True Colours (The Third Book in the Fighting Sail Series)

by Alaric Bond

  "Hard to larboard," Fraiser again, pointing wildly over Pandora’s bows. He had instinctively continued to conn the ship although, with a shared dread, everyone realised that the manoeuvre was seconds too late.

  The French broadside caught them on the larboard quarter; not a complete rake, but enough to cause a fair amount of damage and confusion. The larboard quarter gallery was smashed in, and number twelve gun larboard side overturned, the shots continuing to take out the majority of the men reloading starboard number eleven. The aim went low, aided perhaps by the wind that was laying the stricken frigate over; no one was injured on the crowded quarterdeck, although screams could be heard from the deck below.

  Caulfield ran to the break of the quarterdeck and looked down. "Mr King?"

  King was further forward and raised an arm in acknowledgement.

  "The larboard battery; how are you set?"

  The confusion caused by the broadside had clearly affected only the stern-most guns. King glanced back, and along the entire row.

  "We can have most ready in under a minute, if you require."

  Caulfield looked back and the captain nodded.

  "Do your best, Mr King."

  Pandora continued to turn, this time presenting her larboard broadside to the enemy. The range had increased, since the fallen spars had robbed the French ship of all her momentum, and she was now completely stationary. Fraiser muttered a prayer as he watched the enemy seamen frantically hack and slash at the remains of the foretopmast that had collapsed about them in a tangle of wood, line and canvas. A flash of yellow caught his eye in the early evening light. Yes, there was a fire, possibly caused by Pandora’s shots or the effect of the Frenchman shooting through the wreckage.

  "She’s caught ablaze, sir," he turned to the captain, pointing at the stricken ship. Banks nodded but in the same instance King’s broadside roared out, pelting the desperate men with a further measure of round shot.

  "Back mizzen and fore top’sl, we’ll maintain her at that." Caulfield was holding them almost stationary in the water, keeping the French ship, which was now properly on fire, under their guns for further broadsides.

  "She’s caught alight, man!" Fraiser roared back at him. Caulfield’s eyes were unnaturally bright, and Banks was repeatedly smacking his fist into the palm of his hand. Fraiser drew breath. "They canna’ fight back, we must lay off!"

  Both commissioned officers regarded him with set expressions. For all that the forecastle was burning, the only reason the French ship had stopped firing was that none of her serviceable guns would bear. But she remained far more powerful than Pandora, and carried a greater number of men into the bargain. There was no question of suspending their bombardment until she had struck, or clearly could fight no more.

  "Carry on, Mr King." Banks ordered. His words were cold and distinct, although meant for other ears.

  * * * * *

  For Doust and Manning business had begun in earnest. There were already five casualties and as they worked they could hear the sounds of moaning and mumbled requests as more were laid down to await their attention.

  Manning looked up and wiped his hands on a piece of tow while his present patient was taken away, to be replaced, almost instantly, by another. He glanced down at the man, already naked, and with a splinter rip that ran nearly the entire length of his thigh. It was Piper, an elderly hand who was known for long and rambling stories as well as his not infrequent grumbles. Manning wiped back the mop of hair that was inclined to fall forward when he worked; Piper would have enough to complain about for some while to come. A blackened tourniquet had been tightened around the top of his leg, which was now quite white and lifeless. After a cursory wipe, Manning peeled back the faces of the wound, ignoring the cries and convulsions from the patient. The splinter had ripped deep into the leg but only a few shreds of dark wood remained. Plucking these out with a pair of iron tweezers, he examined the muscles. They would need stitches to pull them back into shape. Horsehair was ideal although, if the truth be known, the man was likely to die of the poisoning that so often accompanied such wounds.

  "Small needles and light sutures," he muttered at Powell, a loblolly boy not noted for intelligence, although he did have an innate ability when it came to dealing with the wounded. The equipment was passed across, and Manning began, tying each stitch individually, and passing the needle back to be wiped and rethreaded while he worked on with a replacement. It took no more than two minutes, although that was still longer than he could allow for a man who was not expected to live. Now he just had to close the wound up, and stitch again. Despite the tourniquet, the bleeding had been steady, and his hand slipped as he tried to bring the two faces together. He wiped his hands on his apron, and tried again, but it was no use, he could not get a purchase on the slippery flesh.

