Odyssey - 40. Chapter 40

February 1798

Granger watched his convoy as they labored under heavy seas and high winds. This had to be a monsoon that was hitting them, and although it was the end of the season, it was a potent force. “All rigged for storms, my lord,” Humphreys shouted. Granger just nodded, as there was no need to expend extra energy on words when a gesture would do. All three ships lay hove to, and that made Granger cast his eye about nervously, looking for land, or for some hidden reef, but they were well out to sea and seemed safe enough from such obstructions.

It was just as well, he thought. The San Fernando made more leeway than even the most lubberly of battleships, even the notoriously cranky 98-gunners like the Blenheim. She did have one big advantage, though. Granger watched as a massive wave crashed across Bacchante’s bows, sending a surge of water along her decks until it reached the quarterdeck and swirled around Granger’s feet and calves. The San Fernando, with her size, handled waves like this much better. He transferred his attention to Santa Clarita just as she put her bow into a massive wave. She would be the most fragile of the ships, being small but heavy, but she shrugged off the wall of water that hit her. Granger wasn’t worried about her. Calvert was nothing if not an excellent seaman.

His crew appeared calm in the face of this storm, and Granger credited their voyage around the Horn for that. If they could survive that, his men must be reasoning, they could survive this. That was most likely true, as this storm, while menacing, was not as bad as those they had encountered off the tip of South America. Those had been relentless, and had lasted for days on end. This one had been building for the last three days, but Granger’s instinct told him that it was nearing its apex.

There was one other big advantage to this storm over the storms at the Horn, and that was the temperature. Here, the weather was warmer, almost balmy. One went below and was wet, and that was unpleasant, but one was not freezing as well.

“I’m going below. I’ll take the next watch,” Granger shouted to Humphreys, who nodded. In weather like this, either he or Humphreys was on deck. During this long voyage across the Pacific, Granger had been reminded of Humphreys’ stellar qualities. He was handsome and charming, but incredibly efficient, if a bit impulsive. Granger smiled as he thought about how Humphreys’ face would contort almost imperceptibly when he struggled to keep his emotions under control and remain calm. Granger strode toward the hatch, where one of the men pulled the hatch cover back for Granger, and as soon as he descended the ladder, the man resealed it. It was stuffy below decks as a result, but it was mercifully dry, and that was a good trade off.

“Let me take your things,” Winkler said, as efficient as ever. “We’ll dry them out.”

“Call me for the next watch,” Granger said, even as he allowed himself to be guided, exhausted, to his cot. He collapsed into the bed and willed his mind to give in to the fatigue that his body longed to surrender to. They’d been fighting this storm for three days now, and it was starting to take its toll on all of them.

The voyage up until now had been more of a pleasure cruise than a chore. They’d caught the currents, and they’d been like a huge highway in the seas. There had been days when they’d been becalmed, or days when the winds had been dead foul, but the current pushed them along at a brisk pace regardless. It was a good thing, too. The San Fernando was incapable of sailing into the wind at all, so that had put them in the strange position, when the winds were foul, of floating there with absolutely no canvas showing, just drifting along. But even with their sails furled, they made very good time.

When the weather was nice, boats would ply between the ships, and the social life could get a little overwhelming. Granger had been entertained aboard the galleon almost constantly, the only reprieve being when weather had prevented such visits, which had been rare, or when he’d returned the courtesy and hosted them aboard Bacchante. They were a nice lot, mostly merchants, and mostly uninteresting, but Granger made the best of it. He continued to be impressed by Gatling, who was nominally in command of the galleon, but managed to do it in a way that did not offend the Spaniards. In fact, they seemed, to a man, to take a liking to this young Englishman who spoke their language so well.

Granger visited Calvert every other day or so, enough to keep his libido under control, and enough to just enjoy Calvert’s company. For the two of them, this would have been like a honeymoon if they’d been on the same ship, but even then, it was a magical time. They had bonded like never before, only this bonding was different. This was a bonding between two captains, not between a captain and his lieutenant. This time in the tropics, this time traversing the Pacific, had helped them solidify their new roles. And Calvert had grown into his role as a captain. Before, when he’d commanded Intrepid, there’d still been vestiges of the lieutenant in him, much, Granger mused, as he’d been. But now, with Santa Clarita, Calvert had matured. Granger thought back to his conversations he’d had with Travers when they’d been aboard Vesuvius, and how they’d pondered that discipline was more relaxed in smaller ships. They had been right about that, only in this case, it was working to Calvert’s benefit, forcing him to remain more aloof, and to act more like a captain. Granger’s mind flitted back to those times with Travers, and true to his promise, thinking of Travers made him smile.

