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.”
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 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.