The Gunroom - 13. Chapter 13

The Vesuvius was prowling about in the Bay of Biscay, looking for the Barracuda, and looking for enemy ships. Travers and his crew weren't too disappointed at this diversion from Gibraltar, because this was a rich hunting ground for prizes. No one had to tell the lookouts to be observant.

In fact, the whole thing would have seemed like a pleasant yachting cruise if it weren't for the crappy weather and the constant drills Travers put his men through. Granger knew that they cursed him behind his back, but he also knew that they'd be thanking him if and when Vesuvius went into action.

Today, Granger was getting a tour of the mortars, something they'd had to put off because of the training, the weather, and the need to fuck constantly in their spare time.

“They look like big cauldrons,” Granger observed amateurishly.

“Actually, they do. And you almost use them like that. You measure out a charge, measure the fuse for the shell, light it, put it in, and then fire the mortar.” Travers was clearly entranced by these monstrous things.

“Sounds easy.”

“Well, it sounds easy, but it really isn't. The size of the charge determines the range, largely, since the shells fire in an arc. And the length of fuse determines when it explodes. Too long, and it will land and someone may have time to put it out. Too short, and it will explode before it reaches the target.”

Granger noticed the huge beams used to support the mortars. “They must have quite a recoil for all of that wood.”

“Look around. Everything is bigger than you'd expect. She's technically a brig, or maybe a sloop, but she has the scantlings of a frigate.” They toured around some more, and Granger noticed what he said. The beams were massive for a ship this size.

“Sail ho! Sail ho on the starboard quarter,” came a cry from the masthead. That ended the tour. They charged back to the quarterdeck and retrieved their telescopes, aiming them astern.

“Is it the Barracuda?” Ballvin asked.

“Lord no Mr. Ballvin,” Yule said, chuckling. “Look at the cut of her sails. She ain't no frigate. And look how white they are. Those are new sails.”

“A Frenchman,” Granger said to Travers. Snow white sails usually weren't too common on a Royal Navy vessel, where everything was used and re-used.

“Luff a bit,” Travers said to the helmsman. They slowed their progress. If it was a merchantman, she'd make a nice prize. If not, well, then they had a problem.

“Deck there! Ship rigged 12 ports a side! She's a Corvette sir!” Shit. The officers on the deck looked at each other in despair.

“Hands aloft! Set the topsails!” Travers yelled. “Bring her back onto the larboard tack helmsman!”

“Aye aye sir!” he said, and swung the Vesuvius back on track, letting the wind fully catch her sails.

“Think she can handle the royals?” Granger asked.

Travers looked up at the sails, and then at the Frenchman, whose hull was now visible from the deck. “I don't think so.” Granger watched him as he looked nervous, and then calmness came over Travers’ face. Then a brief grin.

“Mr. Granger, please have your crew go below. I don't want to see a single Barracuda.”

Granger looked at him curiously, and then grinned. Travers had a plan, a good plan. “Mr. Yule, gather our men below on the main deck. I'll address them shortly.”

“Aye aye sir,” he said, and rounded up the men, rushing them below.

“So you mean to board her?” Granger asked.

“I do. She won't be expecting a bomb vessel to have so many men over complement. We'll try to escape, and then when she's up to us, I'll lay her all aback. That will be when we have to pray. I'm betting she'll try and sweep in close to either disable us or board us.”

“But we'll be all aback,” Granger observed.

“We tested this yesterday. With the jib boom, we can right her faster than any ship in the fleet.” Granger was skeptical of Travers' assertion there, but didn't interrupt him. “Then we'll hammer her with a broadside, grapple her, and take her by boarding.”

“We'll take a pounding before that happens,” Granger said.

“Then those thick timbers, thick as a frigate's, will come in handy.” Granger nodded. “Make sure you have your men armed, and distribute cutlasses to the crew of the Vesuvius as well.”

“Aye aye sir,” Granger said with a smile. He went below to make sure arms were distributed, and explained to his men what was expected of them. They were in good spirits, the challenge of action stimulating these veteran sailors.

Granger went back on deck to study the chase, and found the French Corvette considerably closer. “She's a good sailer,” Granger observed.

