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

by Alaric Bond

  The other men nodded or grunted approvingly. Scales smiled in the dim light. "But we got to play this pretty careful. Captain’s gonna be worried, what with catching hold of Jenkins and the rest. He’s gonna start asking questions, and getting all uppity. We got to be a bit clever; make them think there ain’t no problem. Then, when the time comes, they won’t know what’s hit ‘em!"

  * * * * *

  Powell’s predicted calm had lasted just long enough for the operation to take place, but now the glass was falling and the ship began to groan once more as the wind grew. A chorus of whistles signalled that the officer of the watch was calling for topmen, and soon Pandora was once more punching broad Atlantic rollers. Manning, having returned from the interview with Soames, found Kate watching her father intently. She stood up when she saw him, but was still slightly bent under the low deckhead, and at that instant Pandora chose to give a slight but sudden lurch that threw the girl against him. He caught and steadied her, and they laughed self consciously, although their eyes met and neither tried to draw apart. It was the briefest of moments, but seemed endless to them both; they were silent, until a single word shattered the trance.

  "Kate," it was half a whisper, and had not been uttered by Manning. They broke apart and turned to the patient. Nothing had apparently changed; he still lay still, although Kate dropped to her knees and peered close.

  "Are you awake?"

  "Kate, is that you?" his voice was a little firmer, but the eyes remained closed.

  "Yes, it’s me." She looked up to Manning and beamed at him delightfully, before returning to her father. "You’re safe, you’re going to be well, and you’re being looked after by the most wonderful man I have ever met."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE message had been given to Crowley in the gunroom, who had passed it on to Dupont, the captain’s steward, who duly delivered it to the captain, and it was no accident that he did so along with a plate of devilled ox kidneys, his favourite breakfast. Banks took the large piece of folded paper, and glanced at Dupont enquiringly.

  "From the men, sir," Dupont said, his accent soft and voice low. "Would you be requiring eggs and bacon?"

  "No thank you," Banks replied automatically. The bacon they had taken on in Portugal had lasted well, due mainly to the strong flavour that both preserved the meat and made it all but indigestible first thing in the morning. But still there was the note, and he was no more the wiser as to its source.

  He glanced at his servant again, but the lowered eyes, and reserved manner gave nothing away. Banks examined the paper closely; a single sheet, folded twice over, but not sealed, and with his name written in ink in a clear, round face. Not the work of a clerk or an educated man, but certainly no simpleton either. He dropped it on to the table and tried to give his full attention to his breakfast.

  It would be a ‘Round Robin’, he knew that, although never, in his life had he seen one, nor had he ever thought to be a recipient. The crew of Pandora were organised: each man was in a mess and each mess a division and each division a watch. Officers, either petty, junior, or commissioned, oversaw each segregation and were responsible for the health, efficiency and morale of the men under their charge. In theory any problem encountered was either solved, or passed on to the next senior in rank for attention. For a grievance to be given from the men to the captain, a grievance that, by its very nature, would have been signed or marked by a good proportion of the crew, meant that something had gone seriously wrong with the system. That was cause for concern in itself, without considering the fact that there was clearly a problem important enough for the men to rouse themselves and risk approaching him directly.

  Banks paused to drain the last of his coffee from the pot. They had made good progress, and would shortly be entering the Channel. A few more days and they should be in sight of the island, and their Spithead base. If Caulfield was right, when they left Portugal the word had been that the Channel Fleet were unhappy. Apparently their demands had been made straight to the Admiralty, who would have to seek further approval; but even taken at their lowest worth, the men wanted far more than the government would be able to give.

  He sighed; there was nothing firm to make his judgement on other than rumours and supposition. The semaphore station at Falmouth would give him more information, and it would take little more than a day out of his schedule, to divert there. If the unthinkable had occurred, and the Channel Fleet had risen up in revolt, it would save him sailing straight into trouble.

  He looked at the note again, but still continued to eat. There were problems amongst his own crew, that had been made obvious, but nothing on the scale of a full uprising, surely? But then how would he know?

  In the past, when a crew had mutinied, had the officers expected it? He smiled to himself - almost certainly not. Would they have had warnings, other than a rolling round shot during the middle watch? Did they receive notes from the people? And if they did, how long afterwards had the revolt occurred? Was it days? Weeks? Hours? If this note gave demands he was unable to meet, would the prospect of a home port in a few days be enough to contain the uprising? And if, when they did arrive, they found that the Channel Gropers really were in mutiny, would it just be a formality for his people to take over the ship and join them?

  Banks laid down his fork. Maybe it was age, or experience, but of late he fancied himself becoming a little more serene; if a question could not be answered, where was the purpose in asking it? He had twenty-eight marines on board, along with their officers; each was a volunteer, and each would think nothing of using force against any seaman, if he were ordered. But twenty eight was nothing when the crew were determined, and even if he could count on a few loyal souls to even the balance, Pandora would be taken; there could be no doubt about that.

