Flag Captain Page 22

  The admiral said, “We must act soon, or by God we’ll be fighting some French squadron before we know where we are. Without a base or anywhere to repair damage, we’ll be hard put to reach Gibraltar, let alone take Djafou.”

  “May I ask what Sir Hugo advises?”

  Broughton eyed him calmly. “His task is to form an administration in Djafou on our behalf, once it has been taken. He knows the place from past experience, and has been accepted by local leaders.” Some of his anger made his cheeks flush. “Bandits, the whole bunch, by the sound of ’em!”

  Bolitho nodded. So Draffen had laid the foundations of the whole operation, and would manage affairs for the British government once the place had been occupied and perhaps until the fleet returned in real strength to the Mediterranean. Before and after. The piece in between was Broughton’s responsibility, and his decision could make or break not only the mission but himself as well.

  He said, “Spain has been too involved in recent years in maintaining her colonies in the Americas to spare much money or help for a place like Djafou, sir. She has been beset with fighting local wars in and around the Caribbean. With privateers and pirates as well as the accepted powers, according to her shift of allegiance!” He leaned forward. “Suppose the French are also interested in Djafou, sir? Spain might easily change sides against her again in the future. Another sure foothold in the African mainland would be exactly to the French liking. It would give Djafou an additional value.”

  He watched Broughton sipping his claret. Gaining time before committing himself to an answer. He could see the small lines of worry about Broughton’s eyes, the way his fingers tapped against the arm of his chair.

  Throughout the ship and the squadron Broughton’s rank and exalted authority must seem like something akin to heaven. Even a lieutenant was so far above a common seaman as to be unreachable, so how could anyone really understand a man like Broughton? But now, to see him pondering and mulling over his own scanty suggestions gave him one of those rare and surprising glimpses of what true authority could mean to the man behind it.

  Broughton said, “This man Witrand. Do you see him as a key?”

  “Partly, sir.” Bolitho was thankful for Broughton’s quick mind. Thelwall had been old and sickening for all of his time in Euryalus. Bolitho’s previous superior, a wavering, dilatory commodore, had all but cost him his ship and his life. Broughton at least was young and ready enough to see where a local move by the enemy might point to something far greater in the future.

  He added, “My cox’n did discover from Witrand’s servant that he has done some work in the past arranging for quartering of troops, siting artillery and so forth. I believe he is a man of some authority.”

  Broughton gave a faint smile. “Sir Hugo’s twin in the enemy camp, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In which case time might be shorter than I feared.”

  Bolitho nodded. “We were told of ships gathering at Cartagena. It is only one hundred and twenty miles from Djafou, sir.”

  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 barge-men 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.”

  Rattray scowled. “Seems a damn stupid way to build a fortified harbour, if you ask me, sir.”

  Captain Falcon smiled gently. “I suspect there has not been much cause to welcome large vessels in the past, Rattray.”

  Draffen spoke for the first time. “That is true. Before the Spaniards seized the port as their own it was constantly changing hands amongst local leaders. It was used by small coastal shipping.” He looked calmly at Bolitho. “And chebecks.”

  Bolitho nodded. “There is one additional entrance to the fort. By water. Sometimes in the past, when under siege, the defenders received supplies directly by sea. Small vessels can enter beneath the north-east wall. But even then they come under constant watch from inner and outer ramparts.”

  There was a momentary silence, and he could almost feel their earlier excitement giving way to gloom. It looked hopeless. Within the two bombs anchored round the beaked headland they could have carried out a steady bombardment of the fort. The upper works would be in no condition for such heavy treatment, and the Spanish gunners would be unable to hit back because of the outthrust headland. No wonder Draffen seemed withdrawn. He had planned and investigated almost every detail of approach for his venture. But because of the bomb’s delay in sailing, and indirectly the loss of the Auriga, he was now watching all of it fade into doubt and uncertainty.

  He continued, “The bay is about three miles wide and two deep. The town is small and barely defended. So this must be a landing operation from east and west simultaneously. Half of the squadron’s marines will land here, below the headland. The rest will march inland after being ferried ashore here.” The points of the dividers rapped the chart, and he saw Falcon biting his lower lip, no doubt seeing the difficulties which the marines were going to face from both directions. The whole coastal area was grim and unfriendly, to say the least. A few steep beaches backed by massive hills, some of which had crumbled into cliffs and deep gullies, any of which would make excellent places for ambush.

