The Gunroom - 5. Chapter 5

Granger looked down the gun deck at the laboring and sweating men. In the exact middle of the deck stood Travers, in all his glory, exercising the gun crews. Travers was in charge of gunnery, a duty that traditionally fell to the 2nd Lieutenant, but for Travers it was a passion. He studied ballistics, and experimented with different amounts of powder to see what would provide the best shot. Barracuda had two long nine pounder cannons in the bows and two aft. The long nines had a long barrel, designed to give them greater accuracy at long range. Travers had optimized the powder charge for them and personally checked and modified a select group of cannon balls for them, making sure they were as smooth as possible.

He studied Travers, stripped down to his trousers and his shirt, which was open to the waist. God, he looked sexy there, yelling at the men, not in a demeaning way, but in an encouraging way.

“Sponge out lads. Come on!” he cried.

Granger saw a couple of seamen slacking off a few guns away from him and strode over to them. It wasn't a power thing, it was a discipline thing. They were screwing around in front of him, testing his limits. “You there,” he said, “You're a full ten seconds behind number three gun. Quit slacking off.”

“But Mr. Granger,” whined one of them, “we're just a bit winded.” Granger stared at them, stunned and enraged. There was only one answer to his order, a crisp “aye aye sir,” so anything else bordered on insubordination.

“Sergeant,” Granger said to the marine at the hatch. “Put these three men on report.” Granger turned back to them. “A spell cleaning out the heads or on the ships pumps should remind you to attend to your duties and to address an officer correctly.” They just shrunk in front of him, their mouths dropped in shock, never expecting him to be so severe. Granger turned his back and strode back to his position, supervising the other gun crews, who were now taking their own duties more seriously.

Granger wasn't normally a hard ass. It wasn't his nature, and it wasn't something he enjoyed. But if he did not demand obedience now, at this junior level, and if he did not demand the respect that was his by right of rank and position, they'd walk all over him. It was bad luck for those three that they'd gotten in his line of sight just when he needed to set an example.

The men labored at the 18 pounders, sponging, loading, running them out, pretending to fire, and running them back in. It was tedious but necessary, so that in the din of battle, the men would move automatically, like machines, even when there was blood and carnage all around them. Granger thought about these things even though he had no idea what it would look like with blood and carnage.

Bell came down and interrupted them, attracting Travers attention, and he blew his whistle to signal the men to take a break. “The Captain sends his respects and would like you to secure the guns sir.”

“Alright lads, drill is over. Secure those guns!” Travers yelled. A general buzz of relief attended the men as they did that. “Mr. Granger, make sure the guns are secured.”

“Aye aye sir,” said Granger. He made two passes by each gun to make sure it had been secured. The number two gun, the one with the three men who were on report, was not tied down securely enough. A good storm and it might just break loose. But that was not all. It was obviously done on purpose, which made it the equivalent of sabotage.

Granger motioned to Clay. “Go on deck and fetch Mr. Travers for me please,” he ordered.

“Aye aye sir,” said Clay, and scampered off.

Travers appeared shortly, annoyed at having been called from the deck. “I wanted to show you the shoddy job these men have done, sir” Granger said pointing to the gun. “I have already had to put three men of the crew on report.” Granger relayed the incident during the drill to him. Granger saw Travers look around, furious, and saw the men trying to avoid catching his eye.

“Secure that gun correctly,” he ordered. “Follow me Mr. Granger,” Travers said, and led them up to the quarterdeck. Granger was surprised to find the entire wardroom and most of the gunroom gathered there around the Captain.

“What's going on sir?” Granger asked.

“We've sighted Toulon. The Captain is preparing to peek in and see what's going on.” Granger nodded.

The Captain saw him arrive on the quarterdeck and gave him the slightest of nods to acknowledge his presence, a rare gesture and a mark of respect. He could almost feel Wilcox glaring at him from his position a few paces behind.

“I need sharp and experienced eyes up on the masts,” said the Captain. “Mr. Yule,” he said to one of the Master's Mates, “I want you at the main top with Mr. Granger. Mr. Dacres, you and Mr. Bell are on the fore top.”

