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

by Alaric Bond

  * * * * *

  Although Venerable had survived several broadsides her pace had slowed. The damage was mainly to her hull, however; her masts still held, and she advanced relentlessly towards the Dutch line. Duncan and Fairfax had stayed on the quarterdeck, and were now watching with grim satisfaction as their ship came into a position where she could at last return fire. The name Vrijheid could just be made out on the transom of the ship on their larboard bow; the admiral had guessed correctly: he was fighting directly with de Winter. To starboard was another seventy-four; it remained anonymous, but was causing further problems. She had come forward in an attempt to seal the gap that Venerable sought, and now her bowsprit was threatening to clash with the flagship’s, blocking her effort to break the line.

  "Helm a larboard, if you please," Duncan said urgently.

  Fairfax yelled at the quartermaster, who began to heave at the wheel, aided by the only helmsman left to him. Venerable responded, bringing the mystery ship into the line of fire from her broadside guns. Duncan nodded at Clay, the second lieutenant, and received a salute in reply. Then a call to be ready, a raised sword, and with a single shouted word the entire might of the starboard battery was unleashed.

  Venerable’s first broadside had been loaded with care before the battle, and caused more devastation than any she would fire that day. With the mystery ship less than fifty feet from her, each shot told, and could almost be followed on their course from the muzzles of the British guns. Splinters spun from the Dutch ship’s sides, and her very hull seemed to wallow from the blows. Duncan watched, also noting with grim satisfaction that he was one of the few who did.

  Steam rose from the lamb's wool swabs as they purged red-hot embers from the barrels. Fresh cartridges were inserted, to be followed almost immediately by further shot. The gun captains were probing with their priming wires, and lacing touch holes with fine powder and spirit, and soon the blocks began to squeal as the guns were heaved up to the firing position once more. It was fast, stunningly fast, considering the damage, both to man power and material, that Venerable had already suffered, but now she was ready to speak once more and, once more, the ship heaved as another broadside swept down upon the enemy.

  "Ready larboard!" Clay had moved to the opposite battery; now Vrijheid would be the target. Again the old ship vibrated to the crack of the guns; men were deafened by the sound, blinded by the smoke and choked by the fumes, but their blood was up and they worked on, drawing on reserves of energy and nerve; reserves that, for most, would last out the battle and five minutes more.

  The starboard gunners were signalling their pieces ready, and another deadly broadside rolled out. Venerable had yet to fully penetrate the line, although the ship on her starboard beam had been forced out of position. But another was coming on to her stern, and she was in danger of being raked. Duncan looked about; Triumph had made it to the line and was just releasing her first broadside into the ship that threatened Venerable. And there was Ardent, coming across Vrijheid’s bows, discharging her guns as she thrust her way through the tangle of line and spars that had been the Dutchman’s bowsprit.

  "The enemy are not as steady, nor as fast," Fairfax bellowed to Duncan during a rare break in the firing. They stood less than three feet apart, but both were already quite deaf. "Belike they feel the lack of carronades!"

  The admiral nodded, but did not attempt to speak. Indeed, this was ideal work for the shorter barrelled gun; a heavier projectile could be used, fewer men were needed to tend it, and the reload rate was faster. Marines had formed up and were sniping at men on Vrijheid’s poop. Duncan noticed with surprise that Venerable had moved forward, and was now almost past the Dutch flagship. The ship they had punched out of line was now on their starboard beam, and another two-decker had crept across their bows. There was also a further ship, apparently a sixty-four, off their stern. All were engaging other British vessels at the same time, although Duncan knew that his tired old flagship could only take so much punishment and it was at that moment that the carpenter clambered up from the waist and approached Fairfax. The man had apparently lost his hat, but deferentially knuckled his forehead in the way of all seamen.

  "Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I needs more men at the pumps. She’s takin’ water badly for’ard. We can stopper the leaks for now, but the well’s nigh on three-quarter full, and is ’dangerin’ the orlop."

