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

by Alaric Bond

  King had the watch and smiled easily as the other Dutch officers and seamen made their appearance. He greeted van Leiden with a smile and a handshake as the blond Dutchman mounted the quarterdeck steps.

  "You are keen to be back with your family, Wilhelm?"

  Van Leiden nodded. "Yes, they will probably be worried; it will be good to reassure them. Although I have bad news to give to many; that is not something I like."

  "I understand: such things are never easy."

  "We are to enter the harbour by small boat, is that correct?"

  "Yes, the captain has allocated our remaining cutter."

  "You could come closer to the shore, with a white flag your ship would not be harmed, and our luitenant is familiar with these waters." He indicated the short, slightly stout officer that was now talking affably with Banks and Caulfield.

  "I appreciate that, and know the cutter will be safe."

  "You think, perhaps, we would suspect you of the spying?"

  "That might be a consideration."

  Van Leiden laughed, and slapped King hard on the shoulder. "No, my friend; we do not think you would bend so low. Maybe you send some men with the clever eyes in the boat though, eh? That would be expected, and I would also be looking for Pandora to return tomorrow; the best time for verspieden is when the sun is in your face and the moon at your back, no?"

  Fortunately King was spared the need for reply by the approach of Caulfield, who noticed the humour on van Leiden’s face with a look of mild concern. "If you are ready, gentlemen?" he asked, cautiously.

  King followed van Leiden down to the gangway port and paused to shake hands with him. "I hope we will meet again in friendlier times," he said. There were further handshakes from other officers and members of the crew and, as the last of the Dutch clambered awkwardly through the port, King had a vague memory of a similar departure.

  "Strange exit for an enemy," Lewis said, joining him and mirroring his thoughts. "Richard Parker left us in just the same manner not so very long ago."

  "Aye," said King. "An’ that was ‘midst an atmosphere of threats and intimidation."

  "Week or so later we say goodbye to our enemies," Lewis mused. "And there is friendship and camaraderie all about."

  King nodded, and gave a brief wave to the cutter that was just setting sail, with a white flag of truce and a courtesy Bavarian tricolour flying to starboard.

  "Times like this it is hard to know friend from foe," he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE next day Pandora was heading back for England with all speed. Their return to the enemy coast that morning had confirmed all the cartel boat’s crew had reported. The main Dutch battle fleet was certainly at anchor there, but it was the vast array of barges and small merchant shipping that caused the greater concern. Clearly preparations were advanced for an invasion; whatever the state of the British fleet, Duncan should be made aware of the danger without delay.

  Crossing the Broad Fourteens, the regular sandbar running parallel with the north Dutch coast, Banks glanced up anxiously at the sails. The wind had shifted and was in the north east; ideal for them but equally so for an invasion force; it was vital they made their passage quickly. Pandora was set with topsails, topgallants, jibs and staysails, and all fiddle string tight. The strain was evident; the very masts and spars groaned in mild protest as her stem cut into the green, grey sea, sending a fine mist of spray back as far as the quarterdeck and, with a slight heel to larboard, she was a magnificent sight for anyone with the time to notice.

  Flint, Jameson and Jenkins were on watch, although little had been called for from them for some while. They sat on the main deck, between two nine pounders, in the lee provided by the starboard gangway, as the ship blasted through the chop.

  "Never known him to push her like this," Jenkins commented. Of them all he had been aboard the shortest time, although he was quite correct; the pace was punishing, and could not be maintained for long. "Lesser captains would have piled on the royals," he grunted. "Miserable job for the topmen in this breeze, and there’d be no gain in the ‘aving of them."

  Flint, who had not been listening carefully, shook his head. "Too strong for royals."

  "I didn’t say he should set ‘em," Jenkins bristled. "I said lesser captains would have."

  "More canvas means more speed though, surely?" Jameson peered up at the hard grey sails that appeared to have been sculpted from solid board.

