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

by Alaric Bond

  Setting himself down, he stroked the long white unpowdered hair back into order. The commanders who had just left had been given the charge of ships, and might even be considered made men, but he found it difficult to think of them as anything other than sons; and as a man whose family was central to him, there could be no finer compliment. Richard Banks was even a knight of the realm, and yet he was going through the anger and self-doubt that so often accompanied loss, in the same way as anyone of his tender age might. In time the feelings would diminish, and, were a similar situation to recur in the future, he should be all the better prepared for it. It would make him a man, even though now he felt nought but a boy. It was a lesson Duncan himself had learned in the past, and should be doing so again now for, in truth, a similar hurt to that which haunted Banks was now plaguing the elderly admiral.

  Duncan was no card player, and his strict Presbyterian upbringing had made him one who spoke his mind, and suffered the consequences. He had always been entirely straightforward and direct: too much so, according to Henrietta, his wife, but that made little difference. There had certainly never been any room for subterfuge in his life, and the hoax that he had practised on the Dutch over the last few days was totally against his principles, beliefs and very nature.

  Some commanders thought nothing of hoisting false colours; of deceiving the enemy into thinking their ship, or force, was from an entirely different country. There was nothing actually wrong in their actions; in fact the rules of war specifically allowed it, and yet never before had Duncan felt able to use such a ruse himself. But now he had fooled the enemy in just such a way, and was about to do so again. Indeed, he was even prepared to joke about it. Everything had been done with a greater good in mind, and as such might be considered excusable, but the feeling of guilt still stayed with him and, he feared, would do so for the rest of his life.

  * * * * *

  The launch was returning from Russell fully laden. Banks, pacing the quarterdeck, as had been his habit of late, glanced up as the forecastle lookout hailed their own boat.

  "Aye aye." That meant there was an officer aboard; probably the replacement for King, although the very idea was repugnant to him. King was dead; he himself, by all accounts, had killed him, and yet the world went on the same, and here was another young man sent to take his place. Another who would risk his life, confidant that his superiors would support him, another who might be killed just as easily as Banks had killed the last. For a moment he recalled Duncan’s words; the admiral had made sense: he had spoken sincerely and with the best of motives. But no one else could truly understand the situation, and Banks felt that it was yet another instance of ‘the better the advice the harder it be to follow.’

  A mild consternation at the gangway port brought him out of his self indulgent melancholy. There was laughter and banter: the hands were chatting and taunting like lads and the atmosphere was suddenly lighter. Drawn by the pull of simple pleasures, Banks continued his forward pacing until he paused by the fife rail. He peered down to the waist where new men were joining the crew. In a navy where few are without history and acquaintances, the newcomers clambered aboard, recognised friends and foes as one, and were rapidly absorbed into the cosmopolitan society of a small warship.

  "There’s 'Poacher' Elliot!" a lowerdeck hand shouted, loud enough to wake the Dutch. "Ain’t seen him since the ‘anibale! You still got that pheasant tattoo, matey?"

  Elliot grinned sheepishly, and found cover in his fellows as more streamed aboard to recognition and derision. Banks watched them without a trace of patronage or contempt. In the last few days he had learnt much about being in charge of men. It was one thing to make the decisions and give orders; quite another to live, and live comfortably, with those made by others. The men he watched now would have little control over their destinies, and yet there was a defined hierarchy that was as important to them as any that applied to commissioned officers. More so, in fact, for no rules governed their status; they would attain respect and position through trust and honest endeavour, rather than gimcrack badges and invented ranks.

  All his life Banks had been a privileged person; born to govern and licensed to command. Now, for the first time, he was feeling the repercussions of his position and, as he watched the men beneath him shake hands and swap insults, he could not help but be jealous.

