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

by Alaric Bond

  * * * * *

  It brought the enemy coast, first sighted as dawn was breaking. Pandora had been sailing under topsails alone throughout the night, and as the first sign of a misty headland was reported, King altered course to the northeast, as the other officers joined him on the quarterdeck.

  "I’d say we were off Walcheren Island, Fraiser said, as the hand at the deep sea line called nineteen fathoms. "There are banks here about that might not be showing on the chart." He looked up at the wind. "I’d suggest a point further to the north to be the safer."

  "Very good, Mr Fraiser," Banks said without hesitation. "Make it so, and I’d like the lookouts doubled, with each man replaced hourly, alternating a bell apart."

  It was a sensible precaution when so deep into enemy waters, especially with a wind eager to press them closer. Caulfield gave the orders as the light slowly revealed more about their landfall.

  Fraiser was right, a small church and a semaphore station that woke as soon as Pandora came into sight, confirmed his dead reckoning, and for the rest of the morning the British ship cruised slowly up the Dutch coast, with the doleful chanting of the leadsman continually checking their depth.

  Small craft a plenty could be seen sheltering in the numerous inlets, and were scrupulously noted, although none appeared to be anything other than light coasters, with the occasional larger merchant laid up in ordinary. When the Batavian Republic had been declared, just over two years before, the Dutch fleet had numbered more than thirty line-of-battleships, with at least another forty frigates. But none were to be seen, and Pandora continued up the enemy coastline with total freedom.

  Noon, with sightings and the start of the new navigational day, also brought the first warning of a change in the weather. The wind, which had held strong and constant, now grew fitful and the glass dropped alarmingly. By the time the hands had returned from their meal the first drops of rain had begun to fall, and as four bells in the afternoon watch struck, a solid layer of heavy cloud was bearing down upon them, reducing visibility and instilling a feeling of impending doom amongst the watch on deck. It was then that the wind returned with a vengeance.

  "I’d say we would be wise to stand out, sir." Fraiser warned Banks, as the two stood on the quarterdeck, with watch coats gradually gaining weight in the heavily driven rain. "There’s no telling, with the sea bed as it is."

  "Very well," Banks bellowed in reply. The conditions were worsening by the moment, and he didn’t think they would miss anything in the next few hours.

  But he was wrong. Within minutes the masthead reported a sail between them and the land. It was a small ship, off their starboard bow, and the lookouts could have been forgiven for missing it completely, as the blurred image almost merged with the dark coastline that itself could barely be defined against the heavy sky.

  Banks studied it through his glass as they crept up through the thick grey afternoon; it was a ship rigged sloop, probably carrying less than twenty guns, but it flew the Batavian flag, and was prey as far as he was concerned. Presumably she had spotted Pandora some while ago, and was hoping to find shelter in the shallows; it was a plan that had gone horribly awry for the small craft. The low draft that meant she could sail closer to the shore than a frigate was also a disadvantage, as she had little resistance against the wind which was now driving her hard against her own coast.

  He glanced up at the fully reefed topsails, it would be reckless to enlarge the sail area in such a storm, but the enemy were off his starboard bow and he needed to increase speed in order to hold them. Caulfield touched his hat briefly as the order to shake out a reef was given. A swarm of topmen flew up the weather shrouds, and spread along the topsail yards, fumbling with the soaked reefing lines and battling the straining canvas that threatened to knock each from their perilous perch and down into the dark waters where only death awaited them. Pandora heeled further to starboard as the wind found the fresh sail and began to creak alarmingly as she dug her forefoot deep into the crusted waves.

  "Clear for action, if you please, Mr Caulfield." The increase in sail had done the trick; the sloop was slowly being caught and should soon be in range of Pandora’s long nines. The Dutch Navy did not carry carronades: the large calibre lightweight guns that the Royal Navy considered an ideal armament for small craft. This ship would have conventional long guns; it was even possible that she also carried nine pounders, although less in number and her firing platform was bound to be far less stable. Besides, even a sixth rate, never a type known for stout timbers or sturdy bulwarks, boasted a stronger hull than any kindle-wood constructed sloop.