  Flint pursed his lips. "Not necessarily. Wind’s on our quarter; too much press from aloft, she’ll be turned to a hefty heel, and most of the hull’d be pushed under. There’d be a lot more splash, but no gain in knots, an’ the masts and lines would be under a deal too much pressure."

  "Too much pressure," Jenkins repeated. "That’s just what I was saying."

  "Times are when the fore t’gallant is set and the ship sails slower." Flint went on, ignoring Jenkins. "See, that’s a burying sail; if the wind’s not right it can set the bows under and cause more harm than good. Take it in, the helm eases, and your speed goes up."

  Jameson nodded wisely; he had been at sea for nigh on three years, but there was still so much to be learnt, and he suspected there always would be.

  "Wind falls off, now that’s the time for royals," Jenkins added, still trying to regain his position. "Might even keep this speed up, an’ with less of a blow."

  The call from aloft interrupted their conversation.

  "Sail ho, on the starboard bow!"

  All eyes went up to the masthead, although few could see Ford as he clutched at the topgallant mast, and peered into the distance. The regular but violent movement the seamen were experiencing on deck was magnified several times by the height of the mast, making his platform describe vast circles in the sky. Ford was a seasoned hand, however, and well used to lookout duty. Despite the speed, the wind, and the wild movement, he had spotted the oncoming ships just as their masts had shown above the horizon.

  "What do you make, there?" The captain’s voice: this was clearly important, nevertheless Ford could not resist an inward smile. It was his job to report any sighting as soon as it was visible, but the very moment he did, they wanted further information. If he now came up with the size, speed and heading of the ships the officers would probably be satisfied although only thirty seconds before he had been trying to decide if they were indeed ships at all, or just another patch of cloud.

  "Looks to be two, me’be three ships," Ford reported cautiously. "An’ heading this way." The last point was a total guess, but one backed by many years of experience. With Pandora’s current speed the sighting might be slower vessels being overhauled, but Ford thought not; the images were clearing by the second; much too fast for anything other than approaching craft. The alternative was that they were stationary, and this seemed unlikely as the royals appeared stiff and in the wind, so a move in their direction seemed the most obvious.

  "I have them!" That was Wright on the fore, and Ford drew a slight sigh of relief that the sighting had been confirmed. He stared again. The collection of masts was more clearly defined now, with two together and the third, possibly smaller, but closer. There was also the slightest hint of something else; possibly an unrated vessel; maybe two. The chatter of conversation came up from below, and Ford looked down to see Rose, one of the midshipmen, just starting to leave the maintop beneath him. He had a glass slung over his shoulder, and would doubtless hog all the news and glory from now on. Ford moved to the weather side of the mast as the lad joined him. It was usually Dorsey who was sent aloft: Rose had joined as a volunteer, and had only recently been promoted to midshipman.

  "Want me to take a line about you, Mr Rose?" Ford asked. The lad, who was still panting slightly from the climb, shook his head. "No thank’ee, Ford, I’ll be safe enough." He wrapped his right arm about the mast, focussed the brass deck glass on the sighting and gave a generous sniff. Ford followed his gaze. The upper sails were in clear view now, with all ships apparently on the same c
ourse, which appeared to be to the southeast.

  "Course east sou-east," the lad bellowed with absolute certainty.

  "You sure of that, Mr Rose?" Ford asked; the lad grinned and shook his head.

  "No, but there’s two large, one smaller and at least one tiddler; they’re sailing as close to the wind as they can make, so it’s a fair guess." The seaman nodded; it was a good enough answer, and certainly in line with the usual protocol of masthead lookouts.

  Caulfield’s voice came from below. "Any sign of colours?"

  Rose snorted at Ford. "Colours, he says!" then he bellowed back. "Too far off, sir. We’ll know presently."

  Sure enough, with Pandora’s great pace added to the speed of the approaching squadron, topsails were soon in sight, followed in no time by courses and the occasional glimpse of upper decks.

