HMS Belvidera - 13. Chapter 13

September, 1795

The Belvidera had been waiting two days for this mystery ship and, as dawn broke, Granger knew that if the ship didn't come today, he would have to leave and return to the convoy, ready to take his lumps for going on a fool's errand. He'd return to a ranting admiral, who would admonish him publicly and privately, and he would have no credible defense. The only thing that would save him would be any goodwill he'd managed to acquire with Spencer and Jervis. He wondered if that would be enough. Maybe they'd turn around and send him off to India after all.

He looked around the deck and could actually begin to see the outline of the guns. Then it was light enough for him to make out the nearest one, and the men around it, standing at quarters. He looked up and saw the darkened shadows of Belvidera's new sails fluttering briefly as she lay there hove to, waiting to see what dawn would bring. The sails were so new they seemed to gleam in the early light of dawn. The only ships that had canvas that new were French ships, because they were usually in port, he thought cynically. He stifled a sigh, a sigh of relief at having solved his problems with Belvidera's decayed canvas, but new sails purchased cheaply were not a good enough excuse for him to have lingered near Madeira. He began pacing, noting how at each turn, it was lighter. And then, as the sun came up on the horizon, he heard that call he'd been praying for, that cry from the masthead.

“Sail ho! Due starboard!” came the cry. Granger felt the electricity flow through the ship, the charge of excitement at sighting another ship. The men didn't know what they were looking for, but it mattered not a whit. Sighting any sail at sea was a welcome break in their routine.

“What do you make of her?” Granger called.

“Can't see much yet sir, but she's ship-rigged, and looks like a big sail.”

Granger got excited too, and then cursed himself for his premature enthusiasm. The wind was from the west, so once that ship sighted them, all she'd have to do to escape was head upwind, forcing him to pursue her into the wind. Regardless of the type of ship she was, she'd be able to stay out of his clutches until nightfall, and then probably elude him. He had to lure her in closer. He searched his mind for ways to accomplish that. He could furl all of Belvidera's sails, making her profile hard to see, but that would only last until the other ship saw her hull, and that wouldn't draw her in far enough. She'd see what Belvidera was with plenty of time to flee.

Then the wheels of his brain began to turn the situation over like the tumblers of a safe, until everything fell into place and Granger emerged first with an idea, then with a plan. “Mr. Roberts, we'll need a French ensign as soon as possible. Do we have one?”

“I don't know sir,” he answered honestly.

“Well if we don't, get one. Quickly!” Granger ordered.

“Aye aye sir,” he said, and dashed off. In no time at all, the sailmaker and his hands were on deck, frantically stitching together a tricolor flag.

“What do we need the flag for, sir?” Roberts asked. Granger reminded himself to be more open with his plans. He tended to forget that he was mortal, and that a single loose spar could come crashing down and end his fragile life.

“We need that ship to get within range. If she spots us too soon, she'll just tack into the wind and escape,” Granger said.

“You think a flag will fool her, sir?” he asked. It was an old trick, and ships were usually careful despite the flag that flew.

“I agree with you that it's a long shot, but we have some things in our favor.”

“Sir?” Roberts asked.

“Well, Belvidera is a French-built ship, so when they see her with a French flag flying, it will seem normal,” Granger began. Roberts nodded. That made a lot of sense.

“We've taken so many of them as prizes, sir, you'd think that would make them nervous,” Roberts said. Granger appreciated what Roberts was doing. He wasn't trying to be negative or skeptical; he was just trying to help Granger think this through, playing the unfortunate role of devil's advocate.

Granger nodded. “That is very true. But if you look up, you'll notice our beautiful spread of sails, all white as snow, all brand new,” he said with a smile.

“Just like a French ship, sir” Roberts said smiling.

“Correct. And last but not least,” Granger said, almost giddily, feeling triumphant, “is the fact that they're expecting a ship, expecting Floreal.”

“I understand, sir,” Roberts said. The other ship would have been told she'd be spotting a comrade in exactly this location. They weren't trying to convince her this was a random encounter, they were simply trying to meet her expectations. “But we're no ship-of-the-line.”

“No, but they would not be surprised to find that Floreal had some help, at least by now,” Granger noted.