“Aye. She's fast as a race horse. But she's slow in stays. She tacked a few minutes ago. It's her crew. They're all lubbers,” Travers said.

Time seemed to move in slow motion after that, with the Frenchman approaching them, from astern. She was a beautiful craft, with three masts and a flush deck, carrying 20 guns at least. Vesuvius should be no match for her. But that didn't take into account the experience and determination of Travers and his crew, or the 50 extra men and marines on board.

There was a puff of smoke from the front of the French ship, and a ball passed overhead, well within range. The tricolor flag rose to her staff.

“Run up the colors Mr. Chilton,” Travers said to his midshipman. “Mr. Granger, you may want to advise your men to lie down. We're about to be raked.”

“Aye aye sir.” He ran below. “Lie down! Lie down all of you!” Granger felt a hand push him down, Ballvin's hand, dragging him onto the deck too.

“What are you doing Mr. Ballvin?” Granger asked, irritated.

“We'll need you alive sir,” he said. Then he heard the sound of the Frenchman's cannon, the loud explosions of gunpowder, followed by the crash as the shots smashed into the hull. Splinters flew through the air above him. Granger was sure he could feel the heat of a ball as it flew past him. There were screams as some of the balls found their mark.

“Mr. Ballvin, attend to the wounded. Lads,” he said raising his voice, “it's almost our turn!” He headed up to the deck in time to see Travers manage this, the most delicate part of the evolution.

The Frenchman had fired her broadside and was sweeping up alongside her, close in, to board. It was perfect. “Ready with those carronades,” Travers ordered. One of them had been smashed to pieces by that broadside. He gauged the timing, standing there looking magnificent.

“Alright, helm a' larboard!” Travers picked up the speaking trumpet. “Sheet home the jib!” The sail appeared magically, and the reaction from Vesuvius was immediate. She swung slightly toward the Frenchman, now presenting her broadside to the Frenchman’s unprotected bow. “FIRE!” he yelled, and the carronades blasted their deadly balls, packed with canister shot. Granger watched as the broadside wiped the waiting French boarders off her bow like flies.

The Frenchman's bow crashed into Vesuvius and one of the carronades, reloaded by an incredibly fast gun crew, sent another ball into the crowd. “At 'em lads!” Travers yelled, waving his sword and charging to the bow of the French ship. Granger was with him, jumping up and grabbing the Frenchman's shrouds, then lowering himself onto the deck. There were seamen behind him, charging forward. They were met by the crew of the Frenchman, fighting back, slipping over the blood of their dying comrades killed by Vesuvius' cannonade. .

Granger saw a seaman charge at him with a pike and parried it to the side then slashed at the man with his sword, slicing open his face. The man screamed and dropped his pike, and Granger ran him through with his sword. Another man killed, he thought sadly. He put that out of his mind. He felt a bullet fly past him and heard a scream behind him as it hit one of their men. They were slashing and thrusting, trying to fight their way through to the quarterdeck, but they were outnumbered, and they were starting to waver. He watched Travers, an agonizing look of someone who feared defeat, fight on bravely. He saw a French seaman slash at Travers and slice into his left arm, saw blood on his uniform where the blade had cut him, but Travers pressed on.

“Barracudas follow me!” Granger heard. It was Yule. His men had poured up from below and onto the Frenchman's deck. The surge of men flew past him, and then, formed up on the Frenchman's foredeck, were his small squad of marines. They moved forward, their muskets belching bullets, their bayonets already fixed and ready. It was too much for the Frenchmen. They threw down their weapons and surrendered.

Granger knelt next to Travers, who had collapsed on the deck, and ripped off part of his shirt to wrap around his arm. “John, we've taken her! You've done it!”

Travers smiled up at him and then passed out from the loss of blood. “You there,” Granger said, pointing at a seaman. “Tie this tight and take him back to the ship, to the surgeon.” Yule had done a great job of rounding up the French prisoners, but here was the Captain, a young, handsome man.

“I present to you my sword, monsieur,” he said sadly.

Granger bowed slightly, a sign of honor. “You and your gallant crew fought bravely monsieur. I bid you to keep your sword, assuming of course I have your word you will not attempt to use it against us.” He smiled, and got a brief grin from the young Frenchman, but only a brief one.

