HMS Belvidera - 20. Chapter 20

December 1, 1795

Dawn broke over the anchorage, finding Belvidera waiting anxiously to be off again. She was like a living thing, a thing that was only happy when she was free of the bonds of the shore. Granger looked over at Aurore and smiled, thinking about last night, and how he’d spent most of it with a recovered John Travers. He wondered how long it would take Travers, with his restored libido, to sample Merrick’s supple ass. For some reason, that did not bother him at all. His eyes told him it was light enough now for signals. “Mr. Cavendish, please send this signal: Belvidera to Flag. Permission to proceed.”

“Aye aye sir,” Cavendish quipped. He went over to the signal book and began rattling off the numbers for the seamen to hoist. He’d spent most of his non-fucking spare time practicing the signals with Lennox. Cavendish had said nothing about Granger’s long absence yesterday, nor had he come to see him last night as he usually did, yet he seemed in good enough spirits this morning.

“Mr. Roberts, we’ll get the anchor hove short,” Granger ordered. The whistles blew, and the men once again began laboring at the capstan. Belvidera began to crawl up until she was directly over her anchor.

“Sir, Flag to Belvidera: Captain to repair on board,” Cavendish said.

Granger tried to hide his surprise. Usually asking permission to depart was just a formality. What could Jervis want? Was he going to attach Belvidera to Mann’s squadron after all? He allowed these horrible thoughts to ruminate around in his brain until he noticed the others staring at him, waiting for orders. The whole ship was poised and ready, the men at the capstan, the anchor hove short, the topmen ready to scurry up to loose the sails: All of them staring at Granger, waiting for his instructions. Frustrated with himself for showing his actual shock, he did what any normal captain would do and lashed out at his subordinates. “Acknowledge,” he snapped to Cavendish. “Clear away my gig,” he snapped again, directing that to Roberts. He stormed below and snapped at Winkler, pulled on his best uniform, and almost stormed off the ship and into his gig for the pull over to Victory.

He had to steel himself for the long climb up Victory’s towering sides. Grey was there to greet him as he climbed through Victory’s entry port. “Welcome Granger. We have a surprise for you. My repayment for the ten guineas you cost me.”

“It is good to see you, sir,” Granger said sincerely. “Although I fear your surprise may be worse than simply reimbursing you the ten guineas.”

Grey laughed. “You may be right. Follow me.” He led Granger back to the Admiral’s cabin. Granger walked in and felt as if he had been transported in time, back to Toulon, where he had served Lord Hood on this very ship as his flag lieutenant.

“Sorry to interrupt your departure, Granger,” Jervis said, sweeping away the normal polite greetings. “I’ll make this quick. I have a new midshipman for you.”

“Indeed, sir?” Granger asked. What reprehensible creature was Jervis about to foist off on him?

“He’s one of your people, an arrogant little sprig. No one else wants to tangle with him, so I’m giving him to you,” Jervis said.

“Aye aye sir,” Granger said, the only thing he could say. This wasn’t a huge surprise. Jervis was well-known for his disdain for aristocrats who used preference to advance their careers instead of merit. It was one of the things that had made his own good relationship with Jervis something of a surprise. “Who is he?”

Jervis got an evil grin. “Call him in!” Granger stood there, waiting, while a summons went out. In short order, a young man arrived. He was probably all of 16 years old, with mousy brown hair, big pouting lips, and dark brown eyes that seemed to flash as he took in his environment. His most evident physical feature was his ears, which were quite large. He walked in with an air of arrogance, one that he quickly modified as soon as he was in front of Sir John Jervis. “Captain Granger, allow me to present to you the Right Honorable Alexander Clifton, Earl of Barnfield.” Granger nodded, while Clifton gave a courtly bow. “Clifton, you’re transferring to Belvidera,” Jervis said dismissively. “Now be off with both of you. A good voyage to you Captain.”