“That makes sense, sir,” Roberts agreed, his smile turning into a grin.

“And if we were a French ship sighting a comrade, we would certainly go greet them,” Granger observed. “Put us on the larboard tack,” Granger ordered. Then his playful streak emerged. “Have the men act a bit lubberly. We're supposed to be French sailors.”

“Aye aye sir,” Roberts replied with a chuckle. The men got into the spirit of things, taking their time in trimming the yards. Granger smiled at their good spirits, and contrasted those to the sullen crew he'd first taken command of. He'd had notable achievements in his career, but none was quite as satisfying as this, at transforming a group of unmotivated and mistreated men into a crack crew.

Despite the fact that her men were acting slovenly, Belvidera herself was unwilling to play that role. With her yards trimmed and her helm put over, Belvidera leaped into motion and began clawing her way westward, while the ship in question got closer. It seemed to take forever for them to sight Belvidera, and when they did, the other ship hove to, considering this approaching stranger. They'd be able to see them from a distance, and the closer they got, the more of Belvidera's details they'd be able to pick out. Granger scanned the deck for anything that would give them away as an English ship, and saw one glaring error.

“Lieutenant Chairs,” Granger said, “I don't want to see a single red coat on this deck, do you understand? Your men can go without them for the time being.”

Chairs looked at him, hiding his irritation. He kept his marines in fit and trim order, never a button out of place, never a shoe unpolished. To have them parading about without their coats on was like heresy. But he obeyed orders. “Aye aye sir.”

“If that ship is French, we don't want her seeing red-coated soldiers aboard,” Granger deigned to add, trying to ease his discomfort. He got the feeling that it really didn't work very well. He saw the marines vanish and then return to deck without their red coats, smiling at this unusual relaxation of discipline and routine.

“Mr. Lennox, I'll have that tricolor run up our mainmast if you please,” Granger ordered. He laughed internally, thinking that they were running their fake flag up the mast they'd gotten from Floreal.

“Aye aye sir,” Lennox said.

“Mr. Roberts, I want the men on the main battery at quarters,” Granger ordered. “Nothing visible must be done to suggest we have belligerent intentions.

“Aye aye sir,” he said and went off to attend to that. Meanwhile the French flag soared up the mast. The effect was instantaneous. The other ship raised a similar flag and resumed course straight for Belvidera. They'd seen all the clues, the flag, the fresh canvas, the French-built ship, and had decided to see what they wanted to see, what they expected to see.

Granger eyed her through his glass, with Merrick and Roberts next to him doing the same thing. “What do you make of her, sir?” Merrick asked.

“She appears to be a merchantman, a French West Indiaman,” Granger said, trying not to grin. Those had been all but swept from the seas, and this one was low in the water, evidently loaded with cargo. She was worth a lot and would be a valuable prize. Still, he was cautious, not wanting to be guilty of the same blindness as the French had. The two ships continued to close with each other, until they were very near.

“What do you intend, sir” Roberts asked. They were much closer, and had just switched to the starboard tack.

“We will tack to the larboard when we are almost in front of her, but we will end up all aback,” Granger said. “We will, sadly, be unable to avoid a collision, and will end up locking with her, probably somewhere forward. I'll need a strong party of boarders ready, just in case she isn't what she appears to be.”

“Aye aye sir,” Roberts said, and then barked orders to assemble the boarders. They watched the ship approaching, her big Tricolor flapping happily in the wind. Closer and closer she came. Granger waited until the last possible minute to tack. If he tacked any later, it would be suspicious.

“Back the fore topsail!” Granger ordered. “Helm, hard a larboard.” The crew began the maneuver with their newly-found slackness, but Belvidera came into the wind with her normally sweet behavior. She was such a joy to sail. Granger thanked God for the millionth time that he'd listened to Meurice and changed her armament. When Belvidera was right in the teeth of the wind, he turned to the helm. “Steer dead ahead.”

“Sir?” asked the surprised helmsman. He didn't want to be responsible for the ship being all aback.

