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 chip-pings 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, courteous 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 desolate place. Probably the brig was the vessel which had been waiting to make the transfer at sea.