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

by Alaric Bond

  Duncan nodded, "Aye, I had feared as much; took a lot from you at Portsmouth after that regrettable incident, did they not? And there would have been no chance of making up, what with the problems at the Nore." His eyes flashed and his face came alight. "That was a happy escape, I may say; well handled, and none too soon, either."

  Banks expressed his thanks. Pandora had yet to officially join the North Sea Squadron, and yet it was clear that Duncan had been following her progress.

  "There is little worse than sailing with an incomplete crew, Sir Richard. I will be sending a cutter back with news as soon as we sight the Texel and shall include a request for men. If there are loyal hearts to be had, I am sure they will be sent at the earliest opportunity. Tell me, your sailing master, he is not the one to be exchanged?"

  "Adam Fraiser?" Banks was surprised. "No, sir."

  "He serves you well, then?"

  Banks paused, remembering the incident with the French frigate. "Sir," he replied hesitantly. "Mr Fraiser is an excellent seaman, and a first rate navigator."

  "But not a fighting man?" Duncan’s face revealed a degree of humour that, combined with the unexpected subject, confused Banks.

  "No, sir," he said, instinctively choosing his words carefully. "Mr Fraiser has strong views about fighting, but they do not affect his abilities as a sailing master which, I repeat, are most satisfactory."

  "I am glad of it." There was definitely an amused twinkle in the admiral’s eye, and Banks longed to know more, but the conversation was moving on. "Leave me note of the numbers you require, and I will do all I can to see they are available when times are more favourable. And the junior officer?"

  "A purser, no more."

  "I cannot help with that from Venerable; a bond will be needed, as well as a deal of accounts. But I shall ask when I send for more men. You are well provisioned?"

  "We have water for two months, sir."

  "That is good; there should be a resolution by then." Duncan smiled suddenly, and it was a pleasant expression. "That, or all will cease to matter!"

  The door opened and the steward entered. Without a word he set a small wooden tray containing a pewter coffee pot and china cups upon the desk. Duncan looked his thanks, and stood to pour the coffee as the steward left them. Banks gratefully accepted milk and sugar, although the novelty of being served by his commander in chief was disconcerting.

  "You might have met some ships from my squadron already?" The cup that Banks was passed seemed larger than most, and held a good deal of strong coffee.

  "Yes sir, a group of liners were spotted off the Essex coast."

  Duncan nodded. "And you spoke with them?"

  "No, no sir we did not." It was going to be slightly awkward explaining that he had been frightened of closing with his admiral’s own ships, but fortunately Duncan understood.

  "Rebel vessels: you were right to give them a wide berth. We lost a deal more not twenty four hours ago." He sipped at his coffee, before sitting back and holding Banks with his gaze. "I tell you now, Sir Richard, I had expected this uprising for some while. Indeed my correspondence with the Admiralty goes back to the time that I accepted the North Sea command. British seamen have been poorly used for many years, and we cannot afford to ill treat them further. The settlement at Spithead was fair, though too long in the coming. And it should have ended there; if it had we might be on a better footing to continue this accursed war. As it is, the new disorder at the Nore has gone much too far and made the average Jack no friends in the process; last I heard Master Parker and his committee were threatening to blockade the very city. Such an action could never serve the seaman’s cause; indeed it is difficult to see it as anything other than the work of revolutionaries. Frankly I am ashamed that the people have allowed themselves to be hoodwinked so."

  "It is a sorry business, sir. Especially when we are in such peril."

  Banks felt himself being studied.

  "You have looked in at the Texel, I imagine?"

  "Yes sir; twice in two days: the last not seven hours ago. On the first occasion we were able to land a cutter at the quay."

  "Indeed?" Duncan’s eyebrows rose slightly. "How so?"

  "After meeting with the squadron I decided it might be safer to divert across the channel," he hurried on, unwilling to emphasise the fact that Duncan’s own ships had been the danger. "There we followed the coast of Zealand north until we fell in with a Dutchman; an eighteen gun sloop: the Gunther."

  "You fought her?"

