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

by Alaric Bond

  * * * * *

  "As I have said," Banks gave a light smile, "I am not one to ask advice," Caulfield now filled the seat that Fraiser had so recently occupied and even as he spoke he could not help but notice that his second in command made full and ready use of the chair’s backrest. "I would not have asked you here," Banks continued. "Except on a purely unofficial basis."

  Caulfield nodded. He could understand that the captain was in a difficult position. If Fraiser’s apparent disobedience had lead to injury, death or defeat, he would have had no option other than to offer him up for court martial. As it was, nothing had been lost, except perhaps a slight dent in the captain’s own personal pride. And the resulting explanation that Banks had just relayed in full seemed to assuage even that. Caulfield did harbour a slight feeling of disappointment that Fraiser had not seen fit to confide in him; they had served together for several months now, and he felt he had the master’s confidence. But then friendships aboard ship were delicate and complex; to live in close proximity with other men, both working and socialising with the same limited group, often encouraged as much secrecy as trust.

  "Ignoring the fact that he disobeyed, or to be exact, did not obey your order," Caulfield said slowly. "If you had been aware of the severity of the fire still burning below, would you still have ordered Pandora to maintain the bombardment."

  Banks considered this for a moment. "Yes," he said, eventually. "Yes, probably. I take the point that they might well have been manoeuvring their stern into the wind, but I had my duty to protect the ship and her people, and I must admit, my blood was up. The enemy had declined surrender, for whatever reason, and I had to continue the action until they struck, or be seen to be beaten."

  "And it was right to order Fraiser to conn the ship?"

  The captain smiled. "No, that might have been a mistake."

  "We had been in action for some while."

  "We had, nerves are inclined to become frayed, and judgement deteriorates."

  "And your blood was up."

  "Indeed it was."

  Caulfield leaned forward, and pressed his fingers together thoughtfully. "Can I ask, if the incident is forgotten, if your report shows no dissatisfaction in Mr Fraiser or his competence, would you trust him again?"

  "Oh yes," there was no hesitation. "Yes, possibly more so. Strange, isn’t it? But if anything he has rather risen in my estimation."

  The clump of the sentry’s musket called attention to a visitor outside the great cabin, and Caulfield sat back in his chair. Both men were suddenly aware how personal the conversation had become; more as one between two close friends than a captain and his senior officer.

  "Mr King to see the captain." The marine’s voice rang out.

  Banks bid him enter, but King was not alone. Three seamen stood slightly behind him with an odd mixture of defiance, embarrassment and fear on their faces.

  "I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but this has just been passed to me." King stepped forward and handed the creased proclamation to his captain. Banks stood and accepted the paper, spread it out on the desk in front of him, and read in silence.

  "Where did this come from?" he asked, when he had finished.

  "The master at arms found it in the possession of these men," King said, hesitantly. "But I am not of the opinion that they are involved."

  Bank’s eyes moved from one to the other, examining each in detail until he finally returned to the lieutenant.

  "I am grateful for your view, Mr King; nevertheless it is an offence to be in possession of such a document."

  "They were to hand it in, sir," King said.

  "Or cag it, sir. We weren’t…"

  "Silence!" Banks’ sudden shout stopped Flint’s words instantly. "You will not speak again until you are required to do so."

  Only the captain could break the awkward pause that followed. Instead he read through the note once more, before passing it to Caulfield.

  "Well, there is clearly organisation behind this," he said, returning to King. "Have you more instances?"

  "No sir."

  He singled out Flint as the seamen’s natural spokesman.

  "And you obtained it, how?"

  Flint lifted his chin and looked straight ahead. "It was passed to Jenkins, sir. ‘e found it on ‘is belly when he woke this mornin’."

  "And no one knows how it got there?"

  "No sir, but we ‘as our suspicions."

  "Indeed." But the captain did not ask him to elaborate. Instead he summoned the sentry with a single shout. The marine clumped awkwardly into the room.

  "Ask your corporal to arrange for these men to be taken into custody," he said almost quietly. The marine left and the seamen looked to each other in concern.

