The Gunroom - 10. Chapter 10

Granger stared at his older brother, quickly taking in his uniform. He still had the uniform of a colonel, but it was not his old regiment, it was one of the King's Colonial regiments.

“You appear to be surprised to find me here,” Bertie said with his mischievous grin. Bertie had a playful demeanor, in fact with him, life was all about play.

“You might say that. The last time I saw you, you'd just insulted my superior officer and Father had disowned you.” Granger regretted the coldness in his voice. He felt a tension in the room behind him and glanced sideways to see Travers standing there.

“And that was truly reprehensible,” Bertie said, turning on the extreme charm he'd inherited from their mother. “Lieutenant, I really must apologize for that again. I could explain it away as being drunk, but it had more to do with just venting my rage at an easy target. It was inexcusable.”

Travers doffed his hat to acknowledge what he had said. “As I said before, please think nothing of it.”

“So you say. I fear my brother finds it harder to forgive,” Bertie said, looking at Granger. “I did put in a good word for you with His Royal Highness when I left, although I don't know how much good it will do.”

“You still haven't told me what you're doing here,” Granger said.

“And that, dear Georgie, is because I had to right a wrong first.” Granger rolled his eyes. “I sold my commission and bought another. I'm off to India, hopefully to make my fortune.”

“You already had a fortune,” Granger said.

“You are a most difficult person aren't you?” Bertie said, slightly irritated. “I knew when I left on Christmas that I’d fucked up. I know that I've been a fuck-up my whole life. So I've pulled myself together, given up gambling, perhaps not drinking though,” he said with that engaging smile.

Granger relented. “That's really wonderful Bertie. I'm sure you'll do well, a new adventure, the chance to do things on your own. It's the unconventional approach. It's you.”

“It is. I've spent my life trying to be Freddie when I'm not. You're the smart one. You found your own path, your own way. And now, I've finally found mine.” The two brothers looked at each other, a love passing between their eyes that had never been there before. For Granger, it was a love that came from seeing his older brother finally discover himself, and finally shed his self-destructive ways. For Bertie, the love came from someone finally able to give it, from someone who had finally figured out who he was.

“You still look like a lobster,” Granger teased, lightening the mood and ribbing Bertie over his red uniform.

“That's right, but watch out for the claws,” he said.

Granger thought of something else, something less pleasant. “Did you take your leave of Father before you left?”

Bertie sighed sadly. “No, but I did see Mother. I tried, Georgie, but he wouldn't see me. And don't blame him, please. He has no reason to believe that I've changed, that I'm different. I need to prove it to him. I know when I do that, we'll be alright again.” His earnestness was overwhelming.

“If you both live long enough,” Granger said fatalistically. “He's old, and India is dangerous.”

“And sailing around in these infernal ships is not?” Bertie countered, grinning. He got serious again. “Don't worry about such things George. If I don't come back from India, Father will know that I tried, and that will truly be enough for him to know that he did the right thing. And if he goes before I can see him, I'll know that at least I stopped embarrassing him, and that if I'm successful, he would have been proud of me, just like he is of you.”

“And Freddie,” Granger inserted.

“Perhaps he is proud of Freddie, he's a stand-up chap. But Freddie makes him nervous.”

Granger stared at him, stunned. “What are you talking about? Freddie's always been the apple of his eye.”

“You are so naïve George. Open your eyes. You are the apple of Father’s eye. Freddie goes through all the motions, does what he's supposed to do, but he has no soul, and cares for no one but himself. Father cares deeply for our people and tries to make their lot better. He knows Freddie won't do that, will squeeze them for every farthing he can get out of them.”

Granger was even more stunned. “How do you know all this? Did he tell you that?”

Bertie looked at him, frustrated. “George, don't be daft. Open your eyes. You have to see things beyond what people tell you. Bloody hell. It's so obvious.”

“I don't need your criticism,” Granger said indignantly.

“The hell you don't,” Bertie said, angry now. “What happens when you're in charge of your own ship, and some wily Frenchman or Spaniard tells you a lie? And they're not all gentlemen, especially this new breed of Frog, and especially when it's war. What happens then? Do you take that at face value, or do you look deeper? If you don't, you and your men, the people that trust you, will be dead.”

