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

by Alaric Bond

  A few months ago his aim had been to transfer from Pandora, into a larger, stronger and more important frigate. So much had happened since then, although his instinct was still to move when the possibility presented. He had to forward his career, the career that had been planned by his parents so many years back, when his first years of official sea time were being accrued as he lay in his cradle. A powerful frigate had been the logical aim, one big enough to make a difference, yet not tied to the apron strings of a fleet or some cautious admiral. A cruise would be ideal; to be given a ship, the time and an area to wipe clean of privateers and merchant traffic. Little opposition, independent command and an opportunity to put something back into the funds that had so readily been spent on his vocation so far. There might even have been the chance of a cutting out operation, maybe taking an enemy ship from under the guns of a shore battery, as he had done on one occasion already. That would do his status no harm at all, as well as filling the coffers. And successful frigate captains were known to get on; he might be a commodore by the time he was thirty. Acting as a minor admiral, he could command his own squadron or fleet, and make both an impression on this war, and his reputation within the navy.

  But that ambition had changed; he had changed: in the few short months he had been stationed with the North Sea Fleet, Banks had undergone a transformation he would never have believed were it not as obvious as the weathering on the strakes beneath him. He had enjoyed his time as a frigate captain, but now needed something more: something different. Not the rash excitement of a light ship, a ship where action and danger were part of the territory and all else became expendable. That was not the way of wars; few matters of importance were ever decided by a ship-to-ship engagement. It was the larger warhorses like Russell, currently in sight, as she lead the small squadron on yet another tack towards the Dutch coast, it was the powerful ships of the line that were the true contenders. A group of ten, twenty ships could make a real impact, whether it be a fleet action, or a proper amphibious assault. Russell would carry almost three times the compliment of Pandora, twice the capacity in boats and four or five times the fire power. Pandora was a splendid ship, fast, sleek and agile, but she could not deliver a knock out blow. Russell, or any other third rate, was an entirely different proposal. She might lack Pandora’s grace, speed and panache, but did it really matter if she was slower in stays? So she would be inclined to wallow in any sea, and would be hard pushed to keep up with the faster merchants, did that make any difference to her importance as a seventy-four, a ship powerful enough to stand with her peers in the line of battle? And now, now they were beating against a contrary wind, scratching once more about the shallows of an enemy coast; Russell was leading a group of three frigates, Circe, Beaulieu and Pandora, while the little Martin scampered about between them. All could show her a turn of speed and agility and yet they were following dutifully in her wake. She was by far the slowest, the clumsiest and, when it came down to it, the ugliest, yet Russell would last far, far longer in action than any of the fine and dashing beauties that now paid attendance on her.

  "Russell’s signalling, sir," Dorsey’s voice cut into his thoughts, and he stopped his pacing to watch. "Our number, Beaulieu and Circe to tack."

  Banks walked across to King, who had the watch. "Looks like Martin’s being sent in for her daily reconnoitre," he said.

  "And maybe give the Dutch a touch of target practice, sir." King was finding it hard to keep his mind on his duties that afternoon. He had received a message from Juliana the day before. It was currently thrust into his jacket pocket, even though he had read it several times and could have recited the whole thing from heart if he had wished. "All hands prepare to tack!"

  "Signal’s down."

  "Ready about!"

  Pandora went into the well-worn routine as the little sloop threaded her way close hauled, and still on the port tack, between her larger consorts. Drawing considerably less than the frigates, she piled on further sail, until she was fairly skipping over the shallows, and right up to the Dutch defences.

  "There’s a gun!" The forecastle lookout saw the cloud of smoke that was gone as soon as it had appeared, although there was no sign of the shot. A dull thud rolled across the water, but Martin, now coming onto the starboard tack, seemed to take little notice. Several more shots were spotted, but the little ship darted about with impunity while her lookouts inspected the Dutch fleet, moored inside the harbour, at their leisure. They might as well try and knock a fly from the air with a musket ball, Banks thought as Martin gathered speed once more. Charlie Paget certainly knew how to get the best out of his little ship.

  King chalked up Pandora’s change of course on the traverse board. The letter had come via a tortuous route from a family in East Anglia. He supposed he could reply in the same manner and had in fact begun to write the night before.

  He looked up and watched the sloop as she weaved in between the flashes of gunfire. He knew the area well, and had actually walked in front of those gun emplacements quite recently. Beyond them he could see the steeple of the small church that stood at the end of the road where Juliana lived, where she would be now; it was a strange thought: he was within a few miles of her and yet they were so very far apart.

  "She’s signalling, Dorsey." King spoke, but Dorsey was ready with the deck glass, and began reading off the numbers as they broke out.

  "Enemy situation unchanged."

  "Very good, repeat to Russell." In fact Trollope’s ship would probably be able to read Martin’s flags, but Duncan was keen for as much communication between ships as possible, and soon the Dutch would see Russell repeat the signal once again. It was up to them to work out if the British ships beyond their horizon existed or not.

