But safety, doubt and even the horror of Witrand’s hideous death had given way to an attentive excitement as Bolitho had told them of his discovery.

Once Alava had begun to talk he had seemed unable to desist or stem his flow of intelligence. It had appeared as if the burden of his knowledge had been too much for his bent shoulders, and with the additional shock of what lay in the small basket he wanted to rid himself of every link with his responsibilities.

Bolitho had listened to his low, cultivated voice with fixed attention, using it as a barrier against his pity for Witrand, his disgust at those who had thought the manner of his death a necessary gesture.

Now, as he heard the wind moaning against the thick walls and along the unsheltered ramparts, he still found it difficult to accept that so much of his earlier beliefs had been proved right. Witrand had been in Djafou once before, with strict orders to pave the way for further developments. How much of Alava’s information was fact and how much guesswork was hard to tell. One thing was certain, Witrand’s visits were not to merely examine the possibilities of a new French base to forestall any future British naval moves in the Mediterranean. Djafou was to be the first of several such footholds on the North African shores, a gateway to the east and the south. Troops, guns and the ships to carry and protect them would lead the enemy’s new and powerful thrust into a continent hitherto denied them, at a time when England could least afford to stop them.

Yet Alava must have known Bolitho was bluffing when he had threatened to leave the garrison and passengers to the mercies of the Barbary pirates. Must have toyed with the idea of standing his ground until that moment when Giffard had burst in with his grisly discovery. If he had planned it himself, he could not have timed it better.

As he had spoken with Gillmor and Inch he had recalled Broughton’s warning, his lack of trust in Draffen. What would he say when he discovered the full extent of Draffen’s treachery, if such it was? Draffen might also be dead, or screaming out his life under an agony of torture.

The wind had arisen like a last touch of hope. It was obvious from the moment the horseman had hurled the basket at Giffard’s pickets that the seizure of the fortress was common knowledge along the coast. With the squadron still absent, and heaven alone knew how far they had been carried in a mounting wind, an allout attack on the fortress was very possible. Alava had spoken of vast areas of coastline being terrorised and controlled by the pirates under their leader Habib Messadi. Chebecks, such as those which had mauled the Navarra, could work close inshore if need be, without fear of attack by heavier and more ponderous ships of war.

Messadi’s information must be as good as Draffen’s, he thought. For it was obvious the attack on the Navarra had been no accidental meeting at sea. The chebecks had been too far from land, and but for the unexpected storm would no doubt have been far greater in numbers. In which case they would not have been able to repel their attack, and Witrand would have died there and then with all the others, and the occupation of Djafou perhaps delayed long enough for the fortress to be taken and occupied by its original inhabitants. Or for Broughton to make the capture and see for himself the uselessness of the bay for a British base.