Granger digested and internalized what he said, ignoring Bertie's staring eyes. He was right of course. One had to look beyond mere words. “You're right Bertie; I guess I never thought about applying that in my own family.”

“Not to worry old boy, you'll have your hands full with Freddie while I'm over in India making myself the new Mogul.” Bertie impulsively gave him a hug, which Granger returned lovingly, only breaking it to avoid making a scene.

“I wish I would have seen this side of you before Bertie. The person you are underneath, the man there that isn't drunk, that doesn't have gambling debts that rival the Prince of Wales', the man that isn't trying to fuck every whore, that man is a truly honorable and brilliant man.”

“Now Georgie, I never said I was giving up whores,” Bertie said, making them laugh. “But thank you. Those words, coming from you, mean more to me than anything.”

“That's nice of you to say,” Granger said, and felt himself blush slightly.

“Oh now don't get so full of yourself,” Bertie teased. “It's not just because I love you, it's because you're the most like Father, and I know that if you appreciate me now, Father does too. He's just not in a position to say so, worrying that I'll lunge in and try to wrangle a couple of thousand pounds out of him.” That made them both laugh.

Granger returned to the Barracuda in an introspective mood, and was silent. The Captain and Travers chatted away with Bell, while Granger was deep in thought about what Bertie had said. He'd never thought he was like his father. The Earl was so aloof, so cold, so impersonal, while he was none of those things. Then Granger thought about the things the Earl had done for his people. How their servants in London had better quarters and better pay than most others, a fact the Earl had been chided for by other less-generous aristocrats. The care he took to replace dilapidated housing at Bridgemont and his other estates, and to make sure that all of his tenants had access to immunization for smallpox. The way he'd unbent around George when he left to join the Barracuda. Could it be that the stern façade was just that, a façade? He went back to his own berth in the ship, slightly drunk, definitely well fed, and very confused.

Granger's hope that he would get to see Bertie again on that voyage never materialized. The weather had been positively foul all the way to St. Helena, and once on that island they'd had little time to do anything but restock their water before they headed back to England.

October, 1792

His Britannic Majesty's Frigate Barracuda was fighting tumultuous seas again, but seas of a different nature. They were patrolling in the English Channel, where the narrowing channel forced the big Atlantic waves into a small funnel, making them smaller but choppier. It made for a rough ride. Their official mission was to watch for smugglers, but their real job was to save émigrés fleeing from the newly formed French Republic. The French were already fighting the Austrians and the Prussians, and now they'd decided to rid themselves of their King and had abolished the monarchy. As if to emphasize the rightness of this course of action, they'd thrashed the Austrians and Prussians at the Battle of Valmy at the end of September.

These convulsions convinced many aristocrats who had been waiting for things to improve that they were in fact getting worse, and that perhaps they were no longer safe in France. And that had precipitated a stream, then a torrent of refugees. At first they'd headed to Calais, but as the Republic cracked down on this exodus, they had to go to smaller villages and find fishing boats to take them out.

“Sail ho! Sail coming out of Le Crotoy!” The seaman on the main top had bellowed this alert, while simultaneously slaughtering the pronunciation of Le Crotoy. All the glasses on the deck flashed over to the harbor, where a small fishing boat was putting off from the shore.

“Deck there! There's another ship behind her. Looks like a cutter!” There was a collective sigh on the deck. That would be a French revenue cutter, designed to stop smuggling and escapes such as this one.

“Damn,” the Captain said. “Signal Tortoise to close with the fishing boat.” Tortoise was the British cutter detailed to help them out, the virtual twin of the French ship chasing the fishing boat. Bell's party sent the signal flags flying up the mizzen mast. “Mr. Preston, alter course to close in and support them.” This was a dangerous business. They could not interfere until the fishing boat was in international waters.

All the officers were on deck, even Dr. Morris, with telescopes trained on the three ships close in. Tortoise had closed to within three miles of the coast, a visible signal of the distance the fishing boat would have to achieve. Granger thought she might be a little inside that limit, but it was impossible to know for certain. The fishing boat clapped on all the sail she could, surging ahead. They held their breath, hoping that no spars would give way. The French cutter did likewise, increasing her speed as well.