  But he was forgetting himself; there was an officer on board. He moved away and stood to wait expectantly. The new man would be bound to be presented to him shortly, and he must stop philosophising over the hands and assume the correct attitude of a captain. He had known countless senior officers who had grown old and crusty, and guessed that such a change was now happening to him. Maybe it took a few mistakes to effect the transition. They probably would not give him a frigate next time, even if he asked for one, more likely a stately ship of the line, to sail in the midst of a mighty fleet. A position where order and procedure ruled, and there was none of the raw dash and danger associated with frigates. But he would be a better officer, of that he was certain. Whatever the mistakes he had made in the last day or so, he would learn from them; it was the least he could do for King.

  * * * * *

  "Lieutenant Timothy, it’s a pleasure to see you again, sir!"

  Timothy followed the first lieutenant out of the gunroom and looked about. The warrant officer facing him was certainly familiar, and yet he could not quite place him.

  "I’m sorry, I…"

  "It’s Lewis," Caulfield told him. "Masters mate, though he should forereach on us all an’ make admiral, rate he’s going!"

  "We was shipmates in the old Vigilant. I was a regular hand then, of course," Lewis added disparagingly.

  "Lewis, yes of course, I remember," Timothy’s face lit with happy recognition, and he twitched the lapels of the warrant officer’s uniform. "Done proud for yourself, I sees, an’ well deserved I’m certain."

  "Had some help from good men," Lewis mumbled, suddenly remembering exactly who had helped him, and why Timothy was now in Pandora.

  "Will you take Mr Timothy to meet the captain?" Caulfield asked. "Seein’ as you’re already acquainted?"

  Timothy shook hands with the first lieutenant before moving off with Lewis. "Are there any more from the old barkie aboard?"

  Lewis nodded, as he turned to lead the new man towards the quarterdeck. "Some hands, sir. Clem Jenkins, you’ll remember him. And Flint, Jameson, Wright; few more probably, can’t always recollect."

  Timothy understood entirely; old shipmates soon became current, and it was hard to remember sailing with them in any other previous vessel.

  "And Tom King," Timothy’s voice rose slightly as the recollection came to him. "Did I not hear he was with Pandora?"

  Lewis glanced down rather awkwardly as he stood aside for Timothy to mount the quarterdeck steps. "Mr King?"

  Timothy stopped and beamed down at Lewis. "Yes, I’d heard he’d been made – what joy!"

  "I regret, sir, he was killed; you’re his replacement."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  "THOMAS, it is you?"

  King woke with a start, and turned awkwardly on the thin straw mattress.

  "Will! I’m sorry, I…" It had been a long cold night; King had only managed deep sleep for the last hour or so and his brain felt as bleary as his eyes.

  "No, no; it is I who must apologise; coming here and waking you, it is not the right thing to do at all."

  King heaved himself up on the bed and threw off the single light blanket. He was fully dressed, and his legs moved stiffly as his stockinged feet reached for the stone floor.

  "Give me a moment, and I will be more presentable," he said, as he padded across to where a tin bowl and jug awaited him. Splashing his face with the cold water did much to wash the sleep from him, and as he rubbed himself dry with the canvas towel, he smiled at Wilhelm with genuine pleasure.

  "It is good to see you."

  "And you also, although the situation is reversed now, no?" />
  "Indeed; you are the captor, and I your prisoner."

  "But it makes no difference. I think we can still be good friends, and perhaps be very rude to each other sometimes, like good friends should be," he smiled beguilingly. "You have no injuries from your encounter with our marine corps?"

  King shook his head. "No, I swallowed a good deal of your excellent sea water though."

  Van Leiden nodded seriously. "But we will have had it back by now, I am sure. You are comfortable here?"

  King looked about the tiny room. Small and stuffy, it grew unbearably hot in the daytime, and cooled to almost freezing at night. The one small sealed window, which was thickly glazed, but without bars, was all that stopped it from being a cell.

  "It suits me well enough," he said simply.

  "I will try to arrange for better, or at least for anything you might want. Your food is all right, I think?"

