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

by Alaric Bond

  "Clear for action, Mr Caulfield, and beat to quarters, if you please." Caulfield smiled and touched his hat in response; he was clearly looking forward to the action as much as Banks. The men went about their duties; soon the deck beneath him vibrated to the knocking down of bulkheads in his cabin, and clouds of steam showed where the galley fire was being tipped over the side. The gun carriages squealed as the long nines were cleared away and run out. King was leaving the quarterdeck to take command of the main battery; he passed a remark to Lewis, a master’s mate, and they both laughed. Pandora was working like a well oiled clock; everyone appeared eager and confident. Really he should congratulate himself: he had a weapon to be proud of: a fine ship and a worthy crew. All on board were wholly focused on the battle ahead, with no thought for anything other than their duties.

  But it was strange how penetrating her gaze had been.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FLINT was the first captain of number three gun, main battery. His team had already cleared away the larboard piece, and were now turning their attention to the starboard. The gun carriage had been released, and Jenkins, the second captain, had supervised it being run back, and the tompion and apron removed. The servers, Wright, Jameson, Greenway, Ford, Lloyd and Thompson were ready with the flexible rammer and swab; the worm, and loader; handspikes and crows of iron. Shot had already been assembled in the garlands, a cheese of wads broken out and the lad, Jack, had checked the salt box for powder, and was ready to get more as soon as it were needed.

  A whistle blew, and one of the midshipmen shouted from the quarterdeck ladder. "Captain’s orders: trimmers to assemble." There was a muffled groan and a few ribald comments as Ford and Thompson joined the other designated topmen and filed up to the gangways, abandoning their mates at the guns.

  "Fine thing," Jenkins grumbled. "Expects us to go into action with half our crew up an’ skylarkin’".

  "Captain expects more than that." King said unexpectedly. He had been standing, quite unnoticed, in the lee of the galley stove, and his voice made them all jump guiltily. "The enemy’s a frigate, and this is a fast sailing wind," he continued. "Be sure, no one will have been idle by the end of it."

  "Will it be ball sir?" Flint asked, referring to the shot their guns would be firing.

  "Initially, yes and I would say throughout," King strolled towards number three gun; he knew the men well and had served with some in an earlier ship. "Expect long range stuff, so chain would be no good, even if we are shooting at spars. But fear not, we’ll give you fair warning." Pandora carried a variety of specialised shot for her main armament, in addition to chain or bar to be used against the enemy’s top hamper, canister could sweep a deck clear of men although close range was desirable for all. The standard solid round shot was more accurate over longer distances, as well as being faster and easier to load, and on balance it seemed to carry out most purposes adequately enough.

  "Reckon we’re in for a bit of a scrap, do you, sir?" Flint smiled easily at King. There had already been several scraps in their shared history, as well as one memorable run ashore, when Mr Midshipman King had been in charge of a prize crew delivering a captured coaster to England. Memorable it might have been although in truth, both he and Flint had difficulty in recalling the exact details.

  "Oh, I think there might be action." The deck was silent as he spoke. "The other ship’s a touch larger than us, but probably a heavy sailer, and certainly not so fly."

  "And French," Jenkins added significantly, grinning widely.

  "Oh yes, undoubtedly," King smiled back.

  "Then there’s nout to worry about," Flint smacked the cascabel of the starboard gun soundly. "Ain’t that the truth?"

  Everyone laughed, as everyone was meant to; these were seasoned hands and this was the expected shared bravado before battle. All were ready to fight, all were eager for the fray and the fact that they would be victorious was accepted as readily as night would follow day. None of them were frightened; none feared death, injury or disfigurement; that was something for other men; for newbies, landsmen and boys. That was something they would only admit to themselves.