“Aye aye sir,” they chimed. Yule headed toward the main shrouds and started rushing up, while Granger headed instead to the binnacle to get paper and pencil to jot down what they saw. He charged after Yule, armed with something to take notes on.

Granger stared up the mast, with Yule's ass about 20 feet in front of him. Yule was in his late 20's, a quiet but friendly kind of guy, unless he got pissed off. Then he was scary. They finally reached the top; the highest point they could reach that had a platform to observe from. Granger was used to the heights now, but the motion of the rough seas combined with the height was just a little disconcerting.

“You're a little slow today Mr. Granger,” teased Yule good-naturedly.

“Yes sir. But I brought a pencil and paper for notes,” Granger said with a smile. Yule looked down and ahead at the foremast where Dacres was chewing Bell out for forgetting such equipment, and that caused him to laugh, a loud, powerful laugh.

“I think Mr. Bell has learned a lesson about that,” he said.

“Yes sir,” said Granger, feeling bad for not warning his friend.

“So the boyos on number two gun were testing you eh?” he asked. News sure traveled fast in the ship. “Those three are troublemakers. I keep telling your buddy Wilcox to avoid them, but he don't listen.”

“Yes sir. Wilcox, uh, associates with them?” Granger asked. This whole thing was starting to make more sense.

“That he does. They'll be a little too busy to play with Mr. Wilcox though. They'll be spending time on the pumps after they get their backs scratched.” Yule said.

“They're going to be flogged?” Granger asked, aghast.

“I 'spect so,” Yule said matter-of-factly. “They were out of line, insubordinate, and it was deliberate. So they has to have an example set of them.” To Yule, this was simple and straightforward. They had broken the rules, and now they had to pay the price. To Granger, it was much more. His report, his actions would bring them to the gratings. His feud with Wilcox was the impetus for this whole thing. He felt sorry and guilty that these men were going to have to pay for his spat with Wilcox.

“You said they play with Wilcox sir. How do they play with him?” Granger asked.

“Mr. Granger, it ain't my place to poke my nose into what a lad like Wilcox does in his off-watch hours,” Yule said. Granger just looked at him. Wilcox was blowing them, he knew it. He had no proof, but he knew it. He was blowing those men, and in exchange, they were supposed to embarrass Granger.

“Mr. Wilcox seems to have issues with me sir,” Granger said. “I fear he's used his, uh, playfulness to lure these men into doing his bidding, and to cause me problems.”

“We all know that Mr. Granger. But the men are supposed to know better. So they'll get a taste of the cat, and Mr. Wilcox will have it worse. He gets to meet with the Captain and Mr. Preston.”

Granger stared at him. “I agree with you sir. I think I'd rather face the cat too.” Yule laughed.

“Alright Mr. Granger, we're passing the harbor now. We have to scan real careful like, to make sure we see any warships fitting out in the inner harbor. But first, we have to check the roads for any ships ready to put to sea.”

“Aye aye sir,” Granger said.

“So I'm going to scan the harbor and write down what I see, you'll do the same, and then we'll compare notes.”

“Aye aye sir,” chirped Granger again. They scanned the harbor several times until they could work out their numbers. Granger found it exhilarating to peer into one of the chief naval ports of France. In the end, they settled on 16 sail of the line, all laid up, and five frigates, four laid up and one fitting out. They scaled back down to the deck, Granger beating Yule this time, and headed to the quarterdeck to report. Dacres and Bell had already given their assessment.

“Sixteen sail of the line and four frigates laid up,” The Captain repeated. “Your numbers agree. That is excellent. Now tell me about this frigate fitting out.”

Dacres said nothing, letting Yule take the lead. Granger had the distinct feeling that he hadn't seen it, that he'd been too absorbed counting the ships in the inner harbor. “She's one o' their big ones sir, prob'ly a 44,” Yule said, referring to the number of guns the Frenchman carried. “Her topmasts are still down and her decks got stuff strewn all over. They had casks on deck cleaning 'em, so I don't suppose they got stores on board.”