  "The food is excellent, Wilhelm." As indeed it was; though the diet of fresh, pickled and smoked fish with very few vegetables was starting to become tedious.

  "Well, I have spoken to my commander; you will be meeting with him later. He is happy to accept your parole, and agrees that I take you away for a while."

  "Away?"

  "I am quartered near to this place, and my wife is going to cook for you one evening. You would like to meet my family, perhaps?"

  "That would be fine, Wilhelm. If I’m not causing you too much trouble."

  "It will be no trouble," van Leiden beamed. "And my family would so much like to meet with one of the men who is trying to kill me; they are looking forward to it also."

  King grinned in return, then both men became more serious. "These are dangerous times," he said. "We are aware of your shipping, and the plans for invasion."

  "Indeed, but not what we propose to invade, I think. But yes, you are quite correct; dangerous times. And really it is difficult to see a way that matters will not end in much fighting."

  * * * * *

  The new men made a difference to Pandora. They had come straight from Yarmouth, and were volunteers, and volunteers of the finest kind. Not just trained and experienced seamen, they had been caught ashore during the most unpleasant mutiny anyone in the navy could remember. When the news that Pandora, known as a loyal ship, was looking for hands the regulating captain had been hard pushed to keep the numbers down to the twenty-five that had been authorised. And so she had benefited from a draft of men whose only wish was to prove their loyalty. It was even possible that some were not truly at liberty, and might even be on the books of other ships currently moored at the Nore, but a lenient attitude had been adopted. There were no delegates or malcontents; just professional seamen who could not care less about political rebellion or revolutionary ideals and only wanted to ply their trade. They would do little good kicking their heels in ships at anchor, while Parker and his cronies continued to prevaricate and annoy; better by far that they should be actively employed in a fighting ship, where their fidelity and enthusiasm could be proven and all memories of discontent and insurrection sweated from them.

  Pandora was several miles south of the Texel, heading north-northeast and hugging the coast to starboard as close as the leadsman’s chants would allow, when Banks came up on deck. It was morning, the new watch had just been set, and he nodded at Lieutenant Timothy, who touched his hat respectfully in reply. Timothy had been aboard for several days now, and yet Banks was still mildly surprised to see a fresh face. But then Pandora was such a closed community; it had been the same when Marine Lieutenant Newman had been appointed to replace the fallen Martin.

  "All straight, Mr Timothy?" he asked. Of late he had been inclined to keep his fellow officers at a distance, even Caulfield, probably his closest friend as well as second in command, was suffering from this slightly aloof treatment. But Timothy was new and consequently noticed no change in the captain’s manner. He was as experienced in the ways of commanders as he was the sea, and accepted the reserve without comment or surprise.

  "Yes sir, we sighted a couple of fishermen at the turn of the watch, but they put about when they sees us, an’ it’s been quiet ever since."

  "Very good." Banks supposed that their recently acquired reputation for firing on any vessel, whatever their size or purpose, had spread, and it was no bad thing, as far as he was concerned; certainly they were saved a lot of trouble. For a moment he even went to voice his opinions on the matter, before pulling himself up short and turning away to pace the quarterdeck in silence.

  "Sail ho, sail to the west." Banks stopped his exercise as the masthead shout broke into his thoughts. How often had that call been made in the last few weeks? And most times it had brought more trouble than it had good.

  "What do you see there?" Timothy had a good strong voice, Banks noted; something of an attribute in any officer.

  "Four ships, at the least; reckon there will be more, sir." The sanguine delivery betrayed much. Clearly the lookout was in no doubt of the squadron’s nationality. Coming from the west it was most likely to be British, but the wind was also from that direction, and Banks quickly decided that there was no need to be caught on a lee shore.

  "Take her to larboard, Mr Timothy; as close to the wind as she’ll hold. Mr Dorsey, I’d be obliged if you would confirm the sighting."

