HMS Belvidera - 25. Chapter 25

January, 1796

HMS Belvidera flew through the night with all of her sails, from royals to courses, set and drawing speed from the moderate breeze. Once they were clear of Roses, they turned southeast, heading away from the Spanish coast. Granger wanted to have plenty of sea room; the last thing he wanted was to be pinned between the Sambre and the shoreline. Satisfied that things were in order, Granger went below to check first on de la Haye, then on Cavendish.

He found the Frenchman encamped in the wardroom at the invitation of his officers. Granger felt vaguely guilty for not sharing his cabin with the renegade Frenchman, but he wanted Cavendish there, and wanted to spend time with him without being under the eye of some nosy Frog. As befitted naval custom, Granger knocked loudly on the door of the wardroom before entering. Of course, the officers rose as soon as they saw him.

“I hope I am not intruding?” Granger asked.

“Of course not, sir,” Robey answered. He was the senior, since Roberts was still up on deck. He grabbed a chair for Granger, and poured him a glass of wine. It was the fiery Spanish white wine that sailors favored over the murky Spanish red wine. Mistela, it was called, but the sailors called it “Miss Taylor” in an apparent effort to Anglicize the name. It was adequate.

“I hope you are comfortable, Monsieur,” Granger observed to the Frenchman.

“I am comfortable as long as the Sambre does not capture us,” he observed with a pessimistic air.

Granger bit back his irritation. “Monsieur, we have just escaped from a port in the darkness of night and disrupted a cutting out expedition designed to capture us. Our attack probably cost Captain Herbet the lives of at least 100 of his men, probably more. Then we raked her twice on our way out of port, damaging her rigging, and received only minor damage in return. There would be nothing to lament if it weren’t for the regrettable loss of one of our officers, and the wounding of another. So I think, Monsieur, that we have earned the right to a little more confidence from you.”

“You are not afraid of a 40 gun frigate, one that has probably close to 400 men aboard?” he asked incredulously.

“Hardly,” Granger replied, getting a laugh from the men around the table. “We would consider those good odds and would readily seek out a battle with her, but for your presence on board.”

“Are French ships really so bad?” he asked blinking, as if he was just waking up.

“French ships are fast but not as well-built as British ships, or Spanish ones for that matter,” Granger opined. “But in any event, it is not the construction or design that is the flaw. The French fleet lacks experienced officers, most of whom fled during the Terror, or were guillotined, and it lacks trained crews, who usually spend much of their time in harbor.”

“I see,” de la Haye said contemplatively.

“In any event, we will endeavor to carry you safely along to England. How long that takes is more contingent upon the weather than anything else,” Granger said. “And now, if you will excuse me, I have other things to attend to.” He left, feeling that he’d been pretty cold to de la Haye, but he had enough to deal with without throwing an ungrateful Frenchman into the mix. He went up to his cabin to check on Cavendish, and to find some solitude.

He found Cavendish there, in a partitioned off section of the stern, the same place he’d been last time, after he’d taken a splinter to his left leg in the battle against Floreal. Ironically it was that same leg that would have to heal again. Winkler was outside the closed door, looking worried. Granger just stared at Winkler, not even deigning to ask him why he looked that way, but demanding an update with only his eyes. “They moved him in. He’s in a lot of pain, and I heard the doctor say he may not be able to keep his leg, sir,” Winkler said. Granger just nodded, and walked into the room.

There, lying naked but for a blanket draped across his midsection, was Cavendish, his young body covered with sweat despite the cold as he labored to cope with the pain, the laudanum, and with his body’s desperate attempts to recover from the trauma. Jackson turned to see who the intruder was, and then rose when he saw it was Granger. “How is he?” Granger asked, cutting short any small talk.

“He is in pain, but the laudanum seems to have helped, sir. I just finished re-examining his leg, to make sure I got it as straight as I could.” Jackson held the lantern closer and showed Granger.

“It looks a bit crooked, but otherwise it appears normal,” Granger observed. Well, except for the swelling and bruising, he thought.