  Banks turned away from the brief excitement, and started to pace once more. Yesterday Hackett had put forward an idea; it had not reached the stage when it could be called a plan, besides, it was totally unworkable from the start. A landing party made up of marines and seamen from the current observation squadron would make a night time surprise raid on the Texel, cause a bit of damage, then away, leaving the Dutch with a bloody nose and far greater respect for the British. A year ago Banks would have been all for it, they could have thrashed out the details then and there, and Trollope in the Russell, might be looking over the proposition at that very moment. But Banks had been negative; a similar venture had been planned the previous year, although that had required a far larger force. The plan had been abandoned, and he felt it to be a bad omen. King had given a remarkably full report on the defences on Texel, and they were by no means light. It was quite conceivable that Hackett’s force would not even land, and Duncan might well return to find his observation force greatly depleted in officers and men. Hackett had been surprised by his reaction, and not a little disappointed. Banks had been accused of growing old; it was in jest of course, but the afternoon’s party had broken up shortly afterwards, and the thought stayed with him now.

  But he wasn’t too old; he ceased his pacing and stared back at Martin. He was surprised to see her still so close to the land; possibly she had spotted something that needed further investigation, or Paget had the devil inside him and felt like taunting the Dutch. As he watched she began to turn, a long sweeping arc that would eventually see her running back to rejoin the squadron. It was a beautiful sight, and Martin was a well-found craft, but Banks was growing tired of small ship antics; he wanted a larger, tougher vessel under his feet. One that could deliver a harder punch and one, he had to admit, where a band of officers would do more to look after the minutiae of running a ship and crew. Throughout his time in the navy he had met with countless crusty old captains; the kind who stuck by the rules, and managed their commands like small businesses. Captains who would not shirk from taking their ships into the fiercest danger, but, in turn, would not personally lead a boarding party, or cutting out expedition. They would maintain a fine table, however, and any officer serving under them would be certain of a soun
d education, if not the chance for valour. Yes, he had met with many like that, and had sometimes wondered why they joined the navy when an army career would have seemed more logical. But here he was, not yet thirty and the signs were well in place. He would stay with Pandora a while yet; certainly the North Sea Station seemed far more interesting than it had at first appeared, but when the change came, a seventy-four would seem the logical step.

  "My god, she’s hit!" Kings voice jerked him back from his daydreams in time to see Martin’s tiny foremast tumble sideways and collapse amid a tangle of canvas and spars. She was a good way off shore, probably just under a mile, but still well within range of the gun emplacements that protected the harbour. Worse, as the wreckage slewed her round and began to act as a sea anchor, she would no longer be a moving target, and could be pounded to pieces by the land-based artillery.

  Banks looked about the deck. "Mr Fraiser?" Fraiser was just appearing at the quarterdeck steps, hatless, and without his jacket, he had clearly heard the commotion and had come up from the gunroom.

  "Mr Fraiser, what depth do we have there?" Banks pointed at the spot just over a mile off where Martin was even now starting to wallow in the swell.

  "Insufficient for us, sir. There’s a bar running right up to where she lies. I can take us a wee bit closer, but not much."

  "Very good, see to it," he turned to King. "Summon all hands." On a Sunday afternoon’s ‘make and mend’ there was effectively no watch below. "I want both cutters and the launch manned, and double bank the launch. Small arms for the crew; midshipmen for each of the cutters, and…" he paused, looking at King, conscious for the first time of what he would be doing.

  "Yes sir?"

  "Mr King, you will command the launch."

  "Very good, sir." King touched his hat with nothing in his expression other than a desire to be off, turned away and began to shout orders.

  Banks caught Fraiser’s eye. "Take her in, master, but be prepared to back as soon as the boats are ready. Mr Lewis, start a hand in the forechains with a lead if you please." Pandora was the nearest ship to Martin, and she had the shallowest draft. He glanced across to Russell, a good deal further out to sea and heading away; Trollope would be bound to signal to him soon, but time was of the essence. Even if the shore batteries did not account for Martin, there would be gunboats despatched within minutes and, with the wind behind them, they would be raking her with deadly fire in no time. To continue his earlier metaphor, the fly had now landed; indeed it lay rooted to the ground, and was just waiting for the swat to finish it off.

  "Red and black cutters ready to launch." The crew were all seamen and had formed up on the quarterdeck. Pistols and cutlasses were loaded on board; it was unlikely that they might actually get to grips with the enemy, but better to be prepared, and the men would be reassured if they had the means to defend themselves. King pushed his way into the crowd and collected a boarding cutlass from the arms chest for himself, before making for the waist. He passed Caulfield coming up on deck with a slightly bemused expression on his face; clearly news of the emergency had only just reached him and he had yet to return to the real world.

  "Martin’s been disabled, and is under fire from the shore. I’ve to see to the launch." The first lieutenant peered across to the sloop as King made off. "You have the deck, sir!"

  "Ah, very good, Mr King."

  "Back main tops’l!" Pandora creaked at her apparent mishandling, and slowly lost momentum. The cutters hit the water almost simultaneously, and were heading for Martin as the heavier launch was being swung over the side.

