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

by Alaric Bond

  Officers’ wives, female passengers, even the occasional sickroom assistant, all of these were relatively common aboard the larger ships of war. But Pandora was a light frigate with a crew of roughly two hundred and the addition of one solitary nubile female amidst such a crowd of healthy men could cause problems beyond measure.

  The obvious course would be for her to remain in the brig, although with her father ill it was natural that she should wish to be with him, and Mr Doust was adamant that the patient must have the most stable platform available. He supposed that she would be safe enough tending to her father in the sick bay, but what about other times? Should he make provisions for one of the petty officer’s cabins to be made over for her use? Some thought should be given to her privacy, and the hands took their ease in the open; she would have to have only limited access to the forecastle. But that still wouldn’t alter the fact that the men were used to exposing astonishing amounts of bare flesh; something that could only offend a young woman.

  Banks was barely twenty-seven and freely admitted his experience of the feminine gender was limited, and mostly consisted of examples from his own class. He had two older sisters who he supposed he liked well enough. They, in turn, had many female friends, some of whom he had come to like very much indeed, although the relationships always proved to be one way. Apart from them, other officer’s wives, and the occasional encounter with the more raucous females that he normally associated with the lower deck, he had very little contact with women. It was not something he would boast about to his peers, although he also felt no shame. The facts were plain; from an early age he had been at sea, spending many months of most years in the company of men. The only exception was a prolonged period in his second ship, a third rate that had lain three months at anchor with the Wedding Garland hoisted, and all manner of women running riot throughout the crowded decks. He had been a volunteer with no official rank, and barely free of puberty; a fresh page on which the more experienced could practice their art: the memories remained with him still and had certainly left a healthy appreciation for the celibate life of a seaman. One day he would marry, there was no doubt of that, and the idea of raising a family was quite appealing. But at that moment he was the captain of a light frigate, and his country was at war. It was a position he had attained by not a little effort. The time for domestic affairs was some way in the future, and this woman, with all her associated problems, was not welcome.

  He looked up from his desk as the clump of a musket and a shout announced the first lieutenant’s presence outside. Caulfield entered and gratefully took the seat that Banks indicated.

  "We’re catching the convoy, sir," he said. "Should be back on station by noon."

  Banks nodded. "How’s Dorsey faring with his new command?"

  "Fine, a little slow in making sail, but he’ll soon get the measure of it."

  "As he will the knowledge that the entire ship is watching." Both men smiled, Caulfield was a few years older than his captain but neither had been at sea so long to have forgotten their first temporary command.

  "I’ve allocated quarters for the young lady. Carpenter’s given up his cabin an’ moved into the cockpit. She’ll be comfortable enough in there – and safe, if we goes into action."

  "Very good, Michael; thank you."

  "Crowley, one of the gunroom servants, has the lingo; I’ve had him speak to the prisoners," Crowley was an Irish hand who spoke French fluently. Originally a volunteer from a French capture, Banks had reserved doubts about his loyalty at first, although the man had proven himself to be solid and dependable.

  "The frigate’s a thirty six; not much bigger than us, and she’s certainly been active in this area for the last three weeks or more. Taken at least five merchants, not counting the last."

  Banks nodded. "That’s a fair number needed for prize crews; she’ll be light in her men."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, there are no convoys due from the south for some while, and we are several day’s sailing from the nearest blockading force. I cannot divert or stall, but we must make every effort to detect this ship and, should we do so, take her."

  Simple words, but Caulfield could not help himself from smiling at the captain’s certainty. Banks caught the expression and grinned back. He was the captain of a warship. Two hundred fighting men and a powerful weapon were at his command and he knew himself to be more than equal to the task. It was one he had chosen and, he believed, had been born to carry out. Certainly it came naturally to him and, when all had been said, was so much easier than dealing with the difficulties and requirements of a young woman.

