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

by Alaric Bond

  "Time will come when we will all be brothers," Scales spoke with his eyes set somewhere in the mid distance. "Time when we will stand shoulder to shoulder and see that we’re heard. That, or deal with the consequences."

  "You speaking mutiny?" Flint asked.

  "I’m speaking our rights, the rights of all men, however they are born, however ill used they have become."

  "However much they don’t want to change," Greenway added.

  "Ah, mock if you want, an’ you can stay where you is, an’ die like the pack animals you’re so keen to remain."

  The men were in their hammocks by now and from the depths of his Jenkins let out a mule’s bray.

  "Scoff your fill," Scales muttered, when it was clear the men had every intention of doing exactly that. "But the time is not far off. There’s men aboard this very ship who ain’t afraid of taking action." The sound of laughter fell away uneasily as Scales’ words registered.

  "We’re gonna have changes, big changes," he continued in the silence he had created. "British sailors have been messed about with long enough, it’s time we spoke up for ourselves, it’s time we spoke up for what’s right."

  * * * * *

  The wounded had been moved back to the sick bay when Pandora returned to cruising stations, and were now relatively comfortable. There had been no more fatalities since the enemy ship exploded, and the badly injured Frenchman who had surrendered an arm to Doust’s saw was progressing well. Manning was making his rounds, checking on each as the surgeon finally took some rest, and it was completely natural that Kate, as the girl had become, should accompany him.

  "How’s it feeling, Piper?" he asked the seaman who’s thigh they had stitched only a few hours before.

  "I’ve felt better, sir," his face was pale in the lanthorn light, although there was no sign of fever. "Leg hurts something rotten, but then I suppose it has the right to."

  "Have you eaten?" Kate asked.

  "Yes ma’m, I took a sip of soup an’ some cheese." He smiled at her, clearly pleased at the attention; it was something that Manning had noticed in the others. Most on board welcomed the company of a pretty woman, but when they were ill it seemed that what was once merely a pleasant diversion became a need that went so much deeper. The very atmosphere in the sick bay seemed lighter and consequently more positive because of her presence, and as he glanced at her face in the lamplight while she spoke easily with a man she had seen all but ripped apart, he could not blame anyone for responding to her charm.

  She moved easily from one to another, asking the occasional question of Manning or the patient; sometimes there would be a brief discussion, or they would refer to Doust’s notes. But each man felt easer when they had left, and Manning was under no illusions that this was due to his attention.

  Even the Frenchman who had lost an arm, even with the barrier of language, and the fact that one of his countrymen had all but accounted for her father, even with him the magic worked. She rested her hand against his cheek in a way that appeared affectionate, although Manning knew she was feeling for unnatural warmth. The man gave her a weak, toothless grin, and she smiled in return.

  "Rather warm, I’m afraid." She spoke lightly to Manning, although still smiling, as if predicting a speedy recovery.

  "He’s lost a lot of blood," Manning said. "Unless he drinks more fluid, I fear we might lose him yet." He too was following her example; keeping his tone brisk and positive. Without understanding the words the man might easily think they were envisaging a long and healthy life for him. She reached for a leather beaker and filled it with lemonade from a nearby jug.

  "Here, drink this," she offered it to the man who guessed her intent and shook his head.

  "You must," she insisted, raising the drink to his lips. "Make you well."

  Reluctantly he sipped.

  "More," she held it against his mouth. The man swallowed, and took another mouthful, and one more after that, returning her smile when he had finished.

  "You must drink lots, lots." She held the beaker up emphatically, before refilling it from the jug and replacing both where he could reach them with his good arm. He smiled again, and muttered something in his own language that sounded like thanks, and was taken as such.

  "I think that’s all today’s casualties," Manning said as they left the final patient to rest. "There’s not much else, apart from your father, of course."

  "We could take a look; if you’re not too tired?"