  Fairfax paused to allow the starboard broadside to speak once more before replying. "Go to Mr Cleland, tell him I authorise you to take anyone he can spare, apart from the gunners: no one is to leave a gun, do you hear?"

  The carpenter nodded, touched his forehead briefly, before bustling off to find the first lieutenant.

  Then a bright light from further forward drew the officer’s attention. Contrasting vividly with the grey afternoon, the growing mass of yellow and red began to rise up with hypnotic majesty. A fire had broken out on one of the ships. Duncan watched with a falling heart; it must be Triumph, who had last been seen in that quarter. The flames leapt from the deck, and began greedily consuming canvas, line and spars. Within minutes the ship was nothing but a blazing wreck, incapable of further action other than to save herself, and endangering all about her.

  "What of Triumph?" Duncan bellowed at Fairfax, who showed little concern, and pointed forward. Sure enough the British ship could just be seen emerging from around the bows of the enemy flagship directly ahead.

  "See, Essington comes to relieve us," Fairfax shouted. "Sure, he is a welcome sight!"

  Welcome indeed, the more so as Duncan realised the nationality of the stricken ship. The men who were desperately trying to save her must be Dutch, and as he registered the news, he noted that it was with an odd combination of relief and guilt.

  * * * * *

  On the orlop deck Doust, Manning and Black were also experiencing mixed emotions. Pandora had yet to come under fire, but they were ready, and strangely eager to be active. About them lay the tools and instruments that would be used to repair the broken bodies they were expecting. They had roughed out a plan between them; those who just required stitching would be the preserve of Manning, with Black on hand for bandaging and splints. Doust would handle all the amputations, as well as splinter and shot extractions, and any complex abdominal surgery, something at which he was considered exceptionally fast. That was the intention, but they all knew how easily it might degrade into mayhem.

  There were four large lanthorns smokily burning over the operating area, and the atmosphere was already heavy. Manning brushed a lock of hair from across his eyes and smiled at Kate.

  "First thing we do after this is get your hair cut," she told him briskly. He grinned; hair, and the necessity for cutting it, was something he always forgot about until the surplus of one and lack of the other became a nuisance.

  "I’ll bother John Donna in the morning."

  "Donna?"

  "Aye, foc’sleman; does all the haircutting in the ship, some of the officers’ included. Fair hand at the tailoring as well, I hears."

  Kate pulled a face. "I’m not letting no common sailor hack you about." She reached down and picked up a pair of small scissors and advanced towards him. He drew back in mock horror.

  "Whoa, Katie: now’s not the time, nor the place."

  Doust snorted. "There’s nothing else a happening, laddie, you might as well let the lady have her way."

  Manning’s eyes rose to heaven, but he squatted down obediently enough as Kate began to stroke his hair into a semblance of order, and took the first few tentative snips. Beside them a loblolly boy chuckled. Kate regarded him seriously over Manning’s head.

  "I’d hold my peace, were I you, Hobday; there’s a fair thatch on your top that could do with attending: like as not we will even have the time."

  * * * * *

  Monarch had succeeded in ousting the Dutchman from her jib boom, and was now pouring successive broadsides into her hull. The frigate’s steering gear had clearly been hit; she was drift
ing to leeward, and had long ceased to reply. To larboard a seventy-four flying an admiral’s flag was also suffering the British ship’s fire. There were no officers visible on her poop or quarterdeck, and she was expected to strike at any moment. Onslow had received a small cut to his right hand, but had staunched the bleeding with a handkerchief from O’Brien. The admiral turned from his position on the poop, and looked back. Adamant, Powerful and Director were directly astern; they had already dealt with one two-decker, which had struck, and were now sending a boat to take possession. Behind them another Dutch battleship was about to be engaged by Montague, with the spunky little Pandora coming past at breakneck speed.

