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

by Alaric Bond

  As if to test this at that moment Flint did speak. Jameson relaxed slightly when he heard the well-remembered timbre of his voice, but still he could not understand what was being said. And Flint was speaking directly to him; the facial muscles moved, and there were the well-remembered expressions, but an inner feeling told him he could have understood as easily if his friend had switched to Russian. Flint was indicating the bucket at Jameson’s feet, and he guessed he might be wanting a drink. The lad picked up the small tin cup, filled it to just under half full, so that his shaking hands would not spill any, and passed it across. Flint took it and laughed, as he had to all but prize Jameson’s fingers free. It was taken as a joke however, and Jameson smiled back relieved. Flint said something more when he had finished drinking, but there was no change and Jameson remained effectively cut off from the world of language.

  Inspiration had not deserted him, however, and he tapped at his ears and pulled a face. One of the penalties of working with the great guns was that, at the best of times, all the servers were slightly deaf and it would come as no surprise to anyone if the recent discharge of a broadside, coupled possibly with receiving the hit so close by, might have taken his hearing completely. Flint shook his head and grinned, he spoke slowly and in a tone that was as comforting as any bellow could be, but the individual words left Jameson none the wiser. The lad shrugged and pulled another face, and Jenkins muttered something that made them all laugh. They all laughed, laughed together and laughed heartily with a shared mixture of relief, fellowship and fear, and it was only Jameson who remained totally oblivious to the joke.

  * * * * *

  Onslow might have doubts about how long Duncan could continue, but in Vrijheid, there were no expectations of Venerable striking. Van Leiden was slightly wounded; a splinter had scraped his left cheek, causing blood to flow freely down the side of his face and soak deep into his uniform jacket. But as he stood on the quarterdeck, sword drawn more for reassurance than actual use, the cut was the last thing on his mind.

  For some while he had been conscious of their own rate of fire. His men were working hard enough, and yet still they were receiving two, sometimes three British broadsides for every one they could send back in reply. About him many had fallen, and there were at least two guns left unattended, with several more working with less than half their usual crew. As he looked about the luitenant realised with a chill that, apart from de Winter, he was the only officer left alive on the quarterdeck. In fact the admiraal stood quite near to him, apparently in deep thought. Van Rossem had gone; van Leiden had not seen him fall, but knew that for the kapitein to have left the deck he must be either severely wounded or dead. And there were no other luitenants, or even an adelborst to be seen; his own friend, Cuypers had been dragged down to the surgeon with a wound to his chest some while ago, and the eerste luitenant, though still presumably alive, had left to take control of the lower deck after several officers below had fallen. Another British broadside swept across, the admiraal moved suddenly, and briefly van Leiden thought him hit, but he was making towards the ladder to the poop and at a pace that belied his massive frame. On an impulse van Leiden followed, clambering up the short flight of steps and on to the smaller deck.

  There the scene was very much the same. De Winter was standing at the taffrail, looking to the south, where the rest of the Dutch ships could be seen. He turned as van Leiden appeared, and beckoned urgently for the luitenant to join him.

  "Our ships have surrendered to the south!"

  Van Leiden walked quickly across the deck. It was impossible of course: it would mean that a good proportion of the Dutch force had already been lost. The proof was there, however; in the distance he could see Jupiter and Harrlem: clearly they were no longer fighting, with British ships under sail passing them. And another ship, probably Hercules, was on fire, and drifting with the wind towards the shore and the deadly shallows. But there was Brutus, flying Bloy’s flag and Leyden with others behind. They were apparently undamaged, and heading their way. De Winter seemed to spot them at the same time, and pointed excitedly, knocking van Leiden on the chest with the back of his hand as he did.

  "We must signal. Ask for help!"

