St. Vincent - 3. Chapter 3

October, 1796

Belvidera slid effortlessly behind the Mole, safe behind the sheltering guns of Gibraltar. The wind was fair for her to enter harbor, but not for her to leave, so Granger anchored just inside. That way, if they needed to warp out, it would save a considerable amount of time and effort. His instincts told him that he wouldn’t be here long, that he shouldn’t be here long. “Call away my gig, if you please, Mr. Roberts,” Granger ordered.

“Aye aye sir,” he said, just as he was supposed to.

“I’m going ashore to call on the Governor. Top off our water as quickly as you can.”

Granger’s thoughts had already moved on, so he didn’t hear Roberts acknowledge his order. He scanned the harbor without his glass, but the merchant craft there were of no interest to him. What was of interest to him was that Aurore was not there. Granger had hid his disappointment over that, over his anticipated reunion with John Travers, but it had been difficult. He’d been looking forward to a brief interlude with Travers.

He descended into his gig; mentally noting how much faster it was to hoist it into the water with their new davits, and then returned to the topic at hand. He’d had a bittersweet meeting with Travers last time, one where he’d realized they’d grown apart and that his feelings for Travers were eclipsed by his feelings for Calvert and Cavendish. He was looking forward to seeing Travers again, and to enjoying him again, enough to rebuild some of their bond. Sadly, that was not to be, not with Aurore gone.

Granger examined his motives, and discovered that leaving London had made him sadder than he realized. He was homesick and depressed, heading into a war against a nation he’d grown to like, and heading away from his family and friends. He needed love, and Travers was the only one in this vicinity that could give him what he needed; only Travers wasn’t here.

He’d grown lonely and isolated on his ship, and while that was normal for a Royal Navy Captain, Granger had been able to maintain relationships to ease that burden. He’d let his libido rule him, let it drive him to make some bad decisions, and some good ones as well, he thought with a grin. But he had men at his disposal that would jump at the chance to climb into his cot with him, and he found he didn’t want them. He wanted love and companionship, and for Granger, at this point in his life, sex simply wasn’t an adequate substitute for that. He pulled himself out of his morose thoughts as his gig ranged up against the pier.

Unlike his last visit here, there was a subaltern waiting with a carriage to take him to the Governor’s House. Granger greeted him politely and took his seat in the open carriage, waving back to the citizens who waved at him. He found the Governor, General O’Hara, and his Adjutant, Colonel Harleton, waiting for him.

“You are more exalted than when you left us, Sir George,” O’Hara said in a friendly way.

“I must thank Your Excellency for giving me the opportunities that enabled me to earn this distinction,” Granger said diplomatically.

“So are we at war with Spain?”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” Granger answered, glad to get to the point. “His Majesty ordered that all Spanish ships be impounded the day before I sailed. We encountered a Spanish squadron along the way, and they were aware that we were at war as well.”

“We’ve already been on a war footing, and kept the gates to the citadel closed,” O’Hara said. “Harleton, see that our men know the situation. I don’t want any fool letting a Spanish regiment in by mistake.”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” Harleton said as he got up. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Sir George.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Granger said, doing his best to keep any hint of a double entendre out of his voice.

“I suppose you’re wondering where your friend is?” The Governor asked as soon as Harleton was gone. Granger just waited for him to explain, not deigning to answer. “With the Spanish expected to be against us, as they now are, the evacuation of Corsica has become inevitable. Sir John needs every ship to help with that task.”

Granger hadn’t been convinced that evacuation was vital, but he assumed that others here like the Governor and Sir John Jervis would know better than he did. “I see, Your Excellency.”

“Aurore sailed only a week ago,” the Governor observed. “I sent her with dispatches, and to help with the effort.”

“I’m sure Sir John will appreciate that, Your Excellency. If every ship is needed, then assuming you have no other need for me to remain here, I think I will set off immediately for Corsica.”