  It was not surprising the fort had managed to survive and had fallen to the Spaniards only because of some alliance with a local tribal leader. The latter had since died and his people scattered beyond the forbidding mountains which were often visible from the sea.

  But once in the hands of the French, with all their military skill and territorial ambition, Djafou would become an even greater menace. A place of shelter for their ships while they waited to dash out on some intruding British squadron.

  It was all he could do to hide his despair from the others. Why was it there never seemed enough of anything when it was most needed? With twenty sail-of-the-line and a few transports filled with seasoned soldiers and horse artillery they might have achieved in days what the French must have been planning for many months.

  Witrand probably knew the answer to the whole puzzle. That was another surprising thing. When Bolitho had mentioned the Frenchman to Draffen he had merely shrugged and remarked, “You’ll get nothing out of him. His presence here is enough to show as a warning, but little else.”

  He glanced through the stern windows. Already the sea was breaking into small fresh white horses, and he could see Valorous’s pendant standing out stiffly to the wind as an additional warning.

  “That is all for the present, gentlemen. Lieutenant Calvert will give each of you his written orders. We will proceed to Djafou without further delay and cross the bay tomorrow morning.”

  Broughton stood up and studied all of them coldly. “You have heard my intentions, gentlemen. You know my methods. I will expect all signals to be kept to a minimum. The squadron will attack from east to west and take full advantage of the sun being in the enemy’s eyes. Bombardment from the sea and a combined land assault from both directions at once should suffice.” He paused and added quietly, “If not, we will attack again and again until we have succeeded. That is all.” He turned and walked from the cabin without another word.

  As the other captains paid their respects and then hurried away to summon their barges, Bolitho saw Draffen peering down at the chart and frowning.

  The door closed behind the last captain. Draffen said heavily, “I hope to God the wind drops. It might at least stop Sir Lucius from carrying out the attack.”

  Bolitho stared at him. “I thought you were as keen as anyone to see Djafou fall, sir?”

  Draffen grimaced. “Things have changed now. We need allies, Bolitho. In war we cannot be too choosy about our bedfellows.”

  The door opened and Bolitho saw Keverne watching him. Waiting for orders, or with a fresh list of demands and needs for the ship and the squadron.

  He asked slowly, “Are there such allies?”

  Draffen folded his arms and met his gaze. “I am certain of it. I still hold some influence out here. But they respect only strength. To see this squadron beaten in its first battle with the Spanish garrison will do nothing to bolster our prestige.” He waved one hand across the chart. “These people live by the sword. Strength is their only unity, their one true god. Our need of Djafou is a temporary thing, something to sustain our cause until we have reentered the Mediterranean in real strength. When that happens it will be forgotten, a miserable, barren hole as it was before. But not to those who have to continue an existence there. To them Djafou is
the past and the future. It is all they have.”

  Then he smiled and walked towards the door. “I will see you tomorrow. But now I have work to do.”

  Bolitho turned away. It was strange how different Djafou had been made to appear by two men. Broughton and Draffen. To the admiral it was an obstacle. One hindrance in his overall strategy of command. To Draffen it seemed to represent something else entirely. Part of his life perhaps. Or of himself.

  Keverne said, “All captains have returned to their ships, sir.” If he was feeling any anxiety he was not showing it. One day perhaps he would be in a position to worry like Broughton. But now he had to do his duty and nothing more. Maybe it was better that way.

  He said, “Thank you, Mr Keverne. I will be up directly. But now you may have Mr Tothill make a signal to the squadron to take stations as ordered.” He paused, sick of the delays and the constant uncertainties. “We attack tomorrow if the wind holds.”

  Keverne showed his teeth. “Then there’s an end to the waiting, sir.”

  Bolitho watched him leave and then returned to the windows. Aye, an end to it, he thought. And with any luck, a beginning too.

  12 THE FORTRESS

  “WAKE UP , Captain!”

  Bolitho opened his eyes and realised he must have fallen asleep across his desk. Allday was peering down at him, his face yellow in the glow of the single deckhead lantern. Both candles on the desk were guttered and dead, and his throat felt dry and smoky. Allday placed a pewter cup on the desk and poured some black coffee into it.

  “It will be dawn soon now, Captain.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bolitho sipped the scalding coffee and waited for his mind to repel the last dragging claws of sleep. He had been on deck several times during the night, checking last details before daylight, studying the wind, estimating the squadron’s course and speed. He had finally fallen into deep sleep while going over Draffen’s notes, but in the sealed cabin he could feel no benefit from it.