HMS Belvidera - 22. Chapter 22

December, 1795

Granger slid back to the deck on a backstay, not to show off his youthful agility, but to get there as fast as he could. He found himself surrounded by Robey, Carslake, and Bailey. “What is she, sir?” Robey asked appropriately, since he was the senior.

“She looks to be either a big frigate or a small ship-of-the-line. Do the French have any 50-gunners left?” he asked. No one seemed to know. “In any event, as soon as Mr. Roberts sets fire to the coasters, they’ll be all over us and the boats.”

“Do you think she’s seen us, sir?” Bailey asked.

“I doubt it, otherwise we’d have cannon balls about our ears,” Granger snapped sarcastically. Then he pulled himself together, remembering that he was supposed to be aloof and cool in a crisis. “The shore and the headland act as a backdrop. We probably blend in, whereas she doesn’t.”

“What do you plan to do, sir?” Robey asked. Granger paused to note the excitement in his voice, and the excitement all around him. These men weren’t scared, they weren’t concerned, they were thrilled. A big Frog ship had just appeared in front of them, and they had such confidence in him it didn’t dawn on them for a minute he might not be able to get them all out of this mess. That was flattering, and a little overwhelming at the same time. He wanted, needed time to think, but he didn’t have time.

A seaman appeared in front of him, saluting crisply. “The Frog’s anchored sir, right in the mouth of the harbor.”

She was evidently unwilling to enter port in the dark, and without a pilot. “Thank you,” Granger said pleasantly. “Gentlemen, pass the word about the ship, not a sound, not one noise. Then assemble the officers on the quarterdeck here in five minutes.” Granger headed below and got out the chart of Imperia, such as it was, and examined the port. He pondered his options, looked at his watch, then calmly walked back up to the quarterdeck.

All of the officers were assembled, the air of anticipation as thick as the fog in London. “Gentlemen, there is a large French frigate or a small French ship-of-the-line at the mouth of the harbor, I am not sure which. It matters not. We must destroy her.” They nodded, as if he’d just announced something as simple as taking on water. “In five minutes, we will cut our cable and drift down upon her. With the wind and current, we won’t need any sail, so we might remain invisible. Once we are up to her, I plan to anchor across her stern and bombard her until she either surrenders or cuts her cable.”

“What if she cuts her cable and fights?” Chairs asked. He was always the conservative one.

“Then we will fight her,” Granger said simply. “I’ll want a man below to cut the cable. I want the larboard battery loaded, double-shotted with a measure of grape shot on top of that, and run out quietly.”

“Aye aye sir,” they all said.

“Lieutenant Chairs, I want you up forward at the larboard smasher. Take personal responsibility for aiming it,” Granger ordered. “After the first few shots, the emphasis will be on speed of firing, not aim, but that first shot or two will be key.”

“Aye aye sir,” Chairs said crisply, and then they all left to get the ship ready for action. Granger glanced up at the rigging, and around at the quarterdeck carronades, which were being quietly loaded and run out. He decided that it was time.

“Mr. Robey, cut the cable,” Granger ordered. Robey attended to that, and Granger heard the muffled noise as the men tried to load and run out the 18-pounders as quietly as possible. There were the louder thumps below, of the ax cutting the cable, but fortunately they’d only used the bower anchor, with a smaller line, so it wouldn’t take quite as much effort.

Granger walked forward and peered ahead at the French ship. He saw lights ahead, beaming from the stern cabin. Presumably the captain was entertaining his officers, anticipating an easy night before putting into a friendly port. Then Granger felt the Belvidera begin to move as her cable broke, and now freed, she drifted toward the hapless Frenchman.

Granger went back to the quarterdeck and found Robey there. “I need enough men to set the main topsail and man the braces; otherwise the rest of the crew can stay at the guns. You’ll need to be ready to anchor,” he ordered.

“Aye aye sir,” Robey said, and scrambled off to do that. Granger watched the French ship grow closer and closer. It was amazing that they hadn’t been sighted yet, but perhaps the lookouts felt secure, and in any event, they probably weren’t looking back from whence they had just come.