The Governor eyed Granger and noted his air of impatience, barely concealed beneath his smooth veneer. That made the old General smile. “I’d ask you to stay and join me for supper, but I sense that you would have your mind on the task at hand and be rather dull company.”

Granger smiled back to thank the Governor. “I suspect you are right. I promise, Your Excellency, to try and be more charming next time I visit.”

“Well, with that pledge as your bond, I will release you to go. Please give my best to Sir John.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Granger said, bowing politely. He sensed that Harleton wanted some of his time, no doubt to engage in a brief tryst, but he was still unsettled from his earlier musings, so the idea had little attraction for him. In any event, the man was off executing his own orders. He hurried back to the ship, arriving just as Roberts was finishing up with the water.

“Those new tanks make watering the ship much easier, sir,” Roberts said.

“I am glad to hear it, Mr. Roberts. We will get underway at once.”

“We’re leaving already, sir?” Roberts asked, so shocked was he. Then he got his composure back. “Aye aye sir.”

“Since the launch and cutter are already in the water, we can use them to warp us out. Please see to that at once. I will be below if I am needed.” Granger went down into his cabin to shed his dress coat, and to exchange it for his working uniform. He heard the whistles blow as all hands were called to heave the anchor back aboard, and then to warp the ship out. He returned on deck to find the anchor just edging off the bottom of the harbor.

“So how do you like life at sea, Mr. Ramsey?” Granger asked pleasantly as he paced the quarterdeck with their resident spy.

“It certainly is different from life on land, Sir George,” he said thoughtfully. “I have to say, though, that I am thoroughly enjoying it.”

“What do you miss the most?” Granger asked.

“Fresh water, sir,” Ramsey answered. Granger laughed out loud at that; almost loud enough that it was hysterical, and then got himself back under control.

“Pardon my outburst, if you please,” he said politely. “That is exactly what I told my captain when I went to sea for the first time. It is a luxury that you do not often get to indulge in: fresh water.”

“I would have thought you’d have missed court, or female company,” Ramsey inquired.

Granger reminded himself that he had to be careful when talking to this man. “I enjoy court, attending both His Majesty and His Royal Highness, but I do not miss it overmuch. The same is true of female company, with the exception of my wife. I suspect that comes from being a married man.”

“In my experience, most married men don’t let that interfere with their enjoyment of female company, sir,” Ramsey joked.

“And what of you, Mr. Ramsey? Have you no woman at home pining away for you?” Granger smirked to himself at seeing Ramsey squirm under questioning for a change.

“I fear not, sir. Most women are unwilling to put up with me.”

“Now Mr. Ramsey, you are a handsome and charming young man. Surely you are irresistible?” Granger teased.

“One would think so, sir,” Ramsey said with playful arrogance. “Sadly, it is not so.”

Granger was tempted to pry further, but to do so would smack of bad manners, and that was a sin he was rarely guilty of. “Perhaps we can play again this evening?”

“That would be delightful, sir,” Ramsey said. Granger had assembled Ramsey and Somers damn near every other evening, and found that the practice was making him much better at the clarinet. It was also helping him to block out some of the sadness over leaving London and not seeing Travers. “How long until we reach Corsica?”

“We’ve only been away from Gibraltar for a week,” Granger said, laughing. “The winds have been fair and we’ve made good progress, but there is no guarantee that will continue. We could be there in a week, or a month.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. That was a stupid question.”

Granger gave Ramsey his most charming smile and watched the man as he was dazzled by it. “As this is your first time at sea, you are allowed to ask unanswerable questions.”

The men began to rig the wash deck pump, reminding Granger that it was bath day. He excused himself, went below, and snuck into his cabin to masturbate, hopefully to prevent himself from getting an erection. Winkler followed him up on deck, holding his soap, and then exchanged that for his bathrobe. Granger stood there naked, spinning as the cold water blasted him. Then it stopped and he soaped his body, only to be tortured once again as the freezing cold water rinsed him off. He noticed that he got some looks as he showered, not the least from Ramsey, whose pants appeared to tent slightly.