  On deck Marine Lieutenant Newman watched as Sergeant Bate and Corporal Jarvis stationed the marines on the forecastle and quarterdeck. Of all the fighting men on board Pandora, Newman would have the least to do. Unless the call came for boarders, or to repel the same, his job was to stand upright and still, no matter what atrocities were occurring about him. The fact that this must be accomplished whilst wearing a tunic of the most startling red, one that clashed visibly with the white of his cross belt and glint of his buttons, was not entirely lost on him.

  But on the orlop deck, Mr Doust was certainly expecting to be busy. Two operating tables had been made up from sea chests covered with canvas, and the surgeons’ tools were laid out within easy reach of both men. The loblolly boys were putting a final edge to the scalpels using spit and Arkansas stones as Manning heaved two bales of bandages from the store, placing them with the needles, horsehair and gut that would be needed for sutures.

  "Yon lassie will be safe enough," Doust assured Manning and himself. "Carpenter’s cabin is well placed, but jus’ keep an eye out if we starts to take in water."

  Manning nodded grimly. The orlop, being below the waterline, might be out of the range of enemy shot, but the danger from drowning was far higher, and there would be little chance of escape if fire broke out. The older man, who had now tied a fresh black apron about his waist, smacked his hands together and looked expectantly at his assistant. "Other than that, I’d say we were ready."

  * * * * *

  Pandora still held her course. Banks had ordered the royals and stunsails set, which gave her a dramatic increase in speed. Now she fairly tore through the water, with a cloud of white spray flying up from her bows, as the sun started to dip towards the horizon. The enemy frigate, clearly in sight from the deck now, was still close hauled, and moving far slower. Presumably her captain was gaining as much of an easterly position as he could, although Banks wondered if the true advantage would lie in another quarter.

  Fraiser watched the Frenchman with a curious objectivity. He had no hunger for fighting, although he did appreciate the intellectual exercise that was playing out before him. The ambition of both captains was to cross the T, and rake the other ship; to hold her in a position of helplessness with all broadside guns directed at her opponent’s bows or stern. According to John Clerk of Elgin, the naval strategist that everyone seemed to be talking about, this could be easily achieved in a fleet action. With rows of lumbering line-of-battleships it needed only a slight change of course, and the courage to maintain it, and a glorious pell-mell of a battle would occur. But for all his novel theories, Clerk was not a professional seaman, and this current duel, set between the fastest of fighting ships, was hardly one that leant itself to armchair philosophising. It was instinct and quick wits that would win the action and the Scottish sailing master watched his young captain with professional interest.

  "Take her four points to starboard, and run up the colours." Banks spoke with quiet deliberation. Caulfield shouted the orders through the brass speaking trumpet, and Pandora bucked slightly as the braces heaved the yards round to keep pace with the wind. Fraiser nodded quietly to himself. So he wasn’t allowing the Frenchman too much to the east; that made sense, and keeping the speed up meant that he was forcing the action, calling the shots, as it were.

  "She’s showing colours." The call came from the main lookout. An ensign had broken out on the enemy, closely followed by a series of hoots and catcalls from the men.

  "British flag, sir," Caulfield said stiffly, casting a sidelong glance at his captain. It was a common enough ruse, although one still likely to shake a hesitant commander.

  Banks looked up to where their own tattered ensign was flying. "Snap!" he said, and there was a ripple of laughter amongst the officers. Then the mood became more serious once more.

  "Mr Peters, I’ll be asking
to have the stuns’ls off her directly." The boatswain turned and touched his hat to the captain, acknowledging the warning that would make his men’s work that little bit easier. The stun, or studding, sails were set on extensions to the lower yards. Their use greatly increased the total sail area, although by their very nature they were difficult to set or take in. Peters bellowed to the topmen, who were prepared and in position in good time when the captain gave the order. Fraiser watched the Frenchman as their speed started to decrease. She was off their larboard bow, but considerably out of range. Despite the reduction in speed, they would overshoot, and could surrender the windward advantage.

  "There she goes!" Caulfield’s voice signalled the French ship’s change of course. Tacking once more, she was now putting Pandora in danger of having her own T crossed.