Suddenly Granger heard a shout from the French ship. He’d thought they’d sighted Belvidera, but when he trained his glass toward the shore, he could see the flames as one of the coasters caught fire. Belvidera was right where he wanted her to be. Roberts’ timing was fortuitously perfect.

“Mr. Robey, drop anchor,” Granger said loudly. “Fire the smasher, Lieutenant!” Granger shouted. Shouts from the French ship were drowned out as the smasher fired, the sound piercing through the night, the flash almost blinding them in this darkness. He saw the stern windows of the French ship disintegrate as the ball hit. The shot was a little low, but Chairs was already reloading. Before the anchor dropped, he’d fired again, and this shot had an impact. Granger fancied he could hear screaming as the massive 68 pound ball smashed through the Frenchman, sending musket balls along the length of her deck.

The anchor splashed, and Belvidera began to swing with the current. “Commence firing,” he shouted. “Mr. Robey, drop the stern anchor.” The night lit up as Belvidera’s entire broadside exploded, blasting into the Frenchman’s stern. If she’d had any stern chasers ready to fire at them, it would be a miracle if any of them were still operable. He heard the stern anchor drop, and then saw Robey skillfully working the cables to make sure Belvidera was perfectly aimed at the Frenchman.

Now was when all the months of gun drill paid off. Now was when the efficiency and power of Belvidera was truly seen. Their intense, repetitive drilling had enabled the crews to service their guns while barely able to see in the darkness of the night and the fog of gunpowder smoke. The guns fired again and again; at a rate so fast it amazed even Granger. The quarterdeck carronades flashed, blinding him, so he climbed up the starboard shrouds to watch the damage they were wreaking. Robey was using the starboard gunners to give the larboard side a rest as they labored, much as Carslake must be doing below.

The Belvidera fired continuously, pouring iron into the hapless French vessel. With the darkness and now the smoke from the powder, Granger was having a hard time making out the shape of the French ship. “Hercule, fire a flare,” Granger ordered. It took the man a few minutes to scurry below and find one, then a few more minutes before he could launch it, but when he did, it lit up the sky. And there, in front of them, was the French ship.

She was something of a relic, a 50 gun ship, probably similar to the HMS Leander, but in close range like this, if they’d been yardarm to yardarm, she’d blast Belvidera out of the water. She probably carried 24-pounders on her main deck, and would be built to stand in the line of battle, albeit barely. He stared at her and could only conclude that she was a wreck. Her mizzen and main masts were down, completely blanketing her deck. He saw the ports opening as she finally got her crew to quarters, but the guns couldn’t hit Belvidera, not even the stern-most ones. There were only two options for her. Cut her cable and try to fight, or surrender.

A musket ball hit the deck next to him as the French marines shot at them from the stern. Granger strolled up to the nearest carronade. “Aim a little higher lads, and sweep those snipers from her upper deck.”

“Aye aye sir,” the gun captain said, and adjusted the screw accordingly.

“Another flare, Hercule,” he shouted. The carronade went off right after the second flare did, in time for Granger to see the carronade’s ball crash into the packed marines on her stern. The screams from the ship were a reminder of the death and mayhem they were causing, and that made Granger cringe, but this was their job, this was war.

Belvidera’s cannonade continued as ball after ball smashed into the Frenchman’s quarter. This was almost like live target practice, Granger thought ruefully. He wondered why the Frenchman hadn’t struck yet: he could see the tricolor flying jauntily from her foremast, the only one still standing.

“Sir, she’s moving,” a man in the tops shouted.

“Maintain your fire,” Granger ordered unnecessarily. Let her try and come around and fight. She was so knocked about, they’d be lucky if half their guns could be served. Belvidera continued to pummel her, even as she drifted away. She was evidently hoping to make port, but those 50 gun ships were notoriously clumsy, and she had only the shreds of a fore topsail set. Instead the current and wind took her toward the rocks on the eastern headland. Belvidera kept up her fire, even as the range increased due to the other ship drifting away.

