The Wardroom - 18. Chapter 18

November, 1793

“Come on, it's just over this hill,” Granger insisted.

“I shouldn't be away from the ship,” Travers groused. Granger understood that Travers' ship was like his child, but he was being just a little ridiculous.

“Even captains are allowed an afternoon off. I want you to see this place.” Granger spurred his horse into a slow canter, forcing Travers to stop talking and focus on trying to keep up with him. Granger grinned to himself. Travers was at home on the water, but on horseback, he was only an adequate rider. Granger got to the top of the rise and pulled his horse in, waiting for Travers. Travers came up next to him and they gazed down into the lagoon, its beauty reminding one of what the Garden of Eden must have looked like. Granger winked at him and led them down to the place he'd been with Jeffers, nice and secluded.

“This place is paradise,” Travers said, dismounting. Granger started pulling off his clothes. “What are you doing?”

Granger grinned. “Well first you're going to fuck me, then we're going swimming, and then you're going to fuck me again.”

“Out here? In the open?” Travers asked, incredulous.

“Absolutely. Look at that audience,” Granger said, gesturing up at the trees sheltering them. Then he got down on all fours and stuck his ass in the air seductively. “Unless you don't want me?” Granger ran his fingers down his crack seductively, giggling at his own behavior.

“I want you,” Travers said, and began pulling his clothes off. He knelt behind Granger and ran his hands over Granger's tight cheeks, letting his fingertips graze over his lubed hole. Granger moaned and moved back into him, begging Travers to enter him. Travers lined his cock up and pushed in slowly, maddeningly slowly, chuckling as Granger wiggled and twisted his butt trying to absorb him more quickly. He slowly began moving in and out of Granger, savoring the feel of his tight hole, but it wasn't enough for Travers, it wasn't enough just to have his dick inside this man that he loved so much. He pulled Granger up so they were both kneeling, and pulled Granger back into his chest, using his arms to squeeze him, to hold him one minute, then to explore his awesome body with his hands the next.

“I love you so much it hurts,” Travers growled into Granger's ear, and nibbled on his ear and his neck, gently at first, then more roughly. Then, keyed up, he pushed Travers back down on all fours and began to fuck him hard and fast, picking up his pace until he was going as fast as he could, until he blasted his load into Granger. He kept his dick inside Granger and reached around to find Granger's throbbing cock pulsing, and with only a few strokes of his hand, Travers brought Granger to orgasm as well.

Travers knelt there, panting, enjoying the afterglow, but Granger wasn't having it. He moved forward, popping Travers' dick out of his ass. “Let's go swimming,” Granger said, getting up and preparing to run and jump in.

“Is it cold?” Travers asked skeptically.

“It's spring water,” Granger said in a reassuring manner, but not really answering the question. “Ready? On the count of three. One. Two. Three!” Travers grinned and tore after Granger and plunged in right next to him. Granger could see the shock on Travers' face when he hit the frigid water.

By the time they surfaced, Granger was laughing so hard he forgot how cold he was. “Fuck!” Travers yelled. “It's fucking cold!”

“Come here baby. I'll warm you up,” Granger said coquettishly, and wrapped himself around Travers just like he had Jeffers. Only this was so much better.

Travers grinned at him. He was finally relaxing, letting himself enjoy their time together. “You lied to me. It's fucking cold in here, and it's fucking cold outside.”

“I didn't lie to you. I said it was a spring. Spring water is cold. It's not my fault you don't know these things,” Granger teased back. “Do this,” Granger said, and dipped his head into the water and took a big drink. Travers followed.

“Now that is some good water. I don't know if I can handle this. I think I need to throw some mold in,” Travers joked. They floated in the water, laughing and joking, and making love even though the water was positively frigid. It was a clean couple, clean but shivering, that mounted their horses and returned to the Vesuvius.

