The Wardroom - 19. Chapter 19

December 19, 1793

Granger stood in Hood's cabin in between Travers and Smith as they reported to the admiral. Granger tried to find joy in their success, and in the cum dripping out of his ass from his brief encounter with Travers this morning, but the loss of Shafte made that seem hollow. “Report gentlemen,” Hood said. “Where is Mr. Shafte?”

Hood seemed to suddenly realize that his efficient flag midshipman wasn't there, not surprising since Shafte blended into the background even when he was around. Granger swallowed hard and controlled his tears. “He was next to the French frigates when the Spaniards blew them up, my lord,” Granger said. “We picked up two survivors from their boats, from the boat further away from the ships than Mr. Shafte's craft. I fear he was killed in the blast, my lord. No other sign of his boats or his men have been recovered.”

“That is a shame,” said Hood sadly. “He was a good officer and a brave man.”

“Yes my lord,” Granger agreed quietly, laboring mightily to control his own emotions.

“Proceed Sir William,” Hood said.

“We met with little initial resistance my lord,” Smith said. He explained to Hood how he'd docked his fireships next to two groups of French 74s, and went on to describe the skirmish in the dockyard as they burned the ships that were being built. There was an additional drama after they left the New Arsenal.

“The Heros and Themistocle, both 74s, were moored in the outer roads, my lord,” Smith said. “We boarded them, prepared to burn them, but discovered 600 French sailors being held there as prisoners.”

“Those were offshore prison ships,” Hood said. “So you burned them alive?”

“No my lord. That seemed inhumane, begging your pardon my lord, so we took them off and landed them ashore, then burnt the French battleships.” Granger and Travers stared at Smith, admiration in their eyes for a man who placed human decency above the expediency of war. It was the honorable act of an honorable man.

“Let us hope they remember your kindness if you find yourself facing their broadsides,” Hood said with approval.

“They will be French broadsides my lord,” Smith said cheekily. “I would have no need of hope.” That got a smile from Hood.

Then it was Granger's turn to describe his work, and the destruction they'd wrought on the naval installations. He described the rescue of the First and Second Royals, the shot from the shore that sank them, and their rescue by Vesuvius. Travers merely reported their transit.

Hood looked at them sadly, and then motioned them over to his table to join him for breakfast. “A great defeat,” Hood said morosely.

“I hardly think so, begging your pardon my lord,” Granger observed.

“Oh you don't, do you Mr. Granger? Sadly you are not sitting on the Admiralty Board,” Hood groused.

“A fact I am most glad of my lord,” Granger said, smiling. “It is much more fun floating about with your lordship.” Smith and Travers stifled their laughs, while Hood grinned and shook his head.

“Mr. Granger is right, my lord,” Smith chimed in. “It is indeed a remarkable victory.”

“If you will pardon me, my lord,” Granger said, removing his notes. “We have captured four ships of the line: The Commerce de Marseilles (120), Pompee (74), Scipion (74), and Puissant (74). We captured the large 40-gun frigates Perle and Arethuse, along with six other frigates and five corvettes. We destroyed seven French 74s, the Centaur, Destin, Dugauy Trouin, Heros, Themistocle, Tricolore, and Suffisant, as well as an 80-gun ship of the line, the Triomphant. We also destroyed one corvette and one frigate. Our Spanish friends have managed to lay their hands on a frigate, while the Neapolitans and Sardinians have each snagged a Corvette.” Granger paused after the litany. “So my lord, if this were a fleet action, we would have destroyed half the French fleet. Total losses to them of twelve ships of the line, ten frigates, and eight corvettes. A stunning victory, my lord.”

Hood smiled. “I doubt England will see it that way, but I appreciate your approach. In fact, I'd like you to carry my reports to London.”

“My lord?” Granger asked.

“I'm giving you temporary command of the Commerce de Marseilles. You think you can handle a first rate?” Hood said.

“Yes my lord,” Granger said, stunned. Travers and Smith grinned.

“I'll just putter around in my sloop, my lord, while you give this lieutenant command of a 120-gun battleship,” Smith pretended to grouse.

“Sir William, if I installed you in a battleship you would find a way to have me killed,” Hood joked back. “You'll have the French crew and Trogoff to contend with Granger. Take your crew with you, but remember to be diplomatic.”