“Thank you, sir,” Granger said. He hadn’t seen Clifton since he was a child, and even then they were barely acquainted. Granger fancied that he was a good five years older than the young Earl. His father was the Marquess of Hartford, a Tory politician who was close to the king. Granger recalled that the Marquess was a friend of his father, such as one could have friends in the rough and tumble political world of court life, and that the Marquess was a powerful man indeed. No wonder no one wanted to tangle with Clifton. “Come along then,” Granger said, and led Clifton to his gig. He found a pile of chests being loaded into the boat.

“What’s all this?” Granger demanded.

“Those are my personal effects,” Clifton answered airily.

“You call me ‘sir’,” snapped Granger. “When we get to Belvidera, you will have twenty minutes to pare that down to two chests. You may hire a bumboat to take the balance off and ship it back home.”

“Excuse me?” he asked arrogantly.

“You heard me,” Granger said. “And that is the last time I will overlook the omission of the word, ‘sir.’ Do I make myself clear?”

Clifton just stared at him, stunned. “Yes,” he said. Then he hastily added “sir.”

“That is not the proper way to answer a direct order, Mr. Clifton,” Granger snapped, almost enraged by the young man’s arrogance.

“I am called Lord Barnfield, sir,” he said, almost with a sneer.

“On my ship, you are called Mr. Clifton. If you would prefer not to serve on Belvidera, we can send you back with your baggage.” Granger stared at the young man firmly, and Clifton finally seemed to get that he couldn’t browbeat him. Granger turned his stare into a glare to stifle any further discussion.

“Aye aye sir,” Clifton said reluctantly.

Granger sat in his boat, fuming at this new encumbrance. The last thing he needed was a self-important little shit screwing up the morale on board his ship. He’d had to deal with a young man like him before, with Fitzwilliam. He had a feeling that Clifton would be a tougher nut to crack, but he would indeed crack him. He got to the Belvidera and climbed aboard. He watched the others note with concern that he was angrier on his return than when he’d left.

“Mr. Cavendish!” Granger called.

“Sir.”

“This is Mr. Clifton. You will help him go through his chests and pare them down to two. You have twenty minutes. Anything not off this ship by then will go over the side,” Granger ordered.

“Aye aye sir,” Cavendish said.

“Get the topsails on her, Mr. Roberts,” Granger ordered. The men scampered up the shrouds and in no time at all, Belvidera was straining at her cable. Finally they pulled the anchor off the bottom, and once again the ship was free. Free of the admiral, free of the fleet, and free of the conflicts that seemed to follow both of those things.

“May I interrupt you, sir,” Jackson asked nervously, pulling him out of his introspective ranting. Granger took a deep breath and got his mood back under control.

“Certainly,” he said.

“The boatswain is dead, sir,” he said.

“Dead?” Granger asked. The boatswain was a big, hulking man, old by naval standards. Granger didn’t even know the man was wounded.

“It seems his heart just gave out,” Jackson said. “There was nothing I could do, sir.”

“I understand, Doctor. I don’t blame you, I am just surprised. We will have a burial ceremony for him this afternoon,” Granger said. Normally the death of a crew member would have a devastating effect on the men, but a bosun tended to be unpopular anyway. Still, he had been a good man.

“Aye aye sir,” he said, and wandered back to his sick bay.

“Pass the word for Hercule,” Granger ordered. He stood still, waiting for the man to approach him.

Hercule walked up to him nervously, his short, squat, muscular frame and his round French face making him seem like a bulldog, which was ironic considering that was one of England’s national symbols. “You sent for me, sir?” he asked. Hercule had been with him since Granger had been a lieutenant, at the siege of Toulon, and had acquitted himself admirably since then, especially at their attack on Port Louis in the Indian Ocean.

“I’m promoting you to bosun,” Granger said. Hercule stared at him, stunned. He’d been one of the bosun’s mates, but as a native Frenchman, he’d never expected to rise above that rank in the Royal Navy.

“I don’t know how to thank you, sir,” he said.

“You have earned it,” Granger said. He called Roberts over and informed him of Hercule’s promotion. Roberts diplomatically congratulated Hercule. Granger was irritated that he was too irritated to even enjoy promoting a good man, and that brought his mind back to Clifton. Granger turned back to the deck and saw Clifton dallying as he went through his belongings at a leisurely pace, despite Cavendish’s urgent warnings. Granger looked at his watch. It had been 21 minutes.