  It seemed like so much wasted effort; surely the ships would see Vrijheid, and guess her predicament, but van Leiden dutifully made for the second flag locker. There were no seingever to assist him, although the code was simple: a single flag was the signal for assistance required and, when hoisted from the flagship, would be bound to draw the ships to them. Van Leiden had located the correct number, and moved across to a mizzen halyard. De Winter was already there, and snatched the canvas bundle from him, tying it inexpertly to the line so that the flag began to unroll before it was hoisted. A bullet sang next to them, causing van Leiden to duck instinctively. He looked across; there was a line of red coated British sea soldiers taking pot shots. He nudged at the admiraal, and pointed at the marines, but de Winter continued to fumble with the flag. Then another shot whined past, followed almost immediately by one that, by some lucky accident, actually cut the line. The flag and broken halyard dropped from the admiraal’s fingers, falling on the deck between them. There was a sudden lull in the fighting, for a moment the battle itself seemed oddly suspended as de Winter considered the small heap of canvas and line. Then he shrugged, drew a deep sigh and smiled ruefully at the luitenant: for the first time van Leiden realised that he was looking at the face of a defeated man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  PETERS and his team had done well, and Banks was pleased to tell them so. Several shrouds had been replaced, although the ratlines had yet to be re-rove, which meant the topmen would have to ascend by the more dangerous lee side for the time being. The damage to the larboard forechains was not considered to be critical. Or at least if it was, as the boatswain had told them dolefully, they would all discover soon enough. Banks had returned Pandora to full plain sail and now she was once more cutting through the dark wet afternoon with a plume of spray flying from her prow.

  Director with Powerful and Circe were off her larboard bow on the very edge of deep water. Near them a ship was on fire and drifting to starboard and the shallows, although Banks planned to pass them all within the next few minutes. Venerable was in sight, and still surrounded by Dutch ships, but the liners would relieve her; Banks saw his objective beyond the cluster of battling ships.

  There were at least three enemy vessels heading away from their own stricken flagship and on towards the Texel and safety. The last of these appeared to be a frigate. A powerful one, Banks would guess she carried over forty guns, but none the less, potentially a match for Pandora.

  The wind was lessening, but still whistled through the lines as he drove her on. They were passing the small group of British ships bound for Venerable now, and on a mad impulse Banks took off his hat and waved it at Director. William Bligh had her at present; he had known the man back in ’eighty six when Bligh had been a captain in the merchant service, and Banks a fresh young midshipman sent to cover for an officer taken with the flux. Banks remembered him as an excellent officer, and had learnt much in the few weeks they were together. It was hard to credit some of the stories going the rounds since the Bounty incident. There was no response from Director’s poop, but Banks supposed Bligh had other matters on his mind.

  To starboard the burning ship was still drifting steadily towards the coast, and would be on the shoals in no time. Caulfield was examining it carefully through the deck glass.

  "Dutchman, a sixty-four," he spoke quietly, as if to himself. "If she takes the ground she’ll be lost for sure, along with most of those in her."

  "I was thinkin’ of going for the frigate yonder," the captain said.

  "Very good, sir. The liner’s already accounted for," Caulfield replied in a level tone. "An’ she might even last the hour, should we decide to leave her."

  Banks tore his gaze away from the men desperately fighting the fire that would probably end their lives. Pa
ndora was drawing level with Venerable now, and he could see Triumph, still sending thundering broadsides into a third rate, along with Belliqueux and Veteran, who had another enemy two-decker wedged between them. He turned back and caught Caulfield’s eye. The frigate could be reached, he was sure of it, but she was a large ship, far larger than Pandora, and it must be doubtful as to what might be achieved if they did engage her.

  "So, what think you, Michael?"

  Caulfield shook his head. "She’s a heavy ship, sir, an’ we’d have no support. Were it my decision I think I would decline and," the pause was slightly too long. "Perhaps save the sixty-four?"

  Banks switched to Fraiser, who still had the worried old woman look he always wore when they were travelling at speed across shallow waters.

  "We’ll be trying for the sternmost frigate, master," he said evenly. "Think we can reach her?"

  Fraiser pursed his lips as he considered the matter. "She’s making a fair rate herself, sir, but I can have us in range if that be your intent." His expression was now completely blank; he had told the captain what he wanted to hear and, like any good sailing master, was ready to carry out whatever order came his way.