  Banks watched the small ship as she gradually came into his field of fire. If he had been in the enemy captain’s position he might have considered tacking; it was unlikely that Pandora would be as nimble in stays. But then the other commander knew these waters better than he did, and might have reason to keep his course.

  The previous casting of the lead had been considerably shallower, although Pandora still had several fathoms under her keel. A sudden cold dread ran through his body, "Master!" he shouted to Fraiser, standing less than three feet from, him. "Are there any major hazards in the area?"

  Fraiser shook his head. "Nothing charted, sir. The seabed shelves regularly enough though."

  Banks nodded; that was consistent with the grey coastline they had been following all day; but still an inner feeling remained, warning him that the enemy might be leading them to disaster.

  Caulfield announced the ship cleared for action as the sloop entered Pandora’s extreme firing range. Banks peered forward again; this might still be an elaborate trap, or simply that the enemy crew were too inexperienced to manoeuvre in such weather. Then he saw her topsails quiver, and noted with strange relief that the sloop was attempting to turn.

  She had chosen to wear; not surprising in the circumstances and also reassuring, as it meant there must be more depth than Banks had expected. Fraiser also noticed the manoeuvre, and collected the speaking trumpet from the binnacle. Pandora would follow her round; they would lose some sea room, but the apparent confirmation that there were no major obstacles beneath was worth any delay in the action.

  Pandora whipped about in the strong wind, and was just taking up speed once more when it happened. The sloop had also settled on her new heading, although both ships had been swept further inshore. For the sloop, it was slightly too far.

  The first sign that she had grounded was the snap of tophamper, as her masts collapsed about her in a tangle. One moment she was a beautiful, lithe creature, battling the elements on equal terms, the next: a waterlogged lump, bestrewn with a snarl of lines, timber and canvas that seemed destined to all but drag her under.

  Banks immediately ordered Pandora two points to starboard; if it were too shallow for a sloop, they were probably in equal danger, but the British ship beat her way out to sea safely, leaving the stricken enemy immobile in her wake.

  Once a reasonable amount of sea room had been won back, Pandora wore once more, and returned to the grounded ship. The wind had eased slightly, although the waves were still fringed with a white crust, and spray mingled painfully with the rain. Much of the wreckage of masts and yards had been cut away, and it appeared that the Dutch crew were trying to re-float the vessel. King, peering at them through the deck glass, could make out men on her deck, struggling with the guns, clearly attempting to lever them over the side to lighten the ship. The sloop was still a good mile or more from the shore, which appeared deserted in the gloom of late afternoon.

  "We’ll pass and wear again, have the red cutter ready and manned." Banks said, gauging the waves professionally. "I’m looking for volunteers, both amongst the boat crew and whoever is to command."

  Lewis, one of the master’s mates, stepped forward along with King. Banks considered them. "I’ll take Mr Lewis first," he said finally. "Though I can‘t afford to lose either of you. Choose your men from those who offer, and be ready on the larboard side." He turned to King. "We
’ll drop the larboard cutter, then continue and wear as before. Prepare the starboard cutter with a crew, we might need you yet."

  Pandora turned about for the third time, and swept down upon the grounded ship. Backing sails, the cutter was deposited into the water, and soon was heading toward the sloop under oars. King watched its hesitant progress intently, aware that he would be in a similar position shortly. The boat was at an ideal angle, with the stern taking all of the wind and waves square on. Lewis looked entirely soaked, although that hardly distinguished him from any other member of the cutter’s crew, or Pandora’s come to that. They were equipped with masts and sails, but Lewis had apparently decided oar power to be more predictable, and they certainly seemed to be closing with the sloop, that would soon be a wreck, quickly enough.

  The cutter passed by the hull, and came about on the leeward side, gaining what shelter there was. King strained to watch what was happening but the wind was taking Pandora on past the scene. Doubtless they would be wearing again shortly: then it would be his turn to take to the water.