  "I will be speaking with you later," Banks said to them, not unkindly. "Until that time I want you separated from the other members of the crew. You will understand that this might be as much for your own safety as any concern regarding your conduct." In a small wooden ship rumours could travel almost as fast as sound, and if there was a mutinous faction aboard, men who had been marched to the captain with evidence might be ripe for attention from their peers. Corporal Jarvis along with two marine privates made their entrance and, in a mixture of bewilderment, fear and silent protest, the men were shepherded out. When they had left Banks indicated a chair to King, and the three officers sat.

  Caulfield looked at the message again. "This has all the hallmarks of the Channel Fleet," he said, almost meditatively, but formalities must return now that he was no longer alone with the captain, and he hastily added a forgotten "sir."

  "What has the fleet to do with it?" Banks asked.

  "I spoke with Lieutenant Gibson of the Fox when we were last at the Tagus. He’d just returned from Spithead, and there were murmurings then. Rumours were abroad that petitions from Lord Bridport’s lot had been handed in to Lord Howe, but all went unacknowledged. Gibson was pleased to get away; there had also been talk of confining the port until the disturbance had died down."

  "Confining Spithead?" Banks was taken aback. "But that’s where we’re bound!"

  "Indeed it is, sir."

  The three considered the matter for a moment; certainly it no longer appeared that their problems would cease when they sighted England.

  "And what of this ship?" Banks asked suddenly, his voice rising. "There are men from the Channel Fleet aboard; do we separate them, make investigations?"

  "Sir, Jenkins is from the Channel," King said more softly. "I know how it appears but I have served with him afore and would consider him loyal."

  "And the others, from the same draft?" Banks looked at him searchingly, and King’s eyes lowered.

  "No, sir, possibly not all."

  * * * * *

  "Really you should be seeing the surgeon," Manning told Soames. "I’m not supposed to prescribe treatment, or even make a proper examination." He wiped his hands on a piece of cotton waste as he spoke.

  "Come, come, Mr Manning," Soames smiled ingratiatingly. "We’re both men of experience. I don’t want to trouble Mr Doust if it can be sorted between ourselves."

  "A condition like yours is potentially serious," Manning persisted. "The treatment is not exactly pleasant, and can be quite futile if the diagnosis is awry."

  "You mean it cannot be cured?" for a moment Mr Soames was properly worried.

  "I would not say that; not exactly. You must understand that complaints of this type are similar, and what is treatment for one, might be ineffective or even dangerous in another."

  Soames raised an eyebrow enquiringly.

  "Well, for one astringent injections; possibly a compound of Peruvian bark, bistort, balaustines or galls might be prescribed, whereas for another, another that presented in very much the same manner, bleeding, purging or fomentations might be required."

  Soames, a man whose vocabulary of facial expressions was limited, found himself using almost his entire catalogue during the conversation.

  "A
nd there is not one, one sure found method that might put the condition to rights?"

  "Well, mercury," Manning mused. "There is always that."

  Soames beamed. "There, I knew you would be my man. Mercury it is, and as soon as you can administer it, the better."

  But Manning was still not convinced. "Mercury is not an item to be toyed with; it can be a dangerous substance in itself, if handled incorrectly. And it would not be a simple case of a pill and calling it the end of matters. The situation would have to be monitored; belike the dose would be altered, maybe a poultice needed, possibly an infusion, or a cooling purge. I would not wish to undertake any such procedures without Mr Doust’s attention; I really feel you should consult with him."

  "Very well, if you insist," he sighed. "If you feel yourself incapable of administering a simple drug; one that you would give a regular hand without comment…"

  "Were I to give mercury to a hand, it would be under the surgeon’s directions." Manning interrupted. "I am considering you, as a patient, Mr Soames."

  "Very laudable, I am sure. But when I am prepared to trust you for your diagnosis, where is the trouble?"

  Manning shook his head. "I am sorry but I fail to comprehend why you should be so reluctant to see Mr Doust; this can be a serious condition."