  Again Timothy touched his hat, and began bellowing orders as Dorsey collected the deck glass from the binnacle and made for the shrouds. Pandora responded, like the well run concern she was, and soon they were heading away from the enemy coast, and roughly in the direction of the sighting.

  "I make it seven." Dorsey’s voice came down from the masthead when he had settled himself. "British by the looks, though I can’t see no colours plain. An they’re heading," he paused, considering, "north east, I’d say sir."

  So, Texel bound, and likely to be big ships. It sounded as if they were getting proper reinforcements at last. Fraiser had been roused by the change of course, and stood waiting patiently in case Banks should require him. On her present heading they would intercept the new arrivals before they reached the Texel. They might be sent back to their former patrol area, or asked for news, and ordered to accompany them to join Duncan, but it would do no good to just watch the ships pass by.

  "We’ll keep her as she is, master," he said simply. Banks would normally have been happy to share his train of thought; the man had been an exemplary sailing master since the incident with the French frigate. And long before that, he reminded himself hurriedly, remembering also his own record, and lapsing once more into his thoughts.

  "Prince, Formidable, Caesar, Bedford," Dorsey slowly began to real off the names of the British ships that were joining them, but the words flowed over Banks, and he was apparently lost to all as he resumed his solitary pacing.

  * * * * *

  Vice Admiraal Jan Willem de Winter was younger than King had expected, not quite forty, or so he would have estimated, although the thin, receding grey hair gave the illusion of age. And his dress was sombre in the extreme; a dark long coat that, although emblazoned with red and gold on the collar and cuffs, still imparted a look of rather stuffy respectability. But there was no mistaking the eyes; they had a young spark that revealed a lively mind; and they were inspecting King now, as he stood uncertainly to greet his visitor.

  "You are the British officer who was pulled from the sea?" the admiraal asked shortly, his eyes still searching him for any signs of deception.

  "I am, sir." King replied, and he had the strange sensation that he might have to prove his answer in some way.

  "What ship are you from?"

  King opened his mouth to reply, but the older and equally severely dressed officer on de Winter’s right spoke first. "It was the British corvette Pandora, sir."

  De Winter spun round like a cat, and there was a brief explosion of Dutch that King could follow perfectly well, despite having little knowledge of the language. The sorry officer muttered something apologetic in reply, and took a step ba
ck. De Winter turned his attention back to King.

  "Forgive, me, sir," he said, a brief smile flashing across his face. "I should have made the time to meet with you the sooner. Perhaps we can sit?"

  There was a table and one chair to the side of King’s room. De Winter gave a sharp order, and the junior officer fled from the room, returning seconds later with another wooden chair, before leaving once more. The two men sat rather awkwardly opposite each other across the table, although both moved their legs to one side so that they were not quite face-to-face.

  The admiraal smiled again, and pulled out a small silver case. Snapping it open, he proffered it to King. There was a neat line of dark cigars. They were short, very regular; and perfectly round; quite unlike the heavier, ovoid examples that King had known in the past.

  "Thank you, no, sir."

  De Winter nodded, and selected one for himself, lighting it from the single dip that guttered on the table between them.

  "I know your ship, and I know too that you were good enough to return my men," he puffed on his cigar thoughtfully. "You also will be exchanged. In fact it might please you to learn that Adelborst van Leiden’s name will be taken from those who have given their parole, directly upon your release. It is a bargain, no?"

  "There’s a certain poetic justice," King said, then instantly regretted it, as de Winter’s eyebrows dropped suddenly, and King hurried to explain himself. "I mean, it seems a fair exchange, sir."

  "Indeed, indeed it is so. Two young men will be free to fight again. A splendid arrangement. Splendid."

  King waited while the admiraal puffed at his cigar again. Clearly there was more to say; possibly he was having trouble with his English, or maybe it would be a difficult speech in any language.

  "So, you will be pleased to return to your ship, and your men? You will take your seaman with you of course."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "First, perhaps, we should talk a little about the situation we find ourselves in."