The fishing boat was almost up to Tortoise when they heard a dull thud. “The Frog has fired on the boat sir,” Dacres observed. She fired again as the fishing boat closed with the Tortoise, but that didn't stop the French cutter. She fired again. “She's going to hit the Tortoise!”

And then a collective gasp as the main mast of the Tortoise bowed, and then collapsed. “Bloody Hell,” said the Captain. “Mr. Preston, get the topsails shaken out. Mr. Travers, clear away your bow chaser. We'll see how good your shooting is.”

Granger felt the Barracuda heel over as the extra sails powered her forward. “Ready sir,” he heard Travers from the bow.

“Warning shot across the Frog's bows,” called the Captain. Granger heard the sharp sound of the nine pounder as it fired its ball at the Frenchman. The ball sailed right across her bow. That was good shooting. They had expected the Frenchman to luff at that, but on she went. She was only a cable's length away from the Tortoise and the fishing boat, which were grappled together. Instead, the Frenchman fired again, the shot crashing into Tortoise.

“Mr. Travers, hole that bastard if you can.” He turned to Preston. “Man the starboard guns, load and run out.” Travers fired again but the shot fell short this time.

“Aye aye sir,” said Preston. Granger rushed down to the gun deck to assist Dacres. The men were pissed off at seeing a British ship fired on like that, so they needed no encouragement.

“Fire as you bear Mr. Dacres,” they heard the Captain call.

“Alright lads, on the uproll...” Dacres said, waiting for the starboard side to rise with the waves. “Fire!” Barracuda loosed her broadside and the impact was immediate. Granger looked through one of the ports and saw the beautiful little cutter turned from a graceful sailing ship into a wreck. That French Captain was a fool, exposing such a fragile ship as a cutter to a frigate. It would have been lucky to survive one or two direct hits from the 18 pounders, much less a whole broadside.

“Secure the guns!” The Captain yelled, so Granger left Clay and Dacres and headed up on deck. “Mr. Preston, clear away the launch and my gig. Take a party to assist the Tortoise. Mr. Bell, take the gig and try and pick up survivors from that cutter.” They turned to look at the French cutter. She was broaching to, her weed-encrusted bottom visible now. There were men scrambling around, trying to find something to float on. They wouldn't last long in these frigid waters. By the time the boats had swung out and the gig got there, there was no sign of the French cutter. Still, Granger saw Bell pick up a few survivors.

Time seemed to move in slow motion then. There was a party aboard the Tortoise rigging a jury mast to get sails on her. Bell had taken the gig over to the Tortoise to help as well, and now they saw Preston coming back in it. He mounted the side briskly and reported to the Captain.

“Well Mr. Preston?” asked Sir Evelyn.

“Sir, the Tortoise took a shot in the hull but we just about have that patched. The other one, the one that dismasted her, killed her Captain. There's a master's mate left, and a midshipman who's pretty raw, begging your pardon sir.” Preston took a breath. Granger had never seen the man so animated and excited. “We'll have sail on her within the hour.” They all looked at the cutter to see the progress on the jury rigged main mast and decided that was entirely possible. “The fishing boat captain wants to go, sir. He says he was chartered to bring people away. Begging your pardon sir, but I was thinking maybe we could release him along with the four Frenchies we saved.”

“And the passengers?” The Captain asked.

“The boat was chock full of 'em sir. It had 15 people crammed in, women and children too.”

“Very well. Mr. Preston, take command of the cutter. Your orders are to take her and the passengers to Portsmouth. You can release the fishing boat as you outlined. Was anyone else injured?”

“A couple of the men have wounds, but nothing serious.”

“Excellent,” said the Captain. “Then you already have a crew. You can send the boats and men back when you return.”

Preston stopped for a minute and looked at the Captain. “Thank you sir. Thank you for the command.” This was the surest way for promotion, to be appointed to the command of a prize, or in this case, a ship that had lost her Captain.

“You've earned it Mr. Preston. Good luck to you. Now hurry on or we'll all be on the rocks.” The Captain was clearly not into long goodbyes. It took a long time for the launch and gig to come back with their weary crews. Bell came up and reported to the Captain.

“We're back sir.”

