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

by Alaric Bond

  "Pull! Pull!" The tow had straightened now and King increased the pace once more. The frigate would be in long range soon and could start to fire on the gunboats, although he sensed that Banks would not risk broadsides while his own men and boats could so easily be hit by a stray.

  Another shot passed close by, sending water into the boat, and there was the sudden crack of breaking wood.

  "The sweep’s broke!" Jackson, pulling larboard bow with Bankhead, held the ragged end of their oar up in disgust."

  "Carry on, the rest of you," King shouted. "Pull! Pull!" They carried no spare oars, but it was better that the launch continued out of balance than lost the power of four rowers.

  "Pull! Pull!"

  They could expect the next shot from the first gunboat at any moment. King glanced back to the sloop, and was in time to see the flash. Again he instinctively ducked his head, looking up to see Rose’s cutter dissolve in their wake. One moment it was intact, with six men straining at the oars, the next the boat had totally disintegrated, almost plank by plank, and the water was full of bobbing heads and waving arms.

  "Carry on, Mr Cobb!" King bellowed. It was his decision, and he came to it instantly. To divert the other cutter from the tow would lessen their power by two boats, with the additional problem of Cobb’s continuing while crowded with survivors. The sloop was bearing down on them; the men on board would be able to throw lines to those in the water even if there wasn’t the time for a scrambling net. Those that were left behind, well, the gunboats might pick them up; worse things had happened after all.

  "Pull! Pull!"

  The loss of Rose’s cutter had certainly made a difference, and the men at the oars, who had been working for some time now, were starting to tire. Beyond Pandora King could see the other ships of the squadron further out to sea; they might well have launched boats that were coming to his aid, although there was no sign: besides, he felt in his bones that this would be settled within the next few minutes.

  Another crack of gunfire; was it his imagination, or had the gunboats crept closer? This shot fell amongst the oars of the sloop’s cutter, forcing the rowers to miss a stroke. Pandora was now comfortably in range and coming to the wind to offer her broadside to the enemy. A puff of smoke from a forward gun, and the shot landed between Martin and one of the gunboats that dogged her.

  "Starboard!" King bellowed; now was the time to make the most of the earlier manoeuvre, as well as shorten the distance between them and safety. He waved his hand frantically, and the remaining boats slowly responded, dragging the useless lump of a hulk that seemed to grow heavier with every pull, until they were back to their original course, but with Pandora off their starboard bows, and ready to take out the enemy.

  The British ship began to fire steadily; a discharge every two or three seconds; too fast for Donaldson, the gunner, to be laying each piece individually. Splashes from Pandora’s guns were erupting regularly about the gunboats, but they remained determinedly off Martin’s counter, and could be expected to fire again at any moment.

  The shot that destroyed Cobb’s boat came at almost the same time as the one that hit one of the Dutch craft. King watched as the British seamen struggled in the frothy waters; he could see Cobb, hat off and bellowing as he gathered the men together. They were in the lee of the sloop, and the tow had slowed considerably. With luck, any that had not been injured would be recovered. The Dutch were faring slightly better; their boat had simply been holed, and slowed to a halt as she settled in the water; the other craft had reluctantly followed, and was taking on survivors. King found he was holding his breath, and consciously expelled the air from his body, just as a flash of light caught his eye. Pandora had released the remains of her broadside on the Dutch. None of the shots hit and quite a few were well to the stern of the enemy; presumably the British gun captains were laying to the left to be sure of not striking any of their own craft, but the stunning concussion of the gunfire made a dramatic impact on them all.

  "Pull! Pull! Pull!" Flint continued, but even he seemed slightly mesmerised, and the pace began to falter as the weary men gradually relaxed. Pandora had the enemy in range; a further broadside was due in a matter of minutes; there was nothing the Dutch could achieve now; their only course was to run. This they did, collecting as many men from the water as was possible, and turning their bows for the shore. The second salvo came as they were underway, and most shots hit the sinking gunboat, rolling it over in the water, and sending it straight to the shallow bottom.