“Aye aye my lord,” Granger said.

“Mr. Travers,” Hood said.

“My lord?” Travers asked.

“I'm going to relieve you of command of the Vesuvius. You're to command Scipion for the voyage home,” Hood said.

“Aye aye my lord,” Travers said solidly. He was visibly devastated at losing Vesuvius, but orders are orders.

“I've recommended to their lordships that an officer of your ability deserves a larger command. I'm not sure if it's enough to move you to post.”

Travers stared at Hood, dumbfounded. “Thank you my lord. Thank you.” That was a major compliment from an admiral not known for them. Travers was actually blushing, Granger noted. How cute.

“Very well. We will draft your orders and send you off with our prize fleet. We'll need to appoint prize crews for them,” Hood said. This was where being a flag lieutenant had huge advantages. Granger was able to offer gentle suggestions for commands, God-like power. Palance and Blackwell of the Agamemnon to command a battleship and a frigate, Roberts of the Desperate to command a frigate, while Robey and Humphreys were each assigned to a corvette. It was unlikely any of them would retain command once they got to England, but this was a chance to show that they could command. “Admiral Trogoff will retain nominal command,” Hood said. “That will effectively put you in position to control the fleet, Mr. Granger. Try not to run aground in Spain.”

“Yes my lord,” Granger said. “That would be especially tragic since I speak no Spanish.”

“Quite so. Now I want you and your fleet out of here as soon as possible, before the Dons come whining for a battleship,” Hood said.

“Yes my lord. If they'd done their job in the New Arsenal, they'd have quite a haul,” Granger dared to observe.

“Apparently there was a boom blocking the entrance, and that was so daunting they moved off to blow up the two French frigates loaded with powder,” Hood observed wryly. “I fear that if we find ourselves at war with them, we have only to throw up a boom to thwart them.”

Granger laughed. “Yes my lord. I will remember that if we are ever at war with Spain.” It was just the two of them as Travers and Smith had returned to their ships, so it was easy to relax. Granger had to be careful, to remember he was in the presence of one of England's greatest admirals.

“When you get to England, I'll need your help, I fear,” Hood said.

“My lord?” Granger asked.

“They will try and flay me alive over this, for not destroying the whole French fleet, for not making the capture of Toulon a success. I need you to speak for me there, not formally, but informally. Go to Court, go to Carleton House, and talk to Chatham for me.” This discussion of politics seemed so demeaning for such a great man, but Granger knew it was vital for Hood’s career, his reputation.

“Of course my lord. It will be a pleasure,” Granger said. Then smiled. “I'll put my wife to work on it. Her political skills probably far outstrip either of ours.”

Hood laughed. “I fear you are right. Now be off.” Granger saluted and headed to his cabin to pack his things up. Winkler was already there with his trunks; Travers must have warned him when he left. He stared at the cabin he'd shared with Devlin, then with Shafte. Both of them were dead now, and he felt the sadness enveloping him.

“All set sir,” Winkler said, distracting him. “Which ship sir?”

Granger smiled. “The Commerce de Marseilles. You thought our quarters on Aurore were nice. I wonder how the Captain of a first rate fares?”

Winkler grinned back. “Probably a bit more room sir.” They lowered his trunks into the Admiral's barge, while Winkler and Lefavre waited patiently for him.

The barge approached the soaring first rate, the ultimate in naval power. Long and broad, mounting 120 guns and with a crew of almost 1000 souls. There was a hail from her deck and he yelled back loudly “Commerce de Marseilles.” If there was any doubt that he was there to take over, it was dispelled. He climbed aboard the ship and glanced around to find a crowd of seamen staring at him, looking blankly. A sharp-dressed officer stepped forward.

“I am Lieutenant Poulin,” he said. “First Lieutenant. Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you Lieutenant,” Granger said. He pulled out his orders from Hood and began to read them in English and stopped. He went back to the beginning and re-read them in French. He saw the seamen grin and the officers too, appreciating that he'd taken the effort to explain things in their native language.

“Lieutenant,” Granger said to Poulin, “I must go see the admiral. I would like to meet with you and the other officers in my cabin in one hour.”