  "Steady," Banks muttered, as much to his officers, as to the helmsmen.

  Minutes passed as Pandora edged closer; they were almost in range now, although travelling too fast for accurate shooting. The Frenchman had also taken her studding sails in, and the wind was holding strong and steady; both ships must have been showing eight to ten knots on the slightly converging course.

  "Prepare starboard batteries, maximum elevation." Banks shouted, taking them all by surprise. By rights it would be the larboard side in use first. "Mr Peters, I want every man ready to take us to larboard on my word. We will hold that for a spell, then hard to starboard. To starboard, do you understand?" Again the acknowledgement, and the tension increased further as every man realised what Banks had in mind.

  They were closing fast. The enemy’s ports were open and her guns run out. The officers watched as she altered course to starboard by a point, bringing her as close to the wind as she could sail and Pandora deeper into the danger position.

  "Now, Mr Peters." Banks shouted. Pandora swung quickly to larboard, her speed apparently increasing as the enemy moved across to her starboard bow. It was long range, but certainly worth the effort.

  "As your guns bear, Mr King!"

  King acknowledged from the depths of the main deck, and squatted down to peer through a gunport. The men were signalling their pieces ready, but it would need an accurate estimate of the roll to get the correct angle.

  "Fire!" His voice cracked, followed by a harsh staccato chatter as the shots rang out. The smoke was swept forward, revealing the servers as they struggled to swab and load their pieces, although all eyes on the quarterdeck were on the Frenchman and the fall of the broadside.

  "To starboard, close as she’ll come!" Banks voice rang out even while they were waiting for the result. The braces were brought round and the helmsmen spun the wheel as the ship heeled into the fast turn. Only Newman, Banks and King registered the fact that the blow had been ineffective, and the shots had fallen somewhere unknown.

  The Frenchman had seemingly been taken by surprise, and continued on her course, although her British ensign was lowered, to be replaced with the tricolour. With luck, and thirty seconds, they might have a second bite at the cherry.

  "Larboard battery, broadside!" King called as it became clear what Banks intended. Men ran to the gun opposite as each of the starboard pieces was secured, and in no time the entire battery was signalled ready.

  "Elevation as before," King instructed, feeling mildly guilty following the previous miss.

  "As you will, Mr King." Banks held no hard feelings for the lost broadside, it was extreme range and Pandora may well be able to send two across without receiving a single in reply.

  King raised his hand once more, suddenly aware that the Frenchman was also turning.

  "Fire!"

  The range was closer this time, and Pandora, having crept as near to the wind as she would bear, was sailing more slowly. The men watched as the enemy continued around, clearly intending to wear. She was part way through the turn when the first shots hit her.

  A hole appeared in her mizzen topsail that quickly became a split, and the sail turned to ribbons. Another had parted a group of shrouds, or possibly struck a channel as the mizzen topmast sagged slightly. Apart from that, there was no obvious damage.

  All the officers drew breath, although no one spoke; two broadsides, and one only partially effective: they would have to do better.

  "Here it comes!" The voice of a nearby gunner caught Banks’ attention, and he looked up to see bright but ragged flashes erupt along the enemy’s hull. The French were taking advantage of the moment and firing as they turned: an ambitious gambit for any but the most highly trained of crews. And they were firing high; again, very unlike the French, although their gunners might not be allowing for the ship being pressed over by the wind. One shot punched a hole in Pandora’s main topsail, and another parted a mizzen shroud. The ripple fire broadside was slow and measured; again, an indication of a well trained crew. Banks continued to reassess his opponent when an unexpectedly brighter flash drew his eye.

  "They’ve blown a gun!" Caulfield’s startled voice: Banks stared hard at the Frenchman’s hull. He was right, the sixth or seventh discharge had made a duller sound, and there was no obvious fall of shot. "At the very least they’ve shaken a vent, but I’d say an entire piece has cracked."

