Needless to say, it was Rattray of the Zeus who was the first to speak.
“Who is this fellow with the admiral? Does anyone know him, eh?”
Captain Furneaux of the Valorous took a glass of wine from the cabin servant and eyed it critically.
“Don’t look much of a diplomat, if you ask me.” He turned his haughty face towards Bolitho. “In war we seem to attract the oddest sort of advisers, what?”
Bolitho smiled and nodded to the others and then walked to the open stern windows. On the far side of the bay, quivering and misty in haze, was Algeciras, where already many telescopes would be trained on the British squadron, and messengers riding to carry the news inland to the garrisons.
The visitor aboard the flagship, the man whose sudden and unheralded appearance was causing such speculation, was certainly unusual. He had come offshore in the Governor’s launch and had swarmed up through the entry port almost before the side party had got into position to receive him.
Dressed in well cut and expensive coat and breeches, he had snapped, “No need for all this sort of thing. No damn time to waste!”
His name was Sir Hugo Draffen, and in spite of his dress and title he looked like a man who was more accustomed to hard activity and physical effort rather than one of more leisurely pursuits. Thickset, even squat, his face was very tanned, his eyes surrounded with tiny wrinkles as if well used to the sun and more severe climates than Whitehall.
Broughton, called hastily from his quarters where he had spent most of the remainder of the voyage, had been strangely quiet, even subservient towards his guest, and Bolitho imagined there was far more to Draffen than anyone of them yet realised.
Captain Gillmor of the frigate Coquette, sent on ahead of the squadron in search of fresh information, said gloomily, “He came aboard my ship when I anchored.” He was a lanky, even ungainly
young man, and his long face was frowning as he relived the meeting with Draffen. “When I suggested I should return and contact the squadron he told me not to bother.” He shuddered. “And when I asked him why, he told me to mind my own damn business!”
Falcon of the Tanais put down his glass and said grimly, “At least you were spared seeing Auriga’s disgrace.”
The others looked at him and at each other. It was the first time it had been mentioned.
Bolitho said, “I doubt that we will be in suspense much longer.” He wondered briefly if the others had noticed his exclusion from the talk now going on in Broughton’s cabin beneath his feet. It was unusual, but then, so it appeared, was Draffen.
Gillmor said sharply, “Had I been there, I’d have sunk both of ’em rather than let such a thing occur.”
Furneaux drawled, “But you were not there, young fellow, so you are conveniently spared any of the blame, eh?”
“That will do, gentlemen.” Bolitho stepped between them, aware of the sudden tension. “What happened, happened. Recriminations will help no one, unless they are used to act as a guard and a warning.” He looked at each of them in turn. “We will have plenty of work to do before long, so save your energy for that.”
The doors opened and Broughton, followed by Draffen and the flag-lieutenant, entered the cabin.
Broughton nodded curtly. “Be seated, gentlemen.” He shook his head as the servant offered him a glass. “Wait outside until I have finished.”
Bolitho noticed that Draffen had gone to the stern windows, either disinterested in what was happening or placing himself where he could see their faces without being observed himself.
Broughton cleared his throat and glanced at Draffen’s squat figure, almost black against the sunlit windows.
“As you are well aware, our fleet has been excluded from the Mediterranean since the close of last year. Bonaparte’s advances and conquests in Italy and Genoa closed all harbours against us, and it was found necessary to withdraw.”
Draffen crossed from the window. It was a quick, agile movement, and his words matched his obvious impatience.
“If I may interrupt, Sir Lucius?” He turned his back on Broughton without awaiting a reply. “We will cut this short. I have little use for the Navy’s indulgence in its own affairs.” He smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes pulling together like crow’s-feet. “England is alone in a war against a dedicated and, if you will pardon the expression, a professional adversary. With the fleets of France and Spain combining at Brest for one great attack, and then invasion of England, the withdrawal of ships to reinforce the Channel and Atlantic fleets seemed not only prudent but greatly urgent.”
Bolitho eyed Broughton narrowly, expecting some sign of anger or resentment, but his face was like stone.
Draffen continued briskly, “Jervis’s victory over that combined fleet at St Vincent has postponed, maybe smashed altogether, any chance of a military invasion across the English Channel, and has also proved the poorness of co-operation between the Franco- Spanish Alliance at sea. So it would seem sensible to assume that Bonaparte will spread his influence elsewhere, and soon.”
Broughton said suddenly, “Shall I continue?”
“If you wish.” Draffen took out a watch. “But please be quick.”
Broughton swallowed hard. “This squadron will be the first force of any size to re-enter the Mediterranean.” He got no further.
“Look at this chart, gentlemen.” Draffen snatched it from Lieutenant Calvert’s hand and opened it on the table.
As the others crowded closer Bolitho darted another glance at Broughton. He looked pale, and for a few seconds he saw his eyes gleaming with anger across Draffen’s broad back.
“Here, two hundred and fifty miles along the Spanish coast is Cartagena, where many of their ships were based prior to sailing for Brest.” Bolitho followed the man’s spatulate finger as it crossed southward over the Mediterranean to the craggy outline of the Algerian coast. “South-east from Spain, a mere one hundred and fifty miles, lies Djafou.”
Bolitho realised with a start that Draffen was looking up at him, his eyes very still and intent.
“Do you know it, Captain?”
“By reputation, sir. Once the lair of Barbary pirates, I believe. A good natural harbour, and little else.”
Draffen smiled, but his eyes were still unblinking. “The Dons seized it some years ago to protect their own coast trade. Now that they are allied to the French its harbour may be seen in another light entirely.”
Rattray asked gruffly, “As a base, sir?”
“Maybe.” Draffen straightened his back. “But my agents have reported some comings and goings from Cartagena. It would be well if our re-entry to the Mediterranean was given a purpose, something positive.” He tapped the chart again. “Your admiral knows what is expected of him, but I will tell you now that I intend to see our flag over Djafou, and without too much delay.”
In the sudden silence Broughton said stiffly, “My squadron is under strength, sir.” He glanced away and added, “However, if you think…”
Draffen nodded firmly. “Indeed I do think, Sir Lucius. I have made arrangements for bomb vessels from Lisbon. They will be here within a day or so.” His tone hardened. “If the fleet at Spithead and the Nore had been less concerned with their own domestic affairs I daresay your squadron would be fifteen or even twenty sail-of-the-line instead of four.” He shrugged. “And having only one frigate now…” He shrugged again, dismissing it. “But that remains your own concern.” He snapped his fingers.
“Now, I suggest a toast, so get that servant in here.” He grinned at their mixed expressions. “After that, there will be plenty to do.”
He looked again at Bolitho. “You say very little, Captain.”