He watched as she turned parallel to them, and saw a few of her guns poke out of her sides, but even then, Belvidera’s guns were smashing holes in her. The carnage on board must be unbelievable. A few guns went off but their balls went high. He saw them struggling to get more sail on her, but even in this darkness, Granger knew their battle was in vain. Then, before she could fire again, she ran aground.

Granger told Hercule to send up another flare, and watched, amazed, as the French ship threw herself onto the rocks. At least that’s what it looked like. Her captain, if he was still alive, had brought his ship parallel to Belvidera to get in some licks, but by doing that he’d made sure that she struck along her sides. Those rocks would gash open those old timbers. There really was no point in firing anymore, but it was his duty to ensure her destruction, and she still had not surrendered.

Ball after ball struck her, yet the tricolor waved on. “Cease firing!” Granger ordered, and Belvidera’s guns went quiet. “Do you surrender?” Granger shouted in French across the water through his speaking trumpet. He had to wait for only a minute until one of the Frog’s guns fired and slammed into Belvidera’s quarter. “Continue firing, Mr. Robey,” Granger ordered sadly.

This was nonsense. There was no honor to be gained here. The Frenchman had been beaten, beaten badly. She had endured enormous punishment, enough that she would probably sink, or at least be burned by either the French or by Granger. Yet she still refused to surrender. Now all that was happening was the wasting of additional lives. Granger felt the anger rising, anger at her captain for forcing him to slaughter the Frenchman’s own crew. Why would the Frog be so willing to endure punishment like this? What was to be gained? In the morning, Belvidera and her boats would be out of range of the shore batteries, and they’d send in a party to burn the French ship, which was nothing more than a hulk.

His mind was in turmoil, trying to figure this out, while the guns continued to batter the Frenchman. He was distracted by a shout from Belvidera’s stern, followed suitably enough by a proper challenge. Some marines ran toward the stern, their muskets at the ready. “Hold your fire!” Granger ordered. “Those may be our boats!” The marine sergeant nearest turned to face him, the crazed look of battle in his eyes, until he got a grip on his emotions. He called his men to order just in time to discover that Granger was right, that it was Roberts’ party returning.

Their boats hooked on to the starboard side and they came aboard, Roberts first, while the larboard guns continued to fire. “Welcome back, Mr. Roberts,” Granger said.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “We burned eight of the ten coasters in port. We brought one out with us. She’s loaded with food, sir. Live pigs and the like.” He was grinning, thinking with his stomach like most young men. Cavendish joined Roberts, and Granger had all he could do not to beam with happiness and relief at seeing him back aboard safe and sound.

“You did very well, gentlemen,” Granger said formally to hide those emotions. “What cargo did the other coasters carry?”

“The two other coasters that we boarded contained general stores, sir,” Roberts said. “We were kind of surprised, expecting them to be naval or military stores, but there weren’t. Begging your pardon sir, but what’s the story about the Frog?”

Granger explained their encounter with the French ship. “We drove the Frog aground,” Granger said, gesturing to the hulk on the rocks, “but she won’t surrender.”

“She won’t surrender sir?” Roberts asked. Robey joined them and shook his head sadly, confirming what Granger had already said. “Why?”

“Maybe she’s expecting some help, sir,” Cavendish said. Granger stared at him, aghast. That was the only explanation. If the Frenchman was the lead ship of a force, she’d let Belvidera keep pummeling her, while every bright flash from the fire of the guns would give away her location.

Granger felt panic rising in him, then steadied himself. This would be a time for cool, collected thought. “Cease fire,” he ordered.

“Aye aye sir,” said Roberts, resuming his role as First Lieutenant and taking over his executive role. He called down to Carslake, and the guns fell silent almost immediately.

“Get the mainsails on her,” Granger ordered. “Mr. Robey, see to getting the anchors up as quickly as we can. I don’t want to lose the last two we have aboard.”