“You have my word. I am Cotentin,” he said, bowing gracefully.

“George Granger,” he said, bowing again. “And now Captain, we must attend to our wounded. After that, I will ask you to retire to your cabin.” The next two hours were spent collecting the wounded and getting them to the orlop deck, with the French surgeon and the Vesuvius' surgeon working overtime.

The French vessel, Intrepide, was a joy to command. She had to sail under reefed topsails to avoid outpacing the clumsy Vesuvius. Granger had taken command of her and brought the seamen from the Barracuda aboard the Intrepide. They had about a hundred French prisoners below, including the Captain, guarded diligently by the marines and a few seamen. He boarded the Vesuvius' gig and headed over to confer with Travers.

Travers was in his cabin, still lightheaded. Granger was glad to see that he had recovered this much in the six hours since the battle. “He'll be alright sir,” said the surgeon. “Lost a lot of blood, but he's young and strong, so he'll be up shortly.”

“Thank you Doctor,” Granger said, dismissing him. Then he knelt next to Travers and gently and lovingly kissed him.

“I'll be fine George. Just a flesh wound,” Travers said, sensing his concern. “Take the Intrepide back to England.”

“What about you?” Granger asked, concerned.

“I'll be fine. I have orders for Gibraltar, so that's where I'm going.”

“You should return with me. You'll be lauded as a hero!” Granger couldn't believe Travers wouldn't return to England after such a battle.

“No. Now get our prize back and fatten our purses. Don't force me to make it an order,” he said, partly joking, partly not. “Send for my secretary. I just finished dictating my report and I need to sign it so you can carry it back with you.”

Granger passed the word for Travers' secretary, a mousy looking man, who came in with the written report, along with a pen and ink for Travers to sign. After Travers signed it, the secretary bundled up a copy for Granger to take, and then left them alone again.

“I can't believe this is goodbye again,” Granger said sadly.

“We thought last time was goodbye, and look what happened. I love you George. Remember that.” He was struggling to get up but Granger pushed him back.

“I love you too.” Then he kissed him once more and headed up to the deck and back to the Intrepide, fighting back the tears bravely. They piped him aboard with the honors due a master and commander, making him smile and erasing his bad mood.

“Mr. Yule, let's get some canvas on her. Take out the reefs in the topsails.” Granger said, eying his new command.

“Aye aye sir!” Yule began rattling out orders and the seamen poured up the shrouds and onto the yards. Granger watched as the sails were sheeted home, and noticed an immediate difference as she sprang to life. Released from her consort, she flew through the sea. It was heaven.

“Mr. Ballvin, you are in charge of the prisoners. See that they are fed, and that they get a couple of hours of fresh air every day.”

“Aye aye sir,” he said. Night came shortly after that, and the exhausted crew found places to sleep on the hard decks. Yule came up to him and saluted.

“We need to divide the watches. I'll take the first one, you get some sleep. Are there any hammocks?”

Yule looked around. “I don't think the lads need them now, they're right bushed. But I'll look around. I'll relieve you in four hours.”

“Very well,” Granger said, and dismissed him. It didn't matter though. Yule came up to relieve him but he stayed on deck, rigging himself a chair to sit on. He dozed in and out of sleep, always alert.

Dawn came slowly. Granger noticed that first he could see the deck clearly, and then the sails, and then the sun, a huge orange orb, began to rise in the east. “Sail ho!” came the cry from the masthead. “Ship close in on the starboard bow.”

Granger looked at Yule. He was about to order the helm over to make a run for it when the lookout hailed again. “Sir! It's the Barracuda!” That woke the men up, and they began cheering.

“Heave to Mr. Yule,” Granger said with a smile. He glanced aft to make sure the flags were in place, British colors over French. The Barracuda approached cautiously, as Granger suspected she would. Her guns run out and hove to a cables length away, Granger had a chance to admire his ship once again. Sometimes she was a thing of beauty, but here, with her guns run out, she was an object to inspire fear.

The Barracuda's cutter rowed swiftly toward them, with Bell in the stern. Granger went to the side and waved his hat at him to let him know all was well. Bell gave him a huge grin and waved his hat back. He boarded quickly, followed by another party of seamen designed to forestall any potential problems he might find aboard.

