Odyssey - 34. Chapter 34

November 1797

Granger stood on the quarterdeck of Bacchante, marveling at how much daylight there had been in the lower latitudes, when they’d been chasing after the French privateer. It had made the shipboard routine somewhat difficult, since dawn was a strange phenomenon that seemed to arrive almost as soon as the sunset. Now that they were nearing Valdivia, the sun rose higher in the sky and twilight was shorter, much as it was back in the Mediterranean. Its sense of familiarity seemed to transfer to the entire ship, which put the excitement of their last mission behind them, and got back into their normal patterns.

“We should arrive at Valdivia today, my lord,” Humphreys said, telling Granger something he already knew. That was the primary reason for his excellent mood, the knowledge that he’d probably rejoin Calvert today.

“Tell the lookouts to keep an eye out for Santa Clarita,” Granger said. He expected that he would find Calvert near the harbor, but it was possible that she had ventured away from the immediate vicinity. To make sure they didn’t miss her, they were approaching Valdivia from the south.

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said, and went to do that. He returned to Granger’s side shortly. “That mission was almost too easy, my lord.”

“Yet it was lucrative,” Granger said with a smile, even though he agreed with Humphreys. Bacchante had recaptured five whalers while she was en-route to the whaling grounds, intercepting the vessels and their prize crews as they’d begun the trek back to France, presumably, fully laden. Once Bacchante had arrived at the whaling grounds, they almost immediately identified the French privateer. She’d surrendered without a shot in the face of Bacchante’s menacing broadsides. “You’re wondering why the Admiralty sent a frigate out here to do a job that a brig could have easily handled?”

“The question had crossed my mind, my lord,” Humphreys said. It was light enough now to see his attractive grin.

“The Admiralty probably considered a few important factors,” Granger said. “First of all, a big frigate like Bacchante can carry ample stores, and can survive without acquiring provisions from ashore much longer than a brig.”

“That makes sense, my lord,” Humphreys said, but he wasn’t convinced.

“In addition, with an enemy frigate and battleship in the region, it would have required a larger ship to adequately blockade and capture the French privateers. I am confident that the Admiralty did not foresee that we would capture the fort at Niebla and destroy two privateers with Spanish guns,” he added with a grin.

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but weren’t you instructed to rescue any British and American prisoners? We were being held at the fort.”

“Perhaps,” Granger allowed. Some captains would be enraged that Humphreys had dared to even comment on their orders, but Granger had come to appreciate Humphreys’ mind. He was using these questions not as a challenge to authority, but as an opportunity to learn. “I suspect the Admiralty would have envisioned us negotiating for your release, rather than just seizing you. In their minds, some sort of arrangement may have been palatable to the Spanish, who would otherwise have to spend resources to keep you alive.”

“That makes sense, my lord. I suspect that Spaniards would have preferred that approach as well.” Granger chuckled at that.

“Of that, I think there is no question,” Granger noted. “And the final reason is that it was convenient to have Bacchante detour in this direction to handle the problem, without finding another vessel to achieve that objective. You will find, Mr. Humphreys, that the Admiralty is loath to send a ship off on one mission, when it can tack on additional endeavors as well.” Now it was Granger’s turn to make Humphreys chuckle.

“That has been my own experience as well, my lord,” Humphreys said.

They paced the quarterdeck together, saying nothing. “You were worried that we were being led into a trap?”

“I have learned it is wise to be wary of things that are much simpler than one expects, my lord,” Humphreys said.

“And that is the mark of a good captain,” Granger said. “It is rare that we are provided with easy tasks. When we are, we must be cautious.”

“I worry that I did not do that with Mouche, my lord. I have replayed our capture over and over in my mind, and I have concluded that if I had discerned the Spaniard’s intention one hour earlier, we probably would have been able to escape in the night.” Humphreys had seemed disturbed since he’d been released, as if something was gnawing at his insides. He had finally come clean about what it was.

“I think you are expecting much more from yourself than is possible,” Granger opined. “It is easy to look back and see where the signs were, but they are usually not so apparent during the event. In addition, you said that the Don sighted you in the morning. Would you have even had that additional hour of daylight?”