Sir George Granger paced his quarterdeck briskly, trying to walk off the hangover he nursed from the prior evening. He’d had a pleasant dinner with Ramsey, Roberts, and Somers, then drank a considerable amount of wine while playing his clarinet, no mean feat. For some reason, seeing Ramsey naked and erect had aroused his libido, and he’d ended up letting Somers fuck his brains out last night after they’d played.

Granger smiled at that, at what a fun sexual partner Somers was. He was handsome and masculine, and an animal in bed. Granger had grown to respect Somers as an officer and as a man, and enjoyed his body, but their connection ended there. There was no way his relationship with Somers could grow into something like he had with Cavendish, Calvert, or Travers.

He watched Villiers and Gatling rushing up the main shrouds, skylarking as they played “follow the leader” in the rigging. It was good practice for both of them, and it was helping Villiers develop his skills aloft. Granger smiled as he watched his cute midshipmen, and then felt those paternal feelings change, at least as far as Gatling was concerned. Villiers was young, still a boy, but Gatling was transforming himself into a very handsome young man. Granger thought about the other day when the pump had been rigged and Gatling, along with the other boys, had taken their baths. His body was quite developed, and he had an ass that was so adorable it reminded him of Cavendish. Granger pushed those thoughts aside as he felt his dick rising. He was frustrated with himself, and with his inability to keep his thoughts about these men he served with from turning sexual.

Meurice came up and looked about, scanning the ship to check her condition. He was another temptation: the handsome Frenchman with the sexy accent and flashing brown eyes. Granger was thrilled to have him aboard; his iron tanks were transforming their water supply, and the boat davits were spectacular. There hadn’t been enough rain to really test his funnel system, but they’d decided that even if it didn’t work, the system would make an excellent lightning rod, and that was certainly worth the effort they’d expended to rig it up.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Meurice said, breaking into his thoughts. “With your permission, I should like to have myself rowed around the ship when the wind moderates. I think she is down in the bows a bit too much.”

Granger paused to consider what he said, evaluating the feel of the ship that he knew so well. “I think you are right, Mr. Meurice. We will see what her trim looks like at the next opportunity. In the meantime, if you want to re-arrange the stores to adjust it in advance, I think that would be a good idea.”

“Aye aye sir,” Meurice said with his engaging smile. He had dimples in his cheeks that changed him from an ordinary looking man into a handsome one every time he smiled.

“Sir!” Came a shout from the lookout. “Smoke on the horizon, dead ahead!”

Granger evaluated Belvidera’s speed, and although she was already carrying an aggressive spread of canvas, his instincts told him she was needed up there where the smoke was, and that she was needed quickly. This was the time to take a risk.

“Mr. Clifton!” Granger said, since he was the officer of the watch. “Shake out the reef in the topgallants and get the royals on her!”

“Aye aye sir,” he acknowledged, then began to belt out his own orders. The commotion brought Roberts and Carslake to the deck just as Clifton was finished setting and trimming the sails. Granger felt Belvidera heel over under the increased force, and knew she was carrying as much sail as possible; any more and she’d surely carry away a spar. A look at Roberts and his disapproving scowl confirmed that.

“We have sighted some smoke ahead,” Granger deigned to tell them. “I am going aloft.” Granger strode forward, over the wider gangways, to the foremast and climbed up to the foretop. He found Gatling there, along with another seaman.

“I didn’t realize you were stationed up here, Mr. Gatling,” Granger said.

“I’m not sir,” said the cute lad. “I have good eyes, begging your pardon, according to Mr. Clifton, so I thought I’d lend a hand.”

Granger grinned at him. “I am glad to have your help. Now what have we here?” Granger trained his glass on the smoke that was visible on the horizon now.