Granger stared at Yule, amazed at the things he'd seen and picked out. He chided himself for his own cursory view, for not observing more closely. “That's an excellent report Mr. Yule. Well done.”

“Thank you sir,” Yule said. “I had a good pair of eyes helping me out.” Granger smiled at him briefly then caught himself. What a nice thing for Yule to do, to make sure he got some of the credit for doing something right.

“Then kudos to you as well Mr. Granger,” the Captain said, eying the young midshipman carefully. He turned abruptly. “Mr. Wilcox, I will see you in my cabin at once. Mr. Preston, I'd be obliged if you'd join us.”

“Aye aye sir,” they both responded, neither one of them with any enthusiasm. For Preston, that was due to his reserved nature. For Wilcox, it was due to his fear of the meeting. It was Granger’s watch, so he and Travers paced the deck, hovering near the skylight, listening to the booming voices coming through. Granger had never heard the Captain yell, or Mr. Preston, had never heard them when they were angry, but he heard them now. It was very scary.

“I feel sorry for him, sir,” Granger said as they pivoted at the end of their turn.

“I wouldn't. He is a scheming little shit, and he needs something like this to take him down a notch or two.”

“What will happen to him sir?” asked Granger.

“I don't know. It's not like the Captain consults me on every decision,” he said sarcastically. Granger chuckled. “I'm sure he'll kiss the gunner's daughter, may even get knocked back to Ship's Boy, at least for a while. Or he may be shipped home when we make Gibraltar. That's the worst fate of all.”

“Do you think they'd do that?” Granger asked, so stunned he'd forgotten to add “sir” to his question. Travers looked at him hard. “Sir,” Granger added, abashed. Travers was a stickler for discipline as far as the two of them were concerned, determined that he and Granger display no outward signs of their affection and familiarity.

“If I had to guess, I'd say yes. It's not like Mr. Wilcox has been a huge success as a midshipman. He is more tied up with the crew, acting like a ship's boy and not a King's officer, and he's pathetic at navigation.” Granger pondered this as Travers drifted off to check the set of the sails.

“All hands, all hands to witness punishment!” went up the cry. The officers assembled on the quarterdeck, clad in their best dress blue and white. Standing with them was the block of Royal Marines in their red coats, the universal symbol of British military personnel. The seamen massed in the waist, staring up at the Captain as he began to read the Articles of War, that draconian code of conduct under which the Royal Navy operated.

Granger stood stiffly at attention, listening to the articles as the Captain reeled them off. The first articles dealt mostly with activities of commissioned officers, so they tended to wash past the warrant officers and seamen. Then the Captain got to the scariest article of all, not the article that was in question today, but the scariest one nonetheless. “Article 28,” his voice droned on. “If any person in the fleet shall commit the unnatural and detestable sin of buggery and sodomy with man or beast, he shall be punished with death by the sentence of a court martial.” Granger hid his cringe, and kept his eyes focused forward, looking at no one. He knew that he'd done his duty thus far; that his loyalty to King and Country was above reproach, but this one article would be the one article that could ruin, and maybe end his life. It was a sobering thought.

The Captain finished reading the articles and the first of the three men was strung up to the upturned grating. Dailey strode forward, carrying the cat-of-nine tails that the unfortunate man had been required to make himself. It seemed the most incredible cruelty to make those who were to be punished by flogging to make their own whip, but such was the custom of the Royal Navy. Crack, crack, crack, went the whip on his back. Dailey paused for about ten seconds in between each of the twelve strokes as was prescribed, to give him a chance to remove pieces of the man's skin and muscle that had been torn off, and even more to the point, to give the transgressor time to appreciate the pain and to learn his lesson. Granger watched this, his first flogging, and felt his stomach churn with sickness as each of the three was led up to the gratings and took his punishment. The last one, a man named Medgar, seemed unable to cope with the pain, and broke into screams after the third lash, making the whole experience truly macabre. After the last lash was administered on Medgar, the men were dismissed.

