The Wardroom - 20. Chapter 20

December 20, 1793

Granger awoke abruptly and sat up in his cot, sensing something was wrong. He thought he'd heard a cry. Then he heard it again. He jumped up, pulled on his pants, and charged out of his sleeping cabin into the dining cabin, listening. Then he heard sobbing and followed the noise. It was coming from the chartroom. Bentley.

Winkler was already there, about to open the door. “I'll handle him Winkler,” Granger said.

“Yes sir. Thank you sir,” Winkler said. It was obvious from his expression that nursemaiding midshipmen was not in his job description.

“Did anyone hear him cry?”

“I don't think so sir,” Winkler said. Granger entered the cabin, small in most ships, but even this compartment was oversized on such a huge ship. Granger headed over to the cot where Bentley lay and sat on the edge. He put his hand on Bentley's shoulder and Bentley jumped, sitting up, terror in his eyes. His blanket had fallen down and there, between his legs, was a big dick. Long, probably seven inches, but that wasn't what made it so huge. It was pretty thick too. It kind of reminded Granger of Travers' cock, about as thick as that, but a little longer.

He shook himself free and looked up, into Bentley's eyes. “You were dreaming.”

“I'm sorry sir,” he said. “I have these nightmares.”

“Scoot over,” Granger said, and slid in next to Bentley, then pulled him in, put Bentley's head on his chest and stroked his hair. He was suddenly aware that this was a very bad idea, even though Bentley had calmed down and seemed content. His massive dick was jammed into Granger's thigh, and Granger's own dick was hard as a rock. He wondered if this is how Travers had felt when Granger had been pulled from this same sea and Travers had slept with him to provide him with body heat. Travers had ended up fucking him that night, Granger thought cynically.

“Tell me about your dream,” Granger said.

“They're always similar, sir. They're chasing me, the men on the Berwick, and I'm running through the ship. Only there's no one else aboard. It's just me, and they're hunting me,” he said. His terror, his fear was palpable. “I'm sorry for disturbing you sir.”

“Let's make a deal,” Granger said. “When you're lying here with me in a cot, you don't have to call me sir.” Bentley actually giggled at that. “So what happens when they catch you?”

“They tie me up sir, my arms and my legs. Then they fuck me. All of them. Dick after dick.” Granger felt Bentley's cock throb as he thought about it.

“Did they actually do that to you on Berwick?” Granger asked.

“Yes sir. After that deal with the midshipman on Victory. I had ten men fuck me one night.” So after the flogging, the group from Victory had just turned to Bentley and made him do what they had planned for Shafte.

“How many times?” Granger asked.

“They tied me up five times.” Granger felt the tears on his chest, Bentley's tears.

“Did you cum when they fucked you?” Granger asked softly. Bentley nodded and sobbed harder, almost clawing at Granger, trying to grip onto him, clinging to him for sanity. “Did you like it?”

“No!” Bentley shook his head adamantly. “I hated it! I fucking hated it!” Granger stroked his back to let him know it was OK to open up about it. “But it still felt good.”

“Richard,” Granger said, shifting to his name. “Have you had sex with anyone besides that, your experience on Berwick?”

“Only once.” He smiled. “When I was young, before I went to sea. One of the maids was up for a toss in the hay.”

“But not with another man?”

“No! I'm no sodomite, even though they tried to make me into one,” he argued forcefully.

“I'm not saying you are. Just because they raped you and your body responded doesn't mean you're a bugger. You're just a young man. Your body has a mind of its own, no?” Granger moved his leg and pushed it into Bentley's hard dick.

“It does,” Bentley said, and grinned. He had a really sweet grin. Then Granger recognized the warning signs, and thanked God he had his trousers on to keep his own rock hard cock contained.

“Come on,” Granger said. “Grab your clothes. You're spending the night with me.” Bentley smiled and followed him obediently. Winkler was waiting outside the cabin, looking worried.

“He's a bit torn up. I told him he could stay with me,” Granger said, as if he never did this before.

“Lord knows what they done to him on that hell ship sir,” Winkler said sympathetically. “If anyone can help him, you can sir.” Granger nodded uncomfortably.

Granger led the troubled young midshipman into his cabin, into his cot, and just held him tight while Bentley slept. Granger looked down at the handsome young man and smiled, mostly because this was the first time he could remember being in bed with someone so handsome and not fucking him.