  "They’re warships, sure enough," Ford confirmed quietly. "Got a fair deep roach to the courses. Yer see the bottom edge of the lowest sail?"

  "I see them," he said doubtfully.

  "They’re cut high: makes the sail less strong, but the better to avoid catching alight from gunfire on the deck. But that don’t tell where they’re from."

  Rose treated Ford to his worldly look. "They’re from the west," he said.

  "I meant, what country." Ford was quite content with his lot, and happy to instruct younger men for as long as they were willing to learn. "See the sails are good and dark. Frenchies takes their time in harbours, an’ they tend to have fresh white canvas."

  "So you’d say they was British?"

  "I would, ’though they might be Dutch, an’ ’ave been at sea a while," Ford cautioned. "Think about where they’re heading."

  "Dutch is possible," Rose conceded.

  "Mind, if it’s a bunch of squareheads we’re going to have to do some pretty fancy sailing."

  The lad stared for longer this time, before finally bringing the glass down and glaring back at Ford. "It’s no good," he said, the frustration obvious in his voice. "There’s a perfectly good ensign on the leading ship, an’ I can see blue, and white, but not no more: nothing I can safely report."

  Ford was about to tell Rose that blue and white were prominent in both British and Batavian flags, but stopped when he saw anxiety in the young man’s eyes.

  "Give it a moment longer," he said finally. "You’ll benefit from it."

  "Anything, Mr Rose?" The captain’s voice this time, and Rose went to raise the glass once more, but Ford stopped him.

  "Not now, a spell longer," he told the young man. "It’s all very well guessing the small things; no one’s gonna care if the course is a point or two off, but you report that lot as the enemy an’ it turns out false, they’re gonna thank you for the trouble of clearing for action. An’ if it’s the other way about..."

  Rose lowered the glass and looked down. They were still tearing through the water, but Ford could see the lad take several deep breaths and knew he was composing himself.

  It might well have been the brief rest, combined, of course, with the dwindling distance, but when Rose looked again, the ships were properly hull up and he was able to make a complete report.

  "British warships in sight, fine on the starboard bow, heading east sou-east. Two liners and what looks like a frigate, sir. Then there’s a sloop and possibly something smaller, and a cutter. One of the liners is flying Admiral Duncan’s flag, an’ they’re making what looks like today’s private signal."

  He brought the glass down, sighed and smiled at Ford. The seaman gave him a toothless grin in return. "Very good, Mr Rose," he said.

  * * * * *

  They met in the middle of the North Sea, with the wind still blowing strong but having backed to the north. Duncan’s flagship, the seventy-four gun Venerable, and Adamant, lighter at only fifty guns, hove to while the frigate Circe bustled importantly about them. Banks ordered his gig away; it was a short passage to the flagship, and he was fortunate that the starboard side, the side reserved for officers, was in the lee. Venerable was an elderly ship, some said the oldest seventy-four in service, and her sides had the steep tumblehome usual in line-of-battleships. However the seas were still running high and Banks was not subjected to clambering up the entry steps: a boatswain's chair was lowered down to the boat. Before he manoeuvred himself into the thing, he slipped off his sword and belt, passing them back to the midshipman in the sternsheets. The lift came just before he was truly ready and, snatching the sword back, Banks grabbed on to the line like a child on a swing. He instinctively ducked his head as he was plucked from the tossing boat and swept up and round in a neat arc, before being deposited in an undignified heap on Venerable’s upper gundeck.

  With a barked command and the simultaneous slap of palms on muskets a bank of marines snapped to attention and presented arms, while Banks slowly staggered to his feet, trying to free himself from the canvas and line contraption, and make some sense of his sword and belt as he did. A midshipman came forward to assist as a chorus of ear numbing whistles broke out and a line of smartly dressed side boys soberly paid their respects. Banks had just about freed himself when Fairfax, Duncan’s flag captain, stepped forward, a grim smile on his haggard face.