Granger studied them as they slowly moved off. In some ships, he supposed, if the Captain was a tyrant, the men would be sullen and mutinous. There was nothing of the kind happening in the Barracuda. The whole situation, probably much embellished, had flown through the ship, with everyone eager for the latest tidbit of gossip. The men understood that the seamen had been bribed by Wilcox, and the conventional wisdom was they were fools that got what they deserved. There might have been resentment had the Captain not treated Wilcox so harshly.

Granger cringed again, remembering the sight of Wilcox kissing the gunner's daughter. He learned that was the preferred punishment for boys, where the lad in question was lashed across a gun, his ass exposed across the rear of the gun while his face was close to the muzzle. Then Mr. Dailey would administer strokes of his cane, leaving huge red welts across the posterior, or at least that's what happened to Wilcox. But that wasn't the worst of it. The Captain had demoted him back to a volunteer, which made Wilcox a ship's boy once again. He'd find life difficult among the nippers, especially since he hadn't been too kind to them.

“Mr. Granger, Mr. Bell, I'd like to see you in my cabin at once,” the Captain said, breaking into Granger's thoughts.

“Aye aye sir,” they chimed together, and turned to follow the Captain to his cabin, keeping a respectful distance. He strode into his sanctuary while they followed, taking up position in front of his desk and standing rigidly at attention.

“You both saw what happened to Mr. Wilcox. I hope you will let that be a lesson, and that I will never have to discipline either of you like that,” the Captain said.

“Yes sir, I mean no sir,” stammered Bell, speaking for both of them as the senior Midshipman.

“The vacancy comes at a good time. Mr. Clay will be joining you as the junior midshipman. He has just completed his three years,” The Captain said, referring to the Admiralty requirement that a boy serve as a volunteer for three years before being appointed as a midshipman. Granger felt slightly guilty that his three years had been done only on ship's books, while a guy like Clay had been out here earning his time the fair and square way. “I trust you will make him welcome.”

“Yes sir,” they both chimed. The Captain nodded to dismiss them.

“Mr. Granger, please stay,” he said. Granger gulped and looked nervously at Bell.

“Yes sir?” Granger asked.

“Mr. Clay comes from an old seafaring family. They have a good name, a good and honorable history, but very little money. I was hoping that you would be willing to take Mr. Clay ashore when we return to Gibraltar and get him fitted out appropriately? I will, of course, cover the expenses.”

“Yes sir. It will be my pleasure. I like Mr. Clay,” he added unnecessarily.

The Captain smiled at him. “Well, liking him is not a requirement for either of you to do your duty, but it does make things more pleasant.” Granger felt himself blushing. There was a knock at the cabin door and Granger was about to leave when he realized that he hadn't been dismissed yet. “Enter!” the Captain yelled, and Granger saw Clay enter, clearly scared to death. He was in his best clothes, which wasn't saying much considering he was a mere ship's boy.

“I have a vacancy in the midshipman's berth and I'm going to promote you to fill it,” the Captain said, looking at the boy. Clay was really cute, with a long nose to match his long face. A bit of acne on his face proclaimed to the world that puberty was upon him, but if it was dark his squeaking voice would give it away as well.

“Yes sir. Thank you sir,” Clay said uncomfortably. “I feel ready sir, begging your pardon, and I've been hoping for an opportunity like this. I don't know how to thank you.”

“Simply do your duty,” the Captain said, clearly intending the interview to be over. Clay had something else bothering him but Granger stopped him. If an interview was over, it was over.

“Come on Mr. Clay, let me show you to your new quarters,” Granger said, and led Clay forward to the gunroom. Bell liked him too, and welcomed him warmly. Granger smiled, thinking about what a pleasant change had already taken place. Suddenly the midshipman's berth was not a place to dread, with Wilcox and his brooding figure there, but a sanctuary that Granger could retire to and be with friends.

“I don't have any garb sir,” Clay said nervously. “I need to be able to turn out looking better than this.”