“Thank you, sir. I am hoping it is not so crooked that he can’t use it, and I am hoping that the pain diminishes soon, otherwise we may have to amputate it,” Jackson said ruefully. Granger began to get very irritated, irritated at all these pessimistic people around him.

“We must hope for the best,” he observed. He moved over and held Cavendish’s hand, but he was too out of it to even acknowledge Granger’s presence. Granger wanted to sit with his young lover, to show him how much he cared, but that would have to wait. There was much still to do. Granger sensed it was getting close to dawn, so he excused himself and headed back up on deck.

“It will be dawn soon, sir,” Roberts observed unnecessarily.

“Yes,” Granger responded with a disinterested air. “Dismiss the hands for breakfast. As soon as they are done, put out the galley fire.” Putting out the galley fire was a normal precaution when going into battle. “Make sure the guns are loaded and run out.” That disinterested air shielded Granger’s inner concern. There was something out there, he could almost feel it, and when dawn came, he didn’t want to be caught flat-footed.

“Aye aye sir,” Roberts said. If it were lighter, Granger fancied he’d be able to see the surprised expression on his face. Granger sniffed the air like a bloodhound, trying to divine where the Sambre was. She would have seen the flares from Roses, might have even heard or seen the gunfire. She would have known of the plan to capture Belvidera in port. There was probably a pre-arranged signal for success, and that had most likely not been given. In that event, if he were the captain of the Sambre, he’d have sailed south to be in position to attack Belvidera.

“Relieve the lookouts,” Granger ordered. “I’ll want double the usual number. Send them to me before they go aloft.” Roberts acknowledged his order and summoned the lookouts. Granger saw Clifton amongst them and smiled at him. He was turning into a first-class seaman.

“There’s a big Frog frigate out there, and we need to sight her before she sights us. That’s up to you,” he told them. That the captain bothered to talk to them before they went aloft signified the seriousness of their job. They muttered humble “aye aye sirs” before dashing up the shrouds to their stations. Granger smelled the food as it was hurriedly cooked and dished out. Probably nothing more than gruel, but it would give them something in their stomachs, some energy with which to fight. Then he heard the hissing as the galley stove was doused, followed by the rumble as the loaded guns were run out.

Belvidera sailed along in the dark like a ghost, her men anxiously at their guns, waiting silently for dawn to break. The tension rose higher as the sky lightened, slowly at first, then more quickly. It seemed as if one minute they could see nothing, the next Granger could make out the quarterdeck carronades, and then he could see the foremast.

“Deck there! Sail ho! Half a cable off the starboard side!” came the shout from aloft. Granger turned to the right and there, illuminated by the rising sun, was a very large French frigate. She could only be the Sambre.

“Commence firing,” Granger ordered. The guns went off almost before he finished his order. He watched the Frenchman frantically try to get ready for battle, even as Belvidera’s first broadside slammed into her.

Granger stood there stoically, watching with pride as Belvidera’s guns belched out over and over again while there was still no response from the Frenchman. He fancied they’d gotten in about ten broadsides before her larboard ports opened up. He noticed there were gaps in her teeth, where some of her guns were already out of action. “Looks like target practice is over,” he joked to the nearest carronade crew. They laughed at his joke and fired, their ball slamming into Sambre’s quarter.

Then he saw her broadside belch out, and heard the iron fly over their heads. He looked up and saw lines part, a backstay sliced through, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. Still, Belvidera was under full sail, a precarious way to fight. The extra strain of all that sail on the rigging could be dangerous. He weighed his options, reducing sail to fight her, or maintaining his speed to evade her.

As if to help make his decision, a man scampered up to him and saluted. “Sir, we’ve sighted topsails to the north. I’m fair certain it’s that Frog ship of the line.” So Herbet had left port as soon as he could and was coming in to fulfill his part of the mission. He looked over to Sambre. Her guns were firing slowly, and there was blood pouring out of her scuppers, making it look like the ship herself was bleeding. In a regular battle, she might already have struck, and certainly would within 15 minutes. But that would mean taking possession of her, and that would also mean getting her underway. At that moment, her main topmast began to sway, and then collapsed toward her deck, taking her fore topmast with it as well. She was as good as theirs, tempting him as surely as Eve tempted Adam with the apple.