Granger had planned to separate from his convoy long ago, but looking at the charts, there was not much to gain, and the current had been with them, so he had brought them to this point, just north of New Guinea, where Calvert and the galleon would now head north, and he would head south toward Amboyna. His mind finally relaxed enough for his body to take over, and he drifted off to sleep, a fitful sleep, but one that was restful nonetheless.

“My lord,” Winkler said, shaking his shoulder. “They’ll be calling the next watch soon.”

“Very well,” a still-tired Granger said, and hauled himself out of his cot. He let Winkler all but dress him while he focused on eradicating the drowsiness from his body, while his subconscious mind was processing the change in their motion. He went up on deck to find the winds had moderated, and thankfully so had the seas.

“The winds and seas have moderated, my lord,” Humphreys said unnecessarily, mirroring his thoughts.

“So I see,” Granger said. He took his glass and scanned the horizon, and saw land off their larboard bow.

“Fletcher says that’s Morotai Island, my lord,” Humphreys said, following his gaze.

“You did not see fit to alert me that we had sighted land?” Granger asked acidly.

“We had just sighted it half an hour ago, my lord. I’m sorry. I thought the news would wait, and that you could use the extra sleep.”

That really annoyed Granger, since that told him that his fatigue must have been showing, but characteristically, he became more cordial to Humphreys. “Next time, you will notify me, even if it does interrupt my beauty sleep.”

“Aye aye, my lord.”

“Mr. Kingsdale!”

“My lord?” the midshipman asked. Granger paused to ponder this young man in front of him, and contrasted him to the boy that had joined his ship not quite a year ago. He had changed the most of all of them. It was all the sailmaker could do to alter his uniforms so they fit.

Granger looked at the other two ships with a sense of sadness. It was time, time for them to go their separate ways. The seas were not calm enough for one last visit to Calvert. They would not have a proper goodbye. “Signal Santa Clarita: Goodbye. Best of luck.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” Kingsdale said. He hoisted the signal that would tell Calvert that he was now in charge of the San Fernando, and would send them north to Manila. “Santa Clarita acknowledged, my lord.”

“Mr. Humphreys, lay us on the larboard tack,” Granger said, then left him alone to accomplish the maneuver. Humphreys had shown himself to be an excellent seaman, and Granger trusted his judgment, and his handling of Bacchante, completely.

While Humphreys tended to the ship, Granger trained his glass on Santa Clarita. He saw Calvert on the deck, but he would be unable to get on course with the winds as they were. All he could do is wallow around and wait for a change in the wind’s direction, one the San Fernando could manage. No wonder the Spanish had given up on using these cumbersome galleons in the Atlantic. There they shipped their gold and silver in the holds of warships, usually frigates. He felt Bacchante’s motion change as she ceased to be a pliable thing, as she went from being hove to and submissive, into a creature that was determined to fight against the force of wind and wave to make progress.

It had been two days since they’d left the other ships behind, and contrary to Granger’s instincts, the weather had not moderated, and they found themselves hove to once again. Granger began to fear for Santa Clarita and San Fernando, but there was nothing he could do for them anyway, and it was quite possible this storm had moved away from them. Granger tended to think that was the case, and credited the storm with having the ability to develop emotions and vent them on Bacchante, as if it had an insatiable desire to harass them, or if it got lucky, to cause them to founder.

Granger had just arrived on deck to relieve Humphreys. With the winds as strong as they were, there was a limited ability to talk, so they stood side by side, as if to allow Granger to adapt to Bacchante’s motion, and to the wind, before formally taking over. Humphreys turned to face Granger, about to go below, when disaster struck. An incredibly strong gust of wind hit them, coming from an entirely different direction than it had blown before. It had caught their reefed foretopsail at a precarious angle, and the force with which it hit didn’t tear her new canvas to shreds. Rather, it tore the topmast free, so topmast, yard, and sail came cascading down onto the deck in concert with another wall of water.