“Alright Mr. Poulin. Send up the topmasts and we'll call an end to drill for today,” Granger said. He heard the men sigh with relief. For four hours they'd set sail, taken in a reef, sent the topmasts down, sent them up again, and then down again. They were exhausted, but they were doing better.

Granger watched them hoist the topmasts back up and seat them, securing them tightly under the watchful eyes of a bosun or bosun's mate. “Dismiss the hands below for dinner,” he ordered. They willingly went below to join their passengers for dinner. Granger invited Poulin to have dinner with him.

“They did well sir, no?” Poulin asked.

“For their first drill, they did. But we have a long way to go,” Granger said. “We can applaud our progress, but we must have our end goal in mind.”

Poulin nodded. “Yes sir. It has been a long time since we have been able to make our seamen into sailors. It is good for them, and for us.”

“We will drill again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day. They will grow to hate us, but they will be good sailors,” Granger said, smiling.

“Yes sir,” Poulin said. “What about the guns?”

“I think it is unlikely we will have to use them,” Granger observed. “Who in their right mind would attack such a fleet?” he asked rhetorically. Poulin looked at him, confused. “An enemy will not know how undermanned we are. They will see this massive ship of the line with her three other consorts, along with an impressive array of frigates and corvettes, and they will steer clear of us.”

“What if we meet a more powerful fleet sir?” Poulin asked. That was always something a French naval officer had to keep in mind, but not an English one.

“The only fleet large enough to cause us any problems would be the fleet at Brest, or perhaps at La Rochelle. When we reach the Bay of Biscay, that will be our area of most danger. On the other hand, there will be British ships there to assist us as well.” Granger hoped that last sentence was accurate, but he doubted it. From what he had heard, the Channel Fleet spent most of its time in port.

“I understand sir,” Poulin said. “So we will focus on sail drill. Then if we run into a fleet that refuses to run from us, we can at least run from him.” Granger laughed, then shook his head internally at these men, for whom running seemed to bring no great shame, no great problem.

After dinner the children came through, almost 100 of them, to see his cabin. Granger had asked Trogoff if he'd allow them to see his cabin as well, but he'd declined, seemingly surprised that Granger would allow the riff-raff into his world. Granger smiled as they wandered about under the close supervision of French Marines. It wasn't his furniture, they weren't his knick-knacks, so if something was stolen, it was no big deal. A familiar boy appeared in front of him.

“Well hello Michel,” Granger said.

“Hello sir,” Michel said, much more formally now. “Thank you for showing us your cabin.”

“It was my pleasure.” Winkler and Lefavre handed them small pastries poor Lefavre had labored mightily to prepare, and then they were gone, and he had his cabin to himself. Granger went back on deck to make sure the fleet was at night stations, went below to report to Trogoff, and then finally he was able to head to bed.

A few minutes after he'd crawled into his cot he felt a presence behind him. “Is this OK sir?” Bentley asked. Then he got nervous and stood up. “I'm sorry sir.”

“Stay Mr. Bentley,” Granger said, and took his hand, pulling him back down into the cot. “You've been through a rough passage. There's no harm in wanting to feel another human being next to you.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir,” Bentley said. He stripped down to just his trousers. Granger thought it was ironic, that their positions were exactly opposite last night. He was stark naked in his cot, while Bentley was wearing pants. Granger hopped out of his cot and pulled his own trousers back on, noticing a small grin on Bentley's face. Then he climbed in bed with the young midshipman and spooned up behind him, trying to make him feel warm and safe. It must have worked, since Bentley slept peacefully through the night. Granger was not so lucky, having been tormented by the sexual tension of having this handsome man in bed with him, and not being able to fuck him.

December 25, 1793

“Merry Christmas sir,” Winkler said as he woke Granger. Granger waited for Winkler to leave then nudged Bentley awake. He'd been sleeping with Granger, both of them wearing their trousers, since that first night. Granger sighed to himself. The only good news is that Granger had his own privy in the stern quarter gallery, so he'd taken to jacking off before bed to ease his hormonal drives. Still, there was something quite sweet about Bentley, and Granger had gotten attached to him. He saw the young midshipman smiling up at him.

“Time to get up you lazy sod,” Granger teased Bentley. He hopped out of bed cheerfully and got ready, then headed in to a big breakfast. They were running out of eggs, they were running out of everything, but Lefavre still managed to come up with something good. His resourcefulness was amazing.