  * * * * *

  "Tells you what, I can see you’re in a bit of a fix," Cribbins had cornered Jenkins, just before 'Up Spirits' was piped and was now smiling at him in a good hearted, conciliatory way. "What say we sorts this money problem out, once an’ for all?"

  Jenkins paused in the act of stuffing his second best hat into his ditty bag. "What you sayin’?"

  "Sort it out; then there’s nothing in the air between us. An’ you can look forward to Pompey, and a run ashore to see yon’ girl, however unlikely that might be."

  "Go on."

  "Toss you, double or quits," Cribbins beamed.

  Jenkins looked about but all the other men were bursting with chatter. The noon issue of rum was the first of two and taken as it was after a busy morning and before a non-banyan day, when meat would be served at dinner, everyone was too filled with expectancy to take notice or give advice. Certainly the memory of the losses he had made at Crown and Anchor the previous weeks were very much on Jenkins’ mind.

  "Toss a coin, lands heads, you owe me double, lands tails, we cancel the debt."

  "Cancel it, like it never happened?" Clem Jenkins wasn’t the fastest at logical thought, and yet the prospect of solving his problems on an even chance was appealing.

  "Here we are," Cribbins produced a coin and threw it up, plucking it out of the air overhand with practised ease. "What say you, heads or tails?"

  "You’ll let me toss," Jenkins said firmly.

  "Just as you like, but don’t lose it," he threw the coin across. "Though it were probably yours to begin with."

  Jenkins weighted the coin in his hand, and looked again at Cribbins. He probably hated him more than anyone he had ever met, and yet there was no real reason for it. Certainly you could not blame a man for being smarter; or beating you at a game of skill, come to that

  "All right you men, I wants you to watch this," he shouted suddenly. The hubbub of voices and laughter lessened slightly as he went on. "Mr Cribbins an’ I are having a discussion on this coin. I say it’ll land heads up, and he says tails. You want to watch who’s right?"

  A crowd soon gathered round, well knowing that a gamble was afoot, and loving it both for the crime, and the second hand tension it created.

  Jenkins looked at Cribbins again. "What we agreed?" he asked.

  "What we agreed," Cribbins confirmed. "You can throw."

  "An’ if it be heads, I win?"

  "If you like: heads it is."

  "Hurry it up, then," Greenway, a seasoned hand who liked his rum, muttered. "Pusser an’ stewards are on the way; you don’t want no one stagging you."

  Jenkins took the coin and placed it on his thumb. There was silence. Then, with a flick, it spun up into the air, catching the strong spring sunshine in a fiery blur as it traced an elliptical course, before landing loudly on the deck.

  "Make way, make way there!" Jenkins pressed forward, head extended to see the fall of the coin, and there was mutterings and whisperings amongst the men.

  "So tell, Clem." Cribbins said, softly. "How did she land?"

  "Tails."

  A sigh travelled throughout the group; slowly men went back to their work, and conversations were taken up once more.

  A steward announced the rum mixed and quartermasters began to call out mess numbers, but Jenkins had no taste for grog, and remained looking at the coin for some time.
He picked it up and examined it more closely.

  "I think you’ll discover that to be mine." Cribbins smirked, extending a beckoning hand. Jenkins ignored him, turning the coin over and over as he looked at each face in turn before, eventually, passing it back to the rightful owner.

  * * * * *

  Mr Doust returned to his chair after examining the patient and shook his head sadly. The storm of the previous night might have passed, but the ship was still riding high Atlantic rollers, and there was no possibility of an operation in such unstable conditions.

  "I’m sorry, lassie," the old man said, his hand patting her forearm paternally. "If it were on dry land an’ I had a room set aside, I would attempt it, but even then the chances would not be good."

  "How long before we reach a harbour?"

  Manning, who had been silent since delivering the patient to Mr Doust, sat back and spoke in a soft voice. "At least a week, probably a fair while longer."

  "Will he last so long?"

  The surgeon shook his head again. Her eyes shone back at him in the lanthorn light and they all knew that she was close to tears. Then she nodded, and raised her chin.