“Helm, keep our head into the wind,” Granger shouted. “Go forward and try to sort out that mess,” he said to Weston. “I want to retain that spar and sail.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” Westin answered. Granger and Humphreys managed to stabilize Bacchante, but with winds like that, and with her rigging compromised, she needed to find a sheltered place to ride this storm out.

“I’ll be below,” he shouted to Humphreys. “Join me in my chart room.” As soon as he passed through the hatch and it closed, he passed the word for van Deventer.

He and Humphreys arrived at the same time, Humphreys wet, with van Deventer looking slightly disheveled. Granger grinned at that. The Dutchman had been spending most of his time with Somers. “You asked to see me, my lord?” van Deventer asked.

“We’ve lost our foretopmast, and we need a place to repair it,” Granger said him. “I’m wondering if you know of an inlet, or a port, or some place near here where we may do that safely.”

“I am assuming you would prefer there not to be a Dutch fortress guarding this safe harbor, my lord,” van Deventer said with a grin. But Granger and Humphreys were serious, because this was about their ship, so van Deventer became serious.

“I suspect that even if there is a Dutch battery, they would be willing to afford us shelter if only because we have you with us,” Granger said, forcing himself to be affable, and reminding van Deventer he owed them a debt for his transit.

“Can you show me where we are?”

“We estimate ourselves to be here,” Granger said, pointing to a point south of Morotai Island.

“There is a harbor here, near the shore, which is often used by pirates,” van Deventer said. “It is also less than one hundred miles from Ternate, where there is a Dutch governor.” In other words, they would either take their chances on a strange shore, just trusting van Deventer, or they would have to sail into a Dutch port and risk capture, trusting van Deventer again.

“Let us investigate your pirate harbor, Mr. van Deventer,” Granger said. He’d rather battle unknown shores than unknown Dutchmen. “Can you help us identify it?”

“I can try, my lord,” van Deventer said. They went back up on deck, with the blustering winds getting stronger, if anything. Granger reminded himself that his intuition certainly wasn’t perfect, especially as regards the weather. The winds were primarily from the northwest, so they had merely to show a little sail and aim Bacchante toward the shore to make good time there.

“I’m going aloft,” Granger announced. They looked at him as if he were insane; going up in these winds, but Granger didn’t flinch. He would have to ask that of his men, and they’d have to go out onto the yards to clew up the sails, while he merely had to make it to the tops. He attached his glass to his belt and headed to the lee shrouds, such as there was a lee. The winds blasted all around him, while his hands struggled to hang on to the wet ropes. He went as quickly as he could, and made it to the tops much more slowly than normal, but not so slowly as to embarrass himself.

He took out his glass and located the place he was seeking. There were two small islands that seemed to form a channel behind them. Granger looked for signs of breakers, a sure indicator of the shore, but saw none. There appeared to be a sheltered area just beyond the first island. He nodded to the lookout, then descended back to the deck, eschewing his normal back stay for fear he’d be slung out into the sea.

Granger looked ahead of them and saw the land clearly in view. “We are going to get beyond that island and wear ship to larboard. Have the anchor ready, and rig the bower anchor just in case we need it,” Granger shouted.

“Aye aye, my lord,” Humphreys said. They approached the island quickly, so strong were the winds that pounded them. Granger stared at this strange shore, full of hidden apprehension, knowing that there was quite probably some underwater rock lurking to rip Bacchante’s bottom out. Closer and closer they got, until they were upon the small island, and then passing it.

“Larboard your helm,” Granger ordered, and Bacchante turned neatly into the cove, drifting toward the shore in a crabwise motion, with the wind pushing her southeastward, while her sails pushed her northward. Granger looked around, gauging his distance from the shore, and decided they were close enough to the land, probably closer than was prudent. “Anchor!”

“Aye aye my lord,” Humphreys said. He shouted out the orders and the anchor splashed in the bows, while men took in all of her sails but for a part of the main course, which would give Bacchante stability as she rode to her anchor. The water was still rough in the bay, but remarkably calm after what they’d been experiencing. It was probably safe enough for boats, although there was no reason to risk using small craft at this point.

“You can light the galley stove and prepare dinner,” Granger said. That got a smile from all of them. They’d been eating cold rations for five days now. He stood on deck, observing the situation, until he felt confident the anchor was secure. “We’ll get the men fed, let them rest a bit, then when the wind dies down, we’ll repair that mast.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” Humphreys said. They opened the hatches, and even a few of the gun ports, to ventilate the ship, while the smoke from the galley fire made it seem quite cozy. Granger went down to his cabin to make his log entries and to change into dry clothes.