“Mr. Roberts, I’ll have all but two of those chests tossed over the side at once,” Granger ordered.

“Aye aye sir,” he said. He nodded to Hercule, who motioned to two men. They went over to the two midshipmen and grabbed one of the big chests and tossed it over the side.

“Stop that! Stop that at once,” Clifton decreed. “You can’t do that!”

“They are obeying my orders, Mr. Clifton,” Granger said. Another chest went over the side. He saw Cavendish grinning.

“Stop this! Stop!” Clifton shrieked. That only urged the men on more.

“Mr. Roberts, Mr. Clifton will kiss the gunner’s daughter,” Granger said. They grabbed Clifton and led him aft toward one of the carronades. “Mr. Clifton, you will never again directly defy an order from a superior officer.” Granger ignored him after that, making his response unnecessary. He was too occupied with guiding Belvidera out of port.

Belvidera wound her way through the assembled ships gracefully, and Granger could feel the eyes of the fleet on him. The old grizzled captains would scowl from their massive ships-of-the-line at this spunky frigate, assuring themselves that their contribution to England’s safety, as commanders of battleships, was paramount. But the rest of them, those who still had a soul, would look on enviously, remembering the joy and freedom that came from commanding a frigate, the wolf of the seas. Belvidera tacked neatly across the stern of the Bombay Castle, and then set a course directly past the Victory. Granger saw Sir John Jervis watching them from her quarterdeck and he raised his hat in salute, a salute the admiral returned. Was that a slight grin on his face? For a curmudgeon, he was young at heart.

While this was happening, they had led Clifton to the quarterdeck and lashed him to one of the carronades, his skinny white posterior exposed and sticking out. “You will pay for this!” he said to Granger.

“A dozen for Mr. Clifton, Hercule, and then he can spend the next watch strung up in the shrouds,” Granger ordered. Clifton’s eyes bulged, but only for a minute before the first strike from Hercule’s cane hit his posterior. After four strokes he was crying, after eight he was sobbing. It really was unbecoming. He noticed that Cavendish and Brookstone looked on with disdain.

Granger glanced over at him and saw his ass, bright red, and even bleeding in a few places where the cane had broken the skin. He smiled to himself, at the effort Hercule and his mates were putting into it. It was less about punishing Clifton than being loyal to their captain. The man had defied Granger, so they would make him pay. Granger heard Clifton cry out in pain as the cane hit his posterior for the last time and found he didn’t feel sorry for him at all. They let him loose, and then Clifton turned on Granger, enraged.

“You will pay for this. You will never command another ship again,” he said.

“Mr. Clifton that is gross insubordination. Your lack of respect to me and this ship disqualifies you from being one of her officers. You are no longer a midshipman on this ship. You are now a landsman,” Granger said. “Some time before the mast may adjust your attitude. Mr. Roberts, assign Clifton to a mess and a watch.” Clifton’s eyes really bulged now. Granger turned back to him. “The wonderful benefit of that, to me, is that if you fail to show proper respect in the future, I can and will have you flogged!”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said.

“Mr. Roberts, Clifton here will spend two hours cleaning the bilges this afternoon,” Granger ordered. “Take him away.” They hauled him off, and for the first time that day, Granger felt his mood improve. “If anyone treats him differently than any other member of this crew, he’ll go under the lash himself,” Granger called loudly, so all the men on deck could hear him.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Cavendish asked, “but what shall we do with his things?”

“Store them below. If he reforms, he may need them. If not, he’ll be heading back to England,” Granger said.

“Aye aye sir,” Cavendish said with a grin.

“I would like you to sup with me this evening,” Granger said. “Bring your violin.”

“Aye aye sir,” Cavendish said, with a twinkle added to his grin.

By noon, they were well clear of San Fiorenzo, the westerly wind pushing them gently up the western side of the protruding north coast of Corsica. Granger looked over and saw Robey looking off toward the shore. He had a lonely, wistful look in his eyes. “Mr. Robey, will you join me for dinner?”