  "We ran her into the shallows, and she was wrecked. Some of her people were collected; two officers and there was a Luitenant-Kolonel who was being carried as a passenger, and two ordinary seamen."

  "You have them aboard Pandora now?"

  "No sir, I decided to take them in for exchange as it would give us reason to look in at the enemy."

  Duncan frowned. "I would have preferred to have spoken with them myself. Where did you land them, at Walcheren?"

  "No sir, we were well past by then. I continued north, and took them into the Helder under a flag of truce."

  "I see, and did you discover much?"

  "There were a considerable number of transports: we returned earlier this morning but could learn little else as the shore batteries are well sited. But it must be nigh on a hundred."

  "And Admiral de Winter’s fleet, they are still there?"

  "Indeed, sir. We made it nineteen ships, but could not be certain. Topmasts set up and ready to go."

  Duncan nodded. "It is what we expected, but good to have it confirmed. Our intelligence puts no less than thirty-five thousand French troops stationed nearby, with some Batavians and possibly others, all under the command of General Hoche."

  "A sizeable number, sir; but not enough for England, surely?"

  "With command of the Channel, it would suffice." Duncan stroked his chin as he considered the matter. "More troops could be brought across at will; there is a French army at Brest just awaiting such an opportunity. And should London fall there would be little left to oppose them."

  Banks was silent: not much could be said in reply to such a statement.

  "So, we will have to blockade the Texel, and see they do not sail." Duncan mused. "Although that might not be as straightforward as it appears." He sighed, and some of the life seemed to drain from his face. "I have to tell you that the ships you met, together with the ones we lost so recently, are the bulk of my force."

  It was what Banks had suspected. "And they are at the Nore now, sir?"

  "Doubtless, but under the supposed command of that fool Parker; the last I heard they were squabbling amongst themselves. The men say they will fight if the Dutch fleet comes out, which is laudable enough. But they will not sail to keep them in; that task must be down to us."

  "What ships have we, sir?"

  Duncan waved his hand dismissively. "What you see about you; there are no more."

  "This is the entire force?"

  "I’m afraid so, until my Lords of the Admiralty, and Richard Parker can come to some sort of a resolution."

  Four ships, and two of those frigates; were hardly enough to stop a Dutch fleet of over a hundred.

  "Keeping them in might be difficult." Banks said, lamely.

  "Maybe so, Sir Richard. Difficult, but not impossible, I think."

  In fact impossible was exactly the word Banks would have chosen.

  "First we must ensure they do not realise how little opposes them. To that end, it is vital that that no ship is allowed out of harbour."

  Banks shifted his weight uncomfortably. "We interrogated the prisoners before their exchange, sir. They seemed well aware of the problems at Spithead and the Nore."

  "Oh, I do not doubt that; they will know about our predicament, but not the full extent. Were they to realise that just a handful of ships stood between them and success, they would leave harbour straight away, and our small force would be swept aside like so much rubbish. We must convince them that to do so would not be in
their best interests. Make them think that as soon as they commit themselves, they will have an entire battle fleet descend upon them."

  Banks’ brief look of confusion seemed to inspire Duncan, who moved his massive frame forward in his seat.

  "If we behave as if we wish for them to sail; tempt them out, as it were, it might have the opposite effect."

  "It will be a bold bluff, sir."

  "It will, and one we cannot afford to have called, but with such a small force I can see no other option," he sat back. "The French have made several attempts to invade in the past, and all have come to naught. They will be conscious of the risks they are running, and doubtless will remember the results of previous ventures. If we can instil enough doubt into the minds of General Hoche, and Admiral de Winter, we might just hold out long enough for the Admiralty to arrange for loyal ships to join us."

  Banks sipped at his coffee as the thoughts began to tumble about his mind. Duncan’s enthusiasm was infectious; history was full of similar bluffs that must have seemed as outrageous and unlikely when first put forward. Misrepresentation and trickery were major weapons in the art of war, and by hiding their true force the British would be doing nothing that had not been done a hundred times before, and in almost as many different ways. But of all the tricks played in the past, few, if any, carried quite as much importance as this; the very future of Great Britain, and with it Europe in general, was at stake. For millions of ordinary people it would be the difference between freedom and tyranny. And all was to depend upon one elderly man, his small group of worn out ships, and the deception he was about to attempt.