Granger headed up on deck just in time to see the sun rise, and began his usual evaluation of how many ships they'd lost during the night. Granger chided himself for expecting too much of them, mostly lieutenants, to expect them to maintain formation through the night, yet was that not what they would have to do as Captains? He smiled as he saw Travers' ship wallowing along just as it should be. Robey's corvette was nowhere to be seen. Granger sighed. Robey seemed to have no knack for navigation at all. It took two hours for Robey and a wayward frigate to catch up to them.

Trogoff came up on deck just then, and scanned the horizon at the assembled ships. “When your time comes,” he said to Granger, “you will make an excellent flag officer.”

“Thank you sir,” Granger said, unable to hide his smile. “Right now, I'm just biding my time, hoping to get my own command.”

“Not even the English are stupid enough not to give you a ship,” Trogoff groused, and Granger just laughed. Trogoff got grumpier with each day, which made sense in a way. The closer they got to England, the closer both of them got to losing their commands.

They heard a scuffle and a cry from below, and then heard the sound of clumping boots as the French marines rushed to intervene. Another fight, Granger thought. The crew was becoming disciplined, and surprisingly enough, the English and French crews got along well. It was the passengers, with all of their resentments and issues, who seemed unable to get along. There were already two men in chains for killing another. God only knew what this ruckus was about.

Two marines, their white coats still perfect despite the scuffle, came up holding a struggling man. Granger had seen him on deck during the time allotted for the passengers to get some air, and suspected he would be trouble. He was dressed better than a tradesman, or a peasant, but not well enough to be an aristocrat. He was probably a merchant, or worse still, a lawyer.

Poulin was there, of course. The man really was a superb First Lieutenant. It is a shame his own navy did not want him. “Captain, Admiral,” Poulin said, acknowledging both of them. “This is Monsieur Carteret, a lawyer from Toulon. He got into a fight with another man and killed him.”

“Whom did he kill?” Trogoff asked.

“Monsieur Graveaux,” Poulin said. “They were fighting over an old debt, and Monsieur Carteret pulled out a knife and stabbed him.”

“He insulted my honor,” Carteret insisted.

“You have no honor to insult,” Trogoff said, eying him coldly.

“Why you...” Carteret yelled, and lunged toward the admiral, only to be cut down by a bayonet through his back. Trogoff stared at him, horrified.

“Throw him over the side!” Trogoff ordered. Granger was pleased to see Poulin look to him briefly for confirmation, and with an imperceptible nod, Granger acquiesced. He could not care less about a Christian burial for this man who dared to raise a hand to the admiral, and who had killed another man on his ship.

“Did either of them have any relatives?” Granger asked. There were countless women and children on board.

“Monsieur Graveaux has a son,” Poulin said sadly. “His mother died during the siege, and now his father is gone as well.”

“You are very familiar with this family,” Granger observed.

“Monsieur Graveaux was a landowner near Toulon. The Baron of Dardennes under the old regime, he reverted to his surname with the revolution,” Poulin said. He seemed to ruminate after that. “He was one of the petit noblesse, not a great aristocrat, but with enough land to perhaps send his son off to the army and to have some servants.”

“So they chased him off his land?” Granger asked, enraged. Land ownership was a prime tenet of society. Did not John Locke prove that in his treatise? Was that not the basis on which modern society was built? At least for him it was. For wealthy landowners like the Grangers, having their land seized by revolutionaries was the height of insolence, and would surely be the sign that the world was ending.

“They did. Once comfortable, now poverty-stricken,” Poulin said sadly. “That would have been the crux of his dispute with Carteret. Carteret, from the bourgeoisie, anxious to lord it over a former aristocrat, must have driven poor Graveaux to his breaking point.”

“Send for the boy,” Granger ordered. Poulin gestured to the marines and they went off to search for the young lad.

“Land ho!” came a cry from the masthead. “Land off the starboard bow!” Granger turned to Poulin, smiling.

“That must be Minorca. Perhaps we can rid ourselves of some of these problems,” Granger said. They'd made a remarkably fast passage, and almost a perfect landfall.

Poulin smiled back. “That would be wonderful, sir.”

“Alter course a point to starboard,” Granger ordered the helmsman, and waited for him to acknowledge his order. “Mr. Poulin, trim the weather forebrace, if you please.”

“Aye aye sir,” Poulin said. Trogoff had vanished during their conversation. A strange man, Granger thought.

They'd been so excited about land, and so focused on changing course, that Granger didn't notice the young boy standing in between the marines, trying not to cry but failing. It was the precocious young boy he'd met the first day he came aboard. Granger motioned him over.

“I am sorry about your father Michel.”