  "So be it; I thank you, gentlemen for what you have done. I’m sure my father could not be more comfortable in the circumstances."

  The surgeon shifted in his seat. "If you wish me to try, I will," he said. "But, I’m telling you now, an operation such as this on a ship at sea would not be a success."

  "No, doctor; I do understand, really." She looked again at her father. "But you won’t mind me staying with him?"

  "Of course not, my dear." The surgeon looked around. The sick bay was quite empty. Even the seamen wounded from the merchant brig had elected to stay with their ship, rather than risk impressment on board Pandora. The noontime grog had been taken and the hands were now at their dinner. The sound of eating and conversation was quite loud, although all in the sickbay remained quiet. Then the noise outside subsided and there was a stifled silence. Someone spoke, and there was a gentle ripple of polite laughter, but no more. Manning looked at Mr Doust doubtfully as the door to the sick bay opened, and Captain Banks walked in.

  "Please remain, gentlemen," he said to the officers, who had started to rise. "I have merely passed by to see all is well." He glanced at the patient then across to the girl. "Your servant, Ma’am," he said, extending a hand. "I am captain of Pandora; you and your father are most welcome aboard."

  She took his hand, nodding politely, and Banks was conscious of a slight thrill at the touch of a woman.

  "My name is Katharine Black; my father is the owner and master of the Katharine Ruth."

  Banks nodded in reply, "I trust he is comfortable?"

  "He requires an operation, sir. And I understand we will not be in harbour sufficiently quick to allow for one."

  The captain avoided her gaze. "If that is so, then there is little I can do," he said.

  "Could you not make for the French coast? I understand we are quite close. Then you might anchor, and the ship would surely be still enough?"

  "I need not remind you that we are at war, madam."

  "But a flag of truce? In circumstances such as this..." her sentence hung, unfinished leaving an empty, awkward silence. It was an impossible request, yet no one was eager to explain that the life of one man was not equal to the risk to the ship and all on board.

  "Madam, I regret we must make for England," Banks finally broke the impasse. "Should the weather ease and the surgeons consider it safe, then clearly they can operate, but unless that happens," he paused, knowing the likelihood of what he had just said. "Unless that happens, I hope your father will remain healthy until we arrive. I can do no more than that."

  "Very well, captain," she had clearly resigned herself once more. "Then I am grateful for that much at least and thank you." She finally held him with her glance and he nodded in reply, feeling foolish, incompetent and most uncomfortable under her inspection. Not for the first time he blessed the fact that there were no women in his life, and only wished the same could be said for his ship.

  "I believe we have made provisions, whilst you remain on board?" he continued awkwardly.

  "Oh yes," the smile was more ready now. "Everyone has been most kind, but you need not worry, I have spent the last eleven months at sea, and have become accustomed to life in a ship. I will be as little trouble as possible; I can promise you that."

  * * * * *

  It was just before eight bells in the afternoon watch: four o’clock, and the hands were about to be called for their second issue of grog and supper, when the maintop lookout first made the sighting.

  "Sail ho!" The words made everyone pause and silenced a dozen separate conversations. "Off the larboard bow." There was a delay as the man, who had been watching the smudge of grey for some minutes, tried to make out more. "Can’t say other than that," he finally added weakly.

  The captain, who happened to be on the quarterdeck, turned to the duty midshipman.

  "Mr Cobb, a glass to the main, if you please. See if you can make anything further."

  The lad grabbed at the long watch telescope and, threading the strap over his shoulder and across his back, bounded for the main shrouds. He was aware that every eye was on him as he ran up the ratlines. Banks took a turn or two across the deck, pausing as the first lieutenant approached with a routine question.