December 18, 1793

“Wake up sir,” Winkler said, shaking him. “His lordship sent for you and Mr. Shafte.” Granger pulled himself unwillingly from his slumber. He'd been back for less than week, and he was already sick of this miserable siege. The French were advancing on all fronts, and the situation was beginning to look hopeless. His meeting with the Governor of Minorca had been a waste of time. The Governor had insisted he had barely enough men to maintain order, much less withstand any type of organized assault. He whined that the militia was worthless, and that he could not in good conscience foist them off on Hood. Granger had been irritated with his response, especially when he'd seen soldiers lounging around Port Mahon lazily without a care in the world. But Hood had seemed to expect it, as if he was just going through the motions to help avoid blame for the failure that was coming.

Then yesterday, Granger had had his first ever unpleasant confrontation with Hood when he suggested that they remove the French warships or burn them. “We don't need defeatists!” Hood had snapped. Defeatist? Perhaps. But Granger knew that he was also a realist.

“What is it?” Granger asked, pulling himself out of his ruminations and into the world of today.

“Bunch of gold lace is on the way over,” Winkler said. Granger leaped out of bed and kicked Shafte unsympathetically. Granger had tried to be sweet and loving since he'd returned, but it had been hard: Hard going straight from Travers' arms into someone else's, even Shafte's.

“What?!” Shafte demanded. “Sir,” he added sheepishly when he saw Granger's glare.

“The Spaniards and the army are on their way over,” Granger said. That could be the only reason.

“Sir William Sydney Smith is here too,” Winkler added. “On a sloop he bought himself.” Smith was a character. Granger had met him at court, and liked him at first sight. He'd joined the Royal Navy and served with distinction against the American rebels, but he was an adventurer, so when that war was over, he'd asked the King for permission to serve in the Swedish navy. Now with Britain at war again, Smith was back in his natural form, as a Royal Navy officer. Smith always seemed shrouded in secrets and mystery, and that made him interesting, and not a little attractive.

Granger had managed to get ready in record time and rushed up to Hood's cabin, leaving Shafte to show up later. Sir William spotted him first.

“George Granger! I'd heard you were out here stirring up trouble. It is good to see you!”

Granger smiled. Smith's charm was overwhelming, like Nelson's, only slightly more cultured as you'd expect from a denizen of Court. “It is good to see you as well Sir William.”

“Now that is something I rarely hear,” Smith said, laughing.

“Your good cheer is normally refreshing, but at this moment it is most gratingly annoying,” Hood said, glaring at them.

“My apologies my lord,” Smith said, but his tone said he didn't mean it. Hood ignored him.

“Mr. Granger, we're having an impromptu council of war. Go to the entry port and see our guests aft,” Hood ordered.

“Aye aye my lord,” Granger said.

The first to arrive was the Sardinian commander, General de Revel. He was followed by the Neapolitan commander, Commodore Forteguerri. Next was Major General Dundas, his bright red coat so flashy and so British. He had taken command of ground forces after General O'Hara had stupidly allowed himself to be captured. Yet one more act of idiocy in this cast of thousands, Granger thought sadly. Last to arrive were the Spaniards. General Langara, still in command, Admiral Gravina, and General Valdes.

Granger, Cavendish, and Shafte sat off to the side, furiously scribbling notes. Everyone knew this meeting was important, so having an accurate account of events was vital.

“Lieutenant Devlin did not see fit to obey my orders and join you?” Hood asked Dundas, irritated.

“I fear that will be most difficult milord,” Langara drawled. “Lieutenant Devlin was killed last night, a French cannon ball made a fast end of him. He was a brave officer. I hope you English remember and appreciate him.” Granger kept his face rigid, and saw Curtis and Hood doing the same. Despite his flaws, Devlin had worked like a demon with the troops, and had certainly earned his way back into Hood's good graces. It was sad, and tragic. Granger looked sideways to see Shafte scrawling on his notepad, pretending not to be affected. It was an effective pose until a tear fell onto his paper.

“That is most regrettable,” Hood said sadly. After a moment of silence, they moved on to business. Hood and Gravina both gave spirited arguments in favor of continuing the defense of Toulon. Gravina based his optimism on the expected arrival of Austrian troops, while Hood based his on reinforcements hoped for from England. Their words rang hollow, even on Granger's ears, and their position was finally shot down by General Dundas, who simply said that their position was untenable. Dundas' brother was the Secretary of War, so his decision would ultimately have the political clout of the government behind it. Then the planning began for an orderly withdrawal. All the troops were ordered to withdraw to a tighter perimeter, while an orderly evacuation of troops and civilians was effected.