  "Signal from Russell, sir," Dorsey reported. "Our number to give assistance." Banks nodded, and watched the launch fill with seamen and set off in the wake of the cutters. King was in the sternsheets, he could see the lad as he adjusted his cutlass and settled himself down in the boat. For him to choose anyone else for the mission would have been wrong; besides, Caulfield had not been on deck, and he could hardly have gone himself. But Banks was aware just how hazardous the mission was. King would be trying to tow a ship whilst under fire, and it had been just such a situation, and the result of Banks’ own incompetence, that had almost accounted for him last time.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE wind was in his teeth but as King leaned forward in the launch, urging the boat through the gentle waves, he knew the pace was good and they were travelling fast. The lower vantage point meant that he could not make out much detail on Martin, although he would expect the wreckage to have been cleared by the time they reached her. Then it should be nothing more than a steady pull to tow her out of range of the shore batteries, and back to the safety of the squadron. Ahead Rose and Cobb were speeding through the water; he could hear their adolescent shouts to the men, interspersed by the regular bark of gunfire from the shore. There had been no sign of shot yet, although King supposed that the sloop would be the target, and remain so for as long as the emergency continued.

  "Pull, pull, yer blighters!" It was the voice of Flint on stroke in the launch, already setting a cruel pace, but now subtly upping the tempo as the rowers came properly into their stride. Martin was growing nearer by the second then, as King watched, a series of splashes to larboard showed where the Dutch artillery was finding their range. Rose, in the new red cutter, had reached the sloop and was shouting something up to the men on board. A line was tossed to them, and quickly secured. King noticed another small boat off Martin’s counter; clearly they had launched their own cutter, and were about to take themselves under tow. Cobb, in the black cutter, was with them now and Martin’s bows began to come round as Rose’s boat took up the strain.

  "Right then, I’m taking her about," King told Flint as they were within striking distance; the pace slowed, and the men began to rest on their oars as King pressed the helm over, ready for the sloop to catch them up.

  The other two cutters were rigging their masts and sails now. "There’re gunboats heading from the harbour," Cobb shouted, as Flint stood up in the launch to accept a line. King tried to peer past the sloop’s hull, but could see nothing. Then Flint snatched at the light rope that was thrown from Martin’s forecastle, and began to haul the towing hawser in. Meanwhile three of the hands in the launch had rigged the boat’s two small masts. The sails were sheeted home and immediately began to fill. A heavy shot skipped past, as Flint secured the tow, before clambering back to his rowing position. Martin’s cutter was without masts, but its crew began to row enthusiastically, and slowly the sloop became a moving target once more.

  "All right, on my count; steady." King took control, setting a sensible pace as the slack was taken up. Clearly the hands in Martin were awake, and had allowed a good length for the launch’s tow, enabling them to take the lead, with the three smaller boats following, fan like, behind. He glanced over to Pandora waiting a mile or so off, so in deeper waters. It would be time consuming and totally futile to try and measure their speed, but by now the boat’s crews were considerably experienced at towing ships, and Martin was certainly lighter than their frigate.

  Cobb was pointing behind him and shouting something. King looked beyond the sloop and saw the reason for his excitement. Pulling toward Martin, and powered by oars and far larger sails, two heavy gunboats were now in plain view and creeping up on the sloop. They were keeping off her counter, just out of the arc of her broadside guns. A single cannon was mounted in the bows of each craft, and as King watched, one was steered round until the muzzle was pointed directly at them

  The gun fired as he watched; the unexpected flash and loud report that followed forced King to duck down, bending double in the small boat. The shot had passed overhead and to one side, splashing into the sea less than forty yards from their larboard bow.

  "Pull! Pull, you sods!" Flint’s voice this time, and he had increased the pace. All in the launch could see the gunboats, and knew themselves to be targets. King glanced up to the sloop, where they were in the process of rigging the little used spritsail. His attention s
witched back to the gunboats; presumably they intended knocking out the towing force, before turning their fire on to the sloop; a sensible course, for once Martin was stationary and at their mercy, they could both stand off her stern and steadily shoot her to pieces. He might try a sudden turn in an effort to place at least one gunboat within the range of Martin’s broadside guns, although any manoeuvre carried out by four towing boats would be a slow, and obvious process; the Dutch craft, infinitely more manoeuvrable, would be more than able to maintain their position. Pandora was almost stationary dead ahead, clearly she had now gone to the limit the shallows allowed, but while she was at right angles to their bows, they could not benefit from her support. He would have to manoeuvre, but it would be a slower, more considered process. He looked back at Martin once more, and indicated to larboard with his hand, then bellowed to the men in the other boats.

  Cobb and Rose nodded and someone in the other cutter raised a hand. Gradually he eased the tiller across, and even more slowly the sloop began to follow. The gunboats stayed locked on to Martin’s quarter, and for a while would even be sheltered from Pandora’s broadside by her hull. The range was shortening however, and if they could keep moving for long enough, until the time when the frigate’s nine pounders would be truly effective, the Dutch would be well within their scope, and extremely vulnerable. Clearly they had guessed his intentions in Pandora, as her bows came round and she began to work slowly to the north.