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

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Author’s Note

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Other Fine Books by Alaric Bond

  TRUE COLOURS

  by

  Alaric Bond

  Fireship Press

  www.FireshipPress.com

  True Colours - Copyright © 2010 by Alaric Bond

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-935585-48-0

  BISAC Subject Headings:

  FIC014000 FICTION / Historical

  FIC032000 FICTION / War & Military

  Address all correspondence to:

  Fireship Press, LLC

  P.O. Box 68412

  Tucson, AZ 85737

  USA

  Or visit our website at:

  www.FireshipPress.com

  1.0e

  To Kitty

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks are due to Keith Watkins, David Hayes, Richard Spilman and Fireship’s senior editor, Tom Grundner for their constant support, encouragement and critical comment; also to my family for doing what they do best. The remaining errors are mine, but without their attention, there would have been far more. I would also like to recognise the understanding and patience shown to me by the guests and staff at Scolfe’s, and members of HFC; I won’t mention individual names as most already know theirs, and it would only serve to confuse the others.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HE had been asleep for less than an hour and in his mind Lieutenant King was many miles from his cabin in Pandora when the call awoke him. He lay for a moment as the sound of running feet and bellowed orders reverberated about the small enclosed space. It was one he shared with a locker, a washstand that turned into a narrow desk, and a sea chest that doubled as a chair; the shirt and duck trousers he had been wearing lay casually across the latter. He had gone below just before dawn; presumably the onset of daylight had revealed some new and extraordinary problem that only someone of his astonishing intellect, ability and courage would be able to solve. He pulled a face to himself and sighed. Pandora was clearly manoeuvring; and heeled slightly as he swung out of his cot, his bare feet hitting the cold wooden deck that was still a little wet from the previous night’s storm. It was too dark to see, but his chin felt tolerably smooth. His beard was several shades lighter than his short auburn hair and hardly needed the attention of a razor two days out of three; it would certainly suffice for an early call.

  The ship’s bell rang four times; by rights King had two more hours of precious sleep due to him, two more hours after the nine he had spent in the very teeth of a Biscay tempest. His mood did not improve greatly as he reached for his trousers, and found them still heavy with damp, and he cursed mildly as he remembered the other pair were badly torn. He had two pairs of britches in the sea chest, although these were only worn when uniform was specifically required. On a small ship like Pandora uniform rules were inclined to be relaxed and Lieutenant King was rarely seen on deck in anything other than blue jacket, white shirt and seaman’s trousers.

  The shirt was equally moist but now King was fully awake, and gave it little thought as he hunted for his boots, snatched at his hat and jacket and opened the frail deal door that led into the gunroom and, in this instance, the bulk of Adam Fraiser. The sailing master turned his stocky frame and smiled at the younger man. "Seems they canna’ do without us, after all, Thomas."

  "Trouble, gentlemen?" Marine Lieutenant Newman looked up from where he sat in his shirtsleeves at the gunroom table, and beamed at them both with the humour of a man who had not spent the previous day and night fighting a storm. King and Fraiser squeezed past him.

  "Och, it’s probably little more than one of the convoy sailing under the water for a bit of a change." Fraiser assured him genially.

  "Nothing trivial, then?" Newman was a man who smiled easily, and despite his own bad temper King found the act infectious.

  "Nothing that should deny a man his sleep," he agreed, and collected his stiff, brown watch coat from Crowley, one of the stewards.

  Outside the gunroom, the berth deck still held the damp, sleeping bodies of the watch below. Clearly it had not been a call for all hands, or even both watches, and so the two officers made their way up, and into the fragile dawn light on the quarterdeck a little more at ease. There was no sign of the captain; Caulfield, the first lieutenant, had the watch. He stood hunched over the traverse board, also wearing a heavy brown coat, although his was dark with moisture and, its owner being relatively short, hung down to well below his knees.

  "Sorry to disturb your caulk, gentlemen," Caulfield’s smile took most of the sarcasm from the remark, although he appeared every bit as weary as King felt. "Seems we have company, and the captain thought it better that all shared the sport."

  "The captain?" King went to ask more, but a poignant look from Caulfield made him glance upwards. The captain was directly above them, in the crosstrees of the mizzen, with one arm wrapped about the topgallant mast, and the other focussing a glass on the horizon.

  "Masthead sighted a strange sail to leeward." Caulfield explained, removing his hat and running a sleeve across his slightly balding head. "Probably no more than a stray merchant, but in view of our friends we thought it better to take no chances."

  King’s gaze swept around to the small group of ships that had been their constant companions since leaving the Tagus. There were only five; barely enough to justify a frigate escort although, considering the trouble they had caused, there might as well have been fifty.