“Clearly,” said the Captain, with a smile. “Mr. Travers!”

“Yes sir!”

“You will assume the duties of First Lieutenant until Mr. Preston returns.”

“Aye aye sir.” Travers grinned, a huge grin. This was a big step, the First Lieutenant was second only to the Captain, and was in charge of the details of running the ship. Granger smiled at him, full of pride.

“Mr. Bell, you will assume the duties of Third Lieutenant.”

“Thank you sir,” Bell said crisply, but couldn't hide his grin. No one could. Bell was universally popular.

“Looks like you're the senior midshipman now Mr. Granger,” the Captain said.

“Yes sir. I'd better learn the signals then,” Granger said, jesting. The senior midshipman was in charge of the signals.

January 22, 1793

Granger paced the deck with Travers on their watch as was customary now. The ship was in a festive mood, as Bell had completed his examination for Lieutenant and had passed with flying colors. Mr. Preston had been appointed to command the Tortoise, his own command, the thing every naval officer longed for. It seemed that good things happened to Barracuda and her officers.

“Have you heard from your brother?” Travers asked.

“Yes sir. I got a letter from him. He made it to India and seems to really like it. He didn't have much to say, although he's drinking less. It sounds as if he has a handle on his life.”

“How is Mr. Fletcher fitting into the Midshipman's berth?” Travers asked. Fletcher was the new midshipman the Captain had brought on board, the son of a Post Captain and friend of Sir Evelyn's.

“He's a nice enough bloke sir. He's so rigid about rules he's a bit of a dud to be with.” Granger had never met someone more uptight. He and Clay had had to be careful about trading blow jobs; Fletcher would never understand that. “He's a bit young too; I don't think he's even started puberty. And he's a bit ugly.” That was an understatement. Fletcher was flat out ugly. “But he attends to his duty, is tidy, and watches out for his mates.”

“I should be happy he's ugly,” Travers joked.

“You have nothing to worry about sir. I see us as old, retired sea dogs, living in the country, growing old together.” Granger chuckled as he said it, and Travers chuckled with him.

“Only your idea of a retirement home would probably look like Blenheim Palace,” Travers teased.

A ship's boy came up to them. “Mr. Granger, the Captain would like to see you.” Travers smiled at him and nodded, and Granger fled downstairs, excited. It had been a couple of weeks since the Captain had last asked to see him. Granger tried to tell himself that Travers was enough, but the Captain had a mystical charm about him, something that drew Granger in. He'd never tried to fuck Granger despite the one hint he'd dropped, but Granger didn't care.

He found the Captain in his cabin, stark naked this time. That was a rarity, he was usually partially dressed. “I was hoping you'd be willing to work your magic Mr. Granger.”

“Yes sir. I was hoping you'd want me to,” Granger said as he knelt next to him, taking in his entire body. Granger started at his nipples, surprising the Captain, who'd expected him to just latch onto his cock. But he was naked, and Granger wanted to explore his physique. He had hair on his chest and his abdomen, not a lot, just the right amount for a man to have. Granger sucked and licked his nipples, and felt the Captain's hand on his head pulling him in, encouraging him.

The Captain never tried to kiss him, or hug him, or touch him, other than putting his hand on Granger's head or face or neck. Granger understood that was the limit of his affection, and adjusted his expectations, so when the Captain massaged his head, it was the same as a passionate kiss in his mind. He moved down the Captain's abdomen, nuzzling his belly button, kissing his body along the way, until he got to the Captain's huge straining cock.

Granger took the massive tool and rubbed the shaft across his cheek, his lips, his nose, looking up at the Captain in a sensuous way. The Captain smiled at him and pulled him in, pulling him onto his cock, demanding his oral attention, something Granger was only too happy to provide. He worked the Captain, easing up on him when he got close, despite the Captain's attempts to bring this to a quick conclusion. He was obviously very horny. Finally Granger brought him off. The Captain groaned loudly and began shooting his load into Granger's mouth. Granger tried to swallow it all, but it was too much, and he couldn't help but let some drip out.

“That was marvelous as usual,” the Captain said smiling.

“I'm glad you liked it, sir. I know I did,” Granger said.