  He collected his fork and finished his kidneys, scraping up the last of the sauce with a mixture of regret and resignation. The coffee was cold in his cup; there really was no point in putting off the moment any longer. He picked up the paper, opened, and read it twice, before folding it once more, and replacing it on the table. A slight smile played about his lips as he breathed out for what felt like the first time in ages. He reached for the coffee pot and found it empty. Suddenly he felt hungry; despite the kidneys, he wanted more, and the idea of strong bacon did not seem really quite so bad. And there were the eggs – it had not been possible to stock up with fresh at Tagus; he had been jealously hoarding the last few. It would be stupid not to eat them now, when they were so close to home. And another pot of coffee, hot coffee, he had drunk the last almost without noticing, and all because he had been worrying needlessly. The smile was full on his face as he roared for Dupont, and more breakfast.

  * * * * *

  "I’ll tell you what, Mr temporary assistant acting surgeon’s mate, Manning," she tapped him on his nose with her forefinger playfully. "I’ve been invited to dine with the captain."

  "The captain?" He was surprised, but not as much as he sounded. It wasn’t unheard of for passengers to dine with the captain, after all. And when they were as young and lovely as Kate, it would indeed be strange if she were not asked.

  "That’s right, he sent a messenger just after breakfast; seems we’re entering the Channel, and will be home afore we knows it. He’s having a dinner at three, and I’m requested to attend. He asked my father as well, but he won’t be able."

  Of course not. Captain Black had made a remarkable recovery and could speak, eat and would soon be able to walk, although he was still far from well. He tired easily and was inclined to break a conversation with the sudden shout of an irrelevant word if his fragile train of thought were broken. He had also been violent on one occasion; Powell had removed his soup before he had considered it completely finished, and had received a smart blow to the face that had drawn blood. Since then Mr Doust had kept him liberally dosed with laudanum; something that subdued and encouraged sleep, which they all knew was healing, although Manning wondered how many problems were b
eing stored up for the future.

  "Captain’s table’s a grand affair," Manning said, shaking his head ruefully. "A lady’s gonna have to make some particular efforts to impress. Pandora’s a King’s ship: she has high standards."

  "Pah!" she tapped him on his nose again, but grinned playfully. "You don’t catch me with that one. There ain’t no great ladies aboard this little tub, an’ the captain’s a reasonable cove, he won’t expect me to come in grand finery!"

  "Captain won’t expect you to call him a cove, that’s for certain." This time he dodged the tap, although almost regretted the lack of touch. Their recently discovered intimacy was a new experience for Manning. He had had friends amongst women before, of course, but with Kate the stakes had risen dramatically.

  "So, you’d be game then?" She asked, toying with the pewter cup that had held her mid morning drink.

  "Me, am I invited?"

  "Not by the captain, but I’m inviting you. He said I am to bring a guest, and Mr Doust an’ Mr Powell ain’t available, so it has to be you, don’t it?"

  The jibes about Kate’s apparel came back to haunt him now. He had signed on as a surgeon’s mate with just about enough to buy the medical books he needed to read up on his duties. In the six months or so since there had been a small amount of prize money, but that had gone before he’d known it, and he was still wearing the same waistcoats, shirts and britches that he had begun with. Of course there was that open offer from the purser; Manning guessed he could easily obtain a set of fancy clothes with just a word to Mr Soames, although he felt oddly reluctant to presume upon the man.

  "Mr Manning?" How strange; Soames was standing at the entrance to the sickbay even as he thought of him. "If you have a moment?"

  Manning smiled briefly at Kate, before rising from the table and walking across to the purser, who was apparently unwilling to enter the room.

  "I am sorry to bother you so," the older man said, his voice low and his words almost whispered. "The condition has slightly increased, and caused me much trouble in the night. I’d be greatly obliged were we to start the treatment most promptly."

  Manning nodded. "I have taken reference and feel an initial dose of a mercurial tablet would be a reasonable opening." He reached into his waistcoat pocket and brought out one small tablet that appeared slightly blue in the gloom of the sick bay.

  "I will give you a supply directly," he said, handing the pill to Soames.

  "Please do not concern yourself," the purser shot the tablet into his mouth and swallowed it greedily. "A store, or any form of supply, might be discovered; gunroom servants are inclined to talk, don’t you know?"

  "Very well, if you attend me at the same time tomorrow I will administer another dose. You might not notice a change for the meantime, but one can be expected within a few days. Until then no strong drink or heavily spiced food, and take rest whenever possible."

  The man nodded twice, and left eagerly. Manning turned back to where Kate was watching him with interest.

  "That would be the purser, would it not?" she asked.

  "Mr Soames, yes," Manning replied awkwardly, hoping she would not ask more.

  "Well, I don’t know him as a man, but as a purser I’d say he were deficient."

  "In truth?"

  "The stores he buys are not fresh. Believe me, I have victualled my father’s ships for long enough and know six week biscuit from twelve."

  Manning shrugged. "Preserved food is never the most attractive."

  "Pah! He buys old for a lower cost, and passes it off as fresh." She paused to brush her dark, long hair from her eyes in a way that caused Manning pleasurable pain. "Ask me, the man’s amassing a tidy sum for himself. And you, and the rest of the officers, are doing nothing to stop him."