“Well then,” Bell said, “let's see what we can do to help you.” He and Granger rummaged through their chests, getting together enough spare gear to outfit Clay adequately.

“When we get to Gibraltar again, I'll take you with me and we'll get you some things to fit you better,” Granger told him.

“I don't have any money to buy clothes,” said Clay nervously.

“Well then you'll have to rely on the kindness of others,” he said, smiling.

The Barracuda tossed in the mighty seas, the weather having reared its ugly head once again. Granger and Travers sought shelter from the wind and spray in the shadow of the main mast, but it didn't really make a lot of difference. The Barracuda was riding out the storm hove to, with plenty of sea room to make that decision easy, without too much concern about running aground.

Granger nodded to Travers as the Captain appeared on deck and looked around. “Nothing has carried away. Good,” he yelled in order to be heard.

“No sir. Everything appears to be secure,” Travers said.

He nodded, and vanished back into his cabin. It wasn't until Travers and he were on watch again that the weather began to moderate. The Captain sensed the change and returned on deck. It was a gray day, with dark skies and ugly greenish-gray waves. “I want to take one more look into Toulon,” he said. “Call the watch. We'll get some sail on her.”

The cry went through the ship and the men poured up and onto the decks, and then up the shrouds to man the yards. In 15 minutes the Captain had skillfully gotten Barracuda back on course for Toulon, but she griped and rebelled against the task, preferring to give way to the waves than fight them.

“Sail ho!” came a cry from the masthead. “Sail ho on the larboard bow.”

Telescopes snapped as officers looked forward. “I see her sir,” Granger said. “Looks like nothing more than a fishing boat, but she's in a bad way.”

The others found the ship soon enough, and saw a man clinging to her wheel, trying to keep control of his boat. Granger looked again, and just as he focused on the boat its mast collapsed under the stress. That one incident had doomed the boat.

“Mr. Buckle,” The Captain said to the sailing master. “Set a course to grapple with that boat. Mr. Travers, have a party get ready with grappling hooks. And you'll need to get some fend-offs. We won't have long, just enough time to hopefully pull off the passengers.”

“Aye aye sir,” they chimed. They all stood there, looking over the side as the fishing boat came drifting down on them. With a deft backing of the sails, Mr. Buckle and the Captain had placed Barracuda right in the way of the boat. They could see two people on the boat, and then a third emerging from below.

The boat was within 20 feet when the Captain took the speaking trumpet and shouted across the water. “You will only have a few seconds to abandon your ship. Have your crew ready!” Granger took a second to admire his excellent French. Then one more person emerged.

“That's a large crew for a fishing boat,” the Captain observed.

“It looks like one of them is wearing a uniform sir,” Granger observed.

“So it does Mr. Granger. We may have some interesting company.” The Captain turned to the side and watched the boat come down to the Barracuda, and despite the fenders, it crashed against the side, causing all of them to cringe. The last thing they needed was to have the seams spread apart in seas like these. Ropes flew and secured the ship, and the passengers, sensing that time was of the essence, scrambled up the side. The boat continued to beat itself to death against the Barracuda's side until the passengers were all aboard, and then it was cast off. It moved down the side, then it was free, and then it sank.

Granger turned his attention to the passengers. There were four men, cold, wet, and miserable, shivering on the tossing deck. One of the men, the one wearing the uniform, was obviously an officer. The Captain spoke a few words to Dailey and the three crew members were hustled below to huddle with the crew and eat some of Barracuda's horrible food. The other man was led back to the Captain's cabin.

“Mr. Granger, a moment please,” the Captain said, pausing. “You speak excellent French. Go down and see what you can find out from the crew.”

“Aye aye sir,” he said. Granger headed down to find Dailey and was relieved to find that he'd put the men in the gunroom. A word to the steward brought out some of their dwindling stores of good food, along with a plentiful supply of rum.

“You are officer?” the senior man, presumably their captain, asked him in English.