“What of the man who killed him?” he asked defiantly. Then he suddenly remembered where he was, and added “sir”.

“He was killed and thrown overboard, like the scum that he was,” Granger said. He hoped that his coldness toward Carteret would ease Michel's pain. He turned to Poulin. “Please see that his father's possessions, as well as his own, are rounded up and put in my cabin.” Granger said to a surprised Poulin. “Winkler!”

Winkler came scurrying up to him. “This is Michel. He is my ward now. Find a spot in my cabin for him to sleep.”

“Aye aye sir,” Winkler said. Michel stared at him, not understanding English.

“You must learn English,” Granger told him in French, “if you're to come to England with me.”

“With you sir?” Michel asked curiously. Granger nodded, and the boy, throwing decorum to the wind, surged forward and hugged him. The marines grinned slightly.

“Yes. Pass the word for Lefavre,” Granger said. Lefavre was slower to arrive than Winkler was; he had a curmudgeonly streak in him.

“Sir?” he asked.

“Monsieur Lefavre, this is my new ward, Michel de Dardennes.” Michel looked at him curiously, at this use of his old name. “You will need to teach him English in addition to your other duties.”

“So you say sir. I am already sorely overworked,” groused Lefavre. It was his way.

“You cannot find time to help an orphan?” Granger asked him.

“Bah!” Lefavre said. “Aye aye sir. Come along you, I'll teach you some choice English words.” Lefavre put his hand on the boy's shoulder affectionately and led him off.

“You are taking him to England sir?” Poulin asked.

“I am. I will see that he has a good education. He will need it when he returns to France after the war, no?” Granger asked.

“Yes sir,” Poulin said, smiling. To Granger, it was a simple act of charity, helping a fellow aristocrat down on his luck. To Poulin, it was much more than that. It was the act of a friend.

The sail drill was paying off, although it was nowhere near as good as it should be. Still, the flagship was the fastest at taking in sail, as it should be, and he knew that would infuriate Travers at least, hit his professional pride. By the time they got to England, they'd make a good show of it. Granger guided the Commerce de Marseilles into the inner roads.

Eying the anchorage he wanted, he waited and waited until they were near, then ordered the helm over, putting her into the wind. “Let go!” he yelled toward the anchor party forward, and the massive anchor splashed into the water and the sails vanished, not quite as quickly as they could, but quickly enough. “Call away my boat!”

Granger checked in with Trogoff, who sat in his cabin in his surly mood and refused an invitation to go ashore, so Granger went off on his own. He was pleased to find Jeffers waiting for him, having just taken over duties as his coxswain without being told.

“So how do you like our new ship?” Granger said as he settled himself in the stern of the boat next to Jeffers.

“She's big sir,” Jeffers said. “And the Frenchies are nice enough. Getting them to understand English, now that's the challenge, begging your pardon sir.”

“Maybe the admiralty will steal her plans and we'll have a whole fleet of ships like her someday,” Granger mused, letting his guard down around Jeffers.

“I hope not, sir,” Jeffers said.

“Why?” Granger asked, confused. For a first rate, she handled well, and made significantly less leeway than even Victory. Her internal layout was comfortable, although maybe that was because it was so similar to British ships.

“She works a bit too much in a sea, sir. They say she isn't as strong as she should be for her size. I'm not looking forward to being in a good Atlantic gale, begging your pardon sir,” Jeffers said philosophically.

Granger chided himself for not knowing these things, for not fully investigating this command of his. Once again, he'd let the human side interfere with his duty. He embarked on a lengthy internal diatribe, cursing his inability to restrain his desires, then internally defended himself, telling himself that his job was to see to the people first. His torturous self-analysis was thankfully brought short by his arrival at the quay. He hired a hackney to take him directly to see the governor.

December 26, 1793

“Merry belated Christmas,” Granger said to Travers, raising his glass in a toast. Travers smiled at him, reveling in just being together.

“It was nice of you to invite me over for dinner,” Travers said. “I didn't think I'd get dessert first.” They'd retired into Granger's cabin for a passionate lovemaking session as soon as Travers got there.

Granger grinned. “You're not complaining are you?”

“Not as long as I get more after dinner.”

“You can have as much as you can handle,” Granger teased.

“It must get lonely back here in this huge cabin, all by yourself,” Travers said.

“Well, I haven't exactly been all by myself,” Granger said. Travers looked at him severely, remembering Granger's pledge to curb his slutty ways.