  Unordered, Flint unshipped his oar and rested forward, breathing heavily. The other rowers followed his example, muttering brief comments, curses and occasionally spitting over the side. The boat began to rise and fall without power or control in the gentle swell. King, who had not been involved with any form of physical exercise, still felt remarkably weary, and settled himself down in his seat, placed his head between his hands and gave one almighty sigh. It was over.

  * * * * *

  On the quarterdeck, standing where he had been for some while, Banks reached down and rested on the hammock packed netting, and also relaxed. From his higher vantage point he had watched the destruction of both cutters and the enemy gunboat, and had seen his officers and what appeared to be all of the men, rescued by the sloop. The sound of rhythmic movement and shouting came to him; he looked up to see two further cutters and a much larger launch come past Pandora, heading for Martin. They would be from the squadron; too late, but at least the reinforcements could carry the sloop back the rest of the way.

  "King did well, sir," Caulfield said as he cautiously approached. His captain, whom he still regarded as a friend, had been decidedly distant for some while. Aloof and sometimes just plain rude, he was clearly affected by some private and personal matter, and displayed all the traits of a troubled man. Now, as he stood at ease by the quarterdeck bulwark, he seemed to have shrunken slightly in size; his head was bowed, his shoulders drooped; anyone would think King’s rescue had been a failure. "Shame about the cutters," Caulfield persisted. "But it appears no one was hurt."

  Banks turned his head and gave a weak smile. "You know I had rather a curt letter from the dockyard when we lost the first two? The dear knows what they will make of it when they discover I’ve accounted for another brace."

  "It is rather becoming a habit." Caulfield said seriously, and then stifled a laugh as he noticed that Banks, standing upright now, was also attempting to control himself.

  "Do you think they’ll trust us with any more, Michael?" the captain asked, his eyes delightfully alight.

  "Belike we’ll be tested with one, and allowed another if we do not break it."

  Then they were both laughing heartily. Fraiser watched as the two grown men standing near to him, began to giggle like schoolboys, slapping each other on the back and snorting as if they had just carried off some incredibly devilish prank.

  "She’s a fine ship, Pandora," Caulfield said stiffly. "But she just don’t take care of her boats!" Banks spluttered, and the laughter was renewed again. Fraiser looked away and gave his full attention to the chart. He made a careful mark of their soundings, and cross-referenced the bearings with those he had taken earlier. The officers had almost controlled themselves now, and were mopping their eyes, with only the occasional outburst taking brief control. Fraiser had also noticed a change in atmosphere in Pandora, although he could not accurately place the time or reason for it. That the feeling had lifted was obvious however, and none the worst for that. He felt a slight chill on the side of his face, and glanced up to the weathervane; the wind was backing and apparently gathering in strength; his natural seaman’s instincts went on to calculate the difference it would make when Pandora was under way again, but as he did so, and completely without his knowledge, he too was smiling.

  * * * * *

  "Gentlemen, please!" Kate said, as she swept into the gunroom. King and Newman had half risen, and sat back into their chairs rather guiltily. "I appreciate the compliment," she
continued as she pulled a chair out and joined them at the long table. "But I think it wrong that you can not enjoy your private room without having to consider me at all times."

  "Purser’s a wardroom rank." Newman said 'purser' slowly and especially carefully; he had been warned: they had all been warned. "You have every right to be here; indeed you are most welcome."

  "Well I cannot see how it can remain that way if you keep having to leap up from your chairs whenever I enter; poor Mr Caulfield banged his head yesterday." King and Newman exchanged looks, although neither of them dared to laugh out loud. "Besides, I thought this the gunroom; am I amiss?"

  "Wardroom in a frigate’s known as the gunroom," King explained. "On account of the actual gunroom not being large enough."

  "To hold the guns?" she asked innocently.

  "Er no, not exactly. To hold the junior officers." The silence that followed was as awkward as his answer.

  Kate smiled. "Why don’t you just say; ‘it’s the navy’?"

  "It’s the navy," King and Newman replied in unison.

  Crowley appeared with a pot of coffee, and she stood to pour for both men and herself.