“I’m not sure,” he mused. They walked along for a bit longer, saying nothing as Humphreys digested Granger’s words, and seemed to come to a conclusion. “Thank you, my lord,” he said. “I will try to put self-recriminations behind me.”

“That is an excellent decision, Mr. Humphreys,” Granger said, then broached another topic that had been on his mind. “I hope you are not troubled that I did not bring Mr. Fitzwilliam aboard with you.”

“No, my lord,” Humphreys said, but paused, as if he could say more, but wasn’t sure if he wanted to. Granger remained silent, letting him form his words and thoughts. “I fear we had become too close.” He’d said that softly, although there was no one on deck who was close enough to eavesdrop.

Granger nodded. “I have been in that situation. Sometimes the service provides a welcome separation.”

“I think that in this case, it did, my lord. I think that Mr. Fitzwilliam was quite enamored with me, although I can’t imagine why.”

“I have experienced a few select moments with you, and I can well imagine why,” Granger joked, flirting with Humphreys.

“And if you would ever like to refresh your memory, my lord, you have but to ask,” Humphreys said, flirting back. They walked on, chuckling for a bit, and then Humphreys continued. “For me, it was a pleasant release. For him, it was much more.”

Granger nodded. “Then I am glad I was able to assist you both.” He thought of Fitzwilliam on board Santa Clarita, and allowed his mind to worry that the young man would fix his sights on Calvert instead. He felt the jealousy surge, but repressed it. He changed the topic to shipboard affairs as he and Humphreys walked on, using that to take his mind away from the place his envy had taken him to.

The sun rose, illuminating the Chilean coast. They spent the morning sailing north until they arrived off Valdivia. There was no sign of Santa Clarita, and there was almost no activity in the port. It had been exactly three weeks and a day since Granger had left Calvert to go off and find the privateer. Calvert wouldn’t have left already to go to England, would he? If he’d have left yesterday, they surely should have sighted him yesterday. Would he have left early? Granger shook that thought off. Calvert would never disobey his orders. Yet here they were, at the end of the time limit Granger had set, at the designated rendezvous, and Calvert was not here.

Granger paced the deck, frustrated with this turn of events. He had staffed Bacchante with pleasant and enjoyable officers, all with a tendency to use their charm and humor to make everyday life more pleasant. Humphreys had a playful sense of humor that was more restrained, and quite similar to Weston’s. Eastwyck and Somers had that same basic wit, but without the restraint. It made for enjoyable dinners, and it made for a pleasant voyage. But in the face of Calvert’s absence, even these irrepressible men knew to keep their mouths shut. And so Bacchante thrashed along, heading north, leaving Valdivia behind. They carefully checked the coves and harbors as they went, in case Calvert had decided to augment Santa Clarita’s stores, but they found nothing. And so the day went, with Bacchante cruising along in moderate seas, heading north with the winds blowing gently from the south, with no sight of Santa Clarita.

“Did you have any orders for me, my lord?” Humphreys asked, as the sun began to set.

Granger was tempted to snap at him, to vent his temper at Humphreys, but he restrained himself. It would be unfair, and would just expose Granger’s frustration, something he was loath to do. “We will heave to.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” Humphreys said, although that was a rare occurrence for Bacchante. To remain hove-to, to stay in one place, was unusual for the busy frigate. But if Santa Clarita was to the north of them, and was sailing south to meet them, she’d be sailing into the wind. By remaining hove to, it was unlikely that she’d be able to pass by Bacchante unseen.

“I’ll want double lookouts, and I want them relieved every other hour,” Granger said. “I don’t want Santa Clarita to run aboard us in the middle of the night.”

“Aye aye my lord,” Humphreys said.

Granger had been on deck most of the day, and realized that he was fatigued. His legs felt as if he’d walked for miles, which he probably had. “I will be below.” He went to his cabin, where Winkler helped him into his cot, but even though his legs were able to ease their burden and rest, his mind would not. He tossed and turned in his cot, unable to sleep. He thought briefly about summoning Somers for some sexual release, but he did not want Somers. He wanted Calvert.