“Looks like smoke from gunpowder, sir,” the seaman said.

“Sir, I can see masts!” Gatling exclaimed.

Granger trained his glass on the smoke and saw masts from two or three ships. Those ships were engaged in a battle, but with the wind blowing in their direction, Belvidera couldn’t hear the gunfire. Granger strained his ears and fancied he could hear it now, the concussion of larger guns.

“Mr. Roberts, clear for action!” Granger shouted from the tops. “Beat to Quarters!” Then mayhem broke out, as Belvidera struck down her bulkheads and the men carried all the furniture and livestock below, where they’d be safe. He turned back to the fighting as the situation became clearer.

“Looks like three frigates, sir,” the seaman said.

“Two big ones, and a smaller one, sir,” Gatling augmented. Granger looked through his glass and felt his mouth go dry.

“The smaller frigate is the Aurore, gentlemen,” he said calmly. “She is being engaged by those other frigates. One is Spanish, and the other may very well be French.”

“I think you’re right, sir, begging your pardon,” Gatling said. They were closing fast, and he could now see the battle evolving. Aurore was grappling with the Frog, while the Spaniard was engaging her on the other side. He could see fighting on the decks, but it was unclear who was winning, although Aurore was firing steadily into both ships.

“Keep me informed,” Granger ordered, and then slid back to the deck. He found his officers waiting for him. “It seems Aurore has engaged two frigates, both large ones. It appears that one is French and one is Spanish.”

“What do you intend, sir?” Roberts asked.

“We’ll close with them, try to rake the Frog, and then take on the Spaniard,” Granger said as he watched the ships draw closer and closer. “Double shotted with grape for good measure,” he said, ordering Roberts to load the guns.

Then the situation changed. “There’s more smoke sir!” Gatling shouted from the tops. “One of the ships is on fire!”

It was true. Either Aurore or the Frenchman had caught fire. It wasn’t a big fire yet, or at least it didn’t appear to be, but it was enough to cause the Spaniard to haul off. She seemed to catch sight of Belvidera for the first time and began to clap on sail, planning to disengage from the battle, leaving her French consort to fight it out on her own. Granger had to grin at that, at this alliance that had been decreed from above and foisted on the Spanish Navy, which was only too willing to avoid fighting French wars whenever possible.

Then what had appeared to be a small internal fire exposed itself as something much more. From the waist of the French ship came the flames, roaring up and into the rigging. Granger stared as the French ship was soon engulfed, and watched as Aurore frantically tried to break free.

“Aurore is afire too, sir,” Roberts said sadly, and he was correct. Granger watched, horrified, as flames seemed to leap into Aurore’s rigging, feeding on her dry sails.

“Get our pumps rigged,” Granger ordered. “We’ll try to lend a hand.” He saw the dubious look on the faces of his officers, concerned that Belvidera was sailing into a maelstrom. Nothing scared a sailor more than the risk of fire, and Granger was sailing Belvidera directly into that risk.

Aurore had continued to discharge her guns into the Frenchman, but now that she was afire, her guns ceased their efforts. The Frog had stopped a long time ago. Now both ships struggled for their lives, first to break free from the other, then to douse the flames that were consuming them.

“Get us down to topsails, Mr. Roberts,” Granger ordered, as Belvidera closed. “Let the hands practice their fire drill by wetting them.”

“Aye aye sir,” he said. The hoses spewed water up onto the sails in an effort to make them less flammable; an effort that Granger knew was but a small deterrent at best.

And then the whole world seemed to come caving in on them. He stared, totally transfixed and stunned, as the French ship exploded. The idiots hadn’t had the sense to douse their powder. He hoped Travers had done that. A fireball rose up in the sky, and the explosion was louder than anything Granger had ever heard. For what seemed like hours but was probably no more than a minute or two, they were deafened and stunned, staring at the billowing smoke where the remnants of the Frenchman slipped into the Mediterranean. When the smoke cleared, where the French ship had been, now there was nothing.

