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

by Alaric Bond

  "Clear for action, if you please," Banks said casually as he considered his enemy. "But do not beat to quarters; I fear we might have a long night ahead of us."

  * * * * *

  Van Leiden was having similar thoughts in Vrijheid, the Dutch flagship. Since his promotion to luitenant and first boarding the ship only weeks before, his life seemed to have gathered speed at an incredible rate. He remembered, as a child, travelling to France with his family. There he had come across his first ever sizeable hill, and ran down it with all the enthusiasm of youth. It was soon after he had begun that he realised he was unable to stop. The hill had stretched on inexorably and his cries were only answered by amusement. Then a slip turned into a fall, and his light body had continued to tumble until he finally came to rest, panting and in an untidy heap, listening to the far away laughter of his family. It was much the same now; his position as junior luitenant meant that he had many responsibilities, most of which he knew little about. Each task he undertook seemed to lead to several more; he had learnt much through trial and error, and nothing from the stuck up prig who was his senior in the luitenant’s list, as well as the cause of many of his problems.

  Van Leiden had been aboard the flagship for less than a month, and for most of that time had spent eighteen to twenty hours of every day trying to sort out his division and duties, whilst also learning the signal book, officer etiquette, and the difference between serving as an Adelborst in the Gunther, an eighteen-gun sloop, and a commissioned officer in Vrijheid, a seventy-four, and flagship of the fleet. He had yet to tumble, but if he did he knew he would not get away with a little gentle ribbing. Now, in a rare moment of peace, he stood at the break of the quarterdeck and watched as the leading ships snaked through the Schulpen Gat that led from the harbour, and out into the North Sea.

  The sky was darkening rapidly, making the white lights that each ship carried stand out as Vrijheid passed through the harbour entrance, and began to roll gently with the swell. The wind felt stronger now they were at sea, and the ship began to take on speed, although a block had jammed and the fore topsail yard could not be adjusted. Van Rossem, the captain, was on deck, bellowing at the bootsman and his crew who were attempting to correct the fault. Earlier there had been problems with the main topsail; it was a brand new sail and the footrope had been too short so the sheets could not be brought home, even with the tackles clapped on. It was what was expected when a ship first took to the sea after months, years, in harbour, but at least they had a crew made up of trained hands; small adjustments to the ship could be made very quickly; it took far longer to create proper seamen.

  One of the few exceptions was their admiraal; although a seasoned officer, everyone knew that he had never captained anything larger than a picket boat in the past. De Winter might have a forceful personality, with a size and presence to match, but they had yet to learn how he would fare when it came to commanding a fleet.

  He had spoken to them only that morning, just after it had been announced that the fleet was to sail with the evening tide, and further communication with the shore would not be permitted. An assembly had been called in the great cabin, and the commissioned officers and some juniors were told exactly what was to be. They would be heading southwest, and their force would be the sixteen ships of the line, along with five frigates and five brigs that had shared their anchorage. There were further vessels waiting and ready in the mouth of the river Meuse; once these had been collected de Winter would be commanding a fleet far larger than anything that had been blockading them. The admiraal was operating under instructions given to him in July, when the invasion of Ireland had been thought imminent. De Winter was instructed to consolidate his force and then offer battle with the British if there were any chance of success; that had raised a laugh amongst the senior officers, all of whom were confident to the point of arrogance.

  But then they had very good reason; the Royal Navy had fought and won several battles of late, but all against Spanish or French opposition; the last time they had met a fleet manned by proper seamen was when the Dutch had met them in 1781 off Dogger Bank. Then they had learned what a real navy was capable of, and it seemed destined that the lesson was to be repeated and maybe even improved upon. The admiraal had handled the meeting well, and all left feeling confidant and excited, with little thought to the fact that they would be leaving their home port to fight a battle without the chance to explain or say goodbye to those on shore.

  Now they were well out to sea, and most of the other ships were clear of the harbour. An ironic cheer came from the forecastle, as the foretopsail yard was finally adjusted. Adelborst Cuypers, one of his signal’s team and about the only true friend he had on board, went to make a comment but stopped as they both saw the doors under the poop open. The admiraal’s large personality was matched by his size, although the he could never have been called stout, but as he swept out with his long hair tied neatly back and strode purposefully on to the quarterdeck, he was certainly an impressive figure. Van Leiden watched as he exchanged a few words with van Rossem, and then broke away to study the last of the fleet leaving harbour. He looked back again at the captain, and said something van Leiden could not catch. Then his own name was being shouted, and he jerked to attention.

  "The British frigate to the north," the captain pointed up the coast. "Signal Mars and Monnikendamm to intercept!"