“With pleasure, sir,” Robey said with a smile, reminding Granger how handsome he was when he wasn’t being psychotic. His blond hair and blue eyes, along with his medium build and height, had the uncomfortable effect of reminding Granger of himself when he looked in the mirror. It was hard not to think that Travers had chosen him as a substitute for Robey, or Robey as a substitute for him. But Granger’s machinations had made Robey one of his officers, so he was bound to help him be the best lieutenant he could be, for his own good, and for the good of the ship.

He led Robey below and poured them both a glass of rather good wine Granger had acquired when they’d been in Madeira. “So how are you settling in, Mr. Robey?”

“Just fine, sir,” he said. “Mr. Roberts and Mr. Carslake have been most helpful. You have a fine crew.”

“We have a fine crew,” Granger said with a smile. “You are one of us now. I am hoping you bear me no ill will regarding your transfer.”

“Permission to speak freely sir?” he asked.

“Granted,” Granger said.

“I did at first. I thought you were just doing this to keep us apart,” he said, referring to himself and Travers. “I assumed you’d noticed how close we’d become, that what started out as just a fling had become much more than that.”

There was a lot to digest in that. Granger had assumed it had started out as much more than a fling, despite Travers’ vows to the contrary. Maybe he’d been honest about that. “And you don’t think that anymore?”

“No, sir,” Robey said, flashing his impish grin at Granger. “Then I thought you remembered our brief but intense coupling in Toulon, and couldn’t resist me.”

Granger chuckled. “That theory has some merit.” They both laughed together. “And what do you think now?”

“I think you did it for both of us, for our best interests, sir” he said. “I can see now how toxic the situation was for both of us.”

“It makes me happy to hear you say that,” Granger said honestly. “You are both King’s officers first and foremost, and excellent ones at that. Sir John Jervis is a stickler for discipline and efficiency. As you were, you would not have survived in this fleet for long.”

“It’s just so painful to think after all this time that we’ve been together, he didn’t care about me anymore, that he didn’t, well…” Robey couldn’t say it.

“You blame yourself for a problem that was not your fault,” Granger said. He stopped Robey before he could ask why. “I cannot tell you any more than that. You will have to trust me. It was not you.”

Robey looked at him, frustrated, and then mellowed. “I guess that will have to do.”

“Unfortunately, it will. I want you to know that if you want to transfer back to Aurore later, I will not stand in your way,” Granger said.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I appreciate that. But I think I’ll be happy here. And I’ll probably get much richer.” They both laughed at that.

“Let us hope my luck with prizes has not already been exhausted, then,” Granger joked back. They had a pleasant dinner after that, and Granger knew that he had but to make a move and he could fuck Robey. But he didn’t want to. There was only one man aboard that he wanted to fuck.

After dinner he went up on deck and saw Clifton hanging from the shrouds, per his orders. He was wearing seaman’s clothes purchased from the slop chest. The young nobleman’s whole world would be a lot different for a while. With Fitzwilliam, Granger had felt some remorse, but for this man he felt none. The weather continued to be beautiful, something that made Granger nervous. He’d learned that the Mediterranean made you pay for good weather with a strong dose of bad. As the sun began to set, Granger decided that the ship was at rights and he went below to enjoy his supper. Cavendish appeared shortly after he got there with his violin case.

“I’m not to be disturbed,” he said to Winkler, then led Cavendish to his sleeping cabin. As soon as they closed the door, their lips connected, so desperate to bond were they. Cavendish’s lips were magical, but they needed to couple before supper and they didn’t have much time, so Granger forced himself to break the embrace. He pushed Cavendish’s breeches down, letting the young man’s massive cock flop out, and dropped to his knees to take him into his mouth. He sucked on his dick, getting him really excited, and then spun him around.

Now in front of Granger was his prize, that beautiful ass, so thin, so perfect, with just the hint of brown hair on the taint. He dove in with his mouth, relishing the young man’s taste, savoring every moment of bliss he gave him, until the scent and taste had fueled his desires to the point that they were uncontrollable. He pulled down his own trousers and, with a blob of lanolin for lubricant, he pushed gently into Cavendish.

“I love it when you’re inside of me like this,” Cavendish murmured. “Only now, like this, do I feel complete.”