Belvidera sped ahead, while the men watched him, waiting for him to order Belvidera about to finish her off. “You may secure the guns, Mr. Roberts. Please tell the men they did very well today.”

“We’re not going to finish her off, sir?” he asked. He was being very brave, questioning his captain’s orders, but Granger decided that it was important for Roberts to know his thoughts. It was also important that the men knew and understood, and those within earshot of their conversation would eavesdrop shamelessly.

“Our primary mission is to get Monsieur de la Haye to London,” he told Roberts, and told him loudly enough that the nearest gun crews would overhear. “Besides, if we finished Sambre off and took her as a prize, it would be a short-lived victory. The Arrogante would be upon us by then, and then we’d all be captured.”

Granger watched the reality break over Robert’s face. This is what it meant to be a captain. It meant making decisions like these, of seeing the big picture, and not falling into a simple quest for glory. This was what Roberts would have to learn if he was to earn command of his own ship.

And so Belvidera sailed off, leaving one damaged and one infuriated Frenchman in their wake. Her crew scurried aloft to repair the damage; work that was finished by nightfall, while Dr. Jackson secured his sick bay, happy that he had received not a single casualty from the action.

“I’m afraid there’s no other option,” Jackson said sadly. “It must come off.” It was a bitter irony that the leg Cavendish had managed to heal only months earlier was going to have to come off after all. Granger stood next to the cot where the midshipman lay sprawled out, his body throbbing in pain, pain generated from his leg.

“No, please sir, not my leg,” Cavendish begged, ripping Granger to the core.

“You are already taking huge doses of laudanum,” Jackson said. “It is not safe, breathing that for long. Its ill humors will foul your body. Not only that, it is not doing any good. You are still in pain, and your bones show no signs of mending. There is no choice.” He was definite in his statement, and he was right. Granger knew it, Jackson knew it, even Cavendish knew it, he just didn’t want to accept it.

“Doctor, will you give us a minute alone,” Granger asked. Jackson nodded and left them. “There is no other choice,” Granger told him.

“My leg. My life will be over,” Cavendish cried, a cry mixed with a sob. “I’ll be deformed. I won’t be able to ride, I won’t be able to dance, and I won’t be able to stay here with you.”

“You can probably ride, you will probably dance, albeit badly, and you will probably have to be ashore,” Granger told him honestly. “None of those things will make me love you any less.”

“You say that, but how will you feel when we’re in bed and you have to look at the stump where my leg was?” he asked. The laudanum, the pain, and the situation, had caused him to lose his normally calm veneer.

“It will still be you. I will caress it, just like the rest of your body. Besides, sometimes your legs get in the way,” Granger said, joking. He saw Cavendish grin slightly, and then he got somber again.

“There is no other option?” he asked.

“You have seen Dr. Jackson work his magic before. He is a better doctor than you’ll find in London. There is no other option,” Granger said. He summoned the Doctor back in. “Mr. Cavendish is ready.”

“Can we arrange for some calm seas, sir?” Jackson asked. “It would make things easier, and safer.”

“Let me see what I can do,” Granger said. He went to his chartroom and consulted the charts. He had no desire to enter a Spanish port again. They could reach Gibraltar tomorrow, if the wind stayed fair. He went to tell Jackson the news.

“We could take him ashore to the hospital there, sir,” Jackson observed.

“No,” Cavendish said, almost a shout. “I’m sorry sir, but I want you to do it, and I want it done aboard Belvidera. I don’t want to languish in Gibraltar afterward.”

“I think, Doctor, that is a wish we should grant,” Granger said with a grin.

“Aye aye sir,” Jackson said with a smile.

Granger sat at his table, eating his supper. He looked out the stern windows and saw that night was upon them. There was no need to rush up on deck. He’d completed his evening inspection before supper, and he knew that Roberts was more than capable of getting them to Gibraltar, or anywhere else for that matter. He sat there thinking of Cavendish, who lay in pain just on the other side of that screen. Granger had been honest with him. If he were legless, it would make no difference. He’d grown to love the young man, and a physical mar would not change that. Granger pondered playfully whether he’d be so accepting if it were Cavendish’s dick that was being amputated, but even that wouldn’t change things. He loved him for the man he was, not the way he looked.