“You heard me,” Granger snapped. The rudder ceased to push her to the larboard, and instead held her steady, right in the eye of the wind. And then she was all aback. He could see the panic on the French ship as she tried to maneuver to dodge them, and Granger had designated a couple of men in the focs'l to motion to her frantically to move around them. He looked up in the tops to see the men acting like confused idiots. He hoped they weren't overplaying their roles. Granger and Roberts worked with all apparent diligence to get Belvidera out of irons, finally completing their tack to port. Only now Belvidera was aimed directly at the massive French merchantman. Collision was unavoidable.

“Mr. Lennox, run down that flag and run up our own,” Granger ordered. “Helm, keep her to port.”

He watched the officers on the other ship, saw the expression of horror as the French ensign came down and the Union Flag went up. Before they could even react, Belvidera drove into her amidships. “At 'em lads!” yelled Roberts from the forecastle, as he led the men, jumping over Belvidera's bow and landing on the deck of the big merchantman. It was over in a minute: faced with an overpowering boarding crew, the French threw down their weapons and surrendered.

Granger was once again pacing his deck. He paused as he turned and looked around, taking in the state of the ship. Then he walked to the larboard side to look over at Precieuse, the ship they'd captured just three days ago. He'd thought she was a West Indiaman, loaded with valuable coffee and sugar, but he had been wrong. The prize was even greater than that. She was actually a real rarity, a French East Indiaman, bringing goods back from the Far East. No coffee and sugar there, it was spices and silks, and was worth much more than a West Indiaman. Granger had been lucky with prizes and with prize money, but never this lucky. If he weren't already a rich man, he would be now.

The crew was ecstatic, knowing that their portion, while minuscule in comparison to what the officers would get, would still be a life-changer for them. And if they were ecstatic, the officers were positively euphoric. Granger had sent the reliable Carslake over with a prize crew, and had brought most of the Frenchmen to Belvidera where they were carefully guarded.

As lucky as Granger had been with prize money, he'd been even luckier with information. This prize had yielded a trove of that. Although he couldn't speak Portuguese, most of the documents were in French. He'd pieced the whole scenario together, the whole scheme, and it made so much sense now.

Floreal had used Madeira as a base with the acquiescence of the island's Viceroy and senior officials. It seemed that before the war, these people had dealings with the French, dealings that laid the groundwork for collusion. French East Indiamen would travel the long way from the Dutch Spice Islands, rounding Cape Horn at the bottom of South America, and then journey up to Madeira. That part of the voyage was relatively safe, as it was outside of the normal British trade routes, and outside of the normal areas patrolled by warships of any nation. Once in Madeira, they'd get fresh water and food, and then make the final, hazardous leg of the trip to France, only they would have an escort. Floreal would be there to guard them. In exchange for treason, for aiding and abetting the enemy, the authorities in Madeira received a sizable piece of the pie. And for a France starved of colonial luxuries like those in the Precieuse, the prices were astronomical, and their piece was quite large.

No wonder Floreal had looked well-maintained. No wonder she didn't need to return to France to reprovision. He'd gathered from the correspondence that several ships had gotten through. That meant there may be more still on their way. A potential windfall for whoever was sent to patrol that area. Granger put that thought behind him, the hope that he would be given that opportunity. They should send someone else; there was no need to fuel yet more jealousy within the Navy.

Granger had decided to sail directly for England. If he ran into the convoy, that was fine. If not, he'd escort his prize and his valuable cache of information to England himself. The fallout from this would be intense, especially in Madeira, when a vengeful Portuguese government set their teeth into the Viceroy and his cronies. He wondered if his reception at Funchal would have been as pleasant had Floreal still been at large. Would they have been as anxious to get rid of him, or would they, instead, have laid a trap for him? It dawned on him that his visit there with Intrepid had been fortuitously brief.

“Pardon me, sir,” a voice said, interrupting him.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Jackson?” Granger asked, forcing any irritation from his voice.

“I wanted to report on the wounded, sir,” he said.

“Walk with me,” Granger ordered. Jackson began to walk with him, matching his stride perfectly.

“Of the twenty four men in sick bay, we have lost four, sir” Jackson said. They'd buried a man just this morning. “Ten have been released for duty, while the remaining ten will need a bit longer to heal. One of those men may not make it, but I am fairly confident that the others will.”