  "Spirits," he said, remembering an earlier instance. Powell handed him the pottery flagon of Hollands that was always on hand on such occasions. Manning deliberately trickled a line of alcohol over the leg, wiping the residue off with a fresh white rag. It was becoming accepted that strong alcohol was an excellent deterrent to most forms of mortification. Piper moaned again, although he had long since ceased to struggle. Now with a cleaner subject Manning tried once more. It was better, but the soft tissue continued to slip beneath his fingers. He paused, uncertain; it would be no good if the wound would not close evenly: that was a sure way to let poison in. Again he tried, this time with greater success, but still could not keep the entire length together, and have a hand free to stitch and tie. Then two more hands appeared next to his. He looked across as they held the lesion tight, and gratefully released his hold to grab at a needle and thread. Two stitches, each a third of the way down. It was easier now. Another, in between the two, and two more; then the wound was fully closed, had ceased to bleed, and he could almost relax. Two more, nip out the one that was not quite straight, and replace it with another. Finally those God sent hands began to wipe the spirit soaked rag across the entire leg, cleaning with gentle dexterity.

  "I’m going to release the tourniquet," he said, looking straight into her eyes. "Be ready for a bit of bleeding; it will be better to know how bad before we bandage." She nodded, and Manning cut at the rope stricture with a scalpel. A little blood oozed from the lesion, but it was not a major haemorrhage, and would certainly be contained when properly bound.

  "Very well, I think we can bandage," he said, almost to himself.

  "I shall take care of that," she was already reaching for a length of cloth. "See to the other men and I will join you when I have finished."

  He had not the time to argue, nor the inclination, come to that. She was a sensible head with a pair of capable hands that were doing a competent job, and that was all he needed or cared about at that moment. "Next, Mr Powell." The loblolly boy already had a waiting patient, and Manning attended to him with no further thought.

  * * * * *

  The flames on the French frigate had apparently been quelled but her forecastle was still enveloped in a shimmering haze of heat and smoke that funnelled out from below. The wind had caught her stern and taken her about, although Pandora had maintained position and remained roughly a cable off, and still athwart the bows as she continued to fire regular broadsides into the stricken ship. Fraiser had taken himself away from the other officers, and stood on his own at the stern.

  Banks glanced briefly in the sailing master’s direction. "I can do no more until they strike," he said quietly. Caulfield nodded. Twice they had suspended firing, and twice the call for surrender had been rudely declined. Another ragged broadside erupted; the pace was slower now as the men at the guns were growing tired and night was falling fast. Banks looked at his watch, realising with a shock that he had postponed supper over four hours ago. He also felt exhausted, and yet could do nothing until the enemy was seen to be beaten.

  Caulfield peered forward suddenly. "There’s movement further back, sir; I’m certain of it." Sure enough work was being carr
ied out amidships in the frigate and before long a small boat was seen to be lowering into the water. "They might be abandoning?"

  But Banks could think of other, more logical, reasons for a boat to be deployed. He walked to the break of the quarterdeck and looked down. "Thank you, Mr King, that will do for now." King waved wearily from the deck below and Banks turned to the main lookout. "Masthead, there!" he bellowed. "What do you see of the boat?"

  "It’s a cutter," the lookout replied, hesitantly. "Double banked; twelve men at oars, an’ couple of officers, looks like."

  "It’s no evacuation," Banks said. "They will be trying to manoeuvre."

  Caulfield shook his head and swore silently: what did they have to do to finish this accursed ship off?

  "Bring her round, if you please," Banks looked to where Fraiser was still sulking by the taffrail. "Mr Fraiser, you are required."

  The cessation of noise, both from the firing of the broadsides and the tending to the guns, gave extra poignancy to the moment. Fraiser turned from the enemy to regard his captain, his expression filled with dismay and a certain disgust.