His internal reverie was disturbed by a knock at his door. “Enter,” Granger shouted. He was surprised to see Clifton come in. “What can I do for you?” Granger asked.

“Begging your pardon sir, but I was wondering if it would be alright for me to visit Mr. Cavendish.” He wasn’t aware that they were friends, but it made sense.

“You may, but not for long. He’ll need his rest,” Granger said. Clifton nodded, then went in to Cavendish’s cabin. Granger focused on devouring the delicious meal Lefavre had made from some of the food they’d acquired in Roses. He was so intent on filling his stomach, he didn’t hear Clifton come out.

“I hope I could be as brave as him, sir,” Clifton said.

“I suspect you could be,” Granger observed.

“You’re short a midshipman, sir,” Clifton observed. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to give me another chance.”

“Won’t your messmates miss you?” Granger asked, smiling to let Clifton know he was joking.

“Well, actually sir, they’ve encouraged me,” he said. “They say that’s where I belong, aft, with the officers.”

“They’re probably right,” Granger said. “Pass the word for Mr. Roberts, and for Gatling.”

“Aye aye sir,” Clifton said smartly, and went to tell the marine sentry to pass the word for the other two men. Granger finished eating while waiting for them to arrive.

The first to join Clifton was Gatling. Granger had taken him aboard Intrepid as a volunteer. He was recommended to Granger by Mr. Broadhead, the caretaker of his estate at Brentwood, and had shown himself to be a bright young lad. He was now all of 15, with dark brown hair and deep blue eyes. He was blossoming into a handsome man. Roberts appeared shortly after that. “You sent for me sir?” he asked.

“Yes Mr. Roberts,” Granger said. “We appear to have an almost empty midshipman’s berth. I’m going to rectify that. Mr. Clifton will be resuming his rank as midshipman, and Mr. Gatling will be joining him.” Granger watched Gatling’s mouth fall open, so stunned was he.

“Aye aye sir,” Roberts said. “Come along you two. Let’s go tell Brookstone he’s got company.”

They made to follow him out, but Gatling hesitated. “Thank you, sir,” he said to Granger.

“You have earned it Mr. Gatling. Now make me proud.”

“Aye aye sir,” he chirped with a smile, and followed Roberts off to his new quarters. Young men like Gatling were the future of this navy, Granger mused. It was incredibly pleasant to give him that first big promotion.

He went in to see Cavendish, but the young man was so out of it he didn’t really even seem to know Granger was there. Granger opened the door to leave when he almost bumped into Miguel and Winkler.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but the young Spaniard here wanted to see Mr. Cavendish,” Winkler said. Miguel had seemingly bonded with Cavendish, and came to see him often.

“Of course,” Granger said. “I am going to bed.” He stepped aside to let Miguel pass, and then headed for his sleeping cabin. Winkler stripped off his clothes, leaving him naked. Granger climbed into his cot just after Winkler removed the warming pan and let the heat of the bed welcome him. He was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Granger woke up in what seemed like only seconds after he’d gone to sleep to a familiar and pleasant sensation. Someone was sucking his dick, and doing a damn good job. He opened his eyes and looked down to see Miguel’s mouth wrapped around his organ, his eyes smiling up at Granger. He let Granger’s cock flop out of his mouth and then he straddled Granger, his soft young skin feeling like silk against Granger’s body.

Miguel grabbed the lanolin next to his cot and slathered Granger’s cock, then lowered his ass down onto him, taking Granger inside him. “I know what I want to do,” Miguel whispered huskily in Granger’s ear as he slid his ass up and down Granger’s cock. “I want to be your cabin boy, to please you in every way possible.”