“Did you? I feel guilty sometimes, like I'm taking advantage of you, that you're just a boy.” The Captain had never talked to him like this before, never opened up like that.

“Begging your pardon sir, but I'm not a boy, I'm a man.” Granger said this with a little cheek, but it was true. He'd had another growth spurt, his voice had deepened, he'd gotten hairier, and his dick had even gotten a little bigger. He had completed the change into a man. Certainly, he'd fill out more as he made it into his 20s, but that was just icing on the cake.

“Yes you are. I'm sorry about that.”

“No problem sir. And I really like doing this sir. I love the way you smell, the way you taste. It's really erotic sir. I was kind of disappointed these last few weeks when you haven't called for me.”

The Captain shook his head. “I keep telling myself this is wrong, that I'm taking advantage of you, that you're only doing this because I'm your senior officer. I decided that I couldn't keep doing that to you.”

“Sir, you're not taking advantage of me. I'm enjoying this at least as much as you are,” Granger said sincerely, and looked the Captain right in the eye when he said it. The Captain gently stroked Granger's cheek, his soft skin that despite his manliness showed very few whiskers. His hand slipped gently behind Granger's head and pulled him in closer so their mouths met, their lips, and they kissed. It was electric; a shockwave flew through Granger's body. He never imagined that a kiss could be so intense.

“Go back up on deck before I decide to fuck you,” the Captain said to Granger, his voice soft and husky now.

“I want you to fuck me sir. I want you to fuck me so bad,” Granger said so softly that he breathed the words into his ear.

The Captain seemed to get control of himself. “Well, not today in any event.” Granger was clearly being dismissed.

“Yes sir,” he said, smiling, straightened his hard cock, and headed back up on deck. Travers was waiting for him, almost giggling.

“Wipe your mouth off you fool. You've got cum dripping from the corner.”

Granger hurriedly wiped his mouth, glad no one had seen him. “I'm sorry sir. Thank you.”

“Did you have fun?” Travers asked. Travers noticed a marked increase in enthusiasm on Granger's part when they fucked after he'd been with the Captain. The Captain got him all fired up, and Travers fucked him to their mutual satisfaction. It seemed to work for everyone.

“Deck there! Boat putting off from the shore!” Their telescopes flashed over to the shore where a boat, no bigger than their own launch, lifted its lugsail and headed out to the Barracuda. Travers looked at Granger but said nothing, Granger knew what to do. Granger rushed down to alert the Captain.

The Marine nodded and knocked, and Granger entered. He found the Captain at his desk in his day cabin. “Back already Mr. Granger? I fear I am too old, I don't have that much energy.”

“Begging your pardon sir, but I'll bet you do,” Granger teased, “but that's not why I'm here. There's a boat putting off from the shore sir, a small craft.”

The Captain nodded and moved around the desk and made to leave, then he stopped. He reached out and grabbed Granger, pulling him to him, pulling their bodies together, and pulling him into a kiss. Only this time, Granger felt his lips part and felt the Captain's tongue enter his mouth, strong and commanding. Then he caught himself and pulled himself away.

“You are dangerous Mr. Granger. There's something incredibly sexy about you, something that transcends gender.”

“Thank you sir, but I'm hardly dangerous. Unless I don't make you feel good?” Granger was being coquettish, primarily because his hormones were on overload from first the blow job and now that amazing kiss.

“Too good. And now we have our duty to do.” Granger followed him up to the deck. The small boat was much closer now, and there was a man waving frantically in the back of it.

“Heave to Mr. Travers,” he ordered.

“Aye aye sir,” Travers said, and put the crew through the evolutions required to heave to. The boat came up to their lee side, clumsily taking in its sail. A man came through the entry port, a short man wearing an impressive suit of clothes.

He strode toward the quarterdeck with tears flowing down his face. “They have done it monsieur. Those dogs have done it!” He was quite beside himself.

“I am Sir Evelyn Fellowes of His Britannic Majesty's Frigate Barracuda,” said the Captain in his finest French, determined to force this man to gain his decorum.

“I am the Marquis de St. Cyr,” said the man.

“It is a pleasure to meet you monsieur,” said the Captain. “Now what have they done?”