He occupied his mind by reflecting on the mission they’d just accomplished. He’d already drafted his report to the Admiralty and sent it back with the last whaler they’d captured, so he didn’t even have that as an excuse to get up from his cot. They’d sent off six of the eight whaling captains with the prizes. One of them had volunteered to act as a mate to the senior captain, in order to get home faster. The last men left were Poole and Cranmer. Granger had taken a risk with Cranmer. He’d given him command of the French privateer they’d captured. She was a whaler, so he’d let Cranmer take over as her master, and gave him a crew composed of some of the whalemen they’d recaptured. In essence, he’d taken Bacchante’s prize, and instead of sending her off to the Admiralty Courts in Antigua, he’d commissioned her as a merchant and left her there to fulfill her original mission as a whaler.

He thought about Bacchante as she’d sailed from Plymouth, and compared her to how she was crewed now. She had three capable lieutenants, although they would miss the experience Calvert and Robey brought to the equation. He’d promoted two of the ship’s boys, Kenny and Hardwicke, to midshipman. Kenny had come to him from Brentwood, much as Gatling had. Hardwicke was the son of one of his father’s retainers at Bridgemont. Neither had influence or connections, and thus were compelled to serve their required six years as ship’s boys or midshipmen, as opposed to the way Granger had done it, where he had been carried on ship’s books for years before he had actually gone to sea. But both had shown themselves to be good seamen with sharp minds. Kenny had been on deck with him when they’d passed through the Spanish fleet before St. Vincent, and had been the one with the intelligence not to ring the ship’s bell and give away their position. Kenny and Hardwicke were both 16, and thus older than Kingsdale, who was their senior. And that was really bizarre, that a young man like Kingsdale, who had been in the Navy for no more than six months would find himself as Bacchante’s senior midshipman. Yet the young peer had blossomed aboard the ship, and was becoming quite a good seaman. And a very good leader.

The other vital positions in the ship, those of master and master’s mates, had been filled as well. Granger had promoted Phillips to the position of Master’s Mate, and had done the same thing for Poole. That had left him without a coxswain for his gig, so he’d come up with an ingenious solution to fill it. They’d had a contest to see who was the most adept at handling small boats. The American, Caleb Jacobs had won.

Granger recalled their conversation when he’d promoted the strapping young American. “Well Jacobs, if you are to be a petty officer, that means you will be a subject of His Majesty. As I recall, you had some issues with that.”

“My lord,” Jacobs had said, “I was born a subject, so I guess it was meant to be. I’m loyal to you, and if you’re loyal to the King, then so am I.” It hadn’t been an unswerving vow to King and Country, but it was acceptable, and quite charming. There had been a pleasant side benefit to the promotion of Phillips and his replacement by Jacobs. Phillips and Winkler had never really gotten on all that well. They tolerated each other. Yet as his coxswain and chief steward, they were part of his personal staff, and were compelled to interact and work together. Winkler did much better with the easygoing American. Granger suspected that Jacobs’ bulging muscles and beefy frame, combined with his handsome round face, were also instrumental in convincing Winkler to like him. Winkler had been in a decidedly better mood lately.

Granger mulled over these changes, and concluded that Bacchante was very well crewed and officered, and the only difference between his staff now and the one he sailed with was their level of experience. He’d drilled them like a fiend on their voyage to capture the privateer, forcing them to work as a team; not just the men, but the officers as well. He hoped that Calvert had been doing the same thing, and then put that thought aside. Calvert was nothing if not a good officer and a good captain. He could rely on him to turn Santa Clarita into a crack ship in no time.

“My lord,” Winkler said, shaking him gently, and pulling him from his thoughts. It must have appeared to Winkler that Granger was still sleeping, and the thought that he would seem that imperturbable made Granger smile to himself. “Mr. Eastwyck sent to tell you that we’re mired in fog.” Winkler’s tone told him what he thought of Eastwyck bothering Granger over something as trivial as fog, but Eastwyck was right to be concerned.

“Very well. How long until dawn?”

“Half an hour, my lord,” Winkler said. Granger dressed quickly, and then strode confidently up to the quarterdeck. The first thing that greeted him when he climbed up the hatch was the fog, which was as thick as pea soup.

