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

by Alaric Bond

  "You’ll excuse me, sir?"

  Manning jerked back to reality to realise that he had been staring at a closed book for some time, and that Soames, the purser, had entered the sick bay and was standing watching him.

  "Mr Soames, my apologies; I did not hear you."

  "Indeed? Well I wished not to disturb your wool gathering, but thought it time for another dose."

  "Of course," Manning extracted the pill he had placed in his waistcoat pocket earlier that morning and passed it across. "The symptoms, sir; are they in any way changed?"

  "No difference," Soames threw the tablet into the back of his mouth and swallowed it straight down in one motion. "Apart from a dizzy head, a thick tongue and my guts in such disorder that you would not credit."

  Manning nodded, "I fear that is a side effect, but relief should come in time."

  The purser nodded grimly and left without another word. Relief should come in time; Manning sighed: with all of modern medical science and potions without number at his disposal, that was probably his best cure as well. A fortnight before he had not known the girl: two weeks hence, who could tell? Although deep in his belly the young man knew he would remember her for always and miss her far longer.

  * * * * *

  "I think we should keep the people active." Caulfield said to Fraiser as the latter took another bearing to check the anchors were behaving themselves.

  "Aye, with no further word from the captain, we can expect to be here a fair while longer."

  Caulfield stroked his chin thoughtfully. A fair while was probably right, possibly not long enough to necessitate setting down topmasts, although he knew of few evolutions that were quite so public, or worthy of comment, and consequently likely to encourage the men to give their all.

  "The people are certainly listless," he said in a softer tone. "I feel some exercise with the yards to be in order."

  "It would not hurt and might bring some spirit back to them."

  Caulfield stepped forward and brought his silver whistle to his lips. The men responded readily enough, and in no time the shrouds were black with topmen busily working aloft. Fraiser watched for a moment. They would be bound to take in stores, and the hold would have to be rearranged. Many of the holders had come from the Channel Fleet draft, and had now been removed, but there would be enough left to make a start, even without reorganising the watch bill. Below him the carpenter’s crew were at work rigging a stage to inspect the damaged quarter gallery, and the smell of pitch was starting to permeate the air, along with that of paint and marine glue. Clearly every department was taking advantage of the rest and there was no doubt that Pandora would be the better for it, in fabric if not in spirit.

  * * * * *

  "We’re to sail on the afternoon’s second high, once the people are fed."

  They had lain at anchor for three days, for three days the usual routine of a ship of war had been postponed, replaced by a series of light repairs and general maintenance that slowly gave way to more intensive exercise. It was the time when arrangements would normally be made for wives and other followers to be allowed on board, but no such request was made, and even the shore bumboats, the bringers of fruit, illicit drink, exorbitant exchange rates against pay tickets and, often enough, colds and other ailments, did not approach them. Of all the homecomings any on board had previously made, it was certainly the strangest.

  The captain had been absent the whole time, and only now stood on the quarterdeck fresh from his gig. He wore a new undress uniform and an expression of detached irritation; it was clear that either his business ashore, or the return to Pandora, had displeased him greatly, and his officers responded to both his mood and announcement with quiet deference.

  "Single up during the morning watch, if you please, Mr Caulfield," he continued. "I want no delays, no distractions. The Katharine Ruth is to stay in Portsmouth to be condemned; we will be escorting the merchants on to London, then continue to Yarmouth and join my Lord Duncan, and the North Sea Squadron."

  "Very good sir." Caulfield touched his hat automatically as he took the information in. The posting was just about as far away from the Mediterranean as it was possible to get, and known as the hardest station, both for weather and duties. The entire east coast from Selsey Bill would have to be patrolled, and the standard and quality of the ships were notoriously second rate. Banks caught his eye and relaxed slightly.

  "There’ll be no sailing for foreign stations, not for as long as this nonsense continues," he looked pointedly at the Channel Fleet still anchored across the water. "They’re giving us to Duncan; he’s preciously short of fast sailers, and we seem to have won ourselves a reputation in that department with the board."