  "We will meet with the other captains this evening," Duncan continued. "Doubtless Admiral Onslow will have an opinion; Richard never was one to hold back. But unless anyone can come up with a workable alternative, I would say we have no choice."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IT was a bright morning, with just the barest hint of haze that would soon be burnt off by the sun; one of many such days that were steadily building a hot summer. And now the wind was from the east; perfect for enemy shipping to leave harbour and cross the North Sea. Back once more in Pandora, Banks watched as Duncan’s flagship beat slowly towards Texel Island and the narrow entrance that formed a gateway to the open water. The sea was relatively calm, although the numerous shallows discoloured the water, making it brown and murky. These were more than simple sandbanks to be spotted and negotiated; rather a complex tangle of banks and channels that seemed specifically designed to lure ships into their grasp. Even Pandora, being slightly further out, and with her lesser draft, was taking soundings while Fraiser kept a constant eye her course; what Patterson, Duncan’s sailing master, was going through was anyone’s guess.

  Banks had met with him the previous night in the council of war held on board Venerable. He was a wizened, but solid, older man who had the look of one who had seen most things, and survived them all, although the plan that Duncan had put forward seemed likely to alter that.

  Vice Admiral Onslow, who currently had Adamant after losing his own ship, Nassau to the mutineers, had been for putting back and taking shelter at Leith Roads on the River Forth. Duncan, of course would have none of it, blithely saying that to retreat to Scotland would only invite comment that he was keen to get back to his wife and children in Lundie. The next few hours would tell much, and Duncan might be in line for censure of the worst kind, but it was certain that no one would be able to accuse him of running away.

  "Flagship’s signalling, sir." Dorsey’s voice broke into the captain’s thoughts. Sure enough a flurry of bunting had broken out on Venerable. "It’s to Circe, sir. Asking if the final ships are in contact."

  Further out to sea the thirty-two gun frigate acknowledged, and began to tack. Turning her back on the shore, royals and topgallants were set as she sped towards the horizon. Banks had spoken with Hackett, her captain, the previous evening. It seemed that his ship was not completely clear of mutineers; indeed parts of her lower deck were actually closed off to officers, and he and his first lieutenant were accustomed to carrying loaded weapons at all times. And yet she was being entrusted with a vital part of Duncan’s plan – it was a measure of their desperation.

  "They must be getting pretty close by now," Caulfield said, looking back to Adamant and Venerable who indeed were less than half a mile from their target. As they watched, the ships began to take in sail, and launches were swung out and lowered into the water.

  "Less than five fathoms under us now, sir." Fraiser this time; it was expected, but it was also the signal to turn north where Pandora was to take up her station.

  "Very well, we’ll tack, if you please, Mr Fraiser." Banks watched with curiosity as his sailing master automatically touched his hat, and proceeded to bellow out orders. Both were Scots, so he supposed it was quite natural for Duncan to take an interest in the man, although he was by no means the only one aboard. There might be a family connection that Fraiser had not mentioned. Banks smiled to himself. It would be just like Fraiser to say nothing. With so many officers having achieved their rank due to connections, either family, friendship, or professional, he would naturally conceal such an important fact.

  Pandora came round after the briefest moment in irons, and slowly began to follow the coastline north, where her role would be to keep watch for any small shipping that might attempt to break out. For Duncan’s ruse to be effective the Dutch must truly believe there was a large fleet waiting in ambush just over the horizon. One small vessel making a return trip would be enough; the arrogant façade that was now being built so carefully would crumble, leaving Britain open to invasion. Stork, an eighteen gun sloop, was to take up a similar post to the south, although it was part of Duncan’s plan for the two ships to put out to sea, and return at the other’s station on a regular basis.

