Inch was describing the excitement aboard Hekla as the marine spotters had recorded his first fall of shot when Allday entered to announce that Lieutenant Bickford had returned from his expedition to the village.

Bickford looked weary, his uniform covered with sand and dust, and he downed the wine with obvious relish before saying, “I am afraid it is a fearsome place, sir.” He shook his head as he recalled his grim discovery. “It has not been lived in for years. Not by villagers, that is.”

Gillmor said chidingly, “Come now, Mr Bickford, surely it is not the home of goblins!”

“No, sir.” Bickford’s serious face was strained. “We found a great pit behind the dwellings. Full of human bones. Many hundreds must have been thrown there to be picked clean by all the vermin from the rocks.”

Bolitho watched him, and was aware of a coldness growing in his heart. It had been here all the time, and he had not seen it. The next part of the puzzle.

Bickford was saying, “Most of the dwellings are mere shells. But there are chains . . .”

They all stared at Bolitho as he said quietly, “Slaves.” It was incredible it had taken him so long to accept the obvious. Or maybe his mind had rebelled against it. Why else would Draffen have had business here in the past? A business which had taken him as far as the West Indies and Caribbean where he had met Hugh during the American Revolution. The Moors had built the fortress to protect and further this obscene trade in human lives, and after them had come others. Barbary pirates, and Arab slavers, who could sweep far and wide to bring their helpless victims here, the fountainhead of their rich trade.

How easy it had been made for Draffen. Disguised by an apparent genuine offer to help further British naval activities in the Mediterranean, he had been ensuring his future profits, and by having Broughton destroy the Spanish garrison had paved the way for the continuance of his supply.

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.