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.”