A few seamen and marines ran aft and would have flung themselves into the sea astern but for the thirteen- year-old midshipman.
He shouted, 'Quarter-boat! Bosun's mate, take charge there!'
When one tried to knock him aside he snatched a pistol and fired it above their heads. For a moment longer they stared at each other like madmen, then, obedient to their training, they tossed their weapons aside and ran to haul the quarter-boat alongside.
A few shots were still hitting the hull, but Sparrowhawk had no fight left in her. She was settling down, the sea exploring the orlop and reaching up further still so that there was a glint of water below the companion.
Evans ran to aid his friend, the signals midshipman, but he was already dead, a hole in his chest big enough for a man's fist.
Evans stood up very carefully, his feet sliding in blood as the stern began to go under.
He thought he heard one of the other boats nearby, the third lieutenant trying to restore order and rally the survivors.
He looked at his dead captain, a man he had feared and admired. Now he was nothing, and Evans felt unnerved by it, cheated.
A burly marine, one of his comrades over his shoulder like a sack, paused and gasped, 'Come along, sir. Nothin' 'ere now.'
The wounded man groaned and the one who was carrying him peered round, looking for a boat. But something in Evans' face held him there like a shouted command on the square. The marine had been at St Vincent and the Nile, and had seen many of his friends die like this.
He said roughly, 'You've done yer best, so come along er me, eh?'
The hull gave a great shiver. She was going.
The midshipman walked with the marine and did not even blink as the foremast thundered down like a falling cliff.
'I'm ready, thank you.' It seemed little enough comment for such a terrible moment.
As guns tore themselves loose from their lashings and crashed along the deck among the corpses and whimpering wounded, Sparrowhauk lifted her bows and dived steeply. The whirlpool of swirling wreckage, men and pieces of men remained for a long time, long enough for their attacker to make more sail and alter course to the westward.
There were two boats and a roughly lashed raft left as evidence of what had happened, with survivors floundering in search of a handhold or a place in one of them.
A week later, the American brig Baltimore Lady on passage from Guadeloupe to New York, sighted one drifting boat and hove to to investigate. The boat was filled with sun-blackened men, some dead, apparently from wounds or burns, others barely able to speak. Deep score marks on the boat's planking showed where sharks had torn others from their handholds alongside. There was an officer of sorts in charge of the boat. The brig's mate later described him as 'less'n a boy'.
Midshipman Evans had obeyed Duncan 's order, 'See to the others.'
It was something he would remember for the rest of his life.
Samuel Fane regarded Bolitho without emotion as he said, 'I have spoken with the President and have also discussed the matter of San Felipe with the French admiral.'
Bolitho watched him calmly. There was no point in attacking Fane for going behind his back and speaking with the French flag-officer. He had every right to, if Boston was to be a neutral ground for the discussions.
Also, being aboard his own flagship made more of a difference than he would have expected. Ashore in Chase's fine house he was the stranger. Here in Achates, with familiar faces and sounds all around him, he felt assured and confident.
He said, 'No steps can be taken until I receive the report from my frigate captain. A compromise may be worked out, but only under the present conditions. Sir Humphrey Rivers is the British Governor of San Felipe, but nothing more than that.'
Jonathan Chase, who had swallowed two glasses of claret in his anxiety that it should be a better meeting than the previous one, exclaimed, 'No harm in that, eh, Sam?'
Fane's deepset eyes settled on him only briefly.
'Our government will not tolerate a war, large or small, where it might endanger United States ' trade and progress. It makes more sense to me that the island should come under our protection, if that is the will of the people there.'
He gave a deep sigh. 'But if the admiral wishes to show his authority first, then I suppose we must indulge him.'
Chase held out his glass for Ozzard to refill.
'God damn it, Sam, do you never relax?'
Fane smiled wryly. 'Hardly at all.'
Feet moved on the deck overhead, and Bolitho heard a voice calling an order. It was his world. This sort of double-tongue was alien to him.
He stood up and walked to the stern windows. There was a slow, hot wind across Massachusetts Bay and the sky was slashed by thin, pink clouds. How inviting the sea looked.
Fane was saying, 'It might take a few months to settle, but what of that? The French will not insist on immediate occupation of the island. It will give all of us time.'
Bolitho suddenly saw a naval brig turning into the wind, her anchor splashing down even as her sails were smartly furled at their yards. The ensign which licked out from her gaff was the same as the one at Achates' taffrail.
He replied, 'His Majesty's Government has entrusted me with the task of handing over the island, sir. None of us wants an uprising, especially now that the West Indies are recovering from the war.'
A boat had been dropped from the brig and was already speeding across the water towards the flagship.
Bolitho felt a nerve jump in his throat. What was it? News from home already, could it be…?'
He forced himself to face the others, his eyes almost blind in the cabin's shady interior.
'I shall send a letter to your President. I appreciate very much what he is trying to do – ' He broke off and turned sharply as Ozzard murmured, 'It's the captain, sir.'
Keen stood in the doorway, his hat jammed beneath his arm.
'Please forgive this interruption, sir.' He glanced at the others. 'The commander of the brig Electra is come aboard. He has news for you, sir.' His eyes were pleading. 'Very serious news.'
Bolitho nodded. 'I'll not be long, gentlemen.'
He followed Keen from the cabin and saw a young officer waiting by the chart room.
Keen said tightly, 'This is Commander Napier, sir.'
Bolitho looked at him impassively. 'Tell me.'
Napier swallowed hard. Electra was his first command, and he had never spoken with a vice-admiral before.
'I was on passage to the south'rd when I sighted an American brig. She signalled for assistance, and when I boarded her I found her to be carrying British seamen.' He flinched under Bolitho's gaze. 'They were survivors.'
Bolitho saw Keen's face, he looked pale in spite of the sun.
The commander added quietly, 'From Sparrowhawk, sir.'
Bolitho clenched his hands together behind him to control his sense of shock. In his heart he had nursed a dread that something had happened to the little frigate. A storm, a reef, or one of a dozen disasters which can befall a ship sailing alone.
Napier continued, 'She was attacked, sir. A two-decker to all accounts, although -
Bolitho could see it as if he had been there himself. Just as their attacker had fired on Achates. Without warning, except that this time her victim had been hopelessly outgunned even if Duncan had been expecting trouble.
'How many?'
Again the young commander could barely speak above a murmur.
'Twenty-five, sir, and some of those are in a poor way.'
Bolitho felt his skin go cold. Twenty-five, out of a company which had numbered two hundred souls.
