Success to the Brave by Alexander Kent

satisfaction.”

6 N O EASY WAY
    C APTAIN Valentine Keen sat with legs crossed on one of Bolitho’s chairs and watched his superior as he read through a despatch for the Admiralty. It would be put aboard the brig Electra and eventually be transferred to a fleet-courier so that it would be completely out-of-date by the time Admiral Sheaffe was able to examine it.
    Keen glanced through the open stern windows and silently cursed the oppressive heat. It seemed to pin the whole ship down so that even the smallest movement was uncomfortable.
    Bolitho signed the last page where Yovell had indicated and looked questioningly at his flag-captain.
    â€œWell, Val, are we ready for sea?”
    Keen nodded and instantly felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine.
    â€œThe water-lighters have cast off, sir. There’s just your—”
    Bolitho stood up as if pricked by a thorn and strode to the windows.
    â€œMy nephew. He should be back on board by now.”
    He was thinking aloud. The ship was waiting to weigh anchor. Boats were hoisted, and all hands accounted for. He stared hard at the little brig which had brought the news of Sparrowhawk ’s loss. Napier, her young commander, would be glad to rid himself of his responsibility to an admiral other than his own. His tiny command would soon be free of Bolitho and hurrying to Antigua to pass the news of the mysterious assassin, the ship which bore no name and showed no colours. Bolitho would have given a lot to hold on to the Electra, but the need to spread the word of the unknown attacker was paramount. Other ships might be lost in the same fashion.
    Keen watched the emotions as they chased each other across Bolitho’s features. They had seen and done so much together in every kind of action. Now, supposedly in peacetime, they were faced with something which was both baffling and terrible.
    Feet thudded overhead, and calls trilled as the watch on deck was ordered to some new task under the first lieutenant’s eye.
    Bolitho did not see Keen’s sympathetic scrutiny. His mind kept swinging from tack to tack, as if he was imprisoned by his own thoughts. Wait in Boston or set sail for San Felipe? It was his decision alone, just as his decision had cost Duncan his life. Keen had spoken with the one surviving midshipman, Evans, but had got little out of him. Bolitho had asked Allday to speak with the boy in his own way and the result had been startling. Allday had that casual, effortless way of talking to people, especially youngsters like Evans, and as he had described what Evans had told him Bolitho had been able to relive that brief, savage encounter which had ended with Sparrowhawk ’s total destruction.
    It was a wonder a boy like Evans had not collapsed completely, Bolitho thought. It was not like going to war with the fear of death a constant companion. It was Evans’ very first commission, his only voyage in a man-of-war. He did not even come from a naval family but was the son of a tailor in Cardiff.
    To see his best friend, a fellow midshipman, smashed down like a slaughtered animal, to be the last one to speak with the mortally wounded Duncan while the ship exploded around him was more than most could have withstood. Perhaps later, months later, the shock would show itself.
    Allday had explained how Evans had sensed an explosion even as his boat had pulled away from the sinking frigate. The gallery fire had not been doused. Flames had probably spread to the magazine or powder-room, so that for many of the ship’s company the end had been quick and the horror of the sharks held back for the others.
    Another of the survivors, an experienced gunner’s mate, had told Allday that the cannon fire had sounded flatter and louder than he would have expected. She was carrying far heavier weapons, he thought, even though the numbers had been reduced.
    Bolitho glanced at the eighteen-pounder near his desk. Probably thirty-two-pounders. But