  "Behaving themselves, are they?" Fraiser asked, and Caulfield snorted.

  "If you mean in the hour or so that you two have been resting none have collided, sunk nor raised the French flag, then yes, you could say they were behaving themselves. As to the future; I would not care to commit."

  No convoy containing ships manned by merchant seamen, men used to choosing their own course and speed and who would instinctively keep as much distance between themselves and their brothers, could ever be easy to escort. But this particular collection were apparently commanded by officers eager to compete in both independence and originality, and the last few days had been frustrating for all on board Pandora.

  "Make more sail, if you please," Captain Banks had finished his inspection and was passing the mizzen top on his way down.

  "Shake out the reefs and add forecourse and jib," Caulfield ordered, in a voice barely louder than conversational. The hands stood ready at their stations and swarmed up the shrouds, encouraged by the squeal of boatswain’s pipes. The wind that had plagued them t
hroughout the night had dropped to a strong breeze and was now reasonably steady. It came from the south, across their starboard quarter, and Pandora’s heel increased only slightly as the new canvas began to fill and her stem dug deeper into the crested waves.

  The captain joined them on the quarterdeck, replacing the glass on the binnacle and retrieving his hat. At twenty seven he was younger than all the senior officers bar King, and had already established himself as a rising star in the navy. A knighthood had been acquired into the bargain, although the distinction, along with the captaincy of Pandora, had been produced by favours and nepotism; a system known as 'interest' that was customary in a navy that thrived on tradition. As unfair as it was widespread, interest could be blamed for countless potential commanders currently stuck on the beach, or in the lower ranks on dead-end commissions. In this instance a worthy man had been promoted and honoured, but Banks was a rarity, and it was slowly becoming obvious to all that the practice was ripe for change.

  "Merchant, I’d say, and like enough British, but we’ll know more in a while." Banks glanced at King. "Better make to the convoy to maintain present course and speed."

  "That would be a first, sir." Fraiser’s dour Scot’s tone brought a smile to the faces of tired men, although each felt a mild disappointment that the sighting had proved so mundane. King walked across the deck and caught the eye of Dorsey, the signal midshipman, who was already thumbing through his book, and returned his nod. Pandora was a small ship with a relatively young crew. During her commission the officers and men had melded themselves into an efficient team, helped in no small way by the mutual trust that had grown from shared experiences. At twenty eight guns she was decidedly inferior to most other ships with a Captain in command, but despite her size she had seen a fair amount of action and the respect and understanding which had evolved allowed for a relaxed, almost casual, atmosphere that would be quite out of place in a larger, or less competently manned, vessel.

  Dorsey’s signal flags were run up by the halyard and broke out. The storm that had been brewing for several days had passed completely, and soon the decks were steaming as the spring sunshine reasserted itself.

  "Deck there," The lookout called down to the expectant officers. "She’s hull up now and I can see her lines. A brig, or m'bee a snow, couldn’t rightly say. She’s not showing much sail but flying British colours, an’ there’s another flag, but I can’t make it."

  "Chance is she’s in difficulties." Caulfield commented. Remembering the recent storm it was not unlikely.

  "Perhaps, but I have breakfast awaiting," Banks informed them, brightly. "Give the watch below as much sleep as you can, but call them and me if our friend turns out to be anything out of the ordinary."

  With the captain gone the three officers relaxed into a companionable silence. The temporary release from the convoy’s constraints, an increase in speed, and this delightful spring sunshine were enough of a contrast to be quite therapeutic, and each was alone in thought as the sighting became visible from the deck, and gradually began to form into a merchant brig. The captain had returned, crisp, fed and refreshed, by the time they were drawing close enough to inspect her properly.

  "She’s flying the fever flag," King muttered when it became clear. "Fortunate we’re well to windward."

  "And all ahoo aloft, fore topmast’s damaged." Banks was inspecting the ship’s rig minutely as Pandora spilled her wind and began to slow. "Might well be the storm, but I’m not happy. Give her a hail, Mr Caulfield, and we’d better have the men up."

  The first lieutenant collected the brass speaking trumpet. "What brig is that?" His voice boomed across the water, accompanied by the pipes of boatswains mates as they summoned the off duty men. There was no sign of hands on the brig’s deck, although she was being steered into the wind and was now almost stationary.

  "Take her in, if you please," Banks murmured when no reply was forthcoming. Slowly the British frigate closed with the merchant, until the brig lay comfortably in range to leeward.

  "Brig ahoy!" Banks this time, his voice was lighter than Caulfield’s although the distance was not great and the clatter aboard Pandora had lessened. "I wish to speak with your master."