  "This condition, serious or not, is well under your power to cure, Mr Manning." Soames said almost sharply. Then he sighed and looked resigned. "I do not wish to see Mr Doust on account of his brother."

  "His brother?"

  "Yes, his brother is my backer." Soames adjusted the waistband of his britches and sat back in the chair. "I was a captain’s clerk for seven years; Mr Doust junior was purser at my last posting. It was he who put up the bond money to enable my position in this ship."

  "Mr Doust has never spoken of a brother."

  Soames nodded. "I fear the two are of the same mould; conscientious, precise and accurate in all their dealings. Worthy attributes in any man, for sure, and ones I was able to persuade were present in myself. Were he to discover my complaint," Soames cleared his throat and looked slightly awkward. "Well, he might require his funding returned, and certainly would not see his way to advancing more, should it be needed for my next commission."

  Manning smiled and nodded. "I see," he said, and he did, all so clearly.

  "I am prepared to take your medicine, young man," Soames continued. "But I would prefer this to be kept between ourselves, were that possible."

  "Let me think on it."

  "You will not be long?" Soames was starting to find his condition slightly more than inconvenient.

  "I will not," Manning assured him. "We shall speak again at the first dogwatch."

  Mr Soames smiled a genuine smile for the first time. "You will have my thanks, my boy; my heartfelt thanks. And were there anything I could do for you in return, you need but to ask."

  * * * * *

  Banks also had plenty to think about, and needed just the space and time. He mounted the steps to the quarterdeck and made, instinctively, for the windward side. As soon as his presence was noticed the officer and midshipman of the watch retreated, leaving a clear path for him to pace. He was purposely not wearing his hat, an act that formally announced him as off duty and, rather more subtly, indicated that he was temporarily a private person; one who should not be interrupted. The wind had risen slightly, and there was a chill to the air that Banks found quite refreshing; excellent weather for physical exercise, one of many small luxuries that were all but denied the officers.

  But it was not to be. Even before five minutes had passed and without the first signs of a sweat breaking, Banks found his concentration start to wander. The girl, the damned girl from the merchant ship; she was on the quarterdeck: he could see her. Wrapped in a long coat slightly shorter than the dress it covered, she was talking with his officers by the mainmast. Whenever he turned to walk forward she was there, petty skirts flapping in the rising wind, and long hair akimbo. To think, with such an apparition appearing every ten seconds, was all but impossible, and after several attempts at forcing his gaze down to the deck, Banks gave up, and came to a halt.

  Of course it was pure chance that dictated this should happen at the forward end of his walk, when he had reached the fife rails, and was nearly level with her. She turned to smile at him as he stopped, almost as if she had engineered the meeting herself.

  "Good day, captain; I am glad to have the chance to talk with you." Banks found he was smiling, despite the fact that the woman had disturbed his precious private time. "I wanted to thank you for your services to my father."

  "I have done very little," Banks said, pleased despite himself. "It was the medical team who operated; to reduce sail for a short while was really very little inconvenience."

  "That’s as maybe, but I am grateful none the less." She held out her hand, and he touched it, feeling the cold skin soft against his.

  "I... I am glad, and happy: happy that all went, well, or so it appears, for now." Blasted woman, he found himself stammering and stuttering in reply, and on his own quarterdeck. She bowed her head slightly, and there were those eyes, and that darned gaze, the one that seemed to go right through him.

  "I am sure you did not come on deck to talk to me." The truth of her words worried him, it was as if she could read his thoughts, and at that moment his thoughts were something he wished to keep private. "Thank you once more."

  He bowed casually, and she made her way off the quarterdeck. As he watched her go he enjoyed the memory of those eyes, and it was only when she had finally disappeared from sight, and he had returned to reality that he realised he must have been staring rather rudely.

  * * * * *

  "Now’s the time," the heavily tattooed man said with certainty. "There ain’t no point in delaying, not with them three in jink."