“Aye aye sir,” they said, and hurried to do his bidding.

It didn’t take them long to get those tasks done, even though it seemed like an eternity to Granger. “Anchor’s hove short, sir,” Roberts said.

The men scampered out onto the yards, the same exhausted men that had been toiling at the guns for more than an hour, and loosed the sails quickly and efficiently. The sails were set first, booming and billowing in the breeze, much to Granger’s chagrin. He looked over to where the Frog was, but saw nothing. If she was trying to lead a larger force to them, she would have been well-advised to keep firing, but perhaps she was too knocked about.

Granger heard an oink, and turned to see a pig come swinging onto the deck. Roberts really was quite an amazing officer. Here they were, desperately trying to set sail and raise their anchor, yet he’d still found a party of men to bring those unfortunate beasts aboard. It seemed to take forever for the anchors, both of them, to come up. Belvidera strained at her cable the whole time, the force of her canvas pushing her forward, as if she was pleading to be released.

Finally, he felt her begin moving, felt the ship begin to answer to the helm as her sails propelled her forward. Belvidera sprang into action once again, only this time, instead of launching more cannon balls at the French ship, she was working desperately to escape, although from what, if anything, Granger was unsure.

“Let’s get the topsails and topgallants on her as well,” Granger ordered. If he was being set up for a trap, it was important to get away from Imperia as quickly as possible. Belvidera strained under the press of canvas, and Granger worried for a minute that he’d pushed her too hard, but they had new rigging and canvas, thanks to their Portuguese friends in Madeira, and she handled the strain just fine. Soon they were flying along, away from Imperia. He’d set an easterly course, assuming that if there were more French ships, they’d be coming from the west, from Toulon.

Roberts strolled up next to him. “Tell me what happened,” Granger ordered. Now that Belvidera was on course, he had time to reflect more on their successful mission to burn the French shipping.

“We approached the coasters just as you ordered sir. We split up and boarded the first two coasters. That’s when we found the one with the pigs and foodstuffs,” he said. That coaster was still lashed to the side of Belvidera as she sailed away, while his crew continued to unload the welcome addition of livestock. “We took the Frog prisoners without a shot, and let them escape in their dinghy. After we captured a third, we fired it, along with the first one, and retreated back to our boats and the captured coaster. We watched to make sure that the coasters drifted into the others, and waited to make sure that they all caught fire, and then we saw the firing and returned to the ship. As near as I could tell, we destroyed eight coasters, captured one, and one escaped from us. She was too close ashore.”

“You did very well, Mr. Roberts,” Granger said formally to mask the anxiety he’d experienced while they were gone. “I will say so in my report.”

“Thank you sir,” Roberts said. Granger fancied he could see his grin as he said that, and took time to look around the deck. It was getting lighter. Dawn was upon them. A man came up to report to Roberts, and he in turn reported to Granger. “We’ve finished unloading the coaster, sir. Shall we burn her?”

“No, just cast her off,” Granger said. It was still dark, and he had no desire to draw attention to their position. Roberts went to attend to that while Granger contemplated what dawn would bring. He grabbed his glass and headed to the mizzen shrouds, then began his climb up to the mizzen top.

The mizzen was the smallest of their masts, but he was fatigued enough that it was tough to make it up there nonetheless. He got to the platform and remembered at the last minute not to collapse and show his weakness to the seaman who was keeping watch aloft.

“Can’t see anything yet, sir,” the man said respectfully. Granger turned and found himself sitting next to Clifton.

“Well we shall wait a few minutes for things to get lighter,” Granger said, forcing himself to be cheerful. “Was that your first action?”

“Yes sir,” Clifton said. “It wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“How so?” Granger asked.

“It was almost too easy, sir. I always expected that there would be carnage, that the ship would crumble around us as we fought it out with the enemy,” Clifton said.