  Caulfield nodded, noticing the captain’s slight unbending. "But what of our repairs, sir? Pandora needs to be properly set up, maybe a minor refit."

  "Sheerness can take us; not a refit, but at least some of the damage we have suffered might be addressed; a patch up job, I fear," he added hastily. "News is not good from the north; I cannot say more. Perchance we can make further repairs later, but more likely all else will wait until we raise Yarmouth."

  "Very good, sir."

  "And maybe not then; in fact maybe not at all, Mr Caulfield. As I have said, the news is not good; it would be better to expect the worst," he smiled suddenly, and a glimpse of the old captain was allowed to slip out. "That way any surprises we encounter will be of the better variety, if you follow my meaning."

  * * * * *

  It appeared that surprises were the order of the day, although the surgeon was able to contain his. "You’ve not given me much of a chance to consider things," he said evenly.

  Manning nodded. "Sir, I realise that. To be honest it is something I have not thought greatly about, although you will accept that my intentions are genuine, and I feel myself ready."

  "Oh yes, there’s none that would be doubting you. But I cannot talk with the captain now, and that is the normal way of things."

  "We are bound for the Nore, sir. I could settle my business and meet with Pandora there."

  "You’re asking me to make this unofficial then?" The brow furrowed very slightly.

  "I would not put you in a difficult position. I will rejoin Pandora, of that you have my word."

  "And in the meanwhile?"

  "Sir?"

  "Should we see action between here and the Thames; not something that is totally unheard of, I fear..."

  "You will have Powell, sir, and the other loblolly boys."

  Doust smiled suddenly. "I would, and though you might be missed, I chance that a better surgeon will be coming back to me at London than is asking to leave at Portsmouth, and that I would welcome greatly."

  "Thank you, sir," Manning smiled weakly

  "I will have to tell the captain, of course."

  "The captain?"

  Doust caught the lad’s expression and relaxed suddenly. "Och, it can be no concern for him. I’ll tell him if I’m asked, but you go about your business, and return a happier man."

  * * * * *

  It was two bells in the afternoon watch: one o’clock. The hands were just finishing their dinner, and would then attend to the final anchor that still lay in the Spithead slime. The morning had been busy, with the last of the water being taken on just before ‘Up Spirits’. The hands in the water lighter had been laughing and chattering like monkeys, so much so that Fraiser was quite sure that some of them had access to drink. But they were also full of news and, despite the fact that it was mainly good, they seemed eager to spread it.

  "Belike they’ve come to a reconciliation," King told Caulfield when he came on deck. "Strangest thing I’ve heard in many a year."

  Caulfield nodded, but then the whole business had been bizarre in the extreme.

  "A fleet to mutiny, that’s unheard of, surely?"

  "Aye, that’s as maybe, but they settled it soon enough, so it were clear someone was in the wrong."

  "Settled within the
month, they’re saying, with Royal pardons for all. An’ they’re taking the delegates for dinner this afternoon."

  Caulfield looked at him sidelong. "For dinner? You heard that?"

  "The men in the last hoy were adamant," King confirmed.

  Caulfield shook his head. "The whole world’s gone mad," he said flatly.

  They were almost level with the anchored fleet off St Helens, and could see lines of small boats heading for the flagship. Then, with a roar that could be heard across the Solent, the red flags started to be hauled down as further fresh outbursts of cheering broke out. Ships bells were rung and a night signal rocket rose up in a pyramid of yellow from the quarterdeck of a seventy-four. King smiled at Caulfield. "Looks like it be true then."

  "Aye, true enough, and let’s hope we hears no more of demands and the like. Country’s at war; this ain’t the time for all to be complaining. Settle our score with the French, then we can address problems at home. I’ve had my fill of mutinous demands, and am mightily glad we’ll be hearing no more of them."