“Mr. Roberts, heave to. I want the launch and the cutter in the water at once.” Granger left Roberts to handle that while he looked over at Aurore. Her own fires had enveloped her in smoke, but it cleared away briefly, enough to expose her damage. They were trying to battle the fires that raged on the deck and in the rigging, but they would probably lose that battle. That was nothing compared to her side. Where the French ship had been, her side was blasted wide open. Granger could actually see her main deck, with guns upended and bodies crushed under their weight, as Aurore burned and shuddered from her damage. She would not survive until nightfall.

Belvidera’s boats were quickly in the water, and the men loaded into them. Before Clifton could descend into the launch and take charge, Granger intervened. “You have the ship, Mr. Roberts,” he said curtly.

He knew they wanted to protest, but they also knew that Travers was his good friend. There was no way Granger was going to let them go over there without him. He had to see things for himself. Roberts seemed to sense that and wisely said nothing. Instead, he began bellowing out orders, preparing Belvidera to receive any survivors they could extract from Aurore.

The two boats shoved off and rowed quickly toward the stricken ship. Granger watched with admiration as her crew battled the fires. He saw her men still manning her pumps, while others hauled buckets of water in a fire fighting chain, attempting to squelch the relentless flames. Her boats had been cut adrift, but Granger’s men were able to grab her longboat and haul it along with them.

“Boat ahoy!” came a shout from Aurore. Even now, as she was self-destructing, protocol must be maintained.

“Belvidera!” shouted the coxswain. The boats grappled on Aurore’s starboard side, the side that was undamaged and upwind from the fires. Granger scrambled up the sides, and found himself engulfed by heat and smoke.

He looked around for Travers, but instead found only a young midshipman who was manfully directing the firefighting efforts. Granger paused for a second to admire his efforts, the way he encouraged his men. He was so focused and determined, directing his men as he thought best, that the effort had consumed him. He was oblivious to anything else. “Where are the other officers?” Granger demanded.

The young man stared at him, bewildered, trying to comprehend the fact that a spruce Post-Captain had miraculously appeared on his quarterdeck.

“Where is Captain Travers?” Granger demanded, almost frantic now.

“They’re all dead or wounded,” the young man said, almost a sob. It was as if now that the spell was broken, now that he was pulled from the hell that had been handed him, he was overcome with despair. He gestured over to the wheel, and Granger saw Travers, collapsed on the deck.

There was nothing more to be done here but to save whomever they could. “Abandon ship! Get the wounded into the boats first!” Granger ordered. Now Carslake was here, taking charge. He watched as his men surged aboard and began to aid the firefighting efforts. He left it in their capable hands as he rushed over to Travers’ side.

He rolled him over and saw the huge splinter that had pierced his stomach. Granger felt his emotions overwhelm him as he realized what this meant. There was no way Travers would survive this wound. His life was measured in minutes now, maybe seconds. “George,” he said weakly, trying to smile. “I just knew you’d come.”

“Rest easy, John,” Granger said, even as the tears began to flow from his eyes. “Rest easy.”

“Save my ship,” he said, although Granger could barely hear him over the sounds of the fire and the men as they hauled the wounded into the boats. Those were the words of a Captain; his one goal was to look after his ship and his crew.

“I’m here, John. I’ll take care of her,” Granger said softly. He leaned in and kissed Travers on the lips gently, and felt Travers respond with what was probably all the energy he had left. Granger could feel the love they shared, the love Travers had for him, flowing through that kiss, undoubtedly the most meaningful kiss Granger had ever experienced.

“I love you, George.” Now Travers was talking as a lover, his eyes fixed on Granger’s, giving him an intense stare to magnify the meaning of what he had said.

“I love you too, John,” Granger said, returning Travers’ gaze and his emotions fully, perhaps even more. Travers gasped and his body spasmed as Granger held him, then a red stream of blood flowed from his mouth. Granger wiped it away, but it was to no avail. John Travers was dead.