  "The ship is ablaze, sir."

  Both Caulfield and the captain looked again, but no flames could be seen in evening light, just dense smoke and that same shimmering haze of heat that hung over her like an aura.

  "Mr Fraiser the enemy are manoeuvring into a firing position," Banks spoke slowly and with deliberation. "Very soon we will be facing their broadside, and I wish for us to take evasive action." There was no room in his ship for anyone who was not wholeheartedly intent on killing; the sailing master would have to know this. "And I wish for you to conn the ship, Mr Fraiser; is that perfectly clear?"

  "Aye, sir," the older man replied. "It is." But his eyes remained fixed on the smouldering wreck, and he gave no orders, and made no attempt to move.

  Banks watched, already the cutter was dragging the stern, and the side of the French ship could be seen. If Fraiser did not act immediately, he or Caulfield would have to. The master would be guilty of disobeying an order, and liable for trial under court martial. The offence was being committed in action and in a very public manner; there could be no doubt that Fraiser would be broken, and might even face a firing squad. "Now, Mr Fraiser, if you please!"

  Fraiser opened his mouth to speak but whatever he had to say was lost. A small explosion from deep within the enemy’s hull made them all turn, and they were in time to see the considerably larger eruption that followed.

  Heightened by the darkening sky, a rich tongue of yellow and red flame burst from the very heart of the ship, spreading upwards and outwards in a radiating arc that disappeared almost as instantly as it had come. As the noise of the first explosion reached Pandora all on her decks instinctively took cover. Splinters of wood, cloth and other matter began to fall about them, raining down on a tired, stunned crew as the second and louder explosion came to deafen their ears. The silence that followed lasted several seconds, before the men cautiously rose up and looked about in disbelief. The captain was amongst the first to recover. Taking a step towards the spot where his enemy had been, he drew a long sigh, removed his hat and ran his fingers back through his hair.

  "Both cutters, if you please, Mr Caulfield," he said slowly, his gaze still fixed on the darkening ocean. "There might be survivors."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "OF course, there’ll be prize money," Cribbins said, thoughtfully as the watch below were slinging their hammocks and generally preparing for sleep. "An’ a sizeable amount; she were a fair ship, an’ there ain’t no doubt that we sank her."

  Despite the initial exaltation, tinged not a little with relief, that had greeted the annihilation of the French frigate, the mood on the berth deck was surprisingly sombre. They were at war and the French their sworn enemies, although no seaman enjoyed the sight of another vessel being destroyed in such a devastating way, especially when each held a share in the destruction. Of them all only Cribbins showed any obvious pleasure at the outcome.

  "And head money," he said, relishing the prospect. "Don’t forget that!"

  "Head money?" Jenkins asked. "For them poor devils we plucked out of the brine, an’ one of them as near dead as makes no difference?"

  "Government pays out head money in cases like this. Five pounds for every sailorman aboard," Scales came in with the quiet voice of authority. "An’ we’ll be due a fair amount of salvage for that merchant brig we re-took."

  "But she were British," Jameson protested.

  "She were British, yes," Cribbins wagged his finger impor-tantly. "But she was captured by the French, an' we took her from them. There’s a law of salvage, and they got to pay."

  "Maybe so, but when?" Jenkins was not impressed.

  "Captain’s a fair one," Flint this time. "Paid us out on the nail when Aiguille were taken; did it from his own purse an’ all."

  "Aiguille?" Jenkins had his hammock slung and was arranging the biscuit mattress into position. "That the frigate you took earlier in the year?"

  "Aye, big old beast she were too." Flint confirmed. "Only lightly armed, but filled to brimming with soldiers. Captain paid us handsomely."

  "That right?" Scales stroked his chin as he considered. "An’ did anyone of you see the price she got at the prize court?"

  "Why would they want to do that?" Jenkins felt inclined to argue with anything Cribbins or Scales said out of principle, although this time he really was at a loss.

  "Well, seems to me a mite slack to sell your share in a capture, just on the captain’s say so."