  * * * * *

  Men joined Pandora in various ways. Less than a quarter had volunteered, while slightly more than half had been pressed. These came either by the official and highly organised impressment service, the ship’s own irregular press gang, or had been taken from other ships. The latter were mainly from homecoming merchant vessels, who had thought themselves safe when entering British waters, only to be stopped, boarded and all but stripped of their crews. They might be returning from several years at sea, but as far as the Royal Navy was concerned, it was day one of a fresh commission. And some came via the newly established Quota Act, the law that placed an obligation on every county to provide able men to serve His Majesty. These inevitably were the petty, and sometimes not so petty, criminals that the county was glad to be rid of, glad to see gone to a service who would take what good it could and discard the chaff. Finally there were the foreigners, men who had abandoned their own country, either by desire or chance, and had now taken Great Britain as their own, and her fight as their fight. Of all the methods, Crowley’s entry had been closest to the last, though his had an extra cachet that made him more remarkable. Though Irish, he had been taken as a prisoner from the French frigate Aiguille that Pandora had captured earlier in the year. And he had volunteered, entering the service of a King he did not recognise, and a country he had been bred from birth to despise.

  Despite this somewhat dubious start, Crowley was as sound and loyal as anyone with his acknowledged lack of home or beliefs could be. He had formed an immediate bond with King when he, as acting lieutenant, had been placed aboard the nightmare that had been the captured Aiguille. With a crew and several hundred soldiers more than decimated by the battle that Pandora had ultimately won, it had been King, with Crowley’s assistance, that had saved the ship from foundering and kept her, and the remains of her crew, afloat long enough to see Gibraltar. Crowley had volunteered for Pandora on arrival there, and was readily accepted by men well versed in converting those unwilling to serve. But Crowley had not been unwilling; he had simply been without a cause. His life to that time had been one in search of a goal, a target for his energy and ambition. He had joined the invasion organised by Wolfe Tone ostensibly to release his birth country from the oppression of British rule, although it had not been lost on him at the time that Ireland would simply be exchanging one master for another. With the capture of Aiguille, and the subsequent collapse of the invasion, chance had led him to joining the British, and ultimately fighting for them. Now, after just a few months aboard, he felt more comfortable with the ship and her people than he had anywhere, and with anything, in his life so far.

  But one as sensitive to the feelings of his fellow men as Crowley was, could not ignore the dangerous undercurrent he had detected when the draft from the Channel Fleet had been taken on. It was as if saltpetre had been added to sulphur and charcoal; all that were needed was the spark, and there would be an explosion. Now that spark was very readily available, and rapidly growing into a flame.

  King had come off watch and was finishing a somewhat bland and totally alcohol free figgy dowdy that had been prepared for the officers’ dessert. The gunroom was apparently empty; a rare occasion in itself, although the cabins that lined either side might not be, and all but the quietest of conversations were in danger of being overheard through the thin partitions that separated them.

  "I wonder if I might have a word, sir." King always felt strange when Crowley addressed him so, as the bonds of friendship and common service were stronger than any rank that separated them.

  "Of course, Michael; what’s on your mind?"

  Crowley lowered himself and spoke softly. "I delivered a ‘Round Robin’ to the captain's steward this morning," he said.

  "I see," King considered the remains of his pudding. "Sit down, won’t you?" Crowley sat awkwardly, and the two men’s faces instinctively drew together. "Should you be telling me this?" King asked.

  "Possibly not, but I felt I must. It’s on account that it’s not right, if you see what I mean."

  "No, I fear you fail me. What are they asking for?"

  "They asked for nothing, that is very much the point." Crowley continued. "There was none of the regular grievances as might be
expected. The very mirror in effect. They assured the captain there was no need for concern. That loyal men, who would stand by him, manned the ship. An’ it were signed and marked by a good proportion of the people. Not every man; that would never have done, but more than half: a deal more."

  "But that is good, surely?"

  "It’s wrong, Thomas. Very wrong. Those that signed in faith, all well and power to them, but I fear there were many who signed in fraud. Many who are ready to take this ship over. It is only the chance they are lacking, and that chance will soon be coming."

  "What do you know of these men, Michael?"

  "Nothing for sure" Crowley said simply. "Least, nothing that you or anyone else could take to the captain," he paused. "And I am not a man who goes against his fellows. But then I’ll also not see others that I like an’ respect turned over for the sake of a few evil, tainted ones. Which is why I’m speaking with you now."

  King considered this for a moment. "But the captain, he believes the message?"

  "So it would seem. He has released the men he had in custody when the note was found."

  "Flint, Jenkins…"

  "Aye, an’ Jameson, they’ll be back in their watch by now; an’ no hard feelings."

  "Are they sound?"

  "Oh yes, they’re straight, sure enough. But watch for others."

  "New men?"

  "Aye, from the Channel draft."

  "Seamen?"

  "In the main, no; though there be Jacks enough amongst them."

  "What are they planning?"

  "I couldn’t say, and not just because I’m not knowing," he smiled briefly. "But I wouldn’t want you to face a problem without hearing something of it first."