[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Thrilling Wonder Stories December 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The thin little man in the blue coat with the tarnished gold braid satat the desk in his cabin and wished for fatigue to overwhelm him. Hewas tired, tired with a fatigue which had been creeping slowly upon himin recent years—and had come on apace in the past few months. Now itwas in his very bones.
It was the cold fatigue of an old man—and he was far from old as theworld counted years.
He eyed the gleaming bottle of black West Indian rum that stood in itsbarricaded tray on the table to his left, and his blue eyes lit with agleam of purpose. Forgetfulness, even sleep, lay in its turbid depths.
But such sleep was not for him with the night already so far spent. Themorrow lay close upon him, the morrow toward which his every facultyhad been sternly impelled for so many long and unrewarding months. Andbehind those months lay the many weary years.
Actually, until the issue was joined, there was little he could do. Toshow himself on deck would reveal a nervousness that might result in adisastrous echo among the men who relied upon him for victory.
His senses hyper-acute, he heard the slap of brine against thewaterline, its rhythm never twice the same, yet never varied, so that aman could pick out the difference. He watched idly as the swaying cabinlamp made the shadow of the bottle on the table dance a minuet.
All around him was the wakeful dormancy of a mighty ship asleep—asother ships lay in similar unreal quiescence fore and aft, ships whosecommanders were bound by oath to obey his every whim, bound by oath andthe fealty his reputation inspired.
It was terrible to hold supreme command on the eve of battle; terribleand frightening. The light supper he had eaten lay heavy on his stomach.
Despite the battles he had fought, the victories he had won, suchmalaise had never failed to visit him when action loomed close. It wastwenty-five years since he had first felt it.
Then he had led a malaria-ridden crew against the well-fortifieddefenses of San Juan in Nicaragua. It was a comparatively minormission, one suited to a twenty-two-year-old commander on his firstindependent assignment. He had thought never again to be troubled withit once the victory was won.
But it had been present fifteen years later when the combined fleetshad chased him to the haven of Genoa; and again, two years thereafter,when he had planted the Captain between two enemy vessels andblasted them both to defeat.
Four times more he felt its sickness seize his vitals—at Cadiz, wherehe had first been wounded in a disastrous combined operations assault;in Aboukir Bay, where the foe had let him sink their warships one byone, like sheep awaiting helplessly the wolf; in the Kattegatt, and atKronstadt, where for once no shot had been fired.
Now he felt its grip and his restless fighter's soul demanded some sortof action to prevent it from controlling him entirely. It was odd thathe should feel it so keenly, for once action was joined, only icy waterflowed in his veins.
He rose then, adapting his motions to the roll of the Atlantic beneathhis ship like the veteran sailor he was. A short, angular, indomitablefigure, he strode across his cabin to the admiral's walk aft. He was anadmiral, was he not? Who had a better right to use it?
The sky was cloudy above the restless black velvet of the sea, and theshipboard sounds were clearer. Somewhere belo