He lowered the glass and tugged at his shirt which was clinging to his skin like a hot towel. The more he mulled over what they had found at Djafou, the more convinced he became that it was useless as a base. Automatically he thrust his hands behind him and started to pace slowly back and forth on the heated flag-stones, his feet measuring almost exactly the span of the Euryalus’s quarterdeck.
If he had held the final responsibility, would he have acted differently from Broughton? Return to Gibraltar and admit failure, or go further east in the hope of discovering a suitable bay or inlet without informing the Commander-in-Chief?
He felt his scabbard slapping against his thigh as he paced, and let his mind stray back to the grisly hand-to-hand fighting during the night. Every time he allowed himself to be drawn into these reckless raids he was narrowing his own chances of survival. He knew it, but could not help himself. He guessed that Furneaux and some of the others imagined it was conceit, a desperate yearning for glory which made him leave his proper role of flag captain to take part in such dangerous forays. How could he explain his true feelings when he did not understand them himself? But he knew he would never allow his men to risk their lives because of some hazy plan from his own mind without his being there with them to share its reward or failure.
He smiled grimly to himself. Which was why he would never attain flag rank. He would go on facing battle after battle, passing experience to the barely trained officers who were being promoted to fill the growing gaps left by the war’s harvest. And then one day, in a place like this, or on the deck of some ship, he would pay the price. As always, he found himself praying fervently it would be instant, like the closing of a door. Yet at the same time he knew it was unlikely. He thought of Lucey, and those others who were down below in the great cool storerooms which were being used as a hospital. Coquette’s surgeon would do his best, but many of them would die slowly, with no relief from pain but the fortress’s supply of wine, which was mercifully plentiful.
Bolitho paused by the battlements and saw a boat shoving off from the Coquette and turning towards the fortress. Another was leaving the bomb vessel, and he realised he had been so busy with his thoughts he had almost forgotten he had invited Inch and Captain Gillmor to dine with him. One of them might think of some idea, no matter how vague, which would throw light on Djafou’s total lack of strategic value.
Later as he stood in the commandant’s cool room sharing a jug of wine with the two captains, he marvelled at the way in which they could discuss and compare their experiences and viewpoints of the brief, fierce battle. It was hard to realise none of them had slept for more than an hour or so at a time, nor did there seem much likelihood of rest in the near future. The Navy was a good school for such stamina, he thought. Years of watchkeeping and snatching catnaps between all the endless necessities of making and shortening sail, going to quarters or having to repair storm damage under the most severe conditions hardened even the laziest man to going without proper rest almost indefinitely.