“What have you done George? Gone and captured a sloop in your launch?” Bell teased.

“Someone's got to pick up prizes,” Granger chided back.

“The Captain will want to see you directly,” Bell said, and nodded toward the cutter. Granger saluted and left Bell in charge, then boarded the boat and headed back to Barracuda. He climbed her side, so fatigued he thought he'd fall back into the sea, but managed to climb aboard, saluting the quarterdeck. He saw the Captain smile, along with the other officers and all the men on deck. Then they started cheering. Granger felt like he had come home. It was incredibly pleasing to know that these men were happy to see him.

“Well Mr. Granger, just exactly what have you been up to for the past four weeks?” the Captain said cheerfully. “You can tell me in my cabin. You can join me for breakfast.”

“Aye aye sir,” Granger said. “The French ship Intrepide is a prize sir. There are about a hundred French prisoners below. Bell may need some guards sir.”

“Captain Pears, take your marines over to the Intrepide. You can manage the prisoners for Mr. Bell.”

“Aye aye sir,” said Pears, resplendent in his uniform as usual. “It is good to see you back safely Mr. Granger.”

“Thank you Captain Pears,” Granger said, and then followed the Captain below. The Captain whispered something to his steward, and then sat with him at his huge dining table.

Granger went back to the encounter with the merchants, and explained what happened there. Then he recounted their stay in Portsmouth, their voyage on the Vesuvius, and their capture of the Intrepide. Food magically appeared while he was talking, yet somehow he managed to talk and eat at the same time. He was ravenously hungry.

“You've done very well Mr. Granger. I'm going to leave Bell in charge of the Frenchman for the voyage home. We need to get some fresh water and pick up our prize crews. We've been busy too, and I'm not sure the other officers will be able to hang onto our men as well as you did.”

“Thank you sir,” Granger said.

“Why don't you go get yourself cleaned up, a fresh uniform, and then I'll see you back here. You can use my desk to write out your report.” Granger stared at him. Writing a report? He'd never thought about that.

“Aye aye sir,” he said, standing up. The Captain moved toward him, and then enveloped him in his arms, and then his lips were on Granger's.

“I missed you,” he said to Granger as he broke the kiss. “I want to spend some time with you when you feel up to it.”

Granger smiled at him. “I'd like that very much sir. Better let me clean up first though.” He was aware that his body odor had moved from normal to pungent.

They rigged the wash deck pump on the main deck and gave him a shower with it, Granger dancing around in the cold seawater, stark naked, soaping himself off and then rinsing while the whole time the men hosing him down stood there grinning at him. After that, a little work with a sponge and some freshwater, and a clean uniform, and he looked almost as spruce as Captain Pears.

He reported to the Captain's cabin and found him in his sleeping cabin, waiting. They said nothing then. Granger pulled off his trousers and straddled him, grabbing the lube and slicking down the Captain’s cock, then absorbing him inside. He felt a pang of guilt and sadness, missing Travers, wishing it were him, but he put that aside. Travers knew he loved him, and he didn't expect him to be celibate.

“God, you feel so good,” the Captain said, rolling Granger onto his side and moving up behind him, reentering him from behind. Granger stretched back into him, feeling his strong body fucking him, his big dick moving in and out of him. Then he felt the Captain's hand exploring his body, tweaking his nipples, stroking his abdomen, and then Granger felt his hand on his dick. That wasn't something the Captain did, he usually treated Granger as a person to fuck and ignored his male appendage. “So good,” he cooed into Granger's ear. They writhed together, squirming on the cot as each moved to pleasure himself, and the other. Granger felt the Captain pick up his pace and stiffen, and felt the Captain's hand stroke his cock more quickly. Granger knew he was close, so he relaxed and threw his head back, giving himself permission to cum. And he did just that, they both did, in an incredibly intense and erotic orgasm.

The Barracuda and Intrepide glided into Portsmouth on a surprisingly calm day. March was a mercurial month, as Granger had discovered, one to be approached with caution. Sometimes there would be beautiful spring-like weather, and at other times there would be furious winter gales. They were lucky today, and in fact had been lucky for the entire voyage home.