“Yes sir,” said Poulin. Granger walked back to the Admiral's cabin. There was a soldier there, a French marine, wearing the old white Bourbon uniform of the previous regime. He knocked on the door then opened it for Granger just like a Royal Marine would. The stern cabin was huge and ornate, and Granger fancied his must be close to the same size. The diminutive admiral was seated at his desk and rose to greet Granger.

“I am Acting-Captain George Granger, sir,” Granger said, bowing chivalrously to the admiral.

“You are on Admiral Hood's staff, no?” Trogoff asked.

“Yes sir,” Granger replied. “I've been given temporary command of your flagship for our voyage to England. I hope that meets with your approval.”

“And if it does not, what then?” asked Trogoff bitterly.

“I will try to find a more suitable officer sir,” Granger said, hoping the Admiral would not take him up on that offer.

He did not. He smiled at Granger. “I am sure you will do just fine. The former Captain fled this ship to join the revolutionaries, but he has left a cadre of good officers.”

“Thank you sir,” Granger said. “With your permission, we plan to sail on the evening tide.”

“You English and your desire to travel at night. No wonder so many of your ships founder,” Trogoff observed.

Granger wanted to point out that it was better than having them languish in harbor like French ships, but that seemed to lack the diplomacy Hood wanted him to use. “Time is a valuable commodity sir,” Granger said simply, then exited and headed to his own cabin.

It was, as he suspected, as huge as the admiral's, and nicely appointed. Granger walked over to his desk, a beautifully formed and elegant desk, more of a writing table. It was exquisite. So was the dining room table, massive, with leaves to expand it to hold over 20 people. He found Winkler and Lefavre rummaging around, getting things put away. “Is it all you hoped, Winkler?” Granger teased.

“Aye sir. Lots of room,” Winkler said. “You've even got your own privy sir, off that quarter gallery,” he said, pointing to the windowed gallery that bulged out from the side. “Plus a place to look aft.”

Granger opened the door to his stern gallery, like an outside porch, where he could pace, or sit, and look at where he'd been. He pushed that thought from his mind. He needed to look forward, not back.

At the appointed time, or close to it, Poulin knocked on his cabin door and entered, followed by the officers of the huge ship. There were only six lieutenants, two others having fled with the Captain, and ten midshipmen. But the warrant officers, the backbone of the ship, were still here, still attached lovingly to this monstrous vessel. Granger explained his orders, and that they'd be sailing with the other ships to Portsmouth on the evening tide.

“Begging your pardon sir,” Poulin said. “The men are concerned about the passengers.”

“Passengers?” Granger asked curiously.

“Yes sir. The families of the sailors, along with friends escaping from Robespierre's slaughter. There are many aboard,” Poulin said nervously. Granger eyed them, the tension filling the room. These men were willing to sail to England, but not without their families and friends. Granger did not blame them at all.

“How many are there?” Granger asked.

“We have a crew of 600 sir,” Poulin said. “We lost many men when they fled to join the revolution. We have approximately 1400 passengers on board.” Granger gaped at him and understood their concern. Fourteen hundred extra mouths to feed and house? That would put a huge strain on the systems of even this huge ship. “Many are women and children.”

“Monsieur,” Granger said, “these people will remain on board until they can be landed safely at a place that will welcome them. To send them ashore would be to condemn them to death. We are all part of the crew; we are all on the same side.”

The tension vanished magically. That's what they'd been afraid of. They were worried that he'd force them to send their loved ones to their deaths, and they would have fought him if he'd made them do it. Granger thought about it and decided he'd have felt the same way.

“What is our status as far as stores go?” Granger asked.

“With normal rations, we have a month worth of food, and perhaps a bit more water,” Poulin said. “Two thousand mouths to feed sir.”

“Well it will have to do. If we run low, we can stop at Gibraltar or a Spanish port, but I would prefer not to do that,” Granger said.

“Some of the émigrés, sir, expressed a desire to stay in the Mediterranean. Would it be possible to land them in Corsica, perhaps, or even Minorca?” Poulin had clearly thought this out.

“I think that Corsica would be difficult, since it is not under British control. I will ponder your request to stop in Port Mahon,” Granger said. The rest of the meeting went smoothly after that. He left it to Poulin and the officers to set up a watch keeping routine, and then decided to stroll around the ship, to take in his new command.