“And who has been keeping you company then?” Travers asked, shielding his irritation with Granger.

“Well, Bentley, the midshipman, he's been sleeping with me at night,” Granger said, but couldn't stop his grin.

“Why is that so funny?” Travers asked, irked now. “You found another midshipman to fuck?”

“Not at all. He's been sleeping with me, just sleeping … with our pants on,” Granger said. Travers raised his eyebrows. “He was severely traumatized aboard Berwick.” Granger explained Bentley's story, his whole trauma.

“That's ghastly,” Travers said. “Poor lad. You did the right thing George. Giving him a taste of human kindness, that's a noble gesture.”

“Yeah, as long as I can keep my self control and not fuck him,” Granger joked. “I have another companion as well. Would you like to meet him?”

“Why not,” Travers said resignedly.

“Michel!” Granger called. The little boy came bounding out of the day cabin. “Michel, this is Commander Travers. He is a very good friend.”

“Nice to meet you,” Michel said politely, in English. Lefavre was working with him, and he was a fast learner.

“It is nice to meet you as well,” Travers said, surprised.

“You can run along and bother Lefavre,” Granger said, dismissing him.

“So you adopted a French boy?” Travers asked.

“I did. His father was killed on board, in a scuffle with another passenger. He is from a good family, and he is now an orphan, so I took him under my wing. He is cute, no?”

Travers grinned. “An aristocrat?”

“Of course,” Granger said.

“I think you're just honing your paternal instincts,” Travers teased.

“Maybe I am, but he needed someone to watch out for him, and it seemed like the Christian thing to do,” Granger said defensively.

“Let me show you something that is most decidedly un-Christian,” Travers said with a smile, then put his napkin down, led Granger back into his sleeping cabin and reunited with him physically one more time before he returned to the Scipion.

December 28, 1793

It was a somber group that joined Granger at his table for dinner, the officers of the Commerce de Marseilles. They'd left Port Mahon on the morning tide with significantly fewer mouths to feed. Three fourths of their passengers had been offloaded, despite the irate protestations of the local populace who did not want additional competition for jobs, nor a bunch of French people polluting their culture. But Hood's orders were paramount, even the governor yielded to them, and the poor souls, the Toulonais, citizens without a country, were left to make their way. Granger had insisted that they choose a council of leaders to represent them and help them assimilate, and he'd given them a stash of gold from his own purse to give them something to work with.

For the officers at the table, seeing old friends left behind in such dire straits, at leaving family behind, and at losing, of sheer necessity, some of their sailors to stay and support the émigrés, it was a heart-wrenching affair.

“Thank you for your generosity to our people, sir” Poulin said. Granger glared at him. He had assumed his monetary contribution was somewhat confidential.

“You're welcome,” Granger replied, but with bad grace. “Tell me about this ship.” It was necessary to change the subject.

“We are down to a crew of 450, counting your men, sir” Poulin said. “We have food and water for a three month voyage if necessary.” He rambled on and on about their various stores, and state of readiness.

“Thank you,” Granger said, stopping him after letting him run on long enough to truly change the subject. “I was referring more to her material condition. Is she structurally sound?” That last term taxed his French to the limit.

There were nervous looks among the officers. Meurice finally spoke up. “She is a good sailer sir, and works well in anything but a strong sea. In a strong sea, she will leak like a sieve. There will be planks that come loose, and there will be much laboring on the pumps to keep her dry.”

“We will hit strong storms when we reach the Atlantic, if not before,” Granger said. “Will we sink?”

“No sir,” Meurice said with a smile, “but it will be very wet below.”

“The problem, sir, is that they built her so big but didn't make her strong enough to handle that extra size. She is a 120 gun ship built on a 100 gun carcass,” added Jacquard, the Fourth Lieutenant.

Poulin finally chimed in. “Sir, they are making structural changes to the Dauphin Royal, our sister ship, which should correct most of the problems. When she was completed, we were to transfer into her and Commerce was to go into drydock and receive modifications.”

“You think they would be successful?” Meurice asked Poulin. “I do not. The changes are being made at the core level, with diagonal framing and a strengthened keel. These are not things you can just add to a ship that is already built.”

“I am not an expert at ship construction like you are Meurice,” Poulin observed dourly. “I am just explaining what I was told.” Granger let them talk amongst themselves, dourly noting their observations in his mind to be transferred to paper later. He went to bed in a bad mood, concerned that the Commerce de Marseilles, the crowning example of their achievement, was a seriously flawed vessel.