“I see you found some fog, Mr. Eastwyck,” Granger said jovially.

“Just a bit, my lord,” Eastwyck said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I thought you should know.”

“As we are expecting another ship to be in the area, it is wise to be cautious,” Granger said pleasantly. Then he heard that unmistakable sound: the sound of gunfire. “Silence on deck,” he said loudly. Then he heard it again. The staccato sound of guns, probably 12-pounders, and then the rumble of much bigger cannon. “Masthead, can you see anything!” Granger shouted.

“Not yet, my lord,” came the reply.

“Mr. Eastwyck, beat to quarters. Clear for action,” Granger ordered.

“Aye aye my lord,” he said. Within a minute, the drummer was pounding out “Hearts of Oak,” and the men were rousted out of their hammocks, wondering if this was just another drill engineered by their captain.

“Pass the word for Winker,” Granger ordered. Winkler appeared shortly, looking frazzled. Clearing for action would mean a lot of work for him, and summoning him away as it was being done would just increase the disorganization he would have to deal with later.

“My lord?”

“I’ll need my best uniform. I’ll change on deck.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said, and dashed off to collect it.

Humphreys appeared, looking quite dapper in his new uniform. The sailmaker had done a remarkably good job, and the gold lace they had acquired from the dead commandant was of excellent quality. “What is happening, my lord?”

“We heard gunfire. Although it is difficult to tell from which direction it came, it seems to be quite close.” Winkler arrived and helped him put on his uniform even as he spoke to Humphreys.

“Gunfire, my lord?”

Calvert stood on the deck of his ship, looking at the carnage around him with disdain, the disdain hiding his concern. “Mr. Robey, let’s get this wreckage cleared away. Do it quietly, in case the San Augustin is still in the area.”

“Aye aye, sir,” he said.

They’d sailed north to find stores for Santa Clarita. The only meaningful currency they had to trade was guns and powder. The Mapuche tribes in the Valdivia region had sated their need for those items when they’d captured the fort at Niebla, so Calvert had found them less than willing to part with precious stores. Cobao had suggested that they sail farther north, where they’d find tribes that hadn’t been so lucky. Calvert, watching his food supplies dwindle, had felt that he had little choice.

They’d sailed north, stopping along the way, looking for natives who would trade with them. It had taken them the better part of a week to do that. Cobao and O’Higgins had been invaluable, negotiating with the tribal leaders to provide them with meat, fruit, and vegetables. They’d put into a small bay and Santa Clarita had gorged herself on stores acquired with captured Spanish muskets, bullets, and gunpowder. The livestock was alive, of course, so they’d had to slaughter and salt the unfortunate beasts, then make sure the meat was stored in soundly sealed barrels. Calvert had also taken that opportunity to clean out Santa Clarita’s bilges, a very nasty proposition. Spanish ships weren’t noted for their cleanliness, and Santa Clarita was no exception.

Their efforts had taken Calvert back in time to when Granger had taken command of Belvidera, and they’d had to clean her from bow to stern. He did the same thing with Santa Clarita, removing as many of the noxious odors as he could, cleansing the filth from her timbers. They were desperately short of naval stores, but improvised as best they could. At the same time as he was cleaning out his ship and filling her with stores, Calvert had to keep a wary eye on the calendar. As it was, they managed to sail from their little bay the day after he was supposed to rendezvous with Granger at Valdivia. Calvert knew that Granger would forgive him for the delay, especially when he saw how much Calvert had accomplished, but Calvert didn’t want to disappoint the man he loved. More than that, it had been three weeks since they’d seen each other, and Calvert was anxious to see Granger. He missed Granger, because he was lonely, and because he was horny. This was the burden of command.

Only no sooner had they left their safe little bay when they’d sighted San Augustin barreling down on them. Calvert knew that there was no way to fool the Spanish into not pursuing them. If they knew Santa Clarita had been captured, they would pursue her. If they thought she was still a friend, they would close as well. So there was nothing for it but to tack on sail and try to escape.