“We must burn the French ships we cannot capture,” Hood observed.

“We will attack the Old Arsenal and obliterate those ships if you can destroy those in the New Arsenal,” Langara said.

“Very well. I will assemble a force to accomplish that.” A timetable for withdrawal was hammered out quickly, and then the visitors left.

“My lord, I would like to volunteer to handle the scuttling of the French fleet,” Smith volunteered. “I can take my own sloop in, along with a few fireships, and make short work of them. We'll ravage their base as well.”

Hood eyed him coolly. “Very well Sir William. You may assemble a team at your discretion.”

Granger felt himself rising, heard his mouth opening as if it were detached from his body. “I would like to help Sir William, if it meets with your lordship's approval.” Hood eyed him, about to snap at him when Shafte rose up.

“I would like to help as well, my lord.”

“It appears your staff is up for a bit of action, my lord,” Smith said, grinning. “They would be most welcome if you give your approval.”

“Very well. You'll have to stay here and help me out Cavendish. Bad luck for you,” Hood said. He was trying to save face for Cavendish, since he hadn't volunteered. Granger was determined not to look at the man, lest he think Granger thought he was a coward.

“Can I take the crew of the Aurore too, my lord?” Granger asked.

“This would appear to be a special operation, Mr. Granger. It is not every day that we burn the French fleet at their moorings.” He sighed. “Sir William, you are not to begin your conflagration until 8:00pm.”

“My lord?” asked Smith. There was enough to do as it was, much less complete it all by tomorrow, when all the troops should be embarked.

“You heard me,” Hood snapped. “I don't want the French to discover that we're leaving. Burning ships and warehouses would show our hand.” Granger wasn't sure that it mattered. The French would figure it out when they saw the troops leaving, but he'd learned to keep his mouth shut.

Smith had a good idea of how to accomplish his task, and his plan was quite well-thought out, at least in Granger's opinion. With his own sloop, along with a cutter Granger would command, four other ship's boats and two fireships, they'd descend into the new harbor and position the fireships next to the French 74's docked there. Another team would plant bombs in the Mast House and the other auxiliary locations, while a final group would burn the ships under construction in the dockyard.

It was a good plan that went awry almost immediately. First of all, the Neapolitans abandoned Fort Missiessy without notice or warning, and that turned the flank of Fort Malbousquet, forcing the Spanish garrison there to retreat back into the city. That gave Buonaparte, that energy dynamo, the opportunity to mount a battery of 10 guns at L'Eguillette and from there, to begin a very annoying bombardment of the arsenals, the ships, and Toulon itself.

Granger paid little heed to these events; he'd expected nothing else anyway. He and his team focused on their job, frenetically preparing the fireships and bombs. Finally, at 5:00pm, they began to move into Toulon. Smith himself was tasked with burning the ships (including those being built), Shafte and his two boats for burning ships still in the outer harbor, while Granger had been assigned the job of destroying the naval base itself.

The new French battery pounded away at them. There was one harrowing moment where the Victory's launch was obscured by a mountain of water sent up by one of the cannon balls, but like the others, it had miraculously missed them. Granger guided his boat into the New Arsenal and lashed onto the dock away from the ships of the line that were to be torched. He looked over at the Old Arsenal, where there were no sign of the Spaniards, but endless activity as the citizens of Toulon, aroused by the bombardment of their town, fled for their lives. Granger looked at the mass of humanity as the Toulonais mobbed the docks and grabbed any craft that would float.

“Winkler, you stay here with the boat,” Granger ordered. “Back it away from the dock if you might be mobbed.” It was theoretically Jeffers job to handle the boat, but Granger might need his big sinews, and Winkler had a sharp enough mind to handle any contingencies. Granger had taken his team with him, this cadre of men that he knew and trusted. All except Lefavre, who Hood insisted must stay on board Victory. The old admiral had grown fond of his cooking.

“Aye aye sir,” Winkler said reluctantly. He was a brave lad, anxious for action.

