his concentration, and he went below, crouching into the cabin.
‘You are up to your God-damn-ye capers again, I see,’ he said coldly.
Killick dared not speak, but put cold mutton, bread and butter, and claret in front of him. ‘I must eat,’ he said to himself, and deliberately set to his meal: but his stomach was closed – even the wine seemed hard in his gullet. This had not happened to him before, in no action, emergency or crisis. ‘It don’t signify,’ he said, pushing the things aside.
When he came on deck again the sun was only a span from the high land to the west, and broad on the starboard bow lay Cape Mola. The wind had freshened, blowing gusty, and the men were baling: it would be touch and go to round the cape, and they might have to sweep in. But so far the timing was right. He wanted to pass the outer batteries in the light, with his French colours clearly seen, and to move up the long harbour as darkness fell. He glanced up at the tricolour at the peak, at the hoists that Bonden had ready laid out at the signal-halliards, and he took the helm.
Now there was no time for reflection: now the whole of his person was engaged in governing immediate material problems. The headland and the white surf were racing towards them; he must round the point just so, and even with the nicest judgment a back-eddy off the cliff might lay him right down or sweep him away to leeward.
‘Right, Bonden,’ he said, as the signal-station came into view. The stoppered flags shot up, broke out and showed clear. His eye darted from the sea and the straining sail to the height, where the Spanish ensign flew still in the breeze. If his was the right signal, it would dip. Motionless up there, motionless, and flat as a board in the distance. Motionless and then at last it jerked down and up again.
‘Acknowledge,’ he said. ‘Start the sheet. Stand by the halliards, there.’ The seamen were in their places, silent, glancing from the sky to the rigid sail. Bracing himself and tightening his mouth he brought up the helm: the gunboat answered instantly, her lee-rail vanishing deeper and deeper under the foam: the wind was abeam, she lay over, over, and here was St Philips on his larboard bow. A broad line of white scum, marking the edge of the full wind, a quarter of a mile ahead: she was through it, shooting into the calm water under the lee of the cape, gliding on an even keel.
‘Satisfaction, take the helm,’ he said. ‘Bonden, con the ship.’
The two sides, the approach to the harbour, were running together, and where they almost joined lay the narrow mouth with its heavy batteries on either side. Some of the casemates were lit, but there was still light enough over the water for a watcher to take notice of an officer at the helm – an unnatural sight. Nearer, nearer: and the gunboat moved silently through the mouth, close enough to toss a biscuit on to the muzzles of the forty-two-pounders at the water’s edge. A voice in the twilight called out, ‘Parlez-vous français?’ and cackled: another shouted ‘Hijos de puta.’
Ahead lay the broad stretch with the hospital island in it, the lazaretto, a good mile away on the starboard bow; the last reflection of the day had left the hilltops, and the long harbour was filled with a deep purple, shading to blackness. Fitful gusts from the tramontane outside ruffled its surface, ugly gusts sometimes; and there beyond the lights – they were increasing every moment – was the gap in the hills where just such a gust had laid the Agamemnon on her beam ends in ’98.
‘Brail up,’ he said. ‘Out sweeps.’ He fixed the lazaretto island, staring till his eyes watered; and at last a boat put off. ‘Silence fore and aft,’ he called. ‘No hailing, no speaking: d’ye hear me there?’
‘Boat on the starboard bow, sir,’ murmured Bonden in his ear.
He nodded. ‘When I wave my hand so,’ he said, ‘in sweeps. When I wave again, give way.’
Slowly they drew together, and although his mind was as cool and lucid as he could wish, he found he had stopped breathing: he heaved in a deep draught with a sigh, and the boat hailed, ‘Ohé, de la barca.’
‘Ohé,’ he repeated, and waved his hand.
The boat ran alongside, hooked on, and a man made a blundering leap for the rail; Jack caught his arms and lifted him clear over, looking into his face – Maragall. The boat shoved off; Jack nodded significantly to Bonden, waved his hand, and led Maragall into the cabin.
‘How is he?’ he whispered.
‘Alive – still there – they talk of moving him. I have sent no message, received none.’ His face was strained and deadly pale, but he moved it into the shape of a smile, and said, ‘So you are in. No trouble. You are to lie off the old victualling wharf; they have given you the dirty filth-place, because you are French. Listen, I have four guides, and the church will be open. At half after two o’clock I put fire to Martinez’s warehouse close to the arsenal – Martinez it was denounced him. This will allow a friend, an officer, to move the troops; by three there will be no soldiers or police within a quarter of a mile of the house. Our two men who work there will be at the church to show the way inside the house. Right?’
‘Yes. How many men inside tonight?’
‘Boat hailing, sir,’ said Bonden, thrusting in his head.
They leapt from their seats, and Maragall stared out over the water. The lights of Mahon were showing round the point, silhouetting a black felucca a hundred yards away. The felucca hailed again. ‘He asks what it is like outside,’ whispered Maragall.
‘Blowing hard – close-reefed topsails.’
Maragall called out in Catalan, and the felucca dropped astern, out of the lights. Back in the cabin he wiped his face, muttering, ‘Oh, if only we had had more time, more time. How many men? Eight and a corporal: probably all five officers and one interpreter, but the colonel may not have come back. He is playing cards at the citadel. What is your plan?’
‘Land in small parties between two and three o’clock, reach St Anna’s by the back streets, take the rear wall and the garden house. If he is there, away at once, the way we came. If not, cross the patio, seal the doors and work through the house. Silently if possible, and fall back on the gunboat. If there is a row, then out across country: I have boats at Cala Blau and Rowley’s Creek. You can manage horses? Do you need money?’
Maragall shook his head impatiently. ‘It is not only Esteban,’ he said. ‘Unless the other prisoners are released, he is pointed at – identified, and God knows how many others with him. Besides, some of them are our men.’
‘I see,’ said Jack.
‘He would tell you that himself,’ whispered Maragall urgently. ‘It must look like a rising of all the prisoners.’
Jack nodded, peering out of the stern window. ‘We are almost in. Come on deck for the mooring.’
The old victualling-wharf was coming closer, and with it the stench of stagnant filth. They slid past the customs house, all lit up, and into the darkness beyond. The pratique boat hailed, backing water and turning back down the harbour. Maragall replied. A few moments later Bonden murmured ‘In sweeps’ and steered the gunboat gently up along the black and greasy side. They made fast to a couple of bollards and lay there in silence, with the lap of water on the starboard side and the diffused noise of the town on the other. Beyond the stone quay there was a vague plain of rubbish, a disused factory on the far side, a rope-walk, and a shipbuilder’s yard with broken palings. Two unseen cats were howling in the middle of the rubbish.
‘You understand me?’ insisted Maragall. ‘He would say exactly the same.’
‘It makes sense,’ said Jack sharply. ‘He would say so,’ repeated Maragall. ‘You know where you are?’
‘There’s the Capuchins’ church. And that is St Anna’s,’ he said, jerking his head towards a tower. It stood high over them, for at this point, the far end of the harbour, a cliff rose sheer from the low ground, a long cliff beginning in the middle of the town, so that this part of Mahon rode high above the water.
‘I must go,’ said Maragall. ‘I shall be