“We were lucky this time. I’ve been in actions like the one you envisioned, and they aren’t pretty. This time we were able to achieve surprise, and got lucky that we were able to stay out of her arc of fire.” Clifton nodded thoughtfully.

Now it was much lighter, and once dawn seemed to start, it seemed that it came upon them quite suddenly. Soon, the whole vista of port and sea opened up in front of them. Granger trained his glass on Imperia and watched, horrified, as a two-decker tacked past the wreckage of her consort and entered harbor, followed by another two-decker, and a frigate. Cavendish had been right. He’d seen the signs, made the logical conclusion while Granger had let the heat of battle, the sweet feel of victory, overwhelm his own thoughts. If it weren’t for the bright young midshipman, they’d probably all be French prisoners now, and Belvidera would once more be a French warship.

He shifted his glass to the ship they’d pummeled last night. She would not survive the day. Her upperworks were shot to pieces, a testament to Belvidera’s efficient gunnery, while she careened over at a dangerous angle as she sat on the rocks. The next storm would toss her ashore and break her to pieces, but even if that were months into the future, nothing the French did would float her again. He shifted his glass back to the French ships, studying them carefully. Their sail drill was appalling, and presumably their gunnery was the same, but either one of those two-deckers would be able to destroy Belvidera if they were in close action. He looked at the frigate, one that was almost a twin to Aurore. He hoped she’d break off and head toward them, an equal battle fought on equal terms, but he was to be disappointed. Those odds simply weren’t attractive enough to draw her out.

Granger paused to evaluate the situation. First of all, he was irritated with himself for not seeing what Cavendish had seen. How did he miss that? He let his arrogance, his self-satisfaction with expertly destroying that French ship go to his head. But for Cavendish’s astute observation, he and his crew would be French prisoners.

He shook off his self-flagellation. There was work to be done. He eyed the port, where the French were warping in, seemingly content to be at Imperia and happy to leave him alone for the time being. He could either sail north to join Nelson and warn him, sail south to warn Jervis, or stay here and maintain contact. Any one of those options would be valid. But what decided him was the wind. Their week of beautiful weather was ending. He felt it strengthen, and looked at the storm clouds on the horizon. The lubberly French wouldn’t venture out in a storm. He scampered down the shrouds with agility and strode confidently up to the group of officers waiting for him. “Mr. Roberts,” Granger said, “Set a course for Genoa.” He was part of Nelson’s command, so his duty was clear.

“Shall we reduce sail, sir?” Roberts asked, looking at the squall heading toward them.

“I am going below,” Granger said. “If the weather necessitates it, you may take in a reef, but time is of the essence.”

“Aye aye sir,” Roberts said. He was a good officer, and he would only slow the ship if her safety demanded it.

Granger went below to his day cabin and began to draft his report. He peered through the stern windows, watching the rising seas as the storm descended upon them. The motion of the ship required some effort on his part to keep from spilling his ink or smearing the page, but he’d become adept at writing in almost any sea, much as any sailor had. Writing about their action was not the hard part. The hard part was thinking of synonyms for “excellent” and “superb” to describe the actions of the men under his command and to make sure to mention everyone that had been active in the mission. He had learned to give credit to his officers and to minimize his own contributions. That way, he earned the loyalty and appreciation of his men, while their actions reflected positively on him. Finally, the thing was done. He summoned his clerk in to draft copies, and then went up on deck to see how Belvidera was handling.

The first thing he noticed when his head poked up from the deck below was the wind, which had increased dramatically. He strode up the ladder and observed Belvidera’s spars, and the strain as her masts labored under the press of canvas. “Mr. Roberts, let’s get the topgallants in,” Granger ordered. “Then send down the topmasts.”

“Aye aye sir,” he said. Granger watched the topmen surge up the shrouds to the yards, then sprint agilely out to the ends, seemingly oblivious to Belvidera’s violent motion. As if by magic, the canvas vanished as they furled the sails. Then they began the evolution of striking the top yards and masts and sending them below, always a tricky maneuver, one made even more hazardous by the seas. But taking down those masts and yards would lower their center of gravity and reduce Belvidera’s motion in the rising seas. When they were done, Granger evaluated the change, but it still wasn’t enough.