“You remember your orders?” Granger asked his team, and then repeated them to make sure. “Mr. Wilson, you're to fire the tar house. I don't need to tell you that you don't need combustibles.” They laughed at that. “Mr. Carslake, you're to take out the naval stores. Should be flammable items in there, canvas and the like. I'll handle the mast house. Set your clocks by mine.” They did.

“At eight o'clock, we set the fires, and then run like hell back to the cutter,” Granger said.

“Aye aye sir!” they chimed. The base was eerily quiet as Granger headed off to the mast house, his squad, carrying muskets and cutlasses, seemingly way over-armed. The mast house was an impressive edifice filled with huge spars. Granger scanned it, taking it all in. There, neatly stacked, was invaluable timber for masts and yards, most of it grown specifically for this purpose and shipped hundreds of miles. He stopped and stared at this lumber wonderland, saddened that its destruction must fall on his shoulders. He shook himself out of it after just a moment.

“Alright lads, spread that turpentine about. Jeffers, place your bombs under the room supports.”

“Aye aye sir,” Jeffers said, and headed off with his team.

“Davis!” Granger yelled, calling the bosun's mate over. He was busy fondling a large mast. Rigging was his business.

“Yes sir. Sorry sir,” he said, and came running.

“I understand,” Granger said with a grin. “It is a shame to burn such fine timber. But if we do not, we'll be blasting them out of their ships instead.”

“Yes sir,” Davis said with a grin that said he appreciated that Granger understood his feelings.

“Good. Then let us pretend this is evil wood. I want as many lit torches as you can fire.” Davis and his group ran off. They toiled relentlessly, opening the doors and shutters so oxygen would take the fire, piling canvas and other flammable objects around the biggest piles of wood to help them fully ignite, and dousing everything with turpentine or whale oil. The place stank of both those liquids.

Granger looked at his watch. Almost 8:00pm. They were all positioned, every man with a torch. Then a cannon ball slammed through the roof, sending timbers falling on them. One beam slammed into a seaman and knocked him down, and knocked his torch onto a pile of canvas. It was as good a signal as any. “Alright boys!” Granger called playfully. “Let's roast some spars!”

The men cheered and began running around like fiends from hell, lighting the entire place on fire; anything that would burn was lit. In five minutes, the smoke was too intense for more effort. “To the cutter!” Granger ordered. He saw a seaman carrying the injured man hit by the roof beam, and cursed himself for forgetting him. Granger grabbed the wounded man's other side and they carried him outside. Then Jeffers was beside him, hoisting the poor man over his shoulder, relieving Granger and the seaman of the burden.

“Thanks,” Granger said, getting a grin from Jeffers. Granger stopped four men to have a squad with him and watched the mast house erupt in flames, followed by the tar house, and the naval storehouse. He turned to see the two fireships burning brightly, both of them next to French 74s. Then the flames leaped to the nearest French ships, igniting their rigging. In just a few minutes, those two French ships were condemned to death. Then their cables would burn through and they'd drift into the next ones, and then those ships would share their fate as well.

Smith hailed him from his sloop. “Mr. Granger, you'll notice that no one is shooting at you?”

“Yes sir,” Granger responded. “I'm not complaining sir.”

Smith laughed, a demonic laugh, fueled by the inferno they'd ignited. “The reason for that is the King's First and Second Royals. They've been holding the gate for us. They'll be falling back soon. Take them out with you.”

“Aye aye sir!” Granger said. There would be between 200 and 300 men to fit into his cutter and ship's boat. He rushed back to find the men waiting for him.

“We're going to have friends here,” he told them all. No time to worry about a chain of command. Carslake's party arrived, the last of his men, in time to hear of their latest challenge. “The Royal First and Second have held the gate for us, so we didn't have to deal with French soldiers. We're taking them out with us. Should be a couple of hundred of them. Find room for them.”

“Aye aye sir,” they all chimed.

“Mr. Carslake, rig the bow gun in the cutter. We may need to forestall any pursuers.”

“Aye aye sir,” he said. Granger took his squad and headed toward the gate to guide the troops in. He was at the end of the pier when he saw the first squad marching perfectly down the quay, illuminated by the burning buildings.