  "I have your jacket mended," she said as she passed a cup to Newman; she knew he always took his black and without sugar.

  "That’s kind of you Katharine." he gave his ready smile and took the drink in return. "My man Adams has a pig’s foot when it comes to the needlework."

  "Oh, it were not me but Powell in the sick berth; a rare hand and a good eye."

  "I was not aware."

  "Very neat stitching; I think you will be pleased. Are you writing, Thomas?"

  Caught, King looked up suddenly. He was indeed trying to write, but had not progressed very far.

  "Yes, just a letter."

  Kate considered this; in the time she had known him he had failed to mention living family or friends outside of Pandora, and certainly had not communicated with them.

  "It is someone I met," he continued foolishly. Now both she and Newman were interested; there were few chances of a casual meeting in a blockading frigate.

  "One of the hands on a lighter?" the marine asked, beaming.

  "No," King replied crossly, then looked about the otherwise empty room before continuing in a softer voice. "Someone I met on land; when I was a prisoner."

  "That van Leiden chappie?" Newman was more serious now. "He’s an officer in a hostile force; I should be mindful there."

  "His sister in law, actually."

  Newman shook his head. "Still technically the enemy."

  "Her husband was killed by the French; I fail to see how…"

  "Killed by the French?" Kate interrupted. "So she is…"

  "A widow, yes; I met a young widow ashore and now I am writing to her: if that is square with you both?"

  Newman grew thoughtful. "Is she pretty?"

  "Very."

  "Then it seems an admirable pastime," he gave another of his regular beams, before adding: "You won’t mention the war, of course?"

  "She is hardly aware we are having one."

  Kate toyed with her cup. "And is the letter going well, Tom?" she asked.

  "No, but I have little need of assistance, thank you."

  "Oh, I would never presume," but her eyes were a-twinkle and a smile was not very far away.

  "Then I shall continue." But he did not; it was impossible with the two watching him in silence from across the table. For a moment he even considered writing any nonsense in the hope of boring them, but they knew him well enough. Finally he looked up in desperation.

  "You will ask us," Kate smiled, supportively, "Should you need a hand with spelling, punctuation or, perhaps… construction?"

  * * * * *

  September went, to be replaced by a far harsher October with rain, strong winds and earlier evenings. As the second dogwatch began, with darkness barely minutes away, Pandora was once more cruising off the enemy coast. And once more the wind came off shore, ideal for the enemy to venture out, and ideal for the fleet of small craft still holed up beyond the harbour defences, to finally take to sea.

  Of late the threat of invasion had started to diminish however; no army can stay in one place for so long without growing restless and suffering a definite lowering of morale. Men must be fed; fed, exercised and, to some extent, occupied, and after several months of apparent listlessness, there had been reports of divisions, brigades and even entire regiments dispersing to other French held territories. There were also rumours that one of the generals in command had died although nothing that could be substantiated. But the Dutch fleet remained, as powerful and menacing as ever and for as long as they did Pandora and her consorts, would stay, tentatively feeling their way amidst the shallows, teasing the enemy who sat safe, but impending, in their lair. For, even if the risk of invasion had lessened, the mighty force was a danger in itself, and had to be kept under constant observation. On good days, when most of Duncan’s elderly warships were at sea, they were outnumbered. On the bad, such as today, the single ship of the line, and a cluster of frigates and small fry would make almost no impact on the fleet they so readily taunted.

  Despite, or maybe because of her earlier mishap, Pandora was close inshore again, and the monotonous drone of the leadsman in the forechains was once more becoming just another of the regular sounds that haunts every sailing ship. It had been a gloomy afternoon and a thick layer of blanket cloud still sat heavily over the ship as she eased her way through the grey waters. The new watch had been set fifteen minutes before, and Caulfield, who had the deck, was just settling down to the two-hour stretch before he would be relieved. Then a bite of supper, and eight glorious hours of sleep, before he took the morning watch. He glanced at the traverse board, and went to pass a comment to Fraiser, who had been on deck for as long as they had been taking soundings, and would probably remain so until they ceased. Then came the call from the masthead, and their lives, the commission and the entire war, changed forever.