Granger sent Jeffers to Victory with a request that the convoy be allowed to stop in Minorca, and then set himself to explore his new ship. She was huge, over 200 feet long and 50 feet wide, displacing over 5000 tons. A massive endeavor, to build such a ship. Fortunately sailing her should be much easier. He toured every deck. The gun decks were crammed with people, and all the smells and sounds that went with them.

A young boy, probably eight or nine years old, darted out in front of him precociously. “Are you the Captain?” he asked.

“Michel!” screamed a lady and made to grab the assertive boy. Granger stopped her.

“It is alright madam,” he said gently. “So your name is Michel?”

“Yes sir,” he said, a little abashed.

“Well Michel, I am the Captain until we get to England. I'll do my very best to get you there safe and sound,” Granger said.

“I do not want to go to England. I want to go home!” the young boy said.

“I think you will like England. It is pretty, but a bit cold.” Granger patted him on the head. “Would you like to see my cabin later on?”

The boy’s eyes bulged. He could only nod. Granger turned to Poulin. “Lieutenant, would you be so kind as to arrange for the children on board to tour my cabin tomorrow when we are at sea?”

“Yes sir,” Poulin said, smiling. These people were Granger’s allies, for now, and he needed their help to get back to England. Simple gestures such as this were easy ways to build that bond. A few yards down the same deck a man and a woman were rutting like dogs in the corner. Poulin made to stop them, but Granger stopped him. It was what it was.

“I am sorry sir,” Poulin said.

“You assume I am so ugly I have no sexual experience?” Granger teased.

“No sir,” Poulin said, grinning back. “Most Englishmen I have met are a bit more prudish though.” Granger laughed at that. He arranged a place aft, where the marines should be, for his prize crew. It was symbolically between the French crew and his cabin, a negative message, but the safety of the ship demanded that he had his prize crew near him, and that overrode the slight blow it might mean to morale.

Jeffers came stomping up and showed him the note from Hood authorizing them to stop in at Port Mahon. “Make a signal to the ships in our fleet. Captains to repair on board.”

“Aye aye sir,” Jeffers said. Granger went to explain things to Trogoff, who was disinterested at best.

No more than 20 minutes later, whistles started to blow indicating that the officers had started to arrive. Granger led them back to the Admiral's cabin, since Trogoff was ostensibly in charge. In no time at all, Trogoff's cabin was filled with the various temporary captains. Granger hid his discomfort at having three men in the room at the same time that he'd been intimate with in one way or another. Blackwell, looking strange as ever, but his personality still effervescent, still making everyone laugh. Robey, so cute, so friendly, and so busy staring at Travers Granger was ready to kill him. And of course Travers, trying to ignore Robey, and to look as professional as possible. If Granger needed a reason to keep his dick in his pants, this meeting was proof enough.

“Thank you for coming gentlemen,” Granger began. “Admiral Trogoff has asked me to brief you on his plans, since his English is not up to such a task.” Granger nodded to the Admiral, who nodded politely to Granger, giving him his full approval.

“We have a slight change of plans. We will be making a brief stop in Port Mahon to offload any of the refugees who wish to stay here in the Mediterranean” Granger said.

“I'm sending mine back to Toulon,” a rude voice said. Dancer, a commander formerly in charge of a sloop, Hood had given him command of the Puissant against Granger's gentle urgings. Dancer had fought ashore with distinction, so Hood was rewarding him with temporary command of a line of battleship.

Granger felt Trogoff tense behind him. “You will do no such thing,” Granger said.

“You call me sir,” Dancer said, getting into his face.

“I am speaking for Admiral Trogoff. Your disrespect is unacceptable,” Granger said coldly. He had to nip this in the bud, or it would be a problem for the whole voyage home.

“I take my orders from Lord Hood,” Dancer said defiantly.

“Then you may remove yourself back to your sloop Commander,” came a booming voice from the door. Hood. How did he get here, get aboard, without them knowing, and without fanfare? That was a huge achievement in and of itself. “I have no time for petty disagreements.”

“Aye aye my lord,” Dancer said sulkily, and headed back to his original command. Hood winked ever so slightly at Granger.