Granger held him, staring at his now-lifeless body, and felt his own body convulse from the emotion of losing this man he loved. He was immobile, incapable of moving, incapable of comprehending this loss. He felt the guilt fight with grief, vying to take over his psyche, and then felt those two destructive emotions unite in an unholy alliance, destined to cause him misery and unhappiness. He felt their surge, felt them block out all that he knew and had been trained to do, felt them overcome his defenses and his stoic outer shell, until he was on the verge of becoming a sobbing vegetable. But in the end, he was saved from total emotional defeat when another person beat him to it. He turned to see the midshipman he’d first encountered, kneeling next to him, sobbing inconsolably.

Granger closed Travers’ eyes, and looked at the young man firmly. “Who are you?”

The midshipman blinked at him, and then with discipline reasserted himself. He sniffed and swallowed, regaining control of himself, before he stammered his name weakly. “Darby, sir.”

“Mr. Darby, we can do nothing for Captain Travers, but we can do something for your crew. You must attend to your men.”

The young man nodded. “Aye aye sir.”

“Sir, we’ve gotten the wounded up from the orlop, and we’re going through to make sure the others what aren’t moving is dead,” Carslake said, reporting in.

Granger looked around at the ship, a ship he’d once commanded, and nodded. “You must do so as quickly as you can. We don’t have long. Mr. Darby can help you.” Carslake put his hand on the young man’s shoulder in a gesture of tenderness Granger had never seen from him, and guided Darby off.

On the other side of the quarterdeck, Granger saw a familiar face, and that familiar red hair. He walked over to where Merrick lay, staring up at the masts with lifeless eyes. The battle had taken him as well. Granger fought back more guilt, guilt that came from being the one who had transferred Merrick here in the first place. He forced himself to think clearly, and to do his duty.

Granger made his way below to the carnage that was the main deck. With the side blasted open, it was surreal, with lots of light, but even that was a curse. All that did was let him see the carnage more clearly. There was a man, crushed under an upended 18-pounder, crying for help, but there was no help for him. He was doomed, even if they could get him away from the gun. Scene after scene like that turned Granger’s stomach and his wounded psyche, until he could take no more. He went back on deck and undid Travers sword, took his watch, and pulled some letters and correspondence from his pockets. All of the papers and ship’s logs had been burned in the fires that were overwhelming them. He then strode over to Carslake.

“We’ve gotten all we can sir. There’s nothing more we can do,” Carslake said. A wall of flames shot up from Aurore’s waist, as if to emphasize his words.

“Abandon ship!” Granger shouted. “All men to the boats!”

The remainder of Travers’ crew, along with Granger’s men, fell back rapidly and descended into the boats. The heat was becoming unbearable, and Granger began to fear that he’d end up being consumed by flames just like Aurore, but he was determined to be the last one over the side, and so he was. He took one last look at Travers body as the flames enveloped it and cremated him, and then hastily hurried down the side.

The Aurore’s longboat had already gone over to Belvidera with the wounded, but the launch and the cutter had remained to take off the rest of them. Granger watched as the men rowed furiously to get away from Aurore. They were worried that she’d share the fate of the Frog, but Travers, good captain that he was, had the sense to flood her magazines when the action had broken off. Here and there, an explosion went off, as a powder charge on her deck went off. Granger turned and looked aft, watching as the flames roared out of her gunports, unchecked now by their fire-fighting efforts. He was surprised when the boat stopped; hooking onto Belvidera’s chains, so engrossed was he in this vision of Aurore’s agony.

He mounted the side, ignoring the honors, and stood at the rail, staring at the Aurore, watching her final moments. She burned and burned, until she finally could survive no more. Then finally, with a sharp hissing noise, she slipped beneath the waves, taking with her the first man Granger ever loved.