  * * * * *

  Manning examined the insect with interest, it was dark in colour and far, far larger than the usual pink 'bargemen' that were relatively common in ship’s biscuit, although even they were rarely found in home waters. This had taken time to grow, and even if all and sundry might refer to it as a weevil, it was actually a type of beetle; stegobium paniceum, or so his reference book told him. Hard, round and relatively heavy; it had grown to a considerable size: according to his source, it had reached an advanced stage of development. He had found it in the hard tack bag he had opened that morning. The sick berth having the choice of provisions, it had come from the most recent delivery, taken on board Pandora only the day before. So in theory the biscuit should have been fresh; the freshest available in the ship, but the presence of a large bread beetle told a different story. Her words came back to him as he examined the creature; clearly Mr Soames the purser was not buying, or insisting upon, premium supplies. It might be pure chance, of course, but then he could also be dishonest; accepting stale provisions from the dockyard victuallers for a small, or not so small, personal consideration. Manning bounced the beetle in his hand reflectively as he considered the matter. A noise alerted him and he looked up to see the man himself, furtively entering the sick bay. He rose, still clutching the beetle. The purser and his condition was something Manning had forgotten about in his haste to be rid of the ship. He would have to provide him with a supply of mercurial tablets, if he was to go ashore for any period.

  "Ah, Mr Manning, I wonder if I might impose upon you." The purser’s bullfrog face broke into a slimy, ingratiating, smile.

  Manning unconsciously clutched the beetle in his hand. "How are matters progressing, Mr Soames?"

  "Capital, capital. I still have the side effects from your treatment, of course, but the condition itself seems to be accounting well. I cannot thank you enough."

  "I am glad of it," he reached out towards the purser with the beetle enclosed in his closed fist. "I wonder if there is something I might bring up in return?"

  "Of course, of course, my dear fellow. Did I not say I would be happy to reciprocate in any way I could?"

  Soames held his hand under Manning’s, and received the beetle into his open palm.

  "It is provisions, sir; an item I wanted to raise with you."

  Soames accepted the beetle causally. "Anything you wish for, Mr Manning, anything at all" and with a sweep of his hand the purser shot the creature into his mouth. "Just state your needs and I will provide," he said smugly, manoeuvring the thing to the back of his throat before swallowing it whole.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ONCE more the tide was with them as they approached anchored British shipping, but this time the tension on the quarterdeck was almost tangible. They had left the convoy to continue alone, and collected a pilot off North Foreland. The man was conning the ship well enough, leaving the officers, currently assembled on the quarterdeck, strangely void of responsibility. The leadsman at the forechains maintained a slow, regular chant, marking out the sandy depth beneath Pandora’s keel and, unintentionally, counting them nearer to the small untidy group of warships that lay at rest.

  They were taking the Queen’s, or Middle, Channel, the South being too shallow, even for Pandora’s meagre draft, and were just edging past the sandbanks off Minster on the Isle of Sheppey, heading almost directly for the Great Nore anchorage.

  "I see flags," King said finally. It was true: they had been visible for some while although none on board Pandora had cared to admit the fact. Apart from the lightweight escorts and independent frigates, there were only a few larger vessels. Just a handful of line-of-battleships, the backbone of the fleet, but it was these that helped to make up the North Sea Squadron. Rumours were rife that, barely thirty miles away, an army was gathering intent on the invasion of England. These ships were all that denied them use of the Channel, and they were now blatantly flying the red flag of mutiny.

  "But it had been settled," Caulfield muttered, the exasperation evident in his voice. "When we left Spithead, not three days back, all was agreed."

  "Belike the news has not reached them?" King said, though he knew that, even without semaphore, reports of the agreement must have been made known throughout England.

  They were drawing closer now, and individual ships could be made out.

  "That’s Sandwich," Caulfield pointed at the aged battleship, a participant in a much earlier Battle of Cape St. Vincent, although it was unlikely that she would ever see foreign service again. "Flagship, depot ship, receiving tender; a real jack of every trade."