  "No, that would be fine," Manning followed her through to where the master of the Katharine Ruth lay recumbent on his berth. The sight of her father made him feel strangely guilty: Kate had done so much for the wounded. Working tirelessly throughout the day, she must have saved several lives, and yet there was little they could do to repay her. The one favour that might have been totally fitting, a successful operation on her father, was the one they would not perform. There were reasons of course, but they all sounded like so many excuses.

  "No change, Mr Manning," Powell, a loblolly boy, although he was sixty if he was a day, was attending to him as they approached the bed. "Although if you ask me I’d say the eye was a little more red."

  Manning lifted back the lid gently and nodded. The fracture must be depressed; pressure was building upon the brain, and the man would eventually die. The question remained: would they reach a home port in time for an operation?

  "Have you a mind to operate?" Powell asked artlessly. Manning shook his head.

  "If an operation were possible, it would not be me. But I cannot see anything being attempted while we pitch and toss so."

  "But if you had a clear spell, then it might be tried?"

  Manning looked at Powell sharply. Everyone knew that the patient was Kate’s father, and were equally aware of the efforts she had made on their behalf. If Powell was trying to ingratiate himself with her; give false hopes or even the slightest reason to think an operation could be carried out, he would personally report him to the surgeon or even the captain come to that.

  "There is no chance of operating while we are at sea," he spoke firmly, and as much to the girl by his side as the well meaning but misguided old fool that faced him.

  "The movement’s the problem, is it Mr Manning?" Powell persisted.

  "That is correct, the motion of the waves is not conducive to such a delicate operation."

  Powell nodded as if in total agreement. "Then it will be the day after tomorrow, first thing after dawn, wouldn’t you say, sir?"

  "What’s that?"

  "The day after tomorrow’s morning," his tone was completely matter of fact as if they were discussing the allocation of portable soup. "We should have a quiet spell for a few hours after sunrise," he went on. "Would that be long enough for you?"

  The girl took a sharp intake of breath and Manning put his hand to his forehead. "Powell, we are in the North Atlantic. Periods of calm are very rare and can not be predicted, certainly not with such accuracy."

  "Very good, Mr Manning, I takes what you say," Powell smiled agreeably as his superior was clearly not quite up to the mark. "But I’ve been watching the weather all my time at sea, and I knows when it’s going to change, and I knows when we’re in for a break."

  Kate moved suddenly, "If he’s right, we could maybe try?" Her eyes were imploring, and Manning found it very hard to meet her stare.

  "If he’s right," he opened his mouth to say more, and looked between the pleading stare, and the earnest expression of the buffoon who had awoken hope inside her. "But, but there is no guarantee," he finished, lamely.

  "Guarantee? There’s no guarantee that we’ll reach England with my father alive." The smile had gone, as had any form of appeal in her countenance; she was simply disgusted with him for not having the courage to try. "Even if we do, and he has the operation, there is no guarantee it will be successful." Still those green eyes fixed him with their painful beauty as she continued with clipped precision. "In fact, if t’were guarantees you looked for, Robert, I fea
r you have chosen the wrong profession."

  * * * * *

  Everit, the Carpenter, surveyed the mess that used to be the great cabin and pursed his lips. The main damage was to the larboard side, the quarter gallery was badly weakened where several round shot had entered, punching neat holes in the bulwark just aft of the final gunport. Fortunately the sternpost was unaffected; one of the lodging knees was split, but no more. It would have to be a patch up job, and there was only so much he could do from the inside, and at night, but that didn’t mean they should not start now.

  "Hanks, roust up some frame timber," he said to one of his mates who had been swabbing down the deck where the gun crew had fallen. "Say four lengths of each. We’ll need plankin’ later, but that should do for starts."

