calvert would have gone out of his mind at being abandoned to his tortured thoughts.

He said, “I will rest in a moment!” Inch entered the cabin, his tarpaulin coat glistening with salt rime as he staggered towards the coffee jug. He wiped his streaming face and said, “Wind’s veered a piece, sir. Gone round to west nor’ west, as far as I can tell. I’ll go about in an hour.” He hesitated, suddenly aware of his authority. “If that is suitable, sir?” Bolitho smiled. “You are the captain. I am sure it will be convenient for our purpose. At daylight we may sight Restless.” He forced his mind to stop probing and reexamining his doubts. “But now I will sleep.”