“That is excellent Doctor,” Granger said. Those were rare statistics. It was gratifying to have a doctor who was so effective, so efficient, that he could actually heal the men instead of simply cutting off limbs.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, smiling. “Mr. Cavendish is doing very well. His wound has drained enough that I felt comfortable closing it. He is now able to walk around if he is careful, but I would like him to remain on the sick list, just to give the wound a little longer to heal.

“Excellent. Then we will leave him right where he is until that time comes,” Granger said, sounding magnanimous, but in reality, being quite selfish. He spent every night with Cavendish and had grown very attached to him.

“Yes, sir,” Jackson said. He took his leave of Granger and headed back to his sick bay, while Granger continued pacing. He watched the sun set in the west, a beautiful sight.

“Signal night stations, Mr. Lennox,” Granger said, smiling at him. He'd given Lennox acting-lieutenant status, letting him fill in for Carslake while he was manning the prize.

“Aye aye sir,” Lennox said, and went to make that so. When he returned, Granger engaged him in conversation.

“So how does it feel to keep a watch?” he asked.

“It's wonderful, sir, but a bit scary at first,” Lennox said honestly. Granger remembered his first watches, where he had the paranoid feeling that the ship was barreling down onto an uncharted rock and would sink at any moment.

“That will fade as you get used to it,” he said.

“Thank you for the opportunity, sir,” Lennox said.

“You have earned it,” Granger told him. He was actually interested to see how Lennox handled this, to see if he was able to make that transition from a petty officer to a watch-keeping officer. If he could, then it was time for promotion. If he could not, then he would spend some more time in the midshipman's berth. “I will leave you to your watch.”

Granger went below for supper, a large, special meal made by Lefavre, who was evidently excited about the prize money too. “Winkler, see if Mr. Cavendish can join me,” Granger said.

“Aye aye sir,” Winkler said. He came back a few minutes later, helping Cavendish limp over to the table.

“It is good to see you up and about,” Granger said. “I am assuming your appetite is still voracious. Join me.”

“Thank you, sir,” Cavendish said with a chuckle. “I fear your assumptions are correct.” Winkler left them to enjoy their dinner. They spent most of it just eating and gazing at each other.

“I'm sorry I'm not dressed appropriately, sir,” Cavendish said. He was wearing just trousers and a shirt, and the shirt was open so his neck, his long sexy neck, was exposed.

“Personally, I think you are overdressed,” Granger said, flirting. Cavendish actually blushed. He really was cute.

“I have recovered enough, sir,” Cavendish said shyly, after they were done eating.

“Enough for what?” Granger asked, teasing him. He just looked at Granger, then stood up and headed for the room he used. Granger stood next to him and helped him limp along. As soon as they were in the room and the door was closed, Cavendish turned to face him.

“Well enough for you to make love to me,” he said, and moved in to kiss Granger. “Please?” Granger felt the conflict within himself. On the one hand, Cavendish's wound, while healing nicely, had only just been stitched up. Exertion could be dangerous, and the fact that it was not fully healed was evident in the pronounced limp when he walked. On the other hand, the tight bandages around his leg seemed to hold everything in place and showed no blood. In the end, Granger’s almost insatiable libido won the argument, and the opportunity to plunge into Cavendish's beautiful ass threw all logic out the window. He placated his conscience by resolving to be gentle when he fucked Cavendish.

“I will be right back,” Granger told him. “I expect you to be in the cot and naked when I get back.” Cavendish chuckled. Granger had to go through his evening process of shedding his clothes so Winkler could attend to them. He kept on a pair of trousers, nothing more, and headed back to see Cavendish, just remembering to grab the lanolin.

He found Cavendish in bed just as he'd ordered. Granger stripped off his trousers and climbed in, feeling Cavendish's naked body mould to his willingly. The way Cavendish pressed against him, the way his lips absorbed his, the way his tongue danced with his so willingly, showed Granger how completely he'd surrendered to him. “I want you,” he said huskily in Granger's ear, and then turned around slowly, his back to Granger's chest, his ass pushing against Granger's rock hard cock.

“I want you too,” Granger said, as he nuzzled him behind the ear. “Have you ever done this before?” He felt Cavendish tense up, and he knew why. He didn't want to have to admit it, one way or the other. “I only ask because if you haven't, it may hurt, and I want to make it as easy for you as possible.”