Granger gave into the lust and grabbed Miguel’s blond hair, pulling his mouth to his, making their lips meet, then their tongues. He’d had no relief for the week since they’d left Roses, so he didn’t last very long. He felt his balls rise, felt his cock swell in Miguel’s tight little ass, and then he exploded, flooding the Spaniard. When he was finally done, Granger smiled to himself, thinking how lucky Miguel was that he didn’t blow him. That load was so huge it would have drowned him. Miguel collapsed on him, molding his body to Granger’s. God, he was soft and smooth, and so warm. Granger felt Miguel’s hard cock pushing against his leg and moved his leg into him. Miguel moaned, but then stopped him.

“I am here for you, do not worry about me,” he said. He had the sexiest voice, so sexy that Granger found himself getting horny again, even though he’d just blown.

“I get pleasure from pleasuring you,” Granger said. He rolled Miguel onto his back and grabbed the lanolin. He applied it to Miguel’s rock hard cock, a small one, probably no more than five inches long and on the thin side. Granger lowered himself down onto Miguel, taking him effortlessly. After Cavendish’s big dick, this was a breeze. He worked Miguel like Miguel had worked him, but 16-year-old lads don’t last long anyway. Granger smiled down at the sexy young man as he came, his face breaking into funny contortions of pleasure. Then he collapsed on top of him and let sleep overcome him again.

The anchor splashed into the water, confirming to all that Belvidera had arrived at Gibraltar. “Call away my gig,” Granger ordered, then went below before he even heard the responding “aye aye sir.” He found the doctor in his cabin preparing Cavendish for surgery. Granger stared at the instruments of horror, the knives and the saw to cut the bone, and forced his face to remain impassive.

“We’re all ready, sir,” Jackson said. Granger walked up to Cavendish and put his hand on his naked shoulder.

“I must go ashore. I will check up on you as soon as I return,” Granger told him. Cavendish could only grimace and nod. If anything, his pain seemed to be worse. “Carry on, doctor.”

“Aye aye sir,” Jackson said. Granger grabbed his reports and headed on deck. He found de la Haye there, waiting to confront him.

“Why are we here? Why have we stopped?” he demanded.

“We need calm seas to operate on Mr. Cavendish, so I am taking this opportunity to deliver my reports,” Granger said curtly. He found his patience limited with this Frenchman, who tended to whine a lot.

“You have stopped our voyage to operate on one man? What madness is this?” he demanded. Granger was aware that Robey was standing next to him, and that he spoke French quite well, well enough to understand this interchange. It would not do to allow himself to be browbeaten by this obnoxious Frenchman in front of his officers.

“That you think so, Monsieur, goes a long way toward explaining why this ship now flies British colors,” Granger observed coldly. He heard Robey try to stifle his laugh. He turned to Robey and spoke in French so de la Haye would understand what he was saying. “Mr. Robey, Monsieur de la Haye will remain aboard.”

“I wish to go ashore,” de la Haye whined, as Granger knew he would.

“You will remain here. Those are my orders, and these men will carry them out. Or would you rather I put you in chains?” Granger asked sarcastically.

“You do not know who you are dealing with,” de la Haye said, outraged. “You will pay for your insolence.”

“That is unlikely, monsieur,” Granger said.

“I have many important friends in your government,” he persisted.

“As do I,” Granger observed. “But none of that has any bearing on the fact that you will remain here, and you will obey my orders until I land you in England. Is that clear?”

“Humph,” de la Haye said, and stormed off.

“If he tries to leave the ship, tie him to the shrouds,” Granger said to Robey.

Robey grinned back at him. “I may just have to pretend he was escaping so I can do that, sir.” Granger chuckled with him. “Maybe he needs to kiss the gunner’s daughter as well.”

“I think we’ll spare him that,” Granger said. He headed over the side, thinking about Robey and how pleasant and charming he was. No wonder Travers had chosen to keep him around, to keep him near as a lover and a friend. Robey would be a good companion.

He had a relatively mundane meeting with the Governor. Granger’s objective was to deliver his report for transmittal on to Jervis, and to inform the governor of his doings in Roses. The governor’s objective seemed to be to rid himself of Granger’s presence as quickly as possible. It was a fortuitously short encounter.

