He raised a telescope and trained it across the anchored bomb vessel until he had discovered Lieutenant Bickford and his landing party searching amongst the low-roofed buildings at the top of the bay. Giffard had already reported the village—for it was little more than that—to be quite deserted. The fishing boats which they had sighted before the first attack proved to be derelict and had not been used for many months. Like the village, they were part of some ghost habitation from the past.

The one good capture had been the little brig, named Turquoise. She was a merchant vessel, armed only with a few outdated four-pounders and some swivels, but refitted and properly equipped would make a very useful addition to the Navy List. She also represented a command for a junior officer. Bolitho had promised himself that Keverne should get her as his just reward.

He moved the glass slightly to watch the Navarra being warped closer and closer to the beach. The master’s mate sent to command her had made sail as fast as he had been able, just as soon as he had sighted the British ensign flying over the fortress. The makeshift repairs had begun to give way, and it had been all he could do to reach Djafou before the sea overtook the pumps for the final plunge.

Bolitho was glad Keverne had selected the master’s mate in question. A less intelligent seaman might have obeyed his last order to stand clear of the land until the squadron’s entrance, for fear of incurring the displeasure of his superiors. Had he done so, the prize ship would indeed have been lost, for within thirty minutes of her arrival the wind had died completely, and the sea, from the headlands to the burnished horizon, was like a sheet of dark blue glass.

Boats were all around the listing vessel, and he could see parties of men from the other ships busily unloading stores and heavy spars, swaying out guns and anchors to lighten the hull as much as possible in readiness for beaching.

Like the crew of the little brig, who had surrendered without a murmur of protest, the arrival of the Navarra’s company and passengers posed another real problem. He saw many of them being gathered in lines on the beach, the women’s clothing contrasting vividly with the silver-coloured sand and the hazy hills beyond the village. They had to be fed and quartered, as well as protected from any marauding tribesmen who might still be nearby. It was not going to be easy, and he doubted if Broughton would view their presence as anything but an unwanted nuisance.

The squadron was probably just below the horizon, and he could picture the admiral fretting and fuming at being becalmed, and still in ignorance of the success or failure of the attack. But the lack of wind was an ally, too. For if Broughton could not reach Djafou, then neither could an attacker.

Metal groaned and clattered on the lower rampart, and he saw Fittock, the gunner, supervising the removal of one of the iron-mounted cannon so that the damaged wall could be partially repaired. The guns had already shown they could hold the entrance against powerful ships of war. And with the innocent-looking Hekla anchored in the centre of the bay, even a heavy attack along the coast by troops was a bad risk.