“I'm a midshipman,” Granger responded in French, getting a smile from the smelly French fisherman. “What were you doing in such high seas? You seem like expert seamen. Surely you know better?”

The captain snorted in disgust. “Of course I knew better, but I let that idiot persuade me. Now I have lost everything. My boat was my livelihood.”

“I am sorry to hear that monsieur,” Granger said sympathetically. “Why did he want to travel in this storm?” The captain eyed us suspiciously. “Please, Captain, understand I mean no harm. Our countries are at peace. I was just wondering what would bring people out on what was almost a suicide mission.”

“Colonel Labouret was most anxious to get to Sardinia. He made it seem as if he had urgent business there, but I suspect it was more likely he was fleeing from Toulon.” The rum was taking affect now. He shook his head sadly.

“It is so bad there?” Granger asked.

“It is horrible. Everyone suspects everyone, of disloyalty, of treason, of everything. It used to be that a man had to only worry about his wife checking up on him, but now everyone is,” he said, laughing, so Granger laughed with him. “There are purges in the army and the navy, purges to eliminate the aristocrats, and it has left the fleet in horrible shape and the morale even worse.”

“That is tragic, to hear of such a thing. We English have learned to respect French sailors, in times of war and peace,” Granger said, trying to hit the right tone.

“Well, if war comes, you have nothing to fear from that fleet.” He tossed back another swig of rum.

“So who is this Colonel?”

The Captain smiled. “He is from an old family, a true aristocrat. He told us he was from a regiment stationed near Marseilles, but it seems his royalist tendencies were either discovered or suspected. In France, they are the same.”

“Then perhaps he will be glad to find himself on board a British ship,” Granger said.

“I think he will be happy with anything that does not take him back to France,” he said, laughing again. Then he stopped. “What will happen to us?”

“I am not sure. What do you want to do?” The other men looked at him curiously.

“I do not know,” he said, and they all looked dejected.

“I will speak to the Captain and see what he intends. In the meantime, you must make yourselves comfortable,” Granger said. He told Dailey to keep them happy and headed aft to see the Captain. The Marine guard knocked on the door and he heard the Captain yell “Enter.”

Granger walked in to find the Captain and Colonel Labouret dining at the Captain's table. “Ah Mr. Granger. Let me present Major Boulanges.” Granger saluted briskly. “Major, this is Mr. Granger, one of our midshipmen.” He watched the man's eyes dart sideways. “Join us Mr. Granger.”

“Aye aye sir,” Granger said. He looked at the “major” dubiously. “Pardon me for being rude Major, but your uniform; is it not the uniform of a colonel?”

“It used to be, but you know these revolutionaries. They know nothing of rank.”

“Your crew seems to believe otherwise. They identified you as Colonel Labouret.” Granger let him digest the news that he'd been found out and turned his attention to the Captain. “Sir, the crew of the fishing boat are relaxing in the gunroom. They are wondering what their fate is to be.”

The Captain ignored Granger. “Your crew has been talkative Colonel. Shall we start all over again?”

“I am not under arrest am I? I do not have to submit to interrogations,” he replied with a great deal of huffiness.

“Well, since I am unsure of your identity, I can only assume you are a spy. In that case, I must decide whether or not to shoot you at once. On the other hand, I can assume you are merely a shipwrecked sailor, in which case I should return you to Toulon.” Granger saw him turn pale at the thought of that.

“Stupid oafs. I told them to keep their mouths shut.” He sat there, irritated. “I am Colonel Labouret. My regiment is stationed nearby. The police have been watching all of us, and they were about to arrest the mayor. They had discovered a cache of documents about the revolution and a plot to overthrow it. The mayor is a devoted royalist, they were his papers, but he turned on me, blamed me, but to ease his guilt, gave me a four hour head start to escape. I was going to Sardinia, to start all over again.”

Granger studied him with interest. Probably in his mid 30's, a handsome man with light brown hair and features that were almost too fine, too perfect. He did not look like a man who had labored too hard in his life. He seemed irritated and distraught at the same time, understandable emotions. “Why did you not just tell me that to begin with?” the Captain asked.