“We’ll have to take another reef in the topsails as well,” Granger said. More topmen hurried aloft, laboring in the piercing wind and tossing seas, to take in first one reef, then another, before Granger was satisfied. “I will be below if I am needed.” He was suddenly aware that he was ravenously hungry. He thought about inviting someone to join him for breakfast, but opted to eat alone. It would give him a chance to let his nerves unwind.

“Do you think the Frogs will venture out, sir?” Robey asked as they finished their fabulous meal of roast pork. Granger had invited all of his officers to join him for supper to celebrate their achievement, even though he didn’t feel particularly festive.

“Fat chance of that. They’ll stay in their harbor, safe and sound, while we toss about on the seas,” Carslake growled. He was not a little drunk. “Begging your pardon sir,” he said, remembering that Robey’s question had been directed to Granger.

Granger laughed, good host that he was. “Not a problem, Mr. Carslake. I fancy you have expressed my views more directly than I could have.” That got a laugh. Then the toasts began. A toast for Roberts and his expert handling of the cutting out expedition, followed by his toast saluting the men he’d taken with him. Then a toast for Robey, who skillfully managed the ship during their action with the Frog ship, and for Carslake, who kept the batteries firing without a moment’s hesitation. And finally, a toast for Chairs, who so expertly aimed the smasher.

“One more toast, and perhaps the most important,” Granger said. “To Mr. Cavendish.”

“Wot did ’e do, sir?” slurred Carslake good naturedly.

“But for his perceptive deduction that there must be more French ships near, we would all be prisoners right now, or dead. Neither one has much appeal to me,” Granger joked. Cavendish blushed furiously while the others just shouted “hear hear” and drank yet more.

“Well now that is something,” Bailey said, giving him an approving look. As Master, he was responsible for educating the young gentlemen on the art of navigation and seamanship, so he could take some just pride in Cavendish’s actions.

“And to you sir,” Roberts said. “For your brilliant leadership that has brought us four prizes and one French ship plus 8 coasters destroyed on our first independent patrol.” They all shouted “hear hear” even more loudly, and Granger felt his eyes tear up at this display of affection. He looked around the table and made eye contact with Robey and Roberts, both of whom had a look of admiration mixed with lust that almost made him giggle. But he had eyes for only one man, and when they met, when their eyes locked, Granger had to pull his gaze away lest his feelings be exposed.

After supper, Roberts took Carslake’s watch for him while the rest of them enjoyed some music. Granger got out his clarinet, Robey got his flute, which he played adequately, and Cavendish wowed them yet again with his skill on the violin. Finally, Robey sensibly deduced that they’d stayed long enough, and led the other officers out of the cabin. Granger looked to Cavendish and mouthed the word “stay” to him. It seemed to take forever to usher the others out, to pour additional, individual praise on them as they went, and finally he and Cavendish were alone. They practically ran to Granger’s sleeping cabin, so urgently did they long to be together.

Their lips met, that magical link, the one that Granger had never felt with anyone else. He felt Cavendish mould his body to his, felt his huge dick pressing against his. They tore off their clothes and climbed into the cot, with Cavendish on top of Granger. He grabbed some lanolin and slapped it on Cavendish’s cock, then slid it toward his hole, not breaking their lip lock once. He felt Cavendish’s big member enter him, pushing into his welcoming ass, and surrendered to the love and physical stimulation the young man aroused in him. They didn’t last long, neither one of them, so keyed up were they, but that didn’t diminish the force of their orgasms. When they were done, Cavendish licked Granger’s cum off his abdomen where he’d shot, smiling up at his captain.

“I’m very proud of you,” Granger said as he pulled Cavendish to him, savoring his warmth. “You are an impressive man.”

“I have a good role model,” Cavendish said diplomatically, but with his impish grin.

