Keverne thought back over what he had done so far. The task of replacing some of the men killed and injured in the attacks on Djafou, the re-embarkation of the marines, and all the business of preparing to get under way once more. But he would have to speak with Bolitho about the officers. With Lucey and Lelean dead, and Bolitho far from fit, it left them very shorthanded when they were most needed.
Lieutenant Meheux strode aft along the larboard gangway and touched his hat.
“Anchor’s hove short, sir!” He seemed cheerful enough. “I’ll not weep to quit this hole for all time!”
Partridge said, “Flag’s comin’ down on th’ fortress, sir.”
Keverne raised the glass again. “So I see.” He watched the ensign as it disappeared below the ramparts and wondered how it would feel to be the last man to leave after the fuses had been lit.
He beckoned to a midshipman. “My respects to the captain, Mr Sandoe. Inform him that the anchor is hove short and the wind has backed to the sou’ west.”
Partridge watched him scurry away. “Bit o’ luck that. ’Twill save all the damn sweat to clear the ’eadland.”
Keverne tensed as a set of tan sails glided clear of the fortress. It was the brig, Turquoise, and in the clear morning light she looked lively and beautiful. Another chance gone. She could have been his. Momentarily he wondered if Bolitho had decided to retain him as first lieutenant merely because of his own disability. He turned his mind away just as quickly. Neither Bickford, who had been with the captain, nor even Sawle, whom he heartily disliked, had been offered the command. So it was obviously Broughton’s hand which had written the order to make a mere lieutenant from Valorous rise like a shooting star towards the first real step of promotion.
He stamped his feet with sudden irritation. What a waste it had all been. And no doubt when they reached the enemy coast they would discover some new frustration for the admiral to complain about.
“Navarra’s clear, sir!”
Keverne watched the prize ship setting her topsails as she tacked heavily below the fortress walls. Like all of the little convoy destined for Gibraltar, she was crammed with people, prisoners and civilians alike. It would be an uncomfortable passage, he decided glumly.
There was a step beside him and Bolitho said, “It looks like a good wind.” He glanced searchingly along the upper deck. “Make a signal to the squadron. Up anchor. Then get the ship under way, if you please. We will lay a course nor’ west by north as Sir Lucius has instructed.”
Keverne shouted, “Stand by the capstan!”
A midshipman was scribbling on his slate watched by the signal party who had already bent on the required flags.
Midshipman Tothill said, “Hekla’s clearing the fortress now, sir!”
Bolitho took a telescope and trained it towards the little bomb vessel. But for a cutter to retrieve the demolition party at the last possible moment, Hekla was the last to leave the bay. Leaving it with its relics of suffering and death, its memories of conquest and surrender. Perhaps one day someone else would try to reoccupy the place, to repair the fortress and install once more the means of slavery and oppression. But maybe by then the world would have turned once and for all against such methods, he thought.