  "Captain’s a gentleman," Flint again. "Otherwise he wouldn’t ‘ave extended us the money."

  "’s right." Greenway, who had been quiet until now, confirmed. "Didn’t have to, but he looked after us. Gentleman, he is; like Flint says."

  "An’ a rich gentleman, by all accounts." Scales was smiling enigmatically.

  Jenkins looked doubtfully at the others. "Have to be, to pay out like that; stands to reason."

  "Stands to reason that’s how he came to be rich," Scales’ smile was now more of a smirk. "It’s what comes from riding gullible old fools like you!"

  "What you saying?" Flint’s eyes flashed in the gloom of the berth deck, although Scales was in no way intimidated.

  "I’m saying you all let yourselves be trodden down like so much grass. You treat officers an’ gentlemen like they was gods. Don’t you ever think how they came to get their high an’ mighty positions? It’s by climbing on the backs of the workin’ man. People like you an’ me."

  "He’s right," Cribbins nodded emphatically. "You know that, don’t you?"

  "Workin’ man?" Jenkins said. "I ain’t seen either of you do much work," but Scales was well in to his stride.

  "You only have to look at the conditions you live in; the wages you get, when you gets them – if you gets them. We’ve all been plucked from our homes; from our wives, families, an’ sent aboard to live in conditions that are no better than sties. You know your rate of pay ain’t changed by a farthing since Cromwell? You can say the same for most of the conditions as well, and your victuals. An’ if you’re in the sick bay, the little you are entitled to is stopped, even if it were the navy what puts you there in the first place!"

  There was a rare silence on the berth deck; all knew that what Scales said was quite correct.

  "An’ if you don’t get better quick enough, they dumps you like so much rubbish, without a thought, a pension, or even a thank’ee very much."

  "Greenwich gives you a pension," Greenway said defiantly. "We pays our sixpence a month for that."

  "Oh you thinks you’re going to Greenwich, do you?" he smiled at the others as he dealt with the fool amongst them. "How many sailormen can they take? An’ those that don’t gets in; they all comfortable, are they? They all living high on the hog an’ no complaints?"

  The men were silenced once more, although Scales left them no room to digest what he had said.

  "An’ to top it all, any of us could g
et killed tomorr’a, then what do our families get?"

  "Widows men," Flint was positive. "They deducts money for crew that don’t exist, an' gives it out to widows at the end of a trip. Pays for the families of those what don’t make it."

  "Pays for a month or two’s rent, more like."

  "An’ we has an auction for possessions." Jenkins was troubled by what Scales was saying, and felt strangely eager to reassure himself and the others. "I paid top dollar for O’Connor’s knife after he copped it in Vigilant. A pretty fair blade it is too, no mistake."

  "An’ that’s what you want? That’s what a working man can expect at the end of his days; when he has given everything for his King and country? A couple of months owed wages, and the charity of his friends."

  There was silence as the men around the berth deck took in his words. Recognising the chance, Scales moved in with the killer punch.

  "But it’s all going to change, friends; I can promise you."

  Flint eyed him cautiously. "How’s that then?"

  "I’m not the only one who sees your position, and knows what tis an tisn’t right. There are more of us."

  Flint was not sure if he wanted any more like Scales but he let him continue.

  "I was switched from the Channel Fleet, and there are a measure there what think the same. Folk who ain’t gonna stand for no more nonsense."

  "Hey, I was with the Channel Gropers," Jenkins again. "An’ no one told me nothing about no changes."

  "And they wouldn’t. You’re not the sort to tell. You’re the kind what takes the captain’s word, and his money, not thinking he might be thieving from you. You’re the kind what longs for shore leave, but when it's denied, lays down an’ says nothing. You’re the kind that let’s ‘em get away with murder."

  "So what are these changes, then?" Flint was still eyeing Scales with caution.

  "Ah, you’ll have to wait for that. But I tell you brothers – it won’t be long."

  "Brothers?" Jenkins was clearly disgusted. "I ain’t your brother."