For the next two days the storm intensified and raged all around them. Granger sat in his cabin with his officers, enjoying the last of their fresh meat. “It is lucky that you opted to detour here, my lord,” van Deventer noted.

“I fear you are right,” Granger agreed. “It is much as a hurricane in the Caribbean must be.”

“We’ve been lucky on this voyage, my lord,” Weston said with a grin.

“We have been, and that is something that I wanted to talk to you about,” Granger said.

“My lord?” Humphreys asked.

“When we arrive at Amboyna, I do not want to broadcast the news that we captured such a valuable prize. I want to evaluate the situation with the governor first.”

“I’m sure you know you can count on our discretion, my lord,” Humphreys said, referring to Bacchante’s officers, “but it may be difficult to keep the men silent.”

“We will have to hope they will do as I ask, or they risk losing their money,” Granger said, even though he didn’t think Maidstone could do that. Such matters were the affairs of an Admiralty court, and there was no such court in Amboyna for the governor to interfere with. But that didn’t really matter; it would do the men no harm to think that.

“I will make sure the men know, my lord,” Humphreys said.

“I am much obliged,” Granger said. After dinner, they played music, as they’d done so often on this voyage. They had gotten to know how they played together, Granger, Kingsdale, and Somers, so they had eliminated some of their more screeching errors, while Eastwyck and Weston sang a ballad, their deep, resonant voices pleasantly drowning out the sounds of the strong winds beyond the ship’s wooden walls.

Their transit to Amboyna from their shelter should have taken them less than a week, but they were in their eighth day and the island of Buru had just come into view. They’d been cursed by no winds, then winds that were dead foul. When a fair wind did magically appear, they’d attempted to take advantage of it, only to have it disappear as mysteriously as it had arrived. It was enough to madden a saint. For Granger and his crew, it was even more irritating, since they were all chomping at the bit to finish their business here in Amboyna and then head home. Yet for all their hopes, they once again sat here becalmed, in the middle of the Banda Sea, waiting for the wind that would finally propel them their last fifty miles or so.

Granger stood on the deck, frustrated with the delay, and even more frustrated with how he felt. He’d been cold this morning, and now he was decidedly warm. That, coupled with a headache, was making him most unsteady. He felt waves of nausea assault him, but not like the nausea he’d had from drinking too much, this was a much more unsettling nausea. He felt as if he would vomit, and he made to rush to his cabin, but it was as if his legs would not move. And then he was taken over by a seizure, and fell to the deck, convulsing.

“My lord!” Humphreys called out. “Pass the word for Doctor Jackson!” Humphreys rushed to his side, but Granger didn’t respond. His face was scrunched up in agony. “Get him below, to his cabin! You there,” he said, gesturing to two of the seamen, “Take him below.”

“I’ll do it, Mr. Humphreys, begging your pardon, sir,” Jacobs said. And gentle giant that he was, he lifted Granger up gently and carried him down to his cabin.

“My lord!” Winkler cried when he saw Granger, but Jacobs brushed him aside and took Granger to his cot.

Before anyone else could do anything, Dr. Jackson entered the cabin, followed by Somers. Jackson looked at Granger, took his temperature, and measured his pulse. “What is wrong with him?” Somers asked.

“He has the fever,” Jackson said somberly. The scourge of the tropics, the disease that could lay a whole ship low. “If he has it, there are bound to be more cases soon enough.”

“Can you do anything for him?” Winkler asked. “Sir,” he remembered to add at the end, an omission which showed how upset he was.

“I have some bark that I can work into some medicine for him. It is quinine, and that may ease the symptoms. He will go through a period where he will be very hot, and we must do what we can to cool him, and periods where he is very cold, and he will require warmth.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but that may be easier to do in his quarter gallery,” Winkler said. The cabin was already stuffy and hot, and would make a fever that much worse, Jackson decided. The quarter gallery would allow fresh air to drive out the ill humors that would invade this place.

“Very well, prepare a place for him there. You can move him, carefully, when you’ve got it ready. I will go work on my concoction.”

“Is it contagious?” Humphreys asked. He’d been on the periphery of the conversation, as if worried that if he got too close, he would become infected.

“Most people say it is, but I do not think so,” Jackson said. “So you may take your chances as you see fit.”