  Cuypers was there with his book, flipping through the pages, while the two hands detailed to signals opened the main flag locker and stood ready. Van Leiden glanced back to where an enemy frigate, one of the relentless blockading force that had hounded them for the past months could just be seen. It was keeping pace with the fleet on roughly the same southwesterly course. Cuypers began to shout out the numbers, and the flags were attached to the halyards and sent skywards. They watched the two heavy frigates expectantly, and soon could make out the acknowledgement raised as the ships altered course and began to set further sail. Both carried over forty guns: each on their own would account for a British sixth rate if it were foolish enough to come within range; together the battle would be over within a couple of broadsides. He looked across to where the enemy was still blithely continuing to follow them; he wondered for a moment if it were Thomas’ ship, Pandora. If it were, he hoped that the British would be sensible and run while they had the chance.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  "IT’s quite a sight," Cobb said, and he was right. The Dutch fleet was off Pandora’s larboard bow, and completely out of the harbour. They straddled untidily in a long line while individual ships trimmed their sails and sought to form a more regimented sailing order. Also at the masthead, King was making rapid notes in his pocket book, frantically jotting down as many details as he could before the light failed and black night swallowed them entirely.

  "I make it seventeen liners, and four frigates plus some small stuff; what say you?"

  Cobb shook his head. "Far liner looks more like a heavy frigate; can’t see the ports though; too dark an’ they ain’t picked out."

  "Twenty six in all?"

  "Aye, twenty six is about it, and definitely heading for the south."

  King made his report, and the signals flags were soon racing up; with luck Circe would be able to read them without Dorsey having to resort to the more cumbersome and less accurate night signals. But that was his problem; King and Cobb settled down to watch as the enemy ships jostled with each other to form two lines. Their course was certainly to the south—south-south west most likely—although even to be sure they were not heading north would be enough for Duncan to know where to start looking.

  "Ask me, the far one’s a frigate, and she’s wearing out of station," Cobb said.

  King peered through the glass. "You’re right, and the nearer frigate’s coming round as well. Better let the deck know." He waited as Cobb bellowed the news; yes, the two ships were definitely detaching from the main body. "Chance is high they’re gaining sea room, before coming for us," he said, as the e
nemy settled onto the starboard tack. "They’ll see Circe off, sure as eggs, and like as not, we’ll be trapped against the Dutch coast."

  King continued to watch as the ships began to fade into the gathering dark. They were certainly heavy, probably forty gunners, in which case they would throw a shot double the weight of Pandora’s main armament. And, being Dutch, they would probably be of shallow draft, so there would be no escaping into the shoals. The darkness was almost complete now, but in the last fragile wisps of dusk the enemy turned once more until they were as close to the wind as they could sail.

  "That’s it, they’re heading back for us," King turned to Cobb. "Better nip down and tell the captain face to face." Cobb rolled his eyes; the journey from a frigate’s masthead was not the simple exercise King had made it sound, especially as he was bound to be ordered straight back afterwards. "It is important," King said, and Cobb set off.

  Left alone King watched as the enemy faded into the gloom of night. Banks would have to act swiftly; unless he altered course in the next few minutes, those ships would surely take Pandora. He glanced down and could just make out Cobb on the quarterdeck approaching the captain. Caulfield and Fraiser were called in, and there seemed to be a discussion going on, with lots of shaking of heads and pulling of chins, but Pandora did not alter course; instead she beat to quarters, the men taking up their battle stations, ready for immediate action. Banks must be determined to continue shadowing the fleet for as long as possible, and was willing to risk meeting any enemy that tried to stop him. To starboard lay the vast North Sea; there was still time; Pandora could wear, add sail, and find relative safety in the cold dark night. But instead she continued on her present course, with every yard taking her deeper into danger.

  * * * * *

  King’s warning had not been easily ignored; Banks was sorely tempted to let the enemy ships chase him away from the fleet. He might even lure them as far as Russell and the others; that would be a fine action and, if carefully handled, should account for both with no loss to the British. However, Pandora’s value lay in the information she could gather. The other ships of Trollope’s observation squadron were aware that the enemy was out, but not their exact position. They might follow the coast in the hope of staying in touch, but could do little if the Dutch suddenly turned to the west, or even wore round to head northwards. If Pandora could avoid the attention of the two enemy heavies, and stay in touch with the fleet throughout the night, they would know their exact position and heading and be able to relay both in the morning. Information such as that would be invaluable when it came to Duncan joining them in battle, and was certainly worth risking the fragile hull of one light frigate.

  It was quite dark now, and what moon there was would not rise for a good three hours. Pandora, sailing under topsails alone, was barely making steerage way and, with ports closed and properly darkened, would hopefully merge into the gloom. But then light played strange tricks at night, and for all Banks knew, Pandora could still be visible to the enemy. He stared out at the two frigates’ last known position. They might be intending to face them; continue close-hauled, and attack from head on; or pass, tack, and come up on their stern, effectively trapping Pandora between themselves and the enemy fleet. The first course would merely drive them off; the second almost guaranteed their destruction. Either way it was likely to be sudden, with the enemy relying as much on their estimate of his position as he was on calculating theirs. It was simple; all he had to do was guess their orders and react accordingly; had they been instructed to chase off the annoying little frigate, or sink her?