“Gentlemen, Admiral Trogoff is a distinguished officer and he is to command this fleet on its voyage first to Mahon, then to England. As Mr. Granger noted, his English is not up to the task of commanding English officers. Of necessity, Mr. Granger will have to interpret them. When he speaks for the admiral, you will treat him with the same respect you would give me. If you cannot do that, I will replace you,” Hood declared. The others nodded simply. After that, Granger laid out simple basics for their sailing plans and order. Then the meeting was over, and no one lingered, not even Travers. Even he was anxious to get back to his new ship and make sure everything went according to plan.

“I hope you will excuse my interruption,” Hood said. There was a midshipman behind him.

“I am flattered that you came to see us off my lord,” Granger said with a smile.

“It dawned on me that I foisted Dancer off on you, and that you may need some help. That, and Curtis told me I'd been stuck on the Victory for much too long, and I needed a change of pace.”

“I'm glad you did, my lord,” Granger said,

“This is Mr. Bentley,” Hood said, gesturing toward the midshipman with disdain. “I am leaving him here with you to help out.”

“Thank you my lord,” Granger said. “And welcome to you Mr. Bentley. You'll be in charge of signals, so get settled in and then familiarize yourself with the signal book.”

“Aye aye sir!” he said.

“You can berth in the chartroom,” Granger said. Just like he needed to keep his prize crew near him, he'd also need to keep his midshipman close too. But not too close, he thought with a smile.

He escorted Hood to the quarterdeck. “Bentley's parents are known to your father, and they are friends of mine as well. He was in the Berwick. It was traumatic, to say the least. You helped Shafte recover; I'm hoping you can do the same for this boy.”

“Yes my lord,” Granger said, with more questions than even before about this mysterious midshipman. Granger escorted the elderly admiral to the quarterdeck. There, a bosun's chair lifted Hood down into his barge, and he was gone. It was time.

“Lieutenant Poulin!” Granger called.

“Sir?”

“Let's get under way.” Poulin acknowledged his order and dashed off to call all hands.

Granger turned to find Bentley standing there, ready. There was an inner pain, an inner torment, in the young man’s eyes. What happened to him on that hell ship? “Mr. Bentley, signal to the fleet. Up Anchor.”

“Aye aye sir,” Bentley said determinedly. He'd found some of the men in the prize crew to help him out. Granger sent one of the French Midshipmen to tell Trogoff they were departing, and then turned to watch the French sailors. Granger was used to a crack British crew, but the French sailors were nothing like that. It seemed as if some of them had never been aloft before, had never made sail before. Granger scanned the harbor and noticed the same thing happening in the other ships. It was discouraging, and embarrassing.

“The sail drill is not so good,” Trogoff observed. He'd approached Granger without Granger realizing he was even there.

“No sir,” Granger agreed.

“We have conscripts; many of these men were soldiers. And no time for sail drill. You must understand, most of my officers lived in fear that they'd be awakened by police and hauled away. No one was willing to irritate the men by making them drill,” Trogoff said sadly.

“Well, we'll do what we can to make them into sailors sir,” Granger said. “And thank you for explaining it to me.”

“Your admiral thinks very highly of you. He sent you here because it requires diplomacy and brains to manage a huge ship, a fleet, crews from two different nations, and a grumpy admiral,” Trogoff said with a grin.

Granger smiled back at him. “Well admiral, I am used to grumpy admirals.” Trogoff laughed.

Getting in the anchor was a massive evolution, requiring almost 200 men. Carslake and Wilson, along with the prize crew, had ended up aloft with the confused French sailors, showing them how to set the sails. They'd have to set a very slow pace to make sure no reefing was required in the middle of the night. Granger thanked his lucky stars that the weather was relatively calm.

“Mr. Poulin, we'll have four hours of sail drill tomorrow,” Granger called. Poulin grinned. He would be a good first lieutenant under normal circumstances. First lieutenants loved sail drill.

“Anchor's aweigh!” came the cry from the small forecastle.

“Mr. Poulin, lay in a course to weather the headland, then we'll square away on the larboard tack.”

“Aye aye sir,” Poulin said crisply. The fleet slowly began to move, the smaller ships showing a bit more alacrity. That was to be expected. They were handier. But there was no ship that could stand muster in a Royal Navy squadron.