  It was a likely explanation, especially in a ship that might not have used her full broadside for some while. Banks had seen a gun explode when a lieutenant, serving in a line-of-battleship. The shards of flying iron had caused mayhem and terror in the confined space of the gun deck. Three men had been killed, and many more horribly wounded, although any injuries the French might have suffered would be nothing to the confusion caused while their ship was manoeuvring. Banks drew breath and set his jaw firmly: however grim, he must take advantage of every piece of luck that came his way; and this was one that would certainly set the odds back to Pandora’s favour. With each second that passed they were moving out of the danger area, and it was a full half minute before the broadside continued, with the remaining shots being ill aimed and falling very wide.

  But now the Frenchman was completing her turn and, whatever their state, Pandora’s stern would be exposed. Banks had intended to retain his present course and delay in tacking to starboard: it was only now that the manoeuvre had played out that he realised how vulnerable their position had become.

  "Take her about, Mr Fraiser; tack to starboard!"

  The sailing master started. "Now sir?" They had barely gathered way, and the Frenchman was coming up on their stern. Tacking at that moment was dangerous; should anything go wrong with the evolution, or if the enemy closed faster than Banks had calculated, they would be raked at close range. Then the action would be as good as over.

  "Now, Mr Fraiser!" Banks bellowed at the older man as if he was on the forecastle, rather than standing a few feet away. Fraiser spun round automatically and shouted the orders. The quartermaster was eyeing the sail, waiting for the first signs that they had lost the wind before spinning the wheel across, and the afterguard heaved at the braces, while below the gunners fought to reload the larboard battery. Pandora met the wind head on, and baulked, her sails momentarily backing as they caught the full force of the Atlantic air.

  "Coming up behind," Caulfield’s voice: and the entire quarterdeck watched as the Frenchman closed. Sailing fast and under control, despite the lack of a serviceable mizzen, she was eating up the space between them. Already they were far closer than at any time in the action; unless Pandora completed the tack and took speed without delay, she would suffer those tremendous guns at close range.

  Caulfield continued to watch as two puffs of smoke from the enemy’s forecastle showed that her bow chasers had opened fire. One shot whined overhead, but another cracked hard into the bulwark amidships, sending a cloud of splinters across the open spardeck.

  The yards were across now, and Pandora was moving, oh so slowly, to starboard, although the Frenchman still powered towards them, with spume bursting from her bows.

  "Abandon larboard, prepare starboard battery." Kings voice rang out, and the m
en reluctantly left the larboard guns secured but half loaded. Pandora was moving faster now, as the wind found her limp sails and made them hard.

  "Keep her turning." Banks watched the oncoming enemy intently. For a moment they were on a parallel course, with the Frenchman less than a cable off her starboard counter then, as the turn continued, Pandora began to swing across the frigate’s bows, and the big ship rushed down on them.

  "Prepare for boarders!" Newman this time. He had seen that collision was likely, and rallied his marines; with the crew stretched between handling the ship and manning the guns it was possible that the thirty or so uniformed men he commanded would be the only defence offered against an attack.

  But now Pandora was back under full control, and cutting in front of the larger ship. Seconds later she had almost crossed the T, and the enemy’s rudder kicked in an attempt to avoid what had become inevitable.

  "Fire!" King spoke and the broadside erupted a split second later. Caulfield fancied he could see debris flying from the Frenchman’s bows, but that could have been mere imagination. What was real, what could not be disputed, was the scream and crack of the round shot that dug deep into the timbers, followed by the groans from the jib boom as it sagged. Then, tearing guys, bobstays and shrouds, and ripping sails from the yards, the entire bowsprit collapsed into the ocean, dragging the foretopmast with it.

  "Too much, too much!" Fraiser shouted, waving at the helmsman. He was right, and the only one to notice. Pandora’s turn was continuing to the point where she was coming back on the Frenchman’s starboard side, and would soon be facing the battery of eighteen pounders that awaited her. Slowly the ship’s course corrected, but they were only saved from an immediate broadside by the damage they had already caused.