An officer on foot saluted him. “Lieutenant Blaisedell, King's First Royals,” he said, saluting.

“Lieutenant Granger,” Granger said simply. “We're here to take you lads off. There's a cutter at the end of this pier.” Blaisedell gave orders to a messenger to alert the other units, and nodded to his sergeant, and the men began to march off. The second group contained the wounded, men who could barely walk in many cases. Granger's squad helped those who were least able and they moved along slowly but steadily to the end of the pier.

“Lieutenant Iremonger will be along with the rest of the squad sir, and then there will only be the skirmishers,” Blaisedell said.

“Your brave action gave us time to do all of this,” Granger said loudly, to all of them, as he gestured at the flames that seemed to be everywhere. That actually raised a cheer. Then they were at the boats. “Put the wounded men in the other boat and take them to the nearest ship you can find,” Granger ordered Wilson. “Fit as many of the healthy lads in there as you can as well.”

Wilson ran off to do that. The other soldiers were loaded up in the cutter. Then there was another squad, still marching in an orderly fashion, but at a much quicker pace. Granger saw Wilson cast off out of the corner of his eye. “Help those men on board as fast as you can!”

“Lieutenant Iremonger,” said an officer. “Thank you for evacuating my men.”

“And thank you for guarding our back,” Granger said, smiling. “Is that all?”

“There will be a few skirmishers. There. There they are,” he said, pointing. “After that, you may shoot to kill.”

“Very well,” Granger said. “Prepare to cast off. Lieutenant, please let me know when you've got all your men aboard.” He nodded. Then the skirmishers arrived, running at full tilt, one of them pausing briefly to take a shot at the mob that came into view. He jumped aboard and the cutter cast off. The men tugged at the sweeps, pulling her away from the pier as the mob of French soldiers descended toward them.

“Keep our bow aimed at the pier,” Granger said. “Mr. Carslake, ready to fire!” Carslake’s hand went up to indicate he was listening. Granger saw the French soldiers line the pier and saw muskets level at them. “Fire!” Granger ordered.

The bow gun, a nine-pounder, roared out as it shot a double round of canister into the French mob. Granger watched the canister slam into the crowd, hundreds of musket balls, cutting a swathe right through them. What was an angry mob was now a pile of wounded men. Those that weren't wounded turned and fled, anxious to escape the same fate.

“Square away Mr. Carslake! Make for the flagship,” Granger ordered.

“Aye aye sir.”

“What of the Old Arsenal?” Iremonger asked. Granger looked over at that side of the harbor, at the French ships sitting there, unharmed.

“That was the Spaniard's responsibility,” Granger said sadly.

“They've botched that up too then. Rum lot, they are, although their grenadiers are good chaps.” It was easy for Iremonger to be philosophical. He wouldn't have to fight those ships again. They had just reached the outer harbor when a huge explosion rocked them. “Bloody hell,” Iremonger said. “What was that?”

Granger scanned the harbor and saw a pyre rise up where the two French frigates, the Isis and Montreal, had been. “Those frigates were used for offshore powder storage,” Granger said. “Over four hundred tons of powder in them.”

“Why blow them up? Why waste powder?” Iremonger asked.

“It wasn't part of the plan,” Granger said. Maybe a stray shot hit them? He didn't have time to worry about them. In one short second, his whole world went to hell around him. They didn't see or even hear the shot, they just heard the impact, as a 12 pound ball from the shore smashed into the cutter, cutting its way through a group of men, and then smashed through the other side. Water began gushing in.

“Mr. Carslake, plug that hole as best you can,” Granger said, bringing himself out of his contemplative state and bursting into action. “Mr. Davis, set everyone to work bailing.” He turned to Iremonger. “Lieutenant, can you have your men help the wounded?” There were seamen and soldiers in the mass.

“Begging your pardon sir,” Carslake said. “We're trying to plug the hole but it ain't easy. We're taking on water fast.”

“Well unless you fancy a swim Mr. Carslake, I suggest you figure out a way to seal that hole. Take down the sail and fother the canvas over it if you have to.”