“They have killed the King. Regicide. They have cut off his head, guillotined him.” Granger stared at the man horrified. It was one thing to launch a Revolution, declare a republic, but to execute God's anointed King? Granger himself had a less intense view of that than most people on the Continent, so if he was horrified, the world would be in convulsions.

“You have my sympathies monsieur. This is truly horrible news,” said the Captain.

“I witnessed it myself,” the Marquis said, and began sobbing again. “Then I got a horse and rode for the coast as fast as I could.”

“We must escort you to England,” the Captain said. “What of your boat?”

“It is not my boat, it is stolen,” the Marquis said. Granger took time to be impressed with this aristocrat who managed to steal and sail a small boat out here on his own.

“Mr. Travers, cast off that boat. Call the watch. We'll get as much sail on her as she can stand.” The hands came running up the shrouds and loosed the mainsails and then the topsails. Barracuda heeled over with the incredible force, and Granger cringed as he watched the masts bend with the strain, but everything held on. “Mr. Dailey, make sure nothing carries away aloft!”

“Aye aye sir,” said Dailey, although he was doing that anyway.

The Captain turned to them. “What does this mean sir?” asked Bell. Geopolitics was not his forte.

“It means, Mr. Bell, that we will be at war with France in short order.” Bell gasped. The Barracuda flew like the wind as far as Gravesend, where the wind and tide finally turned against them.

“Mr. Granger, take the Marquis ashore and commandeer a carriage, horses, whatever you need, and get to the Admiralty as quickly as you can.”

“Aye aye sir,” Granger said. A boat was lowered and rowed them ashore. The men seemed to sense the urgency, really putting their backs into it.

Granger went to the local post and commandeered two horses, not without some difficulty, and they galloped to the Admiralty at such a speed Granger was worried the horses would drop from exhaustion.

An orderly greeted them, eying them curiously, this spruce midshipman and disheveled Frenchman. “I must see Lord Chatham at once,” Granger said.

“His lordship is busy,” the orderly said.

“You will tell him that George Granger brings urgent news from Sir Evelyn Fellowes,” Granger said, glaring daggers at the poor man.

“Yes sir,” the orderly said, and led them though the hallowed halls. A quarter of an hour later, they were led into the First Lord's office.

“Well Granger, what in God's name is so urgent to interrupt my schedule.” he said, clearly irritated.

“My lord, this is the Marquis of St. Cyr. He witnessed the execution of King Louis XVI.”

Lord Chatham stared at him. “Good God. They actually did it.” He rang a bell and a secretary came in and he began rapping out orders. He finally seemed to remember that Granger and the Frenchman were there, still at attention.

“Granger, I want you to go back to your ship. I'll have you floated down in a barge. Tell Sir Evelyn to report here immediately.” He glanced at his desk. “Have him bring this Lieutenant Travers back with him. He's the one with a passion for ordnance, right?”

“Yes my lord.”

“Good. And you come with him too, if for no other reason than you can see your father. It will keep him off my back for a bit.”

“Yes my lord.” Granger bowed gracefully and left the office as quickly as he could, leaving the unfortunate Marquis there for Lord Chatham to worry about. The Admiralty barge zipped down the Thames, aided by the current and the tides, a much faster and smoother journey than the ride up.

The Captain seemed surprised to see him. “Well Mr. Granger, did you stop and have tea with Lord Chatham?” he teased.

“No sir.” Granger suddenly realized he hadn't had anything to drink for quite a while. “But he did instruct me to find you and tell you to report to the Admiralty, and he requested that you bring Mr. Travers and me along.”

“You?” asked the Captain.

“Yes sir,” said Granger, embarrassed. “So I can see my father.” The Captain laughed, and then called for Travers and Dacres.

“Mr. Travers, you are to accompany us to the Admiralty. Mr. Dacres, you have the ship. It is my opinion that we will be at war shortly, so act accordingly. No one is to set foot ashore.”

“Aye aye sir.”

“We leave in 15 minutes,” the Captain said, giving them a chance to change into their good uniforms. In addition to that, Granger packed a small kit to take along and rushed up on deck to make sure he wasn't late.

“What's Lord Chatham want with me?” Travers asked Granger.

“He asked if you were the one who was into ordinance sir,” Granger said.