  Another of his team had set up the portable workbench, and the tools were assembled; razor sharp and as individual to each man as any that Doust wielded. Everit examined the entry holes forward of the quarter gallery. There was a full frame and an oak knee, which had survived unscathed, and was still securely locking the side of the ship to the deck. One of the port cills, the timbers running horizontally above and below the gunports, was weakened and would need a fresh piece grafted in. He could do that with a simple scarph; not a difficult job, but one that Everit found oddly satisfying. His mates should cope with the filling frames, just as they could the work on the quarter gallery; it was light stuff, not intrinsic to the structure of the hull, and hardly worth the attention of a proper carpenter. He looked about as the first of the timber began to arrive. Eight hours, he reckoned; nine at the most. With luck they could have the frames done and solid by dawn, giving them first light to start on the outside, and finish off the spirketting: the lighter internal planks that effectively panelled the cabin. The captain would have to find alternative quarters, even his sleeping cabin would be out of commission. Sound travelled well in a wooden ship; there would be few of the crew who would be unaware of his work tonight, and he didn’t give much for the chances of any of the officers sleeping in their frail little hutches on the deck below.

  But strangely that did not worry Everit, and he picked up a small crow of iron, and began to rip the splintered spirketting away with a half smile on his face and hardly a thought for anyone else.

  * * * * *

  The noise from Everit’s repairs had been continuous, and Jenkins doubted that he had slept more than half of the four hours he had been allocated for the purpose. A stirring in the row of hammocks signalled that it would soon be time to rise, although he had become comfortable at last, and felt he deserved at least another thirty seconds of rest. One of the penalties of sleeping in a hammock was the lack of movement: of late Jenkins had found himself waking up set in one position, and required a few moments of gentle easing before his muscles and joints could be persuaded to work properly. None of this worried the boatswain’s mate, however.

  "Do you hear below?" The shout cut through Jenkins’ nebulous thoughts, and his mind began to clear as the men about him started to rise, cough, yawn and make other, less social, sounds commensurate with waking. Jenkins finally stirred, pushing himself up in his hammock as he looked for the time when it would be safe to swing his legs out, and it was then that he noticed the piece of paper that lay on his belly.

  It appeared yellow in the half light, and was printed; the smudgy inked message looked amateurish and rushed, but key words caught his attention, and he snatched at it as if it could have done him physical harm. He yawned and considered the matter for a moment before taking another quick look, but there were men all about, he was not a fast reader, and this needed to be studied properly.

  "Ready for the off, Clem?" Ford’s voice, and Jenkins hurriedly screwed the note back into his fist and looked at him.

  "What’s that?"

  The boatswain’s mate was still prowling about with his knife, ready to cut down any unfortunate who had stopped too long in his hammock and Jenkins was a prime target. "It’s out an’ down, I ain’t taking no holiday!" the man roared, and his voice was closer than Jenkins had thought.

  Swinging from the hammock, his bare feet hit the deck and, as he staggered slightly, the piece of paper fell to the floor. Ford, who was wide awake and ready, caught it as it fluttered down.

  "Give me that here!" Jenkins all but yelled.

  "No need to take on so," Ford said, immediately giving it up. "Just caught it for yer. Come on, we’re called on deck."

  Jenkins mumbled something that might have been an apology, and stuffed the paper into the waistband of his trousers. It would be safe there, or as safe as anywhere he could think of. He’d get rid of it as soon as he could, of course. Carrying a thing like that could do a man harm; everyone knew that. In fact Jenkins’ small piece of paper was probably the most dangerous item on board Pandora.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SIR Richard Banks sat at his desk and sipped his third cup of coffee. The morning had run smoothly enough; the convoy had been relocated and would soon be under their lee, and his cabin, damaged in the previous day’s action, had been roughly repaired, and should remain reasonably watertight and serviceable for the week or so it would take them to make Portsmouth. The one minor nuisance, the loss of his own personal privy, was of trifling significance; he might be a knight of the realm as well as a post captain, but his trade had been learned in the midshipman’s berth where far greater inconveniences had been endured.