“Making love to you is a slice of heaven,” Granger said in his ear, then picked up his pace. Cavendish was more excited than he thought, so he brought him off sooner than he planned. He shot his load into Granger’s waiting hands. Granger stopped after Cavendish came, and then pulled out slowly. He used Cavendish’s load to further lubricate his cock, and stroked himself to a massive orgasm. Cavendish stayed in front of him, bent over, so when Granger came, he blew his seed all over the young man’s perfect little ass.

“It is a good thing I keep a rag or two in here,” Granger joked. He lovingly wiped the cum off Cavendish’s ass, then spun him around for another kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Cavendish said back, and he was so sincere Granger knew that he meant it, probably even more than Granger had. They dined together, smiling at each other between bites, and then retreated back to Granger’s sleeping cabin for another round of fantastic sex.

With all of the other men he’d been with, after they were done making love, there was something resembling a denouement, but not with Cavendish. With him, Granger felt keyed up even after their orgasms, keyed up enough to lie there and kiss him on and off until their passion re-emerged. And that was really the biggest difference between Cavendish and his other lovers: kissing. There was something about the way their lips met, they way their mouths worked together, that was just perfect. It was as if Granger’s mouth was a puzzle piece, and Cavendish’s was the twin that it belonged with, that it fit into.

“I love being here with you,” Cavendish said as he broke off one of their kisses. Granger backed away a bit so their blue eyes could lock onto each other.

“I love being here with you too,” Granger said.

“I missed you last night,” he said nervously. He saw Granger’s reaction, the indignation and guilt that passed across his face, and hastily tried to repair the mood. “I don’t want you to think I’m upset or anything, I just missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Granger said, and felt the guilt Cavendish had seen almost overwhelm him. “I spent some time with an old friend.”

“I guess I did too. It gave me some time to say goodbye to Lennox,” he said. Granger felt the jealously fly through his body with a force he’d never experienced before. He controlled it manfully, and then tried to analyze it, which calmed him down quickly enough. He had no problem, really, with Cavendish and Lennox having sex. But those jealous emotions, so latent, had risen pretty strongly. Granger began to wonder what kind of spell this young man had put on him. And he worried about what reaction he’d have when Cavendish was with someone less innocuous than Lennox. But then he felt Cavendish’s lips on his, felt their kiss intensify, and they made love yet again, and it was beautiful.

They found themselves in the same position, their lips meshing so perfectly. Cavendish pulled away and let his blue eyes bore into Granger’s soul. “There are other men in your life.”

Granger could have been angry, but turned it into a joke instead. “There have been a lot of men in my life.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, and looked very sad. Suddenly Granger read him, understood where he was coming from. Cavendish was just trying to figure out where he stood, trying to figure out how important he was to Granger.

“I’m sorry, Freddie,” Granger said, using his first name to make the conversation more intimate. “I have been with many men, but there are only two others besides you who have also captured a piece of my heart.”

“I don’t know how to compete with that,” he said.

“You aren’t competing at all. You are unique, so special to me, and I love you as much as I love either of them. In so many ways, our bond is different, and deeper,” Granger said. It was only partly a lie, because his feelings for Cavendish weren’t as strong as his feelings for Travers or Calvert, at least not yet. And that last word was the key. “Every day I am with you, I love you more.”

“I’m sorry,” Cavendish said, and nuzzled into his neck. “Maybe if I had other men I was sleeping with, I would better understand where you are.”

“Don’t do that,” Granger snapped, before he could stop himself, and regretted it immediately.

“I thought you wanted me to be with other men? You told me before that exclusive relationships don’t work in the Navy,” Cavendish asked, confused.

“I’m sorry,” Granger said, and looked at him sheepishly. “You are absolutely right, and you are free to be with whomever you want.” Cavendish looked at him, waiting for more, forcing Granger to expose what he was hiding. “You arouse a dangerous emotion in me: jealousy.”

“I do?” he asked.

“I’ve experienced it before, but with you, the thought of you with someone else, it sparks almost a violent reaction. I am sorry, I will try to control it,” Granger said, being painfully honest.