  "Signal Bligh in Director," Onslow’s voice was raw from shouting, but O’Brien seemed to understand. "Tell him to lead any remaining British ships forward to relieve the flag. Onslow pointed emphatically, and the bandage slipped. Dutch battleships some distance ahead still heavily encumbered Duncan's flagship. O’Brien touched his hat and looked for the signal lieutenant, while Onslow took another turn about the bandage, biting the knot in his teeth as he pulled it tighter. Duncan might have to strike at any moment, but at least with a reasonable force coming up behind, they might be able to re-take Venerable, or at least see her loss avenged.

  * * * * *

  The wind was on her quarter as Pandora powered through the grey, rain filled day, and on towards the stern of the last Dutch battleship. In the waist King was ready; his guns run out and set for elevation, while Newman had the marines lined up along the hammock stuffed netting. The sails were drawn tight, and she was sailing fast, too fast, it was hoped, to receive much from the heavy stern chasers that were poised to return fire as soon as she came within their arc. Banks glanced back, they were now comfortably ahead of Montague, stumbling behind at a fraction of their speed. The seventy-four would deliver a far greater punch, however, all Pandora would do was send a softening blow, and hopefully distract the enemy sufficiently to enable the third rate to do her work.

  "Fire as you will, Mr King!" The lieutenant acknowledged the captain’s shout, and raised his hand high.

  "Ready, lads; on my order, but only when you have her sighted!"

  There was little point in a smart, simultaneous discharge if half the shots went wide or were ill aimed.

  The range was closing: it was only seconds. Fire erupted from one of the stern chasers, the enemy had spoken; King’s arm came down, and he bellowed in time with the first discharge. The smoke was blown away as soon as it had come, but the noise seemed to echo about the men as they attended to the guns, making their ears ring with a constant reverberation. The first shot from the enemy crossed their bows, but the second scored a direct hit on the forecastle puncturing a neat hole forward of the forechains, and taking out three men standing by number one gun.

  On the quarterdeck, Caulfield had pushed his way forward, and was peering over at the enemy ship. Splashes fell to either side, but it was clear that the majority of shots had struck. Crown glass from the stern gallery shattered and disappeared in an instant, while part of the taffrail was beaten in. More importantly one ugly ragged hole appeared right next to the rudder; with luck the steering would have been disabled, or at least damaged; something that Montague would thank them for when her turn came. Caulfield caught King’s eye, but there was no time for comment or congratulation; the men were slaving to haul the guns back into position for another barrage, although before that they could expect to receive at least one broadside in return.

  Newman’s marines were firing now, small snaps of sound, almost insignificant compared to the roar that had been, but their shots would disconcert the Dutch, and might buy extra time.

  Caulfield returned to Banks and Fraiser; the latter was looking anxiously up at the masts; the enemy ship was on their quarter and blanking their wind, causing some of the sails to flap, and a definite decrease in speed.

  "I’d be happier with a man at the lead," he told the captain. "But at this speed I take it that…" Fraiser’s mouth was open to say more when a cry from Dorsey turned everyone’s attention to the enemy.

  She had fired, smoke was billowing from her two tiers of guns, and as they watched the shots began to tell.

  One smacked next to Pandora’s larboard forechains, almost alongside that of the previous hit, endangering the foremast and, in turn, the ships entire sailing ability. Another punched through her side, the entry point was well above the waterline although, with the ship heeling to starboard, it might cause greater problems later. Three marines went down as one; part of the hammock netting in the waist was blown apart, and number five gun, larboard side was hit and sent careering inboard, sweeping over its captain and one of the servers and killing both outright. Further shots flew through the rigging, parting a line here, and knocking down a block there, but the succession of splashes to starboard and across their bows showed that the firing had been rushed and, in the main, ill aimed.

  "Well, that might have been far worse," Newman beamed at Caulfield, although his assessment was premature; he was no seaman and knew little of the consequences should the forechains be damaged. The boatswain was on hand, peering over the side and tugging at the deadeyes and limp lines that hung about him.

  "Depends much on what our friend Peters discovers." Caulfield told the marine, "There’ll be a measure of work a splicing if I’m any judge; captain will take us off the wind, as soon as he’s able."