  "Deck there, lights on the enemy fleet." For a moment all was still. Caulfield paused, his body, turned to address the master, becoming rigid as he waited for more. "A lot of activity, and I can see small craft in the waters outside the harbour. One ship is moving, although not under sail. Wait; there are topsails on two; maybe more…"

  Fraiser and Caulfield exchanged looks, then the latter turned to the midshipman of the watch. "Cobb, the masthead for you, and tell me what you see." The lad was off and racing up the shrouds with the deck glass slung over one shoulder, but there was no time to wait for his report. Caulfield glanced around at the darkening horizon; they had been plying this coast for months, waiting for the enemy to sail. Now it appeared that they had, there was no denying a distinct feeling of vulnerability. "Send for the captain," he said, and was about to summon the watch below when he thought better of it. The Dutch might be merely rearranging the anchorage; it would be foolish to react needlessly, although an inner feeling told him that early evening could hardly be the best time to move ships. But, with the wind as it was, and darkness steadily falling, it was the perfect time for the enemy to attempt to leave harbour unseen.

  Banks appeared just as Cobb had settled himself and was starting his report. Caulfield touched his hat respectfully but no one spoke as the midshipman’s voice reached them.

  "They’re sailing." he said simply. "Seem to be leaving in line ahead, the first is just at the harbour entrance, and will be a’sea in no time."

  "What of the small craft?" the captain asked.

  A pause, while Cobb considered. "It appears to be warships, sir; the transports are still moored."

  "Mr Fraiser, what depth have we?" In the months they had been patrolling the Dutch coast Fraiser, like any good sailing master, had developed both an excellent memory for the various sandbars and shallows, as well as an instinct for where further perils might be expected.

  "We cana’ take her further in, sir, but might continue on this tack a fair while yet."

 
They were to the north of the harbour; their current course, which was south-southwest, would take them up to and past the very entrance, allowing any southward bound fleet to be followed. And should the Dutch turn to the north, there should still be room enough for Pandora to precede them.

  "Is Circe in sight?"

  Yes, sir." Caulfield answered. "But a good way to leeward and we will lose the light presently."

  "Then make a signal, tell them the Dutch are out."

  It was impossible for such a statement to sound anything other than dramatic and all on board knew the repercussions were going to be vast. Circe would signal to Russell, and Trollope was bound to despatch a cutter or some other fast craft to Duncan at Yarmouth once the news had been digested. With luck Duncan should know by the morning after tomorrow. He would sail immediately, whatever the condition of his ships, and might cross the North Sea in a day and a half. If the observation squadron kept the enemy in sight and was able to signal their position, Duncan could bring them to battle. It would be the confrontation that everyone had been expecting for so long; in less than a week, it should all be over.

  "Mr King," Banks addressed the lieutenant who had just appeared on deck. "It seems the Dutch have sailed. We will endeavour to give chase; I’d be obliged if you would join Mr Cobb at the masthead and remain for as long as I need you there." It was somewhat harsh, sending a lieutenant, but they needed an accurate assessment of the enemy’s strength and possible course without delay.

  King touched his hat and turned for the shrouds. The tension was growing as dusk closed in. Dorsey’s voice was next.

  "Circe’s signalling, sir. Repeated from Russell; advise enemy heading."

  "Very good." It might take a while for the ships to assemble out of the harbour, so a true course could not be given immediately. The despatch to Duncan would have to be delayed until this vital information was available, but far better to be sure than send the entire North Sea Fleet off on some wild rainbow chase. King was sound, and would report as soon as there was no doubt. Texel was coming into view now, and the lights that had first alerted the masthead were visible from the deck. Flags could also be seen, flying from the shore batteries, along with small pencils of smoke showing where the furnaces were alight for heating shot. Clearly the Dutch were taking every measure to ensure that their fleet left harbour without incident. And now those on deck could see the forest of masts as they slowly thinned out, and yes, there were two Dutch liners under topsails and jibs, actually outside the harbour walls, and heading on what appeared to be the same course as Pandora.