The boat ride back to Belvidera was tense, as Granger sat in the sternsheets anxious about Cavendish. Despite his anxiety over Cavendish and his annoyance with de la Haye, it was hard to be irritated when he took in a whiff of truly one of the most glorious smells known to man: fresh-baked bread. Andrews had come ashore and evidently cleaned out the baker, buying enough fresh bread for the entire crew. Granger knew he’d have to pay for at least some of that from his own pocket, but these men were worth it. “The sooner we’re back, the sooner you get your loaf of bread,” he joked to his gig’s crew. They smiled and redoubled their efforts. Granger grabbed a loaf of bread and ate it quickly, sating his ravenous hunger. The governor had not felt inclined to feed him.

He boarded Belvidera to be met by all of his lieutenants and de la Haye, but he brushed past them all, rudely ignoring them as he descended into his cabin to check on Cavendish. He found Jackson standing next to Cavendish, gently wiping the sweat off his brow with a cloth. Where Cavendish’s leg used to be, there was nothing, only a stump that was hidden with bandages. A couple of surgeon’s mates respectfully sidled past him carrying a bloody tub. It contained the mangled remains of what had been Cavendish’s leg and foot. Granger fought back the bile in his throat and focused his mind on the living man in front of him, not the dead remnants of his body.

“Everything went well, sir,” Jackson said. “Now we must just let him recover.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Granger said. He smiled at Jackson, who simply removed his bloody apron and handed it to one of his assistants. They walked out of the cabin, leaving Granger alone with this young man who had captured such a big piece of his heart.

Granger kissed his cheek. “How are you?” he asked softly.

“Better now that it’s over,” Cavendish said, and tried to smile.

“You must recover so I can show you that you still excite me,” Granger teased, as he allowed his hand to move over Cavendish’s naked body. Cavendish smiled up at him lovingly. He gave Cavendish a quick kiss on the lips, then sat there in silence with him, watching him rest. Finally, duty summoned him from his interlude, and he forced himself to go up on deck and get Belvidera underway. Only this time, they were headed home.

February, 1796

It was taking them much longer to reach England than Granger had hoped. The winds had turned foul almost as soon as they’d warped out of the Mole at Gibraltar, leaving them all but stranded in the Straits. Not even Belvidera could sail close enough to the wind to tack into the Atlantic. For three days, they’d sat there until the wind veered just a bit, enough to give them room to maneuver out. Only leaving the Straits had been a mixed blessing. Once in the Atlantic, they’d been pelted by storms. For two weeks now, they’d lain hove to off the coast of Spain, hoping the storm eased before it pushed them onto the rocky shore.

An exhausted George Granger put that aside, and went below for some rare rest. Winkler was there, as usual, to take his wet things off, stripping him naked. He put on a shirt and was about to climb into bed, when he remembered to go check in on Cavendish. He walked into the screened off cabin that Cavendish occupied. It was still light enough that he could make out his features, could see his body sprawled naked on the cot, as he fought for his life. Granger went up and sat with him, putting his hand gently on his forehead. He was hot, very hot, running a high fever. Despite his heat, or perhaps because of it, his teeth were chattering from cold.

“How are you?” Granger asked.

“I want you with me,” he said, his voice so soft from weakness.

“In bed with you?” Granger asked.

“Yes,” he replied. Granger stripped off his shirt and climbed into the bed, being careful to avoid his legless side. He draped his body over Cavendish’s right side, holding him as close as he could. The young man’s warmth permeated him, taking the chill away. Granger had thought, when he was on deck battling the storms, that he’d never be warm again, yet now after a mere ten minutes he was comfortable. And Cavendish’s teeth had stopped chattering.

Winkler looked in on them, and thought about waking Granger as he had been ordered to do. But he had seen the captain fight the fatigue, noticed his drawn face, the bags under his eyes, the way the struggle against the weather was draining his energy. He had seen the young midshipman fighting for his life, fighting to heal his body and recover from having an appendage ripped from him. His fever had been high today, higher than ever, and they all knew that if it didn’t break soon, he wouldn’t make it. Winkler knew that they needed each other, more than either was probably willing to admit. He decided to risk his captain’s wrath and let him sleep.