“Aye aye sir!” he said, and pulled down one of the two sails they carried. The cutter limped along then, taking on water. Granger did the mental calculations and decided that at their current rate of sinkage, they'd be underwater in fifteen minutes. The soldiers were standing there looking at him, water around their ankles, and he had an idea.

“Men, your hats. Bail with your hats!” Granger ordered them. The soldiers looked at him oddly until Granger pulled off his own cocked hat and began using it to toss water out. Then they smiled and pulled off their own shakos and began doing the same thing. Granger observed their efforts and figured he'd bought himself another ten minutes.

Carslake approached him. “We've got the sail fothered sir, but it's still no good. We're not going to be able to stop the inflow.” Granger stared around, desperate for a solution. He was about to order them to pull out the cutter's mast to use as a life raft when they sank when a ship loomed out of the darkness. “Ship ahoy!” Granger yelled. “Ship ahoy!” Then the ship came into view. The Vesuvius.

He heard Travers' voice. “Mr. Granger?”

Granger smiled. “Sir! Sir, we've got a boat full of seamen and soldiers and we're sinking rapidly. Permission to come aboard.”

He heard a laugh on board. “Of course Mr. Granger,” Travers said. A grapnel flew through the air carrying a rope and landed on the bow. Davis lashed it to the boat firmly, then Vesuvius pulled them to her side. The soldiers needed no urging to swarm up her side, and neither did the seamen. Without them to bail, the little cutter sank quickly. Granger was just able to step off of her and grab Vesuvius' chains before she vanished below the surface.

Travers was there to greet him as warmly as they could in public. “I suppose that is your work,” he said, pointing at the burning harbor.

“Only the buildings,” Granger said. “I seem to have lost the cutter.”

Travers laughed at him then, at Granger's despondency over losing a ship's boat. “I don't think you'll have to stand a court martial for it,” Travers teased. If a captain lost his ship, through surrender, foundering, or however, he was court martialed to explain it. Travers was teasing Granger since the loss of a ship's boat was certainly not in that class.

“That was Captain Knight's favorite boat though,” Granger teased back.

“Sir, sir!” Victor said, interrupting them. “There are men in the water!”

“Heave to,” Travers ordered. “Bosun, haul those men aboard!” There were two men in the water clinging to a spar. In the end, one of the crew had to jump in and lash a line around them, as they were too weak to secure themselves. They were hauled aboard, half-drowned. Granger recognized them at once, seamen from the Victory, and men on Shafte's boat.

He knelt next to the more coherent one. “You're safe now.” The man looked up at Granger, unable to say anything, with no recognition. Someone handed him a pint of water and he downed it. Then another. “Where is Mr. Shafte?” Granger asked. The man shook his head, as if trying to clear his mind.

“Mr. Granger?” he asked. The poor man must be blind.

“Yes, I'm sorry. You're aboard the Vesuvius. You're safe now,” Granger said soothingly. “What of Mr. Shafte?”

“I expect he's gone sir.”

“Gone?” Granger asked.

“We was sailing past those two Frog frigates, saw a Don boat next to one of them, and the next thing I knew there was a big explosion. After that, I couldn't see nothin', couldn't hear nothin'. I was reaching around and reaching around till I found a piece of wood sir. Then there was another bloke who grabbed on too, don't know who he was though. We floated about until you found us.”

“You were in Mr. Shafte's boat?” Granger asked.

“No sir. His boat was about ten yards closer to the Frog frigates.”

“Thank you. You will be cared for,” Granger said, and nodded to Winkler, asking him to watch after this blind man who at least had part of his hearing back.

“Bad news?” Travers asked.

Granger nodded. “Mr. Shafte, Lord Hood's flag midshipman, has presumably been vaporized by the explosion on those two frigates. Bloody Spaniards!” He felt hate rise up, but controlled it. They weren't evil, the Spanish, they were just completely incompetent.

“He was your friend?” Travers asked.

“Yes,” Granger said simply.

“I'm sorry George. Would you like to go below for a minute?” Travers said gently, understanding.

Granger thought back to his conversation with Travers, about his vow not to get involved with other men, how Travers said it had distracted him from his duties. “Absolutely not,” he said, a little too firmly. “But thank you.” Travers looked at him oddly and simply nodded.