“Mr. Granger,” called the Captain, pulling him away from his daydreams.

“Sir?”

“You will accompany me to see Sir Robert Stranger, and then you will be detailed to carry my reports to the Admiralty in London.”

“Aye aye sir,” said Granger promptly, and excused himself to go below and put on his best uniform and to pack up for the journey. He met the Captain at the entry port and got a dirty look for not beating him there. Granger shrugged internally. Perfection was an impossibility.

Sir Robert was considerably nicer this time, probably because the Captain was with him, and probably because he had brought another prize into port. The Intrepide would almost certainly be brought into the service and commissioned as a Royal Navy sloop of war, and as a new ship, and one designed by the French (and thus faster than a British ship), she'd be a plum appointment for a lucky captain. “It's good to see you Sir Evelyn. And you as well Mr. Granger.”

“Thank you Sir Robert,” the Captain replied for both of them. “I have copies of my report and those of Mr. Granger and Commander Travers for you. I had planned to dispatch Mr. Granger to London with copies for the Admiralty if that meets with your approval.”

Sir Robert turned his eyes on Granger and nodded. “Convenient to have a messenger,” he said. “I'll draft you a voucher for a post-chaise.” That would provide him with a private coach for his trip to London, at government expense.

Granger waited in the anteroom for his voucher and any additional dispatches that the Admiral may have. About half an hour later, the Captain came out with a sealed package and handed it to Granger. “Mr. Granger, we'll be in port for two weeks. I'll see you back here on March 28th.”

Granger grinned. Two weeks leave! “Thank you sir.”

“You've earned it. Please give my regards to your father and the Prince of Wales. Now off with you.”

“Aye aye sir,” Granger said, saluting smartly, and headed to hire the post-chaise and make his way to London. The trip was lonely, and Granger realized that his initial excitement was based on remembering his last trip to London with Travers. He sighed. Still, it would be good to see his parents, assuming they were there.

It was full night when they got to London, not the smartest time of day to arrive. The postilion had taken a bit of a detour to avoid some of the haunts of London where highwaymen were most likely to hold up a carriage, and handed Granger a pair of loaded pistols just in case. In the end, the caution was misplaced. Granger tipped him well and asked him to wait.

The lights were bright at the Admiralty. The nation's largest bureaucracy couldn't afford to rest now, at the beginning of a war when the fleet was still only partially mobilized. Granger found a secretary who seemed surprised to see anyone there, much less a primped up lieutenant. He didn't bother to say anything, just looked at Granger with a questioning look. Granger refused to respond to such rudeness.

“May I help you sir?” he finally said.

“I have dispatches from Portsmouth from Admiral Stranger,” Granger said forcefully. “I've brought them here by post.”

The clerk eyed him with a more appraising eye. Vouchers for post travel weren't given to just anyone, and they weren't given for no reason at all. And a communique from the Port Admiral at Portsmouth required immediate attention. “Very well sir. The First Lord will receive these as soon as possible. Can I please take your name, and where we can locate you?”

“Acting Lieutenant George Granger,” he said, waiting for the man to jot that down. “You can reach me at Bridgemont House.” The clerk looked up at him, confused. “Grosvenor Square, in Mayfair.”

He nodded. “Thank you sir. We'll send for you if we need you. Here's a receipt for your records.” Granger took the receipt and headed back out to the chaise for the quick ride to Bridgemont House. The house was mostly dark, and as Granger looked at his watch and noticed that it was 1am, he reasoned that was normal. He rapped on the door firmly. A footman answered the door, his mouth dropping at the sight of the youngest son returning from the sea.

“Welcome home sir!” he said. He rang the bell to summon help, then unloaded Granger's chest. Granger tipped the postie well, and then he was in the familiar hall with its ornate, blue décor. The footmen lit him up the stairs to his room, and made sure he had everything he needed before leaving him in peace once again, free to enjoy his soft bed. Yet he found that it was hard to sleep without the rocking motion of the sea, and realized that his life was no longer here, in this posh London mansion, but on the ocean.