The Captain just sat there, smiling. “Sir?” Travers asked. The Captain ignored him.

They arrived at the Admiralty just as it was getting dark, but the lights from the building blazed. Of course it would be a beehive of activity. The three of them sat in an ante room, waiting for thirty minutes before his lordship was ready to see them.

“Sir Evelyn, so good to see you,” said Chatham in a friendly manner. “I see Granger managed to find his way back to the ship.”

“Yes my lord,” said the Captain. “It is good to see you as well.”

“This means war of course,” Chatham said perfunctorily.

“I suspected as much my lord.” The Captain was being very calm.

“I want you to complete with stores and wait, ready to sail, at the Nore. As soon as war is declared, I want you out there in the Bay of Biscay. You'll be a cruiser, looking for privateers and the odd prize as well.” Chatham smiled, and so did the rest of them. This was the most lucrative time, the beginning of the war. To have command of a frigate in the Bay of Biscay was almost a sure windfall.

“Aye aye my lord. How long do you think it will take for war to be announced?”

“A week at most,” Chatham said. He eyed the other two. “We'll be putting the fleet on a war footing, as you might expect. I'm wondering if you can spare your first lieutenant.”

“For what purpose my lord?” The Captain asked.

Chatham turned to Travers. “I'm giving you the Vesuvius, a bomb ketch. Your love of gunnery should serve you well there.” Granger looked at Travers and saw his face light up. His own command. He'd never thought this day would come, and yet it had.

“Please allow me to be the first to congratulate you,” Sir Evelyn said to Travers.

“Thank you my lord, Sir Evelyn,” Travers said, nodding to each.

“You'll report here at 10:00am for your orders,” Chatham said. “That leaves you short a lieutenant,” he said to the Captain. “There's a list of experienced lieutenants available, some you even know.”

“Mr. Dacres is well able to fill the role of First Lieutenant, and Mr. Bell has shown himself to be competent. If it's all the same to you my lord, I'd like to promote from within my crew,” said the Captain.

“Very well,” said Chatham. Granger felt there was a dance going on around him and that he wasn't supposed to be there watching it.

“I'd like to promote Mr. Granger my lord,” continued the Captain. Granger gasped and looked at him. He was a full eight months away from his six years.

“You think he's ready eh?” Chatham said. Granger got the feeling that he was being played with now.

“Yes my lord,” said Travers impulsively, then shut up. Chatham looked at him curiously.

“Mr. Granger has shared watches with Mr. Travers, so he is very aware of Mr. Granger's skills,” intervened Sir Evelyn.

“Very well. You're not up for a commission until August are you?” asked Chatham.

“No my lord,” Granger said.

“Well, we'll appoint you as an acting Lieutenant and you can take the examination before then. I'll see that your appointment is confirmed, assuming you pass, on that date.”

“Thank you my lord,” Granger said. He knew that he was drinking that lucky cocktail of influence and timing.

“There's an examination day after tomorrow, if you feel ready,” he added.

“Yes my lord,” said Granger.

“Very well. You can return here with Mr. Travers in the morning and I'll have someone give you the details.”

“Thank you my lord,” they said, and then left.

“Do you have a place to stay in London tonight sir?” Granger asked the Captain.

“Yes, thank you Mr. Granger. I'll see you aboard the Barracuda in four days time, and I expect you to pass that exam.”

“Yes sir,” said Granger.

“I don't know how to thank you sir,” Travers said to the Captain.

“Now that you have your own command, you'll understand the sheer joy of rewarding skilled subordinates,” the Captain said. “I wish you luck Travers. I hope our paths cross often.”

“As do I sir.” said Travers. And then the Captain was gone, vanishing into a waiting coach. Granger looked around and saw another coach pull up and smiled. It was too dark to see the color clearly, but the Bridgemont coat of arms was as much a part of him as his own arm. Chatham must have alerted his father that he was in town. He hopped in, dragging Travers with him.

“We'll be separated now,” Granger said sadly.

“I know. That's the only fly in the ointment. We'll have to enjoy the next day or two, and hope for the best,” Travers said. Granger felt his eyes water but bit back the tears. Granger men did not cry, not even when they were being separated from the people they loved the most.