  "Cannot they be tightened?"

  "Oh a turn or two maybe for individual lines, but there will be some parted that needs to be spliced and if the mounting is weakened we can kiss goodbye to any plans for fancy sailing ’till we make port."

  And it was then that Newman’s smile finally faded: he looked concerned, confused almost, and fell forward as if bowing to the first lieutenant. Caulfield was taken unawares and caught him clumsily, although he quickly recovered and began to steer the body down to the deck as gently as he could.

  "Alex, are you hurt?"

  Newman registered Caulfield but said nothing as he was guided onto his back. Then his eyes emptied, his head fell to one side, and colour slowly faded from his face. There was a darkening patch spreading across the marine’s tunic and Caulfield noticed that his own hand was sticky. He quickly wiped away the smear of blood onto his jacket as if to deny its existence, but as he laid his friend down on Pandora’s whitened strakes, the first lieutenant knew him to be dead. He looked about helplessly, but there were two privates and a corporal standing by, ready to claim their own. Within a minute of discussing the damage to their rigging, Marine Lieutenant Newman had left the deck.

  * * * * *

  Matthew Jameson saw him go, or at least he saw the red jacketed body being carried down to the orlop. He gave the matter little thought, however. Despite the fact that Newman had been one of the more popular officers on board, Jameson had problems of his own.

  He tended number three gun, along with other members of his mess and this was not his first action. Indeed he had seen cannon fired in anger more times in his brief career than many seamen would their entire lives, and he considered himself as hardened to the horrors of battle as any man on board. There had been just one instant, many years ago in Vigilant, when he had lost his nerve. It had been a prolonged engagement, and they were hopelessly outnumbered. The terror of being in a two-decker fighting for her life; the sound, sight and smell of conflict, coupled with not knowing if he would be the next to die, had totally overwhelmed his juvenile senses. That had only been for a moment, however, and his friend and Sea Daddy, Flint, had been on hand to see him through. Flint was there now, but Jameson had an inner feeling he would not be able to help this time.

  They had gone through the tense period of waiting, the nervous interval that always made the older men sharp and snappy, well enough. Then the first and, to date, only broadside had been fired; usually this would be the moment when the nerves stilled and all emotions were placed to one side until the action ended. Then the enemy had hit back.
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  There had already been the one shot that landed next to the larboard forechains, and that had all but taken off Matthew’s head. He had felt the wind of it, a frightening sensation in itself as it was widely held that the air of a passing shot could be every bit as deadly as the ball that preceded it. They had been in the process of loading, and he had managed to think of little else other than sponging his own gun clear.

  The enemy broadside followed, the broadside that had sent a gun two down from theirs crashing free of its tackle, and into Burt and Weir; men he had known well, and were now hideously dead. That had been bad enough, but again he had been familiar with others who had fallen in the past. What he could not come to terms with was the second shot that had landed in almost the same hole as the first; again he had been missed by nothing more than chance, and a rat’s whisker, and instinct told him that where two had come, a third was sure to follow. He felt his heart racing so fast he could hear it in his head, and the hands that gripped the flexible rammer were locked on, knuckles white, steadily squeezing the rope as if he were determined to draw water from its very fibres.

  The other men were sound enough, Jenkins had even made a joke, and Jameson had known it was a joke because he had seen the rest laugh; but though he felt he could remember every detail, not only did he miss the humour, he did not understand what the words actually meant.

  He looked at Flint, cool as ever, as he watched them making number five gun safe, and wanted very much to talk to him, but the words that were forming in his mind would not come. He opened his mouth and made a strange guttural noise that he quickly changed into a cough after attracting the attention of the other men. His voice was there certainly, but he could not communicate: even now in his thoughts, he was not sure how he was actually thinking. Were these words and phrases that circulated about his mind? Or did a dog or a cat think in the same way, with emotions, senses, and feelings colouring moods and desires? Had he lost his mind, or merely the ability to pass on what was in it, and consequently was unable to interpret what they were saying to him?