  Banks sighed. "Very good," he said, glancing back at the frigate for the last time before turning to his officers. "Take us about, and we’ll head back for your burning liner."

  * * * * *

  In the cockpit they had done all they could. Two men had been moved to the wings and were lying with fresh stumps tightly bound, and a third was slowly dying from savage internal wounds that were hopelessly beyond anything Mr Doust might attempt. The others, those with minor injuries that had been attended to, lay on the dark deck, covered in canvas sheets. Periodically Kate would walk along the line dispensing advice, reassurance, and small sips of lemonade from a pewter jug. On one occasion, she had to pause to close the eyes of a young topman with a broken leg. It had been a simple enough fracture that set well, although clearly there were other internal injuries that had not been so easily diagnosed. He was swiftly taken away to await later burial.

  And now they were waiting once more, listening to the distant sounds of battle, the faint moaning of those injured, and the steady creaking of timbers as the ship powered through the seas. There was no telling how the action had progressed; the distant gunfire seemed as regular as ever, although none could judge if it came from the British or the Dutch. Kate wiped her hands on a piece of waste cloth while Manning pulled away the stained canvas that covered the nearest sea chest, and they both sat down.

  "It must be getting late," he said. Neither of them owned a watch and Doust, who had a handsome silver Thompson permanently tucked into his waistcoat pocket, was dozing quietly in the corner. "Texel is close by, we must be almost at their doorstep; this should not progress beyond nightfall."

  She nodded, and leant to one side as Pandora heeled suddenly.

  "They’ll be manoeuvring," Manning reached out and wrapped his arm about her shoulder, continuing to hold her close as they sat, swaying gently with the motion of the turning ship. Movement from forward caught their attention; someone was talking with Powell. They both rose rather stiffly, as the loblolly boy approached somewhat diffidently with two seamen in tow.

  "It’s Flint," Powell said, by way of introduction. "Or rather his friend here." The backward toss of Powell’s thumb indicated Jameson with a mixture of scorn and disbelief.

  "What be the matter, lad?" Manning asked him gently; there seemed little visibly wrong, although they were all well aware how dangerous latent injuries could turn out to be. Jameson said nothing, but continued to stare at their faces.

  "Are you injured?" Manning persisted. "Tell me where it hurts." There was slight recognition, but no comprehension or understanding; it was as if the entire world had moved on to a different plain, leaving Jameson behind, beached and very much alone.

  "That’s the problem, beggin’ your pardon, sir," Flint interrupted, casting a beseeching look at Manning and Black that withered as it reached Powell. "He can’t make no sense. He don’t seem to understand nothing, not even who we are properly." Powell turned away, clearly disgusted, but Kate reached forward and touched Jameson lightly on the upper arm.

  "Matthew, isn’t it?" Flint nodded, but Jameson gave no response to his name, although he did glance down at her hand momentarily. "Matthew, come and sit with me for a while. Rest, you’ll feel better shortly."

  Jameson made no move; she pulled him slightly. "Come, come with me," she repeated and obediently he began to follow.

  "Sit for a spell and we will see what occurs," her voice was soft and soothing. Flint looked helplessly at Manning as his friend was led away.

  "It’s nothing that ’as happened to him," he said, his voice rich with confusion and concern. "He weren’t hit, nor injured in any way. He just seemed to go, all of a sudden." The seaman rubbed at the back of his head, and drew his hand down his neck. "It’s like he ain’t there no more," he continued helplessly. "Or rather Matt is there, the Matt we all knows, but we can’t reach him." He sighed, and looked away from Manning as if ashamed. "It’s as if he’s lost his mind," he said finally.