  A man appeared amidships and began to walk almost reluctantly back and on to the short quarterdeck. "Master’s below. We’ve two men sick with the fever, an’ one died in the night."

  "What brig, and where from?"

  "Katharine Ruth. Last touched at St Helena," the voice replied.

  The officers looked at each other. St Helena was a month or more’s sailing away. Longer was needed for most of the exotic diseases to reveal themselves although Typhus, commonly known as ship fever, was always ready to strike when conditions were right.

  "You have damage aloft, do you require assistance?"

  "No," the voice was far more ready to reply this time. "We can manage, thank’ee."

  Banks took a pace along the quarterdeck, before turning to his officers. "I don’t like it," he said. "A topmast shaken in a wind, yet the rest of the rig appears in order. And hiding behind a fever flag; that’s a Frenchman’s ruse, no mistake. Mr King, take the cutter and a boarding party, if you please. Mr Manning may accompany you in case there is illness, but be on the alert; I have an uneasy feeling."

  King touched his hat, Crowley was there with his sword and pistol, he took both and exchanged his watch coat for a boat cloak and made towards the starboard cutter. Boarding a fever ridden merchant was not the ideal start to his day; as far as uneasy feelings went, the captain did not have the monopoly.

  * * * * *

  Manning appeared as the cutter was about to cast off from Pandora’s hull. King held his hand out as the assistant surgeon stepped into the boat, already crowded with seamen and marines, and seated himself in the sternsheets. His face was rosy with sleep, and he yawned easily as the coxswain pressed them away and ordered the oars out.

  "Wake you, did we?" King asked his friend, who had begun to rummage in the small leather bag he held by his side.

  "Happily with Morpheus when I gets the call; tell me, what is there about the world of a seaman that is so contrary to normal living?"

  King’s grin faded as he looked across at the brig. Two further figures had appeared on deck, and there seemed to be some sort of altercation amongst them. With six strong men at the oars the distance would soon be covered and as the boat swept closer, the panic apparently increased. Then one of the group broke away and glared down.

  "We tolds you, we don’t need no ’elp" It was a different voice, and clearly not an educated one. King raised his hands to his mouth in an improvised speaking trumpet.

  "Brig ahoy, we are boarding you."

  "You keep off," the first voice again. "We got the fever, it - it ain’t safe."

  By now they were almost alongside, and King could clearly see fresh damage to the wales. Paint and splinters had been torn from the strakes as if she had grazed a quay. The coxswain brought them level with the gangway port and, ordering the oars in, reached out with a boathook. King was the first up and through the narrow gap. Two seamen blocked his path. Large men, with dark brown tattooed hams for forearms, they were dressed in checked shirts and seamen’s trousers, and he was clearly not welcome.

  "Nothing for you on this ship, mister," one said. "Best you leaves us to mend the barkie an’ we’ll both be on our ways."

  "My name is King, I am a King’s officer," he swallowed, not for the first time, at the clumsy repetition. "And I have orders to inspect your vessel."

  "Let him through boys, let him through." A new and more cultured voice cut in and the two men stood to one side. Behind them a smaller, older man, possibly in his late forties, stood dressed as a senior merchant officer.

  "Forgive me, Mr King, you are more than welcome aboard this ship, we are merely concerned for your well-being." He stepped forward and proffered his hand. King took it, mildly relieved to hear his seamen and marines as they formed up behind him.

&
nbsp; "Fever struck us a few days before that storm and, being short handed as we are, there’s been much for the well amongst us to do, as you might surmise. My name is Boyle, I’m the mate; I’m afraid the master is laid low with the flux, but I have our papers here if you would care to inspect them." A small canvas covered package was handed to King.

  "Flux? Fever?" Manning sounded confused. "What are the symptoms?"

  The mate considered him. "You are a doctor, sir? Do you have a physic that might help?"

  "I will need to examine your patients; take me to them, if you please."

  Again a moment of reluctance, then Boyle turned and walked toward the stern. "The captain is in his quarters, follow me."

  * * * * *

  Roused from their rest an hour early, the men of the starboard watch were not content.

  "Three hours sleep, and they turns us up again," Jenkins, a seasoned hand, grumbled. "Be glad to get back to Pompey; this is a lark, an’ no mistaking."

  "What makes you think it’ll be any better in England?" Scales asked. Scales had only recently joined Pandora. Educated, and with assumed authority, he had quickly established himself as one of the major figures on the lower deck. The kind the men listened to, even though they did not always agree with what was said. "Supposin’ we do stay more than a night in Spithead, the only way any of us will set foot on land is if we desert."

  "Aye, he has you there," an anonymous voice agreed. "Spithead’s all well and fine when the Weddin’ Garland’s up, but there’s little chance of a spree ashore."