  The ship they had destroyed the day before was the second Pandora had accounted for in six months; a good toll for any commanding officer, and one that was also blessed with his excellent connections should soon be moving on to greater things: perhaps an appointment to one of the newer heavy frigates that were now being built; possibly something more. At that moment, however, Banks felt little inclination for change; even a fortunate morning, and the prospect of personal advancement, could not lift the feeling of impending gloom that appeared whenever he thought of the interview that he was about to conduct.

  The thump of a musket butt, followed by the sentry announcing his visitor, focused his mind on the inevitable. He pushed the cup of coffee away and called for Fraiser to enter.

  "You sent for me, sir?" The sailing master was only ten years older than his captain, although he had a strong personal presence and a strange air of authority. They were rare qualities in one with a non-commissioned rank.

  "Yes, Mr Fraiser; take a seat won’t you?" The Scotsman sat in the wooden armed chair that Banks indicated, and the captain noted that his back remained upright, in no need of support.

  "I must speak with you about the events of yesterday," Banks had already decided it better to come straight to the point. "During the action I gave you a direct order that you did not act upon. I have to know if you had thought to obey me before the enemy ship exploded, or if it was your intention to flout my instruction."

  Fraiser looked at him evenly. "I had no intention of obeying your order, sir."

  Banks nodded; he had expected as much and was oddly grateful for the honesty. "So, you refused a direct order whilst under fire; you are aware, I am sure, of the severity of such an offence?"

  Fraiser continued to regard him with a neutral expression. "I am fully aware of the situation, sir. But the ship had nae fight left in her."

  Banks felt a sudden anger rise within him. "Mr Fraiser, she was attempting a manoeuvre that would have placed us under her fire. It was your responsibility to conn the ship when ordered to do so, and you declined!"

  "You will excuse me, sir, but ultimately it was your responsibility, and you chose me to act for you. I also have responsibilities: in matters pertaining to th’ ship, they are to you, but in other issues it is to a higher power." It was a measure of Banks’ irritation that he was momentarily at a loss as to Fraiser’s meaning.

  "What higher power?"

  "I was born a believer, and am sure tae die one," Fraiser continued, his accent growing thicker as he spoke. "At present I serve as a sailing master in the Royal Na
vy. For all I ken that might change; but my faith ne’er will: of that I am certain."

  "You refused a direct order;" Banks said coldly. "You could be shot."

  Fraiser’s smile was sudden and unexpected. "Aye, that I could, but it nae weighs heavy on ma mind. If I had ordered the ship round, if my actions had kept those puir divils under our fire while a’burnin’; now that would trouble me. But death? Nae captain; death holds no fear for me."

  Banks shook his head, sensing depths he would far rather avoid. "But you have been in action before, at least three times in Pandora to my certain knowledge; when we fought the Aiguille you conned the ship like a true fighter."

  "Like a true seaman, sir."

  "It is the same thing, you brought Pandora into battle, your commands meant that she was in a position to fire into an enemy ship, to kill men; why do you now say you will not fight?"

  "With respect, sir, it has ne’er been a secret that I do not relish battle and regard fighting as an evil business, although I do accept that it is at times necessary. My duties as a sailin’ master charge me tae navigate, and at times command the ship, and that would naturally include taking her to fight. Yesterday I felt that what you intended was beyond that necessity, and I would hae nae part in it. I would also say, sir that you were well aware of my feelings, and yet you chose me to order the ship round, when there were others who would hae bin quite ready to obey."

  Banks nodded; that was completely correct. "Mr Fraiser, we have spoken of responsibilities; one of mine is to show no favouritism amongst those I command. If I had to consider each man’s sensitivities before I gave an order I would be in a sorry state. The point remains; the enemy was being towed into a position where she could resume fire. She was bigger than us, more heavily armed, and likely to be carrying a larger crew. Your lack of attention could have accounted for every man in Pandora."

  "Well there, if you will excuse me, sir, is where we differ. As a fighting man you see an enemy being towed around and take it as a threat against yourself and your ship. As a seaman, I see a ship on fire and assume it is to prevent the spread of the peril."