  "I hears she carries more’n twelve ‘undred above her standing compliment," Lewis, a master’s mate, added.

  "Must be a mite uncomfortable." King mused. "I’d wager the only thing they don’t suffer from is loneliness."

  They stood in silence as Pandora drew level with the other rebel ships. Three were liners, including Sandwich, together with some smaller vessels. As King watched a crowd began to flow up the shrouds, and soon were waving in their direction. A chorus of cheers and calls came to them. King momentarily held his breath, but there was no response from Pandora’s men. He glanced down towards the waist. The watch on deck seemed quietly attentive; a group with the boatswain were replacing a stay that had become worn, and the sailmaker was supervising the stowing of the fore topgallant, which was due to be replaced. Some looked towards the cheering, and a couple gave derisory waves in return, but it was obvious the men did not wish to associate themselves with the mutineers.

  Now the cheering had changed to catcalls and shouts of abuse. In Sandwich King could see some form of argument was in progress; a group were clearly trying to launch a small boat, while another attempted to stop them.

  "Larboard a point, steady." The pilot, a solid man worthy of his profession, was clearly ignoring the diversion and continuing to take them in. Then they were past Cheyney Rock and the dangerous sands and preparing to round Garrison Point; ahead lay the mouth of the Medway. The noise of a gun cracked close by making all on the quarterdeck jump. King turned back and saw a cloud of smoke disappearing from one of the upper deck battery in Sandwich. There was no sign of the shot. A chill ran through his body as the pilot ordered them round. One of the seamen nearby swore softly to himself; King empathised totally. Pandora was a warship and all aboard were used to being under fire, but for another of her own country to deliberately take aim was disagreeable in the extreme. The ship creaked as she finally turned her stern to the rebel ships and allowed the tide to carry her on to the safety of the Sheerness dockyard. Clearly the mutiny at the Nore was being run on very different lines to that of Spithead.

  * * * * *

  "Six days, captain," the short and slightly stocky man told him. "Eight at the most." He was commonly known as a Foreman Afloat, and had probably seen and assessed a hundred warships in his time.

  Banks stroked his chin; eight days was longer than he had hoped
for, especially with the problems across the water. Not only would he have to disable Pandora, and submit her to the care of dockyard workers, but there was his own crew to keep happy in the meanwhile.

  "I have my people to consider," he said. "We’re well below compliment, but there would still be a fair number to accommodate."

  The man shook his head. "Can’t do nothing about that, I’m afraid. Usual measure would be to use the old Sandwich, but there’s no tellin’ what’s going on aboard her at present."

  "When did the trouble start?" Banks would normally have avoided discussing a mutiny with an unknown landsman; he could not be sure where his true sympathies might lie, but the man was clearly trying to help, and there was no shame in ignorance.

  "’bout five days back. There’d been a court martial in Inflexible, trying Captain Savage for the loss of ’is ship. Same day Sandwich was ordered to clear before unmooring; most of the officers was at the court, an’ the men just took over. Told the number one he ‘ad to go, and gave him the choice: by boat or by noose; they didn’t care which. Admiral Buckner never went back to his flagship, but Captain Mosse, he were game enough an’ faced them. Much good it did him mind, the men were respectful enough, but it were like they didn’t know what they wanted themselves."

  "They have no leader?"

  "Don’t seem like it. They got delegates, representatives from all the ships up the estuary, but no one wants to take control." The man’s honest blue eyes stared hard at Banks. "There’s some on shore what approves of all this. But, after getting things straight at Spithead, there’s a fair few what don’t," he said, earnestly. "It’s a mess, an’ no mistake."

  It sounded like one. For the people to rise up was bad enough, for them to do so without control or leadership was far, far worse.

  "That doesn’t solve my problem of accommodation. Would those hulks be of any use?"

  Across the water four elderly ships had been dismasted and now lay at permanent moorings, with awnings across the decks and heavy staging to the entry ports.