Somers and Humphreys looked down at Granger, who lay there, too ill to say anything, or to communicate at all. “Is the captain fit enough to command this ship, doctor?” Humphreys asked, as was his duty.

Doctor Jackson paused, realizing what a big step this was. Removal of a captain from command was a serious step, even in a situation like this, where the captain was felled by fever. “He is not currently fit for command, sir.” Granger didn’t even seem to hear them.

“Well Mr. Humphreys, it seems that His Lordship’s worst fears are to be realized, and it seems that you are now in command of Bacchante,” Somers said grimly.

“And you are in charge of our mission,” Humphreys said, reminding Somers of his role.

Somers nodded, digesting the huge responsibility that had been put on his shoulders. “Perhaps you would care to join me on deck, so we can leave Winkler and the doctor to tend to His Lordship.”

“Gladly,” Humphreys said. They both looked at Granger before they left, and noticed that he was now sweating profusely. They went up on deck, where Humphreys summoned Weston and Eastwyck.

“The captain has the fever,” Humphreys told them. He watched their normally impassive faces show their concern, so much did they care about Granger, then watched them return to a more normal visage, one with a fixed resolve.

“How is he, sir?” Weston asked.

“It is too soon to tell,” Humphreys said. “Doctor Jackson is tending to him.”

“Will he be alright, sir?” Eastwyck asked.

“We will have to wait and see,” Humphreys said. “In the meantime, I have assumed command until the captain recovers.”

“Aye aye sir,” the two lieutenants said. There was nothing unusual in this. Aboard one of His Britannic Majesty’s ships, the chain of command was inflexible, and the actions to be taken when an officer was killed or incapacitated were clear. But the way these men handled the change so readily, and so willingly, was a testament to the team that Granger had built, and that Humphreys had fostered.

Humphreys and Somers began to pace the deck, with the crew giving them a wide berth to chat unheard by others. “Of all the times for this to happen, now is the worst,” Somers lamented. As if to punctuate his comment, the sails flapped, and then filled, as a northerly wind descended upon them.

“Now we get our wind,” Humphreys groused. “Mr. Weston, make sure we’re on course for Amboyna.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Weston called, guiding the helmsman to get Bacchante back on course.

“So what will you do?” Humphreys asked.

“I do not see how we can delay our arrival,” Somers said.

“Even if we could, I would have to object to such a course of action,” Humphreys said. Somers gave him a foul look, since that was technically Somers’ decision. “If the doctor is right, and more men get the fever, we must land them so they do not infect the others. Surely you would not have the whole ship unmanned?”

“Of course not,” Somers snapped. “Only Lord Granger has the authority to remove the governor, so as long as he is incapacitated, Sir Tobias will remain in charge.”

“What consequences will that have?” Humphreys asked. “As soon as Lord Granger is well, he can remove Maidstone.”

“If he recovers,” Somers said, reminding Humphreys that the odds of surviving the fever were low. “I will have to access his safe to see if he left any additional instructions.”

“I think that under the circumstances, the only real course of action open to us is to continue on to Amboyna,” Humphreys observed.

“So it would seem,” Somers reluctantly agreed. He went below and opened Granger’s safe, using the combination Granger had given him just in case this should happen. He reviewed the papers carefully, especially Granger’s orders, and his directives from the Privy Council.

Meanwhile in the quarter gallery, Jackson forced Granger to drink the medicine he had concocted. Winkler watched his captain fight against taking the foul-smelling liquid, fancying that it must taste just as vile as the odor it emitted. But Jackson was relentless, and eventually Granger swallowed enough to satisfy the doctor. Granger lay in his cot, all but delirious, alternating between extreme fever and chills, as he fought against the disease that had invaded his body.

The next morning, His Britannic Majesty’s ship Bacchante sailed smoothly into the port of Amboyna, exchanging salutes with the fort that guarded the place. The fort dominated the harbor, while beyond it the town was arrayed on small bluffs that seemed to slope gently toward the bay. The opposite end of the port appeared to give way to the sea beyond it, as if one could sail straight through, but in fact it was impassable by ship. Beyond the town, off in the distance, rose moderately sized hills, or mountains, depending on one’s perspective.

Captain Somers and Lieutenant Humphreys stood on deck, looking at this strange, foreign place, wondering how they would handle the powerful men they would have to deal with. Below them, in his cabin, George Granger lay fighting for his life.