There was much to appreciate about Santa Clarita. She was a solid ship, one that could take quite a pounding, but she was slow and ungainly. The only advantage Calvert had been able to discern in her was that she made remarkably little leeway. But despite having the light breezes from the south, and off their bow, that advantage was minimal. Throughout the day, San Augustin had gained on them, a relentless approach with an inevitable result. Calvert’s only hope at that point had been to try and stay out of range until nightfall, then change course and lose her. By early evening, the Spanish ship had pulled within range, and her bowchasers had begun to savage Santa Clarita’s stern. Calvert’s cabin was a shambles, even more so after he ordered Fitzwilliam to position guns aft. An ongoing duel, between San Augustin’s bowchasers and Santa Clarita’s sternchasers, blazed on through the evening hours. The San Augustin’s shooting had been remarkably poor, and Santa Clarita had found herself with only one dead and two wounded in the conflict thus far.

Just as the fading twilight had made guesswork of the gunners’ aim, disaster had struck. A lucky ball from the San Augustin had taken out their mizzen mast. And so Calvert, with darkness thankfully closing in on them, was faced with trying to find a way to salvage his crippled ship. “Mr. Robey, let’s quietly cut that wreckage away. Salvage the spars that you can.”

“Aye aye sir,” Robey said, and sprung into action. Robey was competent and efficient, but he was not the smartest officer. Calvert wondered how he had managed to pass his lieutenant’s exam: his navigation skills were pretty terrible.

Calvert pondered his next move. He could make for the shore, where San Augustin would find him in the morning and hem him in, then destroy him piecemeal. He could head out to sea, but it would be unlikely he’d make enough progress to be hidden from San Augustin when dawn arrived. Or he could maintain his course and hope that he could effect something against the massive ship when dawn broke. “Mr. Gatling, we will maintain our current course until we have the mizzen mast fixed. You may relight the galley fire and feed the men.”

And so a frenzy of activity broke out on Santa Clarita, as they tried to repair the damage to their rigging, tried to set right the damage to their hull, and tried to revitalize the men who would fight again the next day. It took them three hours to get the mizzen repaired, and another hour to get the rigging in order. “Mr. Robey, set us on course west-southwest,” Calvert said.

“Aye aye sir,” he acknowledged. Santa Clarita, with her newly refitted mizzen mast, turned to the southwest, and began to claw away from the shore, and hopefully away from the San Augustin.

“Post double lookouts, Mr. Robey. The men will have to sleep at their guns tonight.” That would be uncomfortable, but the San Augustin could come looming out of the darkness at any moment. They needed to be ready.

Robey attended to that, and then returned to Calvert’s side. “Do you think we will be out of her sight by morning, sir?”

“It is hard to say,” Calvert said, even though in his heart he knew the answer was ‘no’. “We don’t know if she will heave to, or maintain her course and speed.”

“Don’t the Dons usually heave to at night, sir?”

“Sometimes, but I would suspect when they are this close to recapturing one of their ships, they will feel more motivated,” Calvert said ruefully. He ordered a chair to be brought up on deck, and sat in it, allowing himself to doze in and out of sleep, waiting for dawn to come. Calvert allowed his mind to wander, allowed himself to contemplate what would happen, and the conclusion that he came to was not a happy one. Unless they were able to sneak away from the San Augustin, unless she were unable to find them, her artillery would turn Santa Clarita into a wreck in short order. Santa Clarita’s strong sides would not be able to withstand 36-pound cannon balls.

There were really only three possible ways for him to extract himself from this situation. The first was, as he had noted, to escape. The second was to hope that Bacchante would miraculously appear on the horizon. It was just possible that with both frigates, they may be able to cripple San Augustin enough to destroy her. Even that was a long shot. San Augustin could turn either frigate into a wreck with two well-aimed broadsides. It would take much more than that to disable her in return. And even if he found Bacchante, she would be handicapped by Santa Clarita’s slow speed. San Augustin could focus on driving in to capture Santa Clarita while swatting Bacchante away like a fly. There was one other option. They could try to board the San Augustin. She would have a large crew, but Calvert knew that most of them would be natives, and largely untrained. He tried to think of another option, but that was their best shot.

