The Flag Captain

by Alexander Kent

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, sir. 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 man. 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.’

  15

  Retribution and Darkness

  BOLITHO WAS STANDING beside an open window in the commandant’s gloomy quarters when Allday entered to announce that Hekla’s gig had arrived to collect him. It was amazing to see the change in the weather which had come about in the last few hours. It was early evening, and should have been bright sunlight. Instead, the sky was concealed by low, threatening cloud, and the flag on the upper tower was standing out stiffly t
o 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, hi
s 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.