  The return trip took longer, the cutter being heavily laden, and the men were rowing in the very teeth of the gale. Fraiser delayed the frigate’s manoeuvre until the cutter had started back towards them, a group of men lying huddled beneath her gunwales. Lewis was sensibly steering for a position roughly in line with their drop off point, and as Pandora resumed her course once more, it was obvious that both men’s calculations had been about right.

  "Scrambling nets and falls," Banks looked about. "Mr King, are you prepared?"

  King touched his hat and was turning to the boat crew that had assembled when a cry went up. The wreck had shifted, and was now bottom up, and turning slowly in the storm. Pandora’s crew watched in horrified fascination as the hull eventually righted itself, and was momentarily afloat, with one figure clutching valiantly at the remains of the main shrouds. Then she tipped once more and plunged under only to emerge again, empty of life now, and began a slow leisurely roll towards the distant beach.

  But there was no time to delay further; the cutter was nearing Pandora’s hull, and Fraiser ordered sails backed to protect her.

  "Abandon the cutter, Mr Lewis," Banks bellowed. It was a shame to lose a perfectly good sea boat, but not worth the risk of life that would be necessary in attempting to save it.

  Soon men began to appear; exhausted and half drowned, they were eased over Pandora’s side by eager hands, and allowed to slump onto the gloriously safe and stable deck where they were scoured warm and dry with rough canvas sailcloth, and given swigs from a bottle of Hollands that Doust had deemed appropriate, and produced from his store.

  "Take her out to sea, Mr Fraiser." Banks ordered as soon as the last member of the cutter’s crew was safely back in Pandora, and their boat had been left to fare in the tossing waves. The captain looked back at the remains of the sloop, now lodged against the beach and all but consumed by the hostile waters that continued to pound it.

  Another ship to ship engagement and another victim had fallen to him and Pandora. It was a record he should be proud of; certainly he was of his men and the way they had behaved in rescuing the crew of the sloop. He mopped at his forehead with a handkerchief and pressed his damp hat back more firmly on his head. This was not the first time he had experienced the strange feeling of anti-climax at the end of an action. He supposed it was a normal symptom; the rush of excitement that sent men into battle must fall away at some point, leaving that strange emptiness he now experienced. Possibly it was something he would get used to in time, although he knew that a good deal of luck had been involved, and inevitably luck must run out. Certainly the chances of Pandora continuing to be successful must dwindle with each fresh encounter.

  * * * * *

  "Mr King, I do not need to remind you that nothing must be said about the mutiny." Banks’ words had been spoken softly but they stayed with King as he and Fraiser prepared to meet with the prisoners in the sickbay. There were two seamen and a midshipman. King had been told that all could understand English, although only the young Adelborst seemed willing to speak. Banks and Caulfield were currently interviewing another officer, a luitenant, and what appeared to be a soldier, or possibly a marine. King and Fraiser had been detailed to talk with the lower ranks. The storm was dying slowly, and the ship had returned to cruising stations as King entered the sickbay.

  "Come to visit our guests?" Manning asked, genially.

  "Are they well enough to talk?"

  "As far as I am concerned; there are no physical wounds, though I’d chance they have seen enough of the North Sea for a spell." He indicated the three men who were currently sitting companionably on the bunk so recently occupied by Kate’s father.

  "I present Wilhelm van Leiden: Lieutenant Thomas King and Sailing Master Adam Fraiser." The junior officer rose as King and Fraiser approached, and mumbled the names of his men as they all shook hands.

  Van Leiden was roughly the same age, but slightly taller than King. Certainly above average height, with closely cropped fair hair, a tidy chin-tip beard and moustache, fine white teeth and a ready smile. He was dressed, as the others, in new slop clothing, although his bearing and manner singled him out as the natural spokesman. "I wanted to give you thanks for your very brave work," he told King, earnestly, as Manning brought in a wooden bench and the two groups of adversaries sat to face one another. "I have already spoken with the man who sailed the small boat, but I know that all in your ship try hard to save our lives, and we are most in your debt."

  King paused, uncertainly. "I am sorry that such a deed was necessary."

  Van Leiden smiled in return. "I also; the English and the Dutch are not the expected enemies; not like the French, eh?"

  The Dutchman’s smile was infectious, and King found himself grinning back.

