Free A Tradition of Victory by Alexander Kent Page B

hours he might be lying dead or screaming on his surgeon’s table. His beloved Styx could become a drifting dismasted hulk, or pushed hard aground because the chart was mistaken. And all because of his admiral’s order.
    Bolitho said, “Fetch Mr Browne and ask him to join me for a glass.”
    Bolitho relaxed very slowly as the door closed behind Allday.
    Browne was different from anyone he knew. At least he might keep his mind away from the very real possibility of failure.
    When Bolitho returned to the quarterdeck the little island had grown considerably, so that it sprawled across the starboard bow like a blunt-headed monster.
    Neale said, “We are overhauling her, sir.” He waited to watch Bolitho’s reactions. “But the yawl is almost abreast of the headland.”
    Bolitho studied the sloping island, the lively white crests around some reefs and a smaller islet like the monster’s pup. The yawl was keeping very near to the tip of the island, so that she appeared to be trying to climb bodily on to dry land.
    Neale called sharply, “Bring her up a point, Mr Bundy!”
    “Aye, sir. East by north.”
    Bolitho moved the glass very carefully, seeing the flapping jibsail and two seamen standing on the forecastle, like giants as they were captured in the lens.
    A few low buildings at the foot of the island, probably more on the landward side. He stiffened as he saw some grey walls near to the top of the headland. A battery perhaps? Even as he watched
    he saw a tiny pin-prick of colour caught in the sunlight like a butterfly. The mast was still invisible, but the butterfly was a tricolour.
    He said, “Clear for action, Captain Neale. And please tell your gunner to try a few shots on that yawl.”
    As the marine drummers beat their sticks so rapidly that their hands were blurred, and the boatswain’s mates yelled, “Hands to quarters! Clear for action!” Bolitho could sense the wild excitement being unleashed about him like a tide-race.
    The starboard bow-chaser crashed out violently and threw itself inboard on its tackles, and even as its crew darted around it to sponge out and reload, Bolitho saw the ball drop in direct line with the yawl’s sails, flinging up a column of water like a spouting whale.
    The other gun belched smoke and flames, and a second waterspout brought a chorus of cheers from the topmen and those who were able to see it.
    Neale said, “No chance of a hit unless we can close the range.”
    The first lieutenant hurried aft and touched his hat. “Cleared for action, sir.”
    Neale deliberately tugged his watch from his breeches and studied it, his round face impassive as he said, “Twelve minutes, Mr Pickthorn. Won’t do. I want it done in ten or less.”
    Bolitho had to turn away. It could have been himself speaking when he had commanded Phalarope and Neale had been the junior midshipman.
    The bow-chasers continued to fire after the yawl, and although the balls were dropping short by a cable, the Frenchman obviously did not know how lucky he was, for he began to tack violently from side to side as if to avoid the next fall of shot.
    Neale smiled. “Interesting, sir. If he continues like that we may take him yet.”
    Smoke drifted harmlessly from the grey wall on the headland,
    and after what seemed like an eternity some eight or nine spouts of water shot from the sea well away from the frigate’s side.
    Bolitho listened to the dying echo of the concealed battery.
    Just a token, a warning.
    “Bring her up now, Captain Neale.”
    Neale nodded, his mind grappling with the dozen or so problems which were most immediate to him.
    “We will alter course four points to larboard, Mr Pickthorn, and steer nor’-east by north.”
    “Hands to the braces there!”
    As the big double wheel was turned steadily to leeward, Styx responded easily to the pressure of sail and rudder, the island appearing to slide away to starboard.
    Bolitho raised his glass once more. Across the starboard bow was the beginning of