  "Glad to meet with you, Sir Richard. We’d heard you was a-coming, but didn’t expect to find you in the middle of the North Sea."

  "I could say very much the same, sir." Banks shook the proffered hand.

  "There’s no end of stories about Pandora’s time at the Nore," he cleared his throat. "Since your rather hurried departure, she hadn’t been reported by any of the shore stations. In fact you was starting to take on the trappings of a mystery ship when we left Yarmouth."

  Banks wondered if now was the time to explain about the last few day’s adventures. Clearly Fairfax had followed his thoughts though, and took charge. "Well, we won’t go into that now. May I present Mr Clay, my second lieutenant?"

  A younger man stepped forward and Banks shook his hand as Fairfax continued. "The admiral will see you in his quarters. Mr Clay shall show you the way; I’ll probably join you later but you understand; there’s much ado about the ship at present, and we must be underway immediately. You’ve no objection?"

  "No, no of course not."

  "I’ll send your gig away; you can return to your ship once we sight land."

  The reception party began to break up as Fairfax looked up towards the quarterdeck and raised one finger. Immediately the boatswain’s pipes started to wail and ready men began heaving at braces. A signals party ran up a prepared hoist, presumably to Pandora while Banks re-affixed his sword and, as Clay led him up the quarterdeck steps and on towards the poop, he had the unusual experience of watching his own ship take to the wind.

  Duncan’s cabin was plain, dark, and furnished very simply, with serviceable fittings and several solid lines of leather bound books, packed into tightly secured bookshelves. The ship creaked as she gained speed, shifting to a slight heel when the wind drew her sails taught, and Banks felt the very deck beneath his feet flex slightly. He glanced down and noticed the canvas deck covering was damp in several places; clearly Venerable was in urgent need of a refit.

  "The admiral is with his chaplain, sir." Clay explained. "He will not keep you more than a moment."

  Sure enough a small man in clerical cloth entered directly, accompanied by Duncan himself.

  But the chaplain could never have been considered undersized; it was Duncan that caused the illusion. Banks turned in time to see the admiral ducking beneath the lintel, his vast frame seemingly out of proportion with the narrow door and frail bulkheads.

  "Ah, Sir Richard; good to see you, if an unexpected pleasure," his voice was soft, but with an inner strength that was heightened by a strong Scottish burr. He extended a massive hand that gently encompassed the younger man’s, while his look of quiet understanding seemed to stare straight into Banks’ very soul. "You won’t mind accompanying us in Venerable for a spell? I am sure we have much to talk about and time really is not ou
r friend at present."

  Banks’ reply was slightly mumbled; he had not felt so intimidated by a fellow officer since his first captain had interviewed him as an aspiring midshipman. But then Duncan’s presence was the stuff of rumours; when young he had been known as the handsomest lieutenant in the navy; stories were told of crowds following him on land and Banks, who had instinctively dismissed such tattletale, quickly revised his opinion. Even now, in his sixties, the man’s bearing, along with his incisive gaze and forthright eyes, gave an indication of the strength of character within. Banks had met with Nelson, but Duncan was of a different mettle. There was nothing of the showman; no vanity, no pretence, no airs. Duncan was clearly born to greatness, but equally clearly he had no interest in the trappings that accompanied such an earthly attribute.

  "Mr Clay, I wonder if you would ask Menzie to prepare some refreshment?" The admiral turned back from the lieutenant, who promptly left the room with the chaplain. Duncan indicated a sensible upright chair opposite his desk, and Banks quickly settled himself, finding the hard oak surprisingly comfortable.

  "We’re not long out from Yarmouth," Duncan told him as he was seated behind the desk. "’though it will be a little while afore we’re that way again, I fear. Yarmouth is following the Nore: there is mutiny and dissent where e’er you look. Not a happy situation for anyone."

  Banks shifted himself uneasily. "We are somewhat down on compliment in Pandora, sir," he said. "I had hoped to supplement my people, as well as exchange a junior officer."