Free A Tradition of Victory by Alexander Kent Page A

from the island to the mainland, but a bad bottom, no more’n three fathom at the most at low water.” He stared ahead of the flapping sails as if he could
    already see the island. “A place to anchor a flotilla of small craft, I reckon.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “The ’ole island is no longer than five mile accordin’ to my chart.”
    “Thank you, Mr Bundy.”
    Bolitho turned away to rejoin Neale and did not see the relief and pleasure on Bundy’s lean features. Bolitho had not merely asked his opinion, but had made certain that his mates and helmsmen had heard him do so.
    “I can just make it out, sir.” Neale waited for Bolitho to pick up a telescope. “But the haze makes everything shapeless.”
    Bolitho held his breath and waited for the deck to rise again.
    There it was, a patch of darker blue against the sea. The island where the Spanish ship had off-loaded her cargo of building stone.
    The yawl was heading for the northern tip of the island, but once around the sheltered side would probably stand even closer inshore and follow the coast further south to Nantes.
    Her master would have the wind at his disposal should the pursuing frigate try to head him off at the last minute or be joined by another patrol from the south. Bolitho smiled wryly. It was unlikely there was another British man-of-war within two hundred miles south of this quarterdeck.
    He lowered the glass and watched the seamen strung out along the upper yards as the topsails were set and sheeted home, their bellies filling listlessly to the warm breeze. Four hours of good daylight left. It would have to be enough. To stand off until daylight would be like blowing a warning trumpet to the nearest French garrison.
    Many telescopes were probably laid on the speedy yawl and the menacing pyramid of sails in pursuit. A horseman would be despatched to the local commander. An artillery battery would be alerted to warn off the foolish English captain who was risking everything in order to catch such a small prize.

    Neale asked casually, “What do you intend, sir?”
    Perhaps he took Bolitho’s silence for uncertainty. “We could alter course and make better use of the wind. Then head for the southern end of the island, maybe catch the Frogs as they break free of the channel?”
    “Yes. But if the yawl decided not to head further south?”
    Neale shrugged. “We shall lose her.”
    Bolitho raised the glass again and steadied it on the distant island.
    “We have done that already, Captain Neale.”
    Neale stared at him. “Then you intend to work as close to the island as you can and estimate the defences?” He was completely lost.
    Bolitho smiled at him. “I intend we should do better than that. We shall enter the channel itself. With the wind under our coat-tails, I think even the French will be surprised!”
    Neale swallowed hard. “Aye, sir. But Mr Bundy says—”
    Bolitho nodded. “I know. Three fathoms at low water. It will have to be done well.” He grinned and touched his arm, glad that he was able to mask his own anxiety from the young captain. “I have every faith in you.”
    He turned towards the companion-way. “Allday, fetch me something cool from the wine store.” He nodded to the watching lieutenants. “I have to think.”
    Allday followed him down the ladder and aft to the cabin, while overhead the decks shook to the immediate activity of hurrying seamen.
    He grinned admiringly. “By God, sir, that stirred them well enough!”
    Bolitho walked to the stern windows and leaned out to stare at the rippling wake from the rudder. He heard the muffled shout of commands, the squeal of trucks as somewhere up forward the bow-chasers were prepared for the first shots of the engagement.

    How he had wanted to remain on deck and take part. But he had to accept that Neale was an extension of himself. Without being told what to do he had already accepted Bolitho’s strategy, and would execute it without question. In a matter of