“I could not be sure that you would not take me back to Toulon.” He seemed to realize that the Captain had made no promise not to. “You will not, will you?”

“No Colonel, I will not send you to your death. This ship is heading to Gibraltar. I'll put you ashore there, in the capable care of the port admiral.”

The Colonel smiled. “I must thank you Captain, for my life. And what will become of the crew?”

“I can land them along the coast if they wish, or they can come along with us. I don't suppose they are too happy about losing their boat?” The question was directed to Granger.

“No sir, but they are mostly curious about their options. Their boat was all they had.” Granger felt sorry for all of them.

“I have some money, my purse, I was able to save it,” The Colonel said. “I can give them some money to help them on their way.” He clearly didn't want to, but that made sense. It was probably all that he had.

In the end, the Colonel, along with funds the Captain solicited from the officers, provided a nice little sum to help the poor Frenchmen, some 75 guineas. That sufficed to satisfy the Frenchmen. They were landed that night on the headland, and Barracuda put her nose in the waves and headed back to Gibraltar, with a guest added to her wardroom.

Granger paced the deck on the weather side and glanced sideways at Travers and Labouret as they paced together on the windward side. It had been four days since they picked up Labouret and since that time he and Travers had been inseparable. At first Granger just wrote it off to good manners, to Travers being a good host, but as he watched them conversing easily in French, saw the twinkle in Travers’ eyes as he laughed and joked with Labouret, he was sure that Travers was enthralled by him. He struggled with jealousy, the green menace that threatened to rise up and devour him, but he fought it down. He was not the Earl of Bridgemont's son for nothing. He adopted his father's posture, stoic and impenetrable.

And that was another thing. He hadn't had sex with Travers since the Frenchman came on board. It was really hard to find a time and place to have an intimate encounter, truly challenging, but Travers wasn't even trying now. Granger fought back a tear and forced them out of his mind, and did what he'd done since he'd been a young child. He focused on his duty.

Granger approached the walking couple, practically getting mowed down in the process. “Begging your pardon sir, I'd like to make my rounds,” Granger said.

Travers looked at him, looked at him for the first time in a few days. All Granger could detect in his eyes was irritation at being interrupted. “Certainly Mr. Granger. Carry on.” He seemed anxious to be rid of him. They resumed their walk, and Granger strolled along the upper deck, looking for anything that needed to be secured.

Granger's eye traced the ropes up to the yards and was about to move on when he noticed something odd. The foot rope on the main top yard was moving strangely. That was the yard that he was on when he went aloft. He looked at a seaman next to him. “Pass the world for Mr. Dailey.” As the bosun, rigging was Dailey's responsibility. Dailey came up quickly.

“Look at the foot rope on the main top yard,” Granger told him. Dailey studied it then looked at him.

“Thanks for pointing that out Mr. Granger,” he said.

“I'd like to know how that rope parted,” Granger said. “I'm thinking that you were trying to set up for another near death experience so you could save me again.” He was mad at Travers, feeling rejected, so he salved his ego by flirting.

“I don't expect many would blame me if I had. On the other hand, perhaps you were setting yourself up?” Granger laughed loudly with Dailey, until they noticed Travers watching them. Granger headed back to the quarterdeck.

“Are you done amusing yourself Mr. Granger?” Travers asked, the Frenchman having since retired below.

“I didn't think you noticed what I was doing at all sir,” Granger said innocently. He saw Travers’ brows narrow in anger. Let him get pissed. Granger didn't care. “If you'll study the foot rope on the main top yard, you'll notice it seems to be cut.”

Travers turned his eyes upward and saw the rope moving unnaturally, but only briefly, because Dailey and his men were already on it. “That's the yard you're on when you're aloft,” he said.

“It is sir,” Granger said. He just stared at Travers, wanting to say so much more, but deciding not to. “Permission to go aloft and inspect the rope line sir?”

“Permission granted Mr. Granger,” Travers said crisply.