  The sun had started to gather heat and warmed the men standing idle on Pandora’s decks. A sense of lethargy seeped through the ship; it was as if time had ceased to matter, and everything that needed to be done would be, but in the slowest possible time. Barely three miles away a large and professionally run fleet lay at anchor. Properly handled, the ships could be out of harbour within the hour. Within two, three at the most, the meagre British force would be totally wiped out, and yet Banks felt himself drifting into a stupor as the heat, combined with the excitement of the last two weeks, began to tell. In desperation he took a turn or two along the quarterdeck, but it was too hot for exercise, and before long he found himself gazing languidly at the fort on Texel, while Pandora made a slow but stately progress north.

  "They’ve picked up the buoy!" Caulfield again, and sure enough the flagship was now directly over the outer buoy, and was impudently securing herself directly opposite the harbour entrance. Still under tow, Adamant came up just behind, and dropped anchor. Then there was more work with the boats; clearly Duncan had ordered springs to the cable, allowing both ships to manoeuvre at will.

  Fraiser shook his head in wonder. "They’re right slap in the middle of the channel." he said, his navigator’s instincts mildly affronted.

  Caulfield sauntered up next to him. "Aye, like Horatius at the bridge, nothing can get out, lest they feel our guns, and if sunk, they’ll be a danger to shipping for as long as they remain."

  "Signal from the flagship," Dorsey’s voice cut through their conversation. "Enemy anchored Deep Mars, number unchanged."

  "Must be like a red rag to a bull," Fraiser grunted. "Looking in through their front window, they’ve even tied up to the Hollander’s own buoy."

  "Aye," Caulfield agreed. "If anything is going to goad them into a fight, it will be that."

  Fraiser nodded. "Well then, we must hope that it doesn’t." he said.

  * * * * *

  The Dutch craft, a botter, was slightly longer than thirty foot, with a large gaff mainsail, twin raised leeboards set level with the single mast and a highly raked bowsprit. The hull was low and flat; ideal for working in shoal waters, which was just
what it was doing, and just what Pandora must bring to an end. The wind, still in the east, was in the small boat’s favour; if it could evade the British frigate it should have a clear run at the open seas. Lewis, standing on the starboard gangway, studied the craft through his own small glass. Despite the late afternoon sun, the man at the tiller was heavily clad in a full-length coat; three more, similarly dressed, were engaged further forward, and there was a smaller man, possibly a boy, attending to the foresail. All wore large, floppy hats, and seemed to take little notice of Pandora as she bore down on them. Lewis guessed they were fishermen, and consequently considered themselves neutral, and he felt slightly embarrassed that they were about to be introduced to the realities of war in such an abrupt manner. The likelihood was strong that the boat intended staying in coastal waters, but while a chance remained that it might head further out to sea, it was their duty to apprehend and, if necessary, destroy.

  Pandora was roughly a mile off the coast of Vileland, a small island north of the Texel, heading north-northeast with the wind on her starboard beam and closing fast on the small craft. Although it would not be fast enough; Lewis estimated that on her present course the boat would pass Pandora’s bows just short of half a cable ahead. From the forechains a leadsman was monotonously chanting the depth, which was adequate at just over six fathoms, and holding steady. Lewis guessed they were in one of the many small channels that follow the coast. He watched as Donaldson, the gunner, was called up to the quarterdeck to be given instructions, and moved aside for him as he trotted past, on his way to the forecastle. Clearly Banks wanted a couple of shots from the bow chasers to warn them off, although he might equally be planning something more deadly. Sure enough both forward guns, were cleared away, run out and Donaldson himself bent down to the larboard piece.

  The brief dull report brought no reaction from the small boat’s crew. Lewis guessed it was a blank charge, as there was little recoil and the angle meant it would have been all but impossible to lay the gun to bear directly on the botter. Donaldson glanced back at the quarterdeck before moving to the starboard piece and taking a more careful aim. This time the shot was obvious as it skipped a few yards in front of the boat's bows, making all on board start and turn to look at the British frigate in a way that was almost humorous. The man at the tiller waved, and was clearly shouting, although little could be heard above the whine of the wind through Pandora’s shrouds, the steady, regular slap of waves against her bows, and the monotonous chant of the leadsman that had already become tiresome. Donaldson fired the larboard gun once more, this time there was a proper recoil; Lewis did not catch the fall of the shot, but assumed it had also fallen wide.