  * * * * *

  Vrijheid was not alone in having her colours shot away; Venerable had been without any distinguishing flags on several occasions. The jack, as well as the admiral’s personal pennant, had fallen, to be replaced as soon as was feasible. Finally Duncan ordered Crawford, an ordinary seaman, to climb up to the masthead and nail the flag back in position so that she would be able to continue to fight without interruption or confusion. It was one of many such incidents on that day, events that seemed logical at the time yet destined to be recalled and marvelled over for years to come. Duncan’s only intention was to make it plain, both to the Dutch and his own men, that they had not surrendered.

  Vrijheid had drifted apart from Venerable, as both had damaged steering; Director was currently heading for the Dutch flagship with 'Breadfruit Bligh' in command. She was one of the smallest British battleships, a mere sixty-four, although Bligh handled her in a way that would have been considered bold were she a first rate. After having fought and defeated Alkmaar and Haarlem, he brought her up to the van and, with Powerful in support, turned towards Vrijheid. Director opened fire when she was within twenty yards of the Dutch ship’s larboard quarter, and continued to rain regular broadsides as she crept up her length almost within touching distance, finally reaching the bows, and delivering several raking shots, before rounding and continuing down her starboard side. Adrift and without masts, de Winter’s ship had no means of surrender although, as her guns gradually fell silent, it became clear that there was no further fight left in her. The frigate Circe was near by and still had a serviceable boat aboard, and so it was that Richardson, Bligh’s first lieutenant, was conveyed by Circe’s jolly boat to the side of the defeated Dutch flagship.

  He boarded by the larboard entry port, and almost immediately met with de Winter, on the spar deck. The admiral, assisted by the ship’s carpenter and van Leiden, was in the process of nailing a sheet of lead across the damaged hull of a small dinghy. On seeing the British lieutenant he stopped, and laid his tools down. Van Leiden helped him to his feet; he seemed frail, somehow wasted, and their eyes did not meet. Van Leiden nodded in sympathy, certainly neither of them, nor any other officer in the Dutch Navy, had predicted such an outcome. Other members of his crew came forward to pay their respects as Richardson diplomatically guided the defeated admiral from his ship, down the boarding steps, and into the waiting boat.

  * * * * *

  The wind had veered slightly and now blew light and from the north. Pandora was bearing down on the burning Dutch sixty-four, although Banks had reduced to topsails, forecourse, jib and spanker. The stricken ship was lying across the wind, with the flames from her poop and stern galleries still very apparent.

  "We can only go so far," Banks spoke softly to the master alone. "If she blows I don’t want us anywhere near abouts, and we keep to windwar
d at all times, do you hear?"

  "To windward, sir." Fraiser repeated earnestly, as if humouring a child. "I’ll certainly not be taking us to the lee, there’s no the depth. It can only be providence that has kept her from taking ground as it is."

  Caulfield could see figures moving about the deck, a team was working one of the ship’s pumps, and there was a steady stream of water flowing down to the seat of the flames under the poop. They had also established a human chain, with lines of buckets being lowered amidships and passed back. The blaze was apparently in check, but had taken hold of her stern, and would surely finish her if the shoals did not make their claim first. Pandora was drawing close now; close enough for all to notice the heat on their rain drenched faces. What those poor devils on board were feeling was unimaginable.

  "Let us hope they have seen sense and cleared or flooded the magazines," Caulfield said, bringing his glass down.

  "I think we can count on that," Banks reply was both optimistic and loud enough for all to hear; he wanted no fouls ups or slips just because men were frightened of being blown to pieces. "We’ll start by bringing her off the shoals, and into the wind" he continued. "Then be ready with the launch and cutters. Pass the word for Mr Peters."

  The boatswain was on the quarterdeck and saluting the captain within a minute.

  "I want a line passed to that ship," Banks told him. "We’re going to haul her off, is that clear? I want your best man with a throwing arm, and all needs to be in place before we reach her."

  Peters was gone as fast as he had come, and in no time a light line was being fed up to the quarterdeck through the stern gallery.

  Banks turned back to Fraiser. "We can only do this once, I propose to bear down upon the ship and pass her close. As soon as we are within throwing distance we will bear away, and come off close hauled and still on the starboard tack, do you understand?"