March 15, 1793

A hand was shaking him, pulling him out of his pleasant slumber. “Sir, there's a message from the Admiralty, and his lordship requested that you join him for breakfast.” Granger practically leaped out of bed, throwing on his uniform, taking a few minutes to shave, and rushing downstairs. He smiled, his naval habits having served him well. He was out of bed and in the dining room in 15 minutes.

“George. What a pleasant surprise!” the Earl said, and Granger thought he put a lot of emotion into that welcome, and that was out of character.

“I'm glad you're pleased father. It is good to see you too!” he said, giving his father a hug that was actually warm. Granger felt as if he'd wandered into the wrong house last night. Franklin was there with a letter on a silver salver, the letter with the distinct admiralty seal. Granger forced himself to take it from the platter casually, and open it slowly.

“Lord Chatham wants me to attend him at 10am,” Granger said, glancing at the clock. One hour. He sat down at the table with his father and discovered that he was ravenously hungry. He began to shovel food in his mouth, getting a look from his father that told him his manners were bordering on crass.

“Your mother is at Bridgemont, but I would be glad of your company at dinner,” said the Earl.

“It would be my pleasure Father,” Granger said, smiling.

“The king asked about you,” he said. Granger raised his eyebrows at that. “He read about your capture of those merchantmen. Sir Evelyn praised you to the heavens for taking the initiative and grabbing that other French merchantman.”

“That was very thoughtful of him,” Granger said feebly. “I'll have to go with you to see him at his next audience.”

“That will be tomorrow then,” the Earl said. “You'd better have Franklin spruce up your uniforms for you.”

“Yes Father,” Granger said, and looked up at the clock. The earl smiled at his youngest son, sitting there on edge with all the energy of a young colt.

“You had better go. Can't keep Chatham waiting. Fellow’s grumpy enough these days as it is.” Granger smiled and stood up, remembering to do it slowly and deliberately, and walked calmly out of the room.

He reported to the Admiralty and checked in with the same clerk. The poor man must work long hours. In any event, he was considerably nicer this time around. Chatham only kept him waiting for ten minutes, and Granger figured that was pretty good for a mere acting-lieutenant.

“Well Mr. Granger, you certainly have been busy. You're turning Sir Evelyn into a very wealthy man.” The First Lord looked at him as he drawled out the words.

“Thank you my lord. I was just doing my duty.”

“The capture of this Intrepide was a nice piece of work.” He stared at Granger, looking for something, trying to see inside his mind.

“It was, my lord. Commander Travers thought up a beautiful plan and executed it perfectly. I'm only glad I was there to help out.” Granger was adamant that Travers get the credit for that action.

“He gives you a little more credit than that in his report,” Chatham said with a smile. “I'll want you to check in with me before you return to Portsmouth. I'll have some orders for Sir Evelyn.”

“Yes my lord,” Granger said, and stood at attention.

“In the meantime, you'll need to be sworn in. I'll have a clerk lead you around the maze that is this building.” Chatham was trying not to smile, which told Granger that something was up with this.

“Sworn in my lord?” If Chatham wanted him to seem confused, it was no problem, and no act.

“Yes. For your commission as lieutenant.” Chatham smiled slightly now.

“But my lord, I'm not eligible until August.” Granger knew the rules, and knew that it was almost unheard of to be appointed before the six years were up.

“Mr. Granger, the King has seen fit to offer you a commission as lieutenant. Are you going to accept it or not?” Chatham was being mockingly severe, knowing that Granger was only worried about naval tradition.

“Yes my lord. And thank you my lord.” He could blame it on the King, but this wouldn't have happened without Chatham's urging.

“You're welcome. Now I have other matters to attend to.” He rang a bell and an aide appeared as if by magic. Granger bowed slightly, and followed the aide. When he joined his father for dinner that night, he would no longer be an acting lieutenant. He would be Lieutenant George Granger, a commissioned officer.

For the past few months, there had always been the fear that a senior lieutenant would be posted to the Barracuda, and that he'd find himself stripped of his acting lieutenant status, and find himself back in the gunroom. Now there was no chance of that. Now when he returned to the Barracuda, he'd be a real member of the wardroom, not just a temporary guest. His life as a midshipman, his life in the gunroom, was now officially over.