  "It is a shame that all men cannot live in harmony," Fraiser said, stiffly and van Leiden turned to him and nodded, suddenly serious.

  "Indeed, sir; it is as much our wish as yours."

  King leant forward and brought his hands out wide. "Can we offer you some refreshment?"

  Van Leiden shook his head. "Thank you no, we have been well cared for already," he turned to the older seaman on his right, and King noticed a vaguely distant look in the unfocused eyes. "That which your doctor provided proved very acceptable to my collega. More would be an overvloed – ah… too much." Van Leiden gave a half nod. "You will forgive me; it is some while before I spoke English."

  "You do so very well," King replied, adding the cliché of so many Englishmen: "I’m afraid I have little knowledge of your language."

  "For many years my family traded with your Michaels Brothers company of Harwich. My father is a seller of clocks; I spent many happy vakantie days with the owner, Mr William Michaels and his family. They taught me your language, some English popular songs and how to catch and cook the sea bass. That was before…" he waved his hands vaguely.

  "Perhaps you would like to send them a message?" Fraiser asked. "I would be glad to have a letter delivered for you."

  "Ah, it is not a problem; our families do write with each other most regularly. They are doing well, and looking forward to the day that we can continue to do business, as are we all."

  "You write?" Manning asked, amazed.

  "It is no difficultly to send letters, even though we are at war. We read your papers as well; as I am sure you do ours."

  King stirred uncomfortably in his seat. "Of course, I have read Le Monitor," he said. Indeed several of the French news sheets were published in conveniently translated editions, and available in major towns.

  Van Leiden beamed again. "Ah, but the French papers are not worth the reading; it is all fictie and onwaarheid. – I’m sorry, I…"

  "We know exactly what you mean," Fraiser assured him and all smiled again, although King, who usually read the officer’s edition of The Times, wondered how much damage was being caused by the press, especially the lower deck newspapers, such as The
Sun and The Star. Their treatment of the goings on at Spithead and the Nore must make interesting reading for the enemy.

  "May I ask," van Leiden continued. "It has been mentioned that we are heading for Dan Helder; what are your intentions for us?"

  "You will be exchanged," King said quickly, happy to guide the conversation away.

  "Thank you, it is good, but I wonder if we have men to give to you in return."

  "Then you will be asked for your word, laddie," Fraiser replied with fatherly authority. "If you agree not to fight or work against Great Britain until such a time that a suitable exchange can be made, your word will suffice."

  "I understand, it is a good system."

  "It is one that your Admiral de Winter has respected in the past, and it is right that we should continue."

  "The admiraal is a good man."

  "He is a gentleman," King agreed.

  Van Leiden responded in mock horror; "Ah, he might not like it when you call him so, but would understand your meaning I am sure. Your admiraal, Duncan; he is a good Englishman also."

  "And he might not appreciate ye calling him that," Fraiser replied, his accent slightly more evident. "But again, would be grateful fur the sentiment."

  "They are both good men," van Leiden smiled. "Let us just say that."

  The laughter was general and the drunken seaman came alive suddenly and flopped his arm about his officer’s shoulder. "We are all good men!" he said, thickly. Van Leiden smiled at him briefly before turning back to the British officers.

  "It is true, we are all good men" he said, his smile slightly faded now. "And yet we must fight."

  * * * * *

  The storm abated entirely the next day, and the following morning they approached the Dutch coast in bright early sunshine. Pandora was cruising a good two miles off the new harbour at Dan Helder, with Texel Island clearly visible in the distance. Deep within, masts of warships could be seen and Banks would not normally have missed such an opportunity. Despite the danger of shallows and enemy fire they could creep quite a bit closer, and make a good assessment of the shipping; valuable information that Duncan would certainly welcome. Even noting the position and size of the inevitable shore batteries would be useful. This was a delicate mission, however; his own men would be landing on enemy soil, right under the eyes and guns of the combined French and Dutch forces. To venture too close under a flag of truce might be considered as taking advantage of the situation; besides, there were to be two midshipmen and a master’s mate in the cutter, and all had excellent eyesight.