“Signal Scipion!” Granger called to Bentley. “Make haste!” She was falling behind already. That signal would irritate Travers, but Granger had to hold him to the same standards as the other captains.

“Scipion acknowledges sir,” Bentley called. Granger could see her setting more sail to catch up. And that is what it was like until they made it out of port, and set themselves on their course.

It was an exhausted Granger that told an exhausted Bentley to signal night stations, and an exhausted Granger that headed to his cabin for a late supper. He paused and returned to the quarterdeck.

“Mr. Poulin!”

“Sir?”

“You performed your duties very well today.”

Poulin smiled broadly. “Thank you sir.”

“When we get to Port Mahon, I want our sail drill to put the other ships to shame. We are the flagship. We set the standard.” He said that loudly enough so the seamen on the upper deck would hear as well. These men needed some pride.

“Dine with me Mr. Bentley,” Granger ordered.

“Aye aye sir,” he said crisply, and followed Granger back to his cabin. Granger sat at the huge table, not at the head, but on the side, so he could sit across from Bentley. A nod to Winkler was all it took to start dinner.

Granger poured them both some wine, good wine actually, that Granger had acquired from a Venetian trader in Toulon. He handed a glass to Bentley and took a moment to notice him now that his hat was off. Dark brown hair with intense brown eyes, a strong nose, and high cheekbones. In another young man, his features might have been almost so fine as to be feminine, but there was a ruggedness about him that negated that effect.

“How old are you Mr. Bentley?”

“Sixteen, sir,” he said nervously.

“And you just joined the navy? That's leaving it a bit late, isn't it?” Granger was older when he joined too, but he wanted to know why Bentley waited so long.

“Yes sir. My parents wanted me to join the army.”

“So why didn't you?” Granger asked.

“My father had some financial difficulties sir. It made joining the army a difficult enterprise,” Bentley said softly.

Then Granger remembered. George Herbert Bentley, a London ship owner, he'd had the unfortunate luck to lose three fifths of his ships when the French captured a convoy. “Bad luck, Mr. Bentley.”

“Yes sir,” Bentley said.

“You were on the Berwick?” Granger asked, thinking that changing the topic would improve things.

“Yes sir,” Bentley said, but a tear fell down his cheek. He looked at Granger, horrified at being caught in such an emotional outburst. He looked like he wanted to flee.

“I have an idea. Let's have our wine on the gallery. It's a bit cold, but quite nice,” Granger offered. And it was dark so Bentley could get himself under control.

“Thank you sir,” he said, and followed Granger out onto the gallery. Granger could see his shoulders shaking and he put his arm around them, a caring gesture, but Bentley didn't sink into him as he expected. Instead he jumped, and let out a little cry.

“What's your name?” Granger asked.

“Richard, sir. Richard Bentley.”

“What happened Richard?” Granger asked Bentley.

“They made me do things,” he said so softly it was incoherent. “Things with other men.”

“The midshipmen?” Granger asked.

“Yes sir. And a few of the lieutenants. They made me...” He stopped, trying not to sob. “They made me service them sir.”

Granger sighed. “How?” he asked. He didn't really want to know, but he knew that Bentley needed to tell him.

“With my mouth, with my ass, with my dick. Some of them like to get buggered, begging your pardon sir, and I have a,” he paused. “I am well-endowed.”

Granger laughed. “You're the only man I know who is embarrassed about that.” Bentley nodded. “Let's go eat.”

Winkler had laid their food out and vanished. It was like being alone, in the middle of the ocean, with this troubled midshipman. “Buggery is not unknown in the fleet,” Granger told him.

“Now I'll have a reputation. The man to go to if you want to fuck another man. I beg your pardon sir,” Bentley said, letting his temper overcome his innate sense of discipline.

“Richard, you are not going to say anything I haven't heard before. You're new here, one of my officers, and I wanted to get to know you.” Bentley nodded. “I don't know if you'll have a reputation or not, but the best thing to do is to succeed in your next venture. People will forget you were the Berwick's fuck toy.”

“Yes sir. But I won't,” he said sadly. Granger finished dinner, a depressing affair with this morose and deeply wounded midshipman. And then finally Granger was able to collapse into the comfortable bed, left to him courtesy of the previous Captain.