“You want me to like it so I'll do it again?” Cavendish teased back. His playful sense of humor was delightful. “Don't worry. I will be fine. Just go slow.”

Granger grabbed a glob of lanolin and began working it into Cavendish's ass, working his fingers in too. Cavendish was tight; if he'd done this before, he hadn't done it many times. He felt Cavendish's writhing against his fingers, working his beautiful body open. Granger pulled his fingers out slowly and gently, then lubed up his cock and moved it up to the young man's hole.

He pushed in gently, and felt Cavendish tense, but only briefly. He was so in control of his body, even his anus, that he willed himself open, and Granger moved in slowly but steadily. When he gasped, it wasn't a gasp of pain, it was more one of shock, shock at so easily absorbing Granger's dick. Granger began to move in and out, going slowly, very slowly. He let his hands explore Cavendish's body, his flat stomach, his small nipples, and his long, sexy neck. “Aah,” he heard Cavendish moan excitedly.

“Is this good?” Granger teased.

“I've never felt anything like this, anything this good,” he said, then moaned again. Granger reached down to grab his big cock, and started to stroke it, but Cavendish moved his hand away. “You'll bring me off too soon, and I want this to last.” They moved like that, together, and Granger decided he had never encountered a lover who was so able to read his mind and his moves, and then respond to them so perfectly. The longer they went, the more comfortable Cavendish got, and the more he participated, until he was almost the one fucking Granger, instead of the other way around. Granger had completely forgotten his resolve to be slow and gentle, and Cavendish had evidently never made that decision in the first place.

“You're going to bring me off,” Granger whispered into his ear through his gritted teeth. “I'm going to flood you.” Cavendish increased his moves and grabbed his own cock, stroking himself quickly to bring himself to the same point as Granger, to meet Granger's orgasm with his own. And then they came, both of them, together, a writhing duo, working their bodies perfectly to maximize their pleasure. It seemed to last forever, a huge euphoric wave, as Granger shot into Cavendish again and again, yet just when he thought the wave would end, it would pick up again. Finally, when he had finished, he lay there and wrapped himself around this young man who had given him so much pleasure, and felt him shivering and quaking in his arms. “Are you alright?” he asked, concerned.

Cavendish pulled away from him so Granger's cock popped out of his ass and turned over so he was facing Granger. “I have never been better in my entire life. That was magical.” Granger smiled, then kissed him lovingly, feeling Cavendish melt back into him.

“It was for me as well,” Granger said. “You are a terrific lover.”

“I am only this good because I'm with you, and it is only this good because you're the one inside me,” Cavendish said as he stared deeply into Granger's eyes. Granger kissed him again, both to hide his eyes and to end this line of conversation. He'd looked into Cavendish's eyes and seen into his soul. And the one thing that was obvious, that was most apparent, was that the young man was head over heels in love with his captain.

It must have been in the middle of the night when Granger sensed something was different. He woke up quickly, the trait of a captain, to find Cavendish stroking his cock. He looked over at the midshipman and smiled. “Is it OK that I woke you up?” he asked as he fondled Granger's dick. Granger leaned in and kissed him, gently rolling on top of him to make sure he didn't hurt his wounded thigh. Granger sprawled on top of him, putting his weight on Cavendish's good leg, and smashed their bodies together, savoring the contact.

“It is very alright,” Granger said, and then kissed him again. He was insatiable when it came to Cavendish. He simply could not keep his hands off the young man. Granger felt Cavendish's hard cock rubbing against his urgently.

“I want you again,” he whispered in Granger's ear. “Make love to me again.”

“No,” Granger said, and almost laughed at his sad expression. “It's my turn.”

“You don't have to. I know I'm big,” he said sadly.

Granger grabbed the lanolin and rubbed it on Cavendish's cock, and then put some on his own ass. Cavendish looked nervous as Granger positioned himself right over Cavendish's big dick and lined it up. “I can take you, and I'm going to love it. Just watch,” Granger said. Slowly he lowered himself down, smiling at the wide eyes that Cavendish had. He felt Cavendish's massive dick slide inside of him, relishing how good it felt. He thought about Holmquist or Jardines, the two men who were even bigger than Cavendish. He'd taken them, but it had been more difficult. He took Cavendish easily because he was smaller, but even more because he really wanted him. “Good?”