  They had been detailed to move stores in the hold. Each day Pandora consumed several hundredweight of food, water and other provisions, and periodically the remaining supplies had to be moved to spread the weight evenly. It was a trifling matter as far as the officers were concerned and Fraiser, the sailing master, had things in hand. Every week or so he would make a rough calculation, and order casks of water and meat, and sacks of flour or biscuit to be moved from their berths, and carried, dragged or in any way manoeuvred, to positions that would make them both accessible, and keep the ship slightly down by the stern; her ideal trim. The thought behind the orders took less than five minutes but the effort that followed could last many hours. And it was heavy work; the casks were large and there was little room for manoeuvre in the dark, airless space just above the bilges. The one advantage that Scales’ party had was that their labour could be carried out virtually unsupervised. The master or the purser would inspect at the end, and a steward might pass by while they were half way through, but in general Scales and the other holders had a free rein. As long as it were done in the prescribed time they could take a rest now and then and providing a wary eye were kept, there was even opportunity for private talk.

  "We sure they’re in custody?" Myatt asked.

  "Sure as can be," the tattooed man, who was as bald as he was colourful, remained positive. "Young Billy says he saw t’jaunty take the proclamation off them. Next thing you knows, they’re heading with King for the captain, and ain’t been heard of since."

  "So they knows we’re gonna start askin’," Parr, this time, another who had joined them from the Channel Fleet, although less than a year ago he had been earning a reasonable living as a pickpocket on the streets of Guildford. "Tain’t no secret we got demands; sent several letters to Lord Howe, much good that it did us."

  "Aye," another agreed a little more carefully. "But that’s just it. What good did it do us? We ain’t been in Pompey for four months or more; anything could ‘ave ‘appened. Black Dick might have got some of the grievances attended to; for all we knows the fleet’s at sea, and we’re heading for an easier life." He turned to the other men. "An’ you all wants us
to take over this ship? Getting a bit beforehand, aren’t we?"

  Scales spat on his palm where a piece of hard skin was starting to flake away. "That’s as maybe, but I don’t see it myself. They were saying nothing when we was taken off an sent down south. All them petitions went unanswered, didn’t even admit they’d got them. When we left, the plan was for a protest in April; well we’re in May now – reckon if the fleet rose up like they said, it won’t be over, and if it is, then we’ve failed."

  "Failed?" Parr looked confused.

  "Aye, failed; there wouldn’t have been the time to organise all our demands."

  Myatt nodded. "Aye, it would not be quick, that’s for certain."

  "But if they get’s Clem Jenkins up before the cap’n, then we’re going to be in trouble, an’ that won’t take no time at all." Parr persisted.

  "You think he’d talk?" Another asked.

  "Oh, he’d talk all right; who wouldn’t to save themselves from a scragging?"

  "So what you suggesting?" This time the question came from Harrison, a man who had found himself in the Navy after confessing to poaching; something he had been very ready to do in order to hide his other crimes.

  Scales looked at his hand, and spoke slowly. "I’m saying we make a move at the end of this cruise."

  The others were quiet as they digested this.

  "We’ll be off Ushant afore we knows it, and in the Channel soon after," Scales continued. "Can’t see the captain taking us anywhere other than Spithead. Mind he’ll stay off if the fleet’s still in strike, an turn away; probably to London, or back to Falmouth, come to that. But the moment we sees the red flags a flying, we act."

  "What, take over the ship?"

  "’sright. Be the safest time. We’ll have our brothers within sight; only got to hold her for an hour, mebe less, and take her to the anchorage."

  "Yeah, but what if the Channel Fleet ‘as sailed?" Myatt asked.

  "Or what if they’re still there," Harrison again. "But there ain’t no mutiny?"

  "Oh, they’ll be there." He looked up briefly. "Most of you are from the Channel Fleet; you know the mood the men were in, an’ know what was a brewing." His attention returned to his hand. "Men sick and tired of being treated worse’n animals; men fed up with askin’ for what’s right, an’ being ignored. They’ll be there, ready to greet us, ready for us to join the fight for what’s fair." He finished examining his palm and clapped his hands together suddenly. "So what do you say?"