“It was hard to send you away on that mission,” Granger said, being unusually candid about his feelings.

“But you knew I’d resent it if you didn’t, and you know that I’m a King’s officer and you can’t protect me by keeping me away from hazardous missions,” Cavendish said. Granger nodded. “That just makes me love you more.”

“That I was reluctant to send you?” Granger asked, surprised.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. That you love me enough to overcome your fear for my safety and not hold me back.”

“I do love you Freddie,” Granger said.

“I love you too. Totally and completely,” Cavendish said. Granger thought that was both exciting and not a little scary. They lay there until they recharged, then coupled again, only afterward Cavendish had to go, as it was his watch. Granger felt lonely when he was gone, almost lonely enough to go up on deck just to be around him. Instead, he allowed sleep, that most precious of commodities for a captain, to overtake him.

“Sir, it’s almost dawn,” Winkler said as he shook him awake. Granger looked up at him, blinking for a minute, then pulled his sore body up from his cot and allowed Winkler to dress him. He desperately needed a bath, but that would have to wait. Instead, some work with the comb, a spritz of perfume, a shave and a clean shirt would have to suffice. He went up on deck just as the men began to go to quarters, ready for anything dawn may bring.

“Good morning Mr. Carslake,” Granger said cheerfully, the cheer masking Granger’s feeling of superiority that was inevitable in one that did not have a hangover speaking to one that did.

“Good morning sir,” Carslake said back gamely, trying to hide the pain he felt in his head. Granger grinned as he saw Carslake try to control the nausea that Belvidera’s frantic motions were causing. The wind had remained steady, but the waves had gotten much higher.

Slowly dawn broke and found them right where they should be, outside of Naples. And there, hove-to not more than three cable’s lengths away, was Agamemnon. Granger trained his glass on the ship’s quarterdeck and saw the alarm at having a frigate materialize so close to them. “Mr. Cavendish, make our number,” Granger ordered.

He watched the flags soaring up Agamemnon’s mast, knowing what the next order would be. “Flag to Belvidera, captain to repair on board,” Cavendish called.

“Acknowledge,” Granger said as he looked at the boiling seas. It would be a wet ride to Agamemnon. “Call away my gig.” He went below to change into his second-best uniform and gather his report, and arrived back on deck to find his gig tossing in the waves below. He lowered himself into it, conscious of the huge waves, waves that had seemed big on Belvidera but were massive in this little boat. He noted with approval that Jeffers had embarked a few extra men to bail, and watched him expertly direct the boat over to Nelson’s ship.

Nelson was there to greet him. “It appears I’ve gotten you a bit wet, Granger.”

“Yes, sir,” Granger said with a smile, then got straight to the point. “We left two sail of the line and a frigate at Imperia.”

“Two eh?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” Granger noted. “Both 74s. I have my report here, sir.” Granger said, handing him the document. Granger was aware that the wind was getting up.

“I suspect I will have to make do with your written report for now. If you don’t return to your ship, I fear you will be my guest for a bit,” Nelson said, his nose seemingly sniffing at the air to divine the weather. “You will sail at once to San Fiorenzo and inform Sir John, then join me off Imperia. If he is already off Toulon, track him down there.”

“Aye aye sir,” Granger said. He saluted crisply and headed down into his boat. If the ride there was wet, the ride back was truly hazardous. A wave broke in the boat, all but swamping them, but the men bailed frantically while Jeffers steered them away from the next one. It was a very wet crew that arrived back on board Belvidera, wet but relieved.

“Set a course for San Fiorenzo, Mr. Roberts,” Granger said. “Please see that my gig’s crew has a facility to dry off their clothes.” It was almost impossible to completely dry clothes that had been dampened by sea water, or at least it seemed that way.

“Aye aye sir,” he said. Granger watched as Belvidera turned her bow to the south and headed off to find Jervis again. Agamemnon and the other frigate with her turned southwesterly to head to Imperia and contain these French ships that had snuck out of Toulon.