Calvert stood up and felt his legs ache with the effort. He passed the word for his lieutenants, and for Mr. Broom, and instructed them to meet him in his chart room, such as it was. It had been badly knocked about during their stern chase. “You sent for us, sir?” Robey asked.

“I am pondering our situation, and I think that the best option we have to defend ourselves against San Augustin is to try and board her,” he said. They looked at him, slightly stunned. That was easy to say, but quite hard to do.

“How will we do that, sir?” Broom asked. He was wondering how Calvert planned to get close enough to the San Augustin to grapple with her, and he was wondering how they were going to fight against her crew, which must be close to three times as numerous as theirs.

“What was her course and position?” Calvert demanded. Broom plotted it for them, and then they proceeded to estimate her position now, compared to theirs. They looked to be quite close, a fact that validated Calvert’s strategy. They projected their positions at dawn, and Calvert made his decision. “Call the watch, Mr. Robey.”

“Aye aye, sir,” he said. They went back up to the deck, and Calvert began to pace. He was taking an enormous risk. If he failed, he would leave Bacchante outnumbered and outgunned in these waters. Granger would be forced to continue his voyage to Amboyna, leaving the rest of this coast unmolested. He didn’t worry that Bacchante would be captured. She was too fast, and Granger was too smart, for that to happen.

“I want us down to just the courses, with double reefs,” Calvert ordered. That would slow them considerably, and make them much less visible.

“Aye aye sir,” Robey said, hiding his concern.

“Lieutenant Kellogg!”

“Sir?”

“I want everyone armed with pikes and cutlasses,” Calvert said. Kellogg acknowledged and executed the order, and then they waited. Again. Only this time, they had a plan, foolish though it may be. He went around the ship, talking to the men, making sure everything was in order.

“Looks to be a bit lighter, sir,” Robey said. “But we’ve got fog.” And indeed they did. It was difficult to see more than twenty feet beyond Santa Clarita.

“Deck there! Ship off the starboard bow!” All eyes on deck turned to see the San Augustin running almost parallel to them.

“Helm, larboard two points! Fire as your guns bear!” Calvert ordered. Santa Clarita yawed slightly, and then discharged her broadside. They reloaded and fired again, but the San Augustin was ready for them. Calvert watched as her guns ran out, and stared in horror as they belched out fire. All around him he heard the crash as the shots struck home.

“Starboard your helm!” he ordered, steering Santa Clarita directly at San Augustin. “Everyone down!” The men on deck obeyed his order, lying down as Santa Clarita exposed her frail bow to San Augustin. “Get anyone we can spare below to the orlop!” That would protect them from San Augustin’s assault, and preserve the men until he needed them to board the Spanish ship. Calvert and his officers remained standing, as if they were impervious to cannonballs. Those huge guns belched out again, raking Calvert’s small frigate. He heard screams, and knew that at least some of those shots had found their mark and done more than damage the ship. Her main mast swayed, and then crashed into the chains they’d rigged. The next broadside took out the foremast as well. Now Santa Clarita was just drifting, but San Augustin was passing them. The two ships would not collide, and the battleship would be able to stand off and pound Santa Clarita into boxwood. Calvert’s plan to board her was in shambles, destroyed by unlucky positioning as dawn broke.

He watched as a cannon ball flew across the deck and took out three men at once. There was no glory here, there was no fight. He would have to strike his colors. Calvert fought back the agony that gripped him as he made that decision, the almost physical pain of being forced to surrender his ship. “Mr. Stamford,” Calvert called. Just as the boy turned to face him, he took a cannon ball across his chest, the force of the shot flinging the boy aside like a rag doll. Calvert cringed at seeing the young man obliterated before his very eyes. Calvert had been about to order him to strike their colors, but instead, he would do it himself. He strode to the taffrail, and just as he grabbed for the lanyard, Gatling’s voice stopped him.

“Sir! Look!” And there, coming out of the haze on their starboard bow, was Bacchante. Calvert watched as her carefully planned broadside ripped into San Augustin’s stern. He saw the Spanish ship seem to quiver from the impact, from the point blank, double-shotted blast from Bacchante’s guns. Granger was here, and he had given them hope.