  "No, Mr Caulfield," he spoke in a loud voice so all nearby could hear. "There will be no spirits issued until that sail is identified and, if she be what I feel she might, supper will be postponed as well." Caulfield touched his hat in response aware, as much as his captain, of his part in the proceedings. "And you may retain the old watch at eight bells," Banks added for good measure. The vast majority of commanders would have been glad of the chance to send their people into battle with full bellies and a dose of spirit, although Banks preferred to have sober, slightly hungry men at his command, especially as a duel with another frigate would probably call for some fancy sailing.

  The air was still with an odd mixture of expectation and disappointment. Banks continued to pace; a demon at the back of his mind telling him he had made a dreadful mistake. At any moment a shout from the lookout would identify the sighting as innocent, and him a fool. But he had an odd sense about this one; they were steering a course much travelled by merchant ships, either independently or in convoy and, if the Frenchman had really been as successful as the prize crew claimed, she was likely to be cruising this area. He stopped at the break of the quarterdeck and looked forward; Pandora was in good order. Repairs made after the fleet action in February were highly satisfactory, the fresh wood and paint having weathered to the mellowed colour of her original timbers. Much the same could be said of her people. Illness and injury had accounted for a few, but those who had been drafted in as replacements were experienced in the main, and he felt he had a fine and tempered weapon at his command.

  "She’s a ship; I can see three masts, an’ running under topsails," Cobb’s voice had lost all traces of adolescence, and could be heard quite clearly. "She’s close hauled; course looks to be roughly north east, can’t tell more than that for certain."

  Pandora was currently heading north-north west, with the wind coming across her starboard counter, and the convoy, augmented now by the Katharine Ruth, to larboard. If the sighting was the French frigate he would have to make a few changes.

  "Wait, she’s tacking – reckon we’re sighted!"

  Banks snorted; any vessel that altered course towards a convoy was likely to be a warship, although a chance remained that she was British.

  "She’s round now, on the opposite tack, steering as close to the wind as she can," That meant heading for Pandora, even though her course was several points off. "An’ she’s adding sail," Cobb’s voice continued, although the pitch had been raised slightly in his excitement. "Courses, t’gallants, and royals – she’s fair packing it on!"

  "Very good, Mr King, please make to Mr Dorsey in the bri
g; 'Enemy in sight, alter course, heading south west'." Midshipman Rose, now in charge of signals in Dorsey’s absence, conferred with his team and in a couple of minutes the flags were racing up.

  If what they had gleaned from the prisoners was right, the enemy was a thirty-six; probably what the French called a frégate de dix-huit. She would be carrying eighteen pounders on her gun deck, with heavier carronades on her forecastle and quarterdeck; the combined broadside weight would be more than double that of Pandora's. In addition her frames were likely to be heavier; certainly more difficult to damage with his puny nine pounders than the eggshell carcass of a jackass frigate.

  But, in her captain’s mind at least, Pandora still had the upper hand: she was fast, and she was his, and he knew how to sail her. Banks turned to look back to where Dorsey, in Katharine Ruth, was starting to lead the other merchants away. With the wind as it was they should make reasonable progress, although he found that it mattered little to him what they did or where they went. The two frigates might slug it out for hours, or the action could be over in twenty minutes, either way the merchants would have to fend for themselves; he had other matters to consider.

  A ship-to-ship action was a taxing task for any fighting commander; he would need to retain all his wits for the job ahead. And when those ships were frigates; fast, agile and packing a fair punch, it was also the most intellectually demanding; the equivalent of rapier fencing to a swordsman, and probably every bit as stimulating. Banks knew that he was about to fight one of the hardest battles of his life; the next few hours were as likely to see him a prisoner, or dead, as victorious, although he was equally aware that his increasing heart rate was due more to excitement than concern.

  Then he remembered the girl, and cursed silently at a distraction he did not need. He supposed some care should be taken to see that no harm came to her. Doust would be setting up his operating theatre on the orlop deck, deep in the bowels of the ship. Presumably her father would be moved down there; well, she could go also, leaving him to get on with what he did best. The anticipation inside him grew; he turned and caught the eye of the first lieutenant, who stood ready by the binnacle.