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 No wonder Draffen seemed withdrawn.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.