He crossed slowly to the window, feeling their eyes on his back. He could turn his back on Draffen’s action just as easily as he was on them. He was the flag captain, and had little say in wider decisions. No one could hurt him for it, and few would blame him. While Broughton’s flag flew over the squadron’s affairs, so too was it his responsibility.

As he tortured himself a few moments longer he thought suddenly of Lucey and Lelean, of all the others who had died and would die before they were rid of this hateful place.

Draffen must have been trying to prepare him for it, he thought bitterly. When he had described how the squadron would soon quit Djafou for good he had not been thinking of the local people, for there were none. None but a regular stream of slaves and those who guarded them for the traders like Draffen. He was probably somewhere along the coast right at this minute, explaining to his agent what he required to make his own victory complete and lasting.

He asked sharply, “How long did Restless take to make contact before?”

Bickford shrugged. “No more than a day or so. She’ll be becalmed too, if I’m any judge.”

Bolitho faced them. “Then the meeting place cannot be far.” He crossed quickly to the door. “I must see the commandant. So take your ease, my friends!”

As the door closed Gillmor remarked, “I have never seen him like that before.”

Inch swallowed his wine. “I have.” The others waited. “When I was serving under him in the old Hyperion.”

Gillmor said testily, “Bring it out of the oven and on to the table, man!”

Inch replied simply, “He has a hatred of treachery. I doubt that he will sit quietly with this burr under his saddle!”

Bolitho found the commandant sitting beside a window, his tired face relaxed in thought, so that he looked like a piece of church carving in the filtered sunlight.

He waited until the man’s shadowed eyes turned towards him. “Time is now in much demand for there is little of it. There are certain things I must know, and I believe you are the only one who can tell me.”

The withered hands lifted slowly. “You know that my oath forbids me to speak, Captain.” There was no anger, nothing in his tone but resignation. “As commandant I have . . .”

Bolitho interrupted harshly, “As commandant you have a duty to your people here. Also the crew and passengers of the Navarra who are citizens of Spain!”

“When you seized Djafou, you also took that responsibility!”

Bolitho walked to a window and leaned on the warm sill. “I know of a French officer called Witrand. I believe you know him also, and that he has perhaps been here before!

“Before?”

One word, but Bolitho heard a catch in the man’s breath.

“He is a prisoner of war, Colonel. But I wish you to tell me now what he has been doing and the reason for his interest in Djafou. Otherwise . . .”