“Yes,” Cavendish said to him breathlessly, amazed that Granger could do it. Granger began to move up and down, undulating his ass so Cavendish's big dick drove into him, right where it should, right into that magic spot.

Then Granger leaned forward and positioned himself over Cavendish, wanting him to take over, wanting him to thrust his hips up off the bed to ram his dick deep into Granger's ass. And Cavendish, as he always seemed to do, sensed this was what Granger wanted and did it, did it exactly right. Granger leaned in and kissed him, alternating between gentle and passionate kisses. He could tell by Cavendish's breath, and his movements, that he was getting close, so Granger began to stroke his own dick just as Cavendish had done. Their eyes locked and they said nothing, all their speaking was done between those two sets of blue eyes.

Granger could see the fire in Cavendish's eyes, see him look crazed, and knew he was close. And then they came, together again, their eyes locked, not missing a beat. Granger saw all of the emotions flow through his eyes, emotions he might otherwise have never known about: Glee, ecstasy, love, fear, they were all there. Granger pulled back from him and sat on his still hard cock and grinned down at the midshipman.

“I liked that,” Cavendish said. Granger chuckled and scooped up some of his cum from Cavendish's abdomen and fed it to him, feeling him slurp it greedily off his fingers.

“Me too,” Granger said, as he lay back down next to him.

“I've always wanted to do that with another man, but I couldn't find one who would let me, or could let me,” he said with wide-eyed admiration. That made Granger a little uncomfortable, for being lauded because he was a slut.

“Well I really liked it, and I'm up for another round whenever you are,” Granger said playfully.

“Do you like me?” Cavendish asked, and with that one question, he opened up his soul, took off all of his shields, and laid himself bare. His insecurities were there on the table. A vicious man could have scarred him for life, but Granger wasn't vicious.

“Yes, I like you. I like you very much,” Granger said honestly. “You're worried that I think you're just a handsome young man, a toy to play with?”

Cavendish looked away and nodded, but Granger grabbed his chin and pulled his face back. “You are a handsome young man, and you are a fun toy to play with, but I do care about you.” That got him a big smile.

October, 1795

“Let go!” Granger shouted, and the anchor splashed into the sea, announcing Belvidera's arrival at Spithead. The sails vanished as if by magic, as did those on Precieuse. “Call away my gig, Mr. Roberts,” Granger said.

“Aye aye sir,” he said automatically, then began the evolution of hoisting the boat out.

“I will meet with the port admiral, and then I intend to go to London,” Granger said. Winkler and Cavendish appeared on deck with their dunnage. “I will send you a message if anything changes. In the meantime, it is vital that you make sure the ship is ready for sea.”

“Yes, sir,” Roberts said. “You can trust me to see to that.”

“I never doubted it for a minute,” Granger said. With his gig in the water, he watched as first Winkler, and then Cavendish lowered themselves into the boat. They'd had to fight adverse winds, and then a storm, before they were finally able to reach the relative calm of Spithead. And relative was a key word, Granger reminded himself, as water splashed into the boat and soaked them all. He assumed that the convoy had made better speed and had already arrived, since he hadn't seen them, nor a single sign of them. There was silence on board the gig as the boat ploughed through the rough waters, and it was a grateful party that found themselves at the dock. “Thank you Jeffers,” Granger said to his coxswain. He walked the brief distance to the Port Admiral's headquarters. Winkler and Cavendish stayed with the boat to supervise the unloading of their sea chests.

The ante-room was crowded, but the admiral only kept him waiting a few minutes. “You're back, eh Granger?”

“Yes sir,” Granger said.

“Wilcox got back a week ago and has been raising hell about how you just vanished without orders,” the admiral said.

“Yes sir. I got permission from the admiral to make repairs to Belvidera, but we couldn't effect them at sea, so we had to put in to Madeira,” Granger said. “We discovered that a ship was due to arrive there and we captured her.”

“And what kind of ship did you capture?” he asked.

“A French East Indiaman, sir. She has silks and spices on board,” Granger said, forcing himself not to smile when he said it. “In addition, she had papers on board indicating collusion between the French and the Portuguese in Madeira.”