  "Four points to starboard." The order rang out in the still air, and for a moment no one reacted. "Four points to starboard I say!" Banks repeated, with a slight edge to his voice.

  "Four points to starboard, quartermaster," Caulfield repeated, although the wheel was already spinning, and the braces were hauling the yards round as the ship began to turn. That would throw a fox into the hen house; whatever the Dutch might have planned, he had altered Pandora’s course in a manner that had surprised her own crew: it only remained to see if the Dutch could be similarly confused. The frigates might well be dead ahead and bearing down on them; the new heading would be effectively playing into their hands. Large and powerful ships, each carrying a massive broadside, only the darkness and the fact that the enemy would not expect such a bold move would save Pandora from annihilation.

  However the night was truly black, one of the blackest Banks had known and, if they could slip past undetected, Pandora would be free to continue stalking the fleet. Banks rubbed his hands together and blew on his fingers; he might be on the verge of graduating from a simple frigate captain to something far superior, but there was enough of the firebrand left, and he had an inkling in his bones that the ruse would work. He even felt slightly smug as Pandora settled on to her new course, and began to nudge her way out into the gentle waves of the North Sea. Then, with a chill, Banks remembered his premonition after the last ship-to-ship encounter. Pandora had been lucky, no one could deny that; but her luck had already been pressed a long way: perhaps, this time, he was pushing too far?

  * * * * *

  The order had been given for absolute silence and every light to be extinguished; the men squatted at their quarters with doused battle lanterns ticking softly behind closed ports. Lanthorns on the orlop deck were turned down to nought and the binnacle lights were put out. Slow matches, burning in tubs between the guns, were doused and, as the blackness flowed readily throughout the ship, even those lamps that shone so bright in the sealed off, magazine light room were extinguished and left to smoke in silence. And silence there was, a silence so complete that the gentle wind rasping through the shrouds sounded like a low, tormented moan, giving Pandora an uneasy, spectral feel, so much so that even in a hull tight packed with humanity, many felt alone and strangely vulnerable.

  None more so than Powell, who sat in the area usually occupied by the junior warrant officers. If action were joined, injured and dying men would surround him, but now he was alone. Mr Doust, Mr Manning, Miss Black and the other loblolly boys were a good way off in the operating area. Normally there would be talking, the noise of sharpening tools and maybe the odd laugh as they waited for the dreadful work to begin. But then normally there would be light, movement and company. His was a sensitive soul, used to picking up the subtle signs in all things, be they the unspoken symptoms of a comatose patient, vagaries in the weather, or a superior officer’s ill temper. Sitting silent in the darkness, while the ship headed slowly toward danger, and perhaps destruction, sitting below the waterline, and far from the hope of escape should she sink or explode, he felt his senses rise up to almost unbearable levels.

  Apart from the scuttling of a rat in the hold below—a sound so easily magnified that it sounded like the crash of a round shot raking them from bow to stern—apart from the rat, the creak of timbers and the pounding of his own heart, there was no noise, and the ship was filled with an expectancy that hurt. He shuffled uncomfortably on the warm deck, shifting his position in an effort to break the tension that was almost tangible. He found his breathing had become shallow and frequent; he looked up, but in the absolute black there was no relief, no contrast, just a deep impenetrable obscurity. A slight groan escaped, making him jump and even further on edge. He was panting now, panting and starting to wriggle uncontrollably. It must end, it must end soon; he could not take the silence, the dark, and the waiting any longer, no longer, no longer at all; he knew that a scream was only seconds away.

  * * * * *

  The enemy fleet was just visible on their larboard bow; small pinpricks of light at their mastheads showed where they were continuing to vie with each other for position. And there was the very slightest lightening in the sky astern, over the shore that was fast receding as Pandora crept on. But there was nothing more, no star broke the heavy autumn sky, and her speed was not great enough to turn a wake. Certainly the frigates were out there, and probably still on
the opposite tack and heading almost directly for them. Of course, Pandora’s masts might conceivably be silhouetted against the lighter eastern sky, but there was no profit in thinking such thoughts; either they would be spotted and attacked, or missed and allowed to live, and fight another day. Next to King, Cobb stirred uncomfortably. They were perched as high as they could be, both with their arms wrapped about the main topgallant mast, and the tension, the uncomfortable position, and Cobb’s constant fidgeting, was starting to tell.

  "Get down to the crosstrees," King whispered. "You can see almost as much from there, and Ford might be getting lonely."

  "You’ll be all right?"

  "I’ll have better room, and a touch more peace without your inherent wriggling. Besides no one’s going to steal me. Now be off, and quiet about it."

  The lad gratefully clambered down, resting his stomach briefly on the yard as he sought for the ratlines with his feet. Then he was gone and King was left to his private and very black world. Even the foremast lookout, standing slightly lower, and not more than fifty feet away from him was only visible because he knew him to be there. Without the regular sounding of the bell, time had ceased to matter; King might have been up there for ten minutes, or half an hour, but when he first saw the flash of movement off the starboard bow, it seemed to stop entirely.