“I am flattered that you feel so strongly for me,” he said, smiling at Granger. “I’ll do my best not to make you jealous.”

“It is my problem, not yours,” Granger said. “But I appreciate you helping me out.”

“I should get back to my berth before people start to talk,” he said.

“In a minute,” Granger said, and made love to the exceptional young man one more time.

The weather had been bizarre, almost spring-like, certainly nothing like one would expect in December. That made Granger nervous, wondering what evil the Mediterranean had in store for them. It was as if the sea were resting up, preserving its strength for a truly monumental storm. But since it was beautiful, Granger decided that he might as well enjoy it.

“Sail ho!” came the cry from the masthead. “Sail fine off the starboard bow.”

“Mr. Robey, alter course two points to starboard,” Granger ordered. He watched as Robey attended to that, to altering course then adeptly trimming the braces so they could catch the most wind possible. In the four days since they’d left San Fiorenzo, Robey seemed to have already gotten the feel for Belvidera. Granger was impressed with his seamanship. “Nicely done,” he said, complimenting his new lieutenant.

“Thank you sir,” he said with a big grin. “She’s a sweet sailor.”

“Sweeter than Aurore?” Granger asked with a grin.

Robey pondered that for a minute. “I think she is faster, but Aurore is more maneuverable, sir.”

“That would make sense,” Granger observed, “since Belvidera is longer.” Length, to generate more speed at the expense of maneuverability, was the latest trend in frigate design. Well, the latest in French frigate design, but since everyone knew the French designed the best frigates, it was the same thing.

Granger watched Clifton as he secured one of the bracing ropes. An older seaman was next to him, showing him how to tie a knot. Granger had expected the crew to make short work of an arrogant snipe like Clifton, but this vignette in front of him was anything but adversarial. The older seaman was training him just as he would any other landsman.

“Clifton is in your division, is he not?” Granger asked Robey.

“Yes sir,” Robey answered nervously.

“How is he doing?”

“He seems to have fit in remarkably well. He hasn’t given me any trouble, and none of the petty officers have complained about him either, sir,” Robey replied. “I rather expected that he would be problematic, and made a point to ask them about it, but they said he does his work efficiently, and gets along with his messmates.”

“Is he exerting influence among them?” Granger asked. “Is he using his influence or money to make himself popular?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” Robey said. “Would you like to ask Graham, sir? He’s the senior in the mess.” Robey gestured to the older seaman who had just finished showing Clifton how to tie a knot.

“Ask him to lay aft, if you will,” Granger said. It was almost instantaneous; Graham was in front of him so quickly. He was a member of the original crew of Intrepid, and Granger knew him to be a good man.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked nervously. Granger actually smiled at Graham, who was trying to look all innocent and respectable as he stood before his captain.

“You’re not in trouble Graham,” Granger said hastily. “I just wanted to know how Clifton was fitting in.”

“Right well sir,” he said. “He’s a good lad.”

“He’s not trying to use his influence?” Granger asked.

“No sir,” Graham replied. “Begging your pardon sir, but he tries real hard to fit in and he’s doing real well. Only thing he’s done is written a few letters for some of the men.”

“Well that’s excellent,” Granger said, wondering if it was, and wondering what Clifton was up to. “Thank you. That will be all.”

“Aye aye sir,” Graham said, and headed back to finish his work.

“Deck there,” came the shout from the tops. “Ship looks to be Agamemnon.” A half hour later they were able to confirm that. Granger had found Nelson.

“Mr. Cavendish, show our number,” Granger said as soon as they were within signaling range.

“Aye aye sir,” he said, and the flags soared up Belvidera’s mast.

“Commodore to Belvidera, captain to repair on board,” Cavendish said.

“Acknowledge,” Granger said. “Call away my gig.” Granger went below to change into his best uniform. He smiled to himself when he thought of Nelson. He had styled himself as a Commodore, even though he didn’t have a broad pennant to distinguish his status as such. Nelson was brilliant, charismatic, and a born leader, with an ego to match. Granger studied his appearance carefully, making sure he looked good, then went over to pay his respects to his new commander.