“Well, that's enough to get you a warrant for a post chaise to London. You can pick that up from the secretary. Good luck,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Granger said. He got his warrant, and then hired the post chaise while Cavendish got some food for them to eat on their journey.

“Admiral Wilcox has been spreading lies,” Granger said. He would need Cavendish for political support if there was a firestorm, so he needed to let him know what happened. “He claims we vanished from the convoy without orders.”

“That's not true, sir,” Cavendish exclaimed.

“The truth is a rare currency in London, Mr. Cavendish,” Granger said.

Cavendish smiled. “I suspect you are correct, sir. I will have to speak with my father to see what effect these rumors have had.” Granger smiled back at him, at this young man who was a superb lover and a fantastic companion as well. He felt himself getting erect at the thought of that, so he distracted himself by picking up one of the papers he'd gotten before they got in the post chaise. There were reports on their action with Floreal published in the Naval Chronicle. There was an introduction from Wilcox that tried to explain his decision to fling Belvidera in unsupported, but it rang hollow, especially since he neglected to mention that he'd refused to allow Illustrious or Centurion to increase sail. Howard's report was next, a terse and factual description of the action. Granger smiled at the paper, at Howard's glowing praise at how he'd handled Belvidera. And then there was his report, the one Wilcox must have dreaded. Granger had laid out the action factually, but adding in enough of his thought process so people could almost feel the action. His report and Wilcox's were so different; one might assume they were talking about a different battle.

He picked up the Times next, and they were less pleasant about it. They piled the blame on Wilcox, asking all the damning questions. Granger had a feeling that they'd been coached, because their comments and questions were much too insightful. “We question why Admiral Wilcox would throw a fragile frigate into battle, while purposely holding his ships of the line in reserve,” it said. “The only answer appears to be one which would question the bravery of the Admiral.” That must have driven Wilcox near to madness when he'd read it. Granger read a few other papers, and the same general consensus seemed to be repeated there. Wilcox was going to have to fight like hell to save his reputation.

Cavendish took each paper as Granger finished and read them. “It seems that the only way to save himself is to discredit you, sir,” Cavendish said. “But Captain Howard's report validated yours, so that makes it doubly difficult.”

“Let us hope that Captain Howard and I are more believable,” Granger said dourly. He knew Cavendish was right, and he knew that Wilcox was planning to use his disappearance from the convoy as the means to prove he was an unreliable officer. He would use that to taint everything Granger had said in his report. It was quite possible that he would succeed, and that did much to destroy Granger's joy at coming home.

Granger was in a foul mood for the rest of the trip, and bad company, but Winkler and Cavendish tried to be good companions anyway. That just made him grumpier. It was night by the time they reached London, but Granger had the coach take him straight to the Admiralty anyway. While he went in to see the powers-that-be, he let the coach take Cavendish home. He found very few people at the Admiralty. Evidently Spencer didn't keep late hours like Chatham, so he left his reports and his bundle of captured documents there, and headed home.

“Where to, sir?” the postie asked. Granger found himself confused. Had Caroline moved into the new house yet? He decided to go to his parents' home first.

“Bridgemont House, Mayfair,” he said. The postie cracked the whip and they barreled through the streets, creating a commotion, such a commotion that their arrival, even at that late hour, aroused the footmen at his parents' house. They threw open the door for him, then went to help Winkler get his things.

“George! You're home!” his father said as he came into the entryway.

“It is good to see you, Father,” he said. “Is Caroline here?”

“She went to Brentwood with the children,” he said. “There were some ill humors in the air here in London, and she wanted to make sure they were safe.”

“I didn't know if she'd moved over to Portland Place yet. I haven't gotten any recent mail,” Granger said.

“She has. We miss having her and the children around, but it is an impressive residence,” his father said. “Would you rather stay here tonight?”

The thought of being alone in that enormous house, with Caroline gone, was just a bit too shocking for Granger at this point. He'd sent Cavendish on his way and he didn't want to be alone. Here he'd be with his family. “Thank you, Father. That would be nice.”

Granger mounted the stairs, exhausted from his day's activities. It was all Winkler could do to keep Granger awake long enough to shed his dress coat and strip off his clothes. And then, with no immediate responsibilities to plague him, George Granger got a long, good night's sleep.