HMS Belvidera - 42. Chapter 42

August, 1796

The Portuguese fishermen looked at him angrily, but they were of little consequence to Granger. “You seize our ship! It is illegal!” the older one said. Granger was amazingly lucky to have seized a Portuguese fishing boat who’s captain actually spoke English, even if he didn’t speak it all that well.

“Captain, as I have said, I have not seized your ship. I merely need you to accomplish a mission for me, one that I will pay you for,” Granger replied calmly.

“There are your redcoats aboard!”

“That is because you failed to follow my directive to heave to.”

“Who are you to give me directives?” the fisherman asked.

“I am the man who commands this thirty-two gun frigate and who has control of your boat,” Granger replied, letting his temper go a little. It had the desired effect of calming them down. “I have no more time for arguments. I am tasking you to carry my dispatches ashore.”

“I will not do it.”

“Excellent. Then I hereby seize your boat and will send my own men ashore. And when your King finds out that you have almost deprived him of valuable information, you will be lucky to lose only your boat and not your heads.” He turned to Somers. “Take them away.”

“Wait,” the older man said. “We did not realize it was an important matter.”

“Does the news that Spanish and French ships of the line are traveling together, sailing out into the Atlantic, not sound important to you, Senhor?” Granger asked sarcastically, and watched their eyes bulge.

“We will take your dispatches to the authorities at once,” he said.

“Thank you, Captain,” Granger said. “You will carry my officer ashore, and he will pay you once you do. You may wait for me on deck.” Granger watched them shuffle out of his cabin.

“Nicely done, sir,” Somers said, grinning.

“If my big achievement for the day is bullying two Portuguese fishermen, I would hardly mark it with a red letter,” Granger said to Somers, but smiled back anyway. Then he turned to Bailey. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I hope I don’t seem ungrateful, sir, but I’m an old man now, and it’s time for me to take my rewards, rewards you helped me get, and find a quiet place to rest.” Bailey shuffled on his feet nervously. “Maybe a small cottage with a young señorita.”

“You have earned it, Mr. Bailey,” Granger said to the wrinkled and wizened old master. “If you have need of anything, you have but to seek me out and ask.”

“Thank you sir,” Bailey said.

“Here are the dispatches. You must take them to His Majesty’s Ambassador in Lisbon at once.” Granger took a purse full of gold. “I have taken the liberty of advancing your prize money from this voyage.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bailey said. He knew that it would have taken years, and cost a fortune in fees, to have that money ultimately delivered to him.

Granger led the group up on deck and shook hands with Bailey, “Good luck,” Granger said, as he ushered Bailey over the side. As soon as Bailey’s head was no longer visible from the deck, Granger began belting out orders. “Mr. Roberts, as soon as we recover our marines, I want this ship under weigh!”

“Aye aye sir,” Roberts replied briskly. Granger began pacing his deck, looking to all like a caged lion anxious to be free. That was not a bad analogy. It was obvious to anyone that war with Spain was here, and that the fleet that had left Cadiz and was heading out into the Atlantic was off to cause some unpleasant mischief. Worse yet, some of the lookouts had sighted ships en flute with the fleet, and that meant they had troops with them.

The Portuguese fishermen were wise to worry, Granger thought. It was inevitable that Spain would target the Kingdom of Portugal. Spain claimed the whole Iberian Peninsula as their own, and there were only two appendages that made that a farce and not a reality: Gibraltar and Portugal. That fleet could carry out a distraction or a very real strike to either England or Portugal. They could seize the Azores, they could head to the Caribbean and wreak endless havoc there, or they could even sail to South America or the Indies to cause problems.

“Shall I set the topgallants, sir?” Roberts asked, pulling Granger from his thoughts. He felt the wind on his cheek, gauged its strength, and felt how Belvidera was straining against it, and against the small swells of the Atlantic.

“I think she can handle them, as well as the royals,” Granger said to Roberts. He knew he was pushing his ship to the limits, but he also knew this was important.

“Aye aye sir,” Roberts said, not a little surprised. He executed Granger’s orders then reported back to his captain that they’d been completed. “Where do you think the Frogs and Dons were off to, sir?”

“It is difficult to say,” Granger said.

“Most likely the Caribbean, sir,” Roberts speculated. “That’s where they’d hit us the hardest.” Roberts was referring to the huge amount of wealth that flowed out of that miserable region, wealth extracted from the ground courtesy of the slaves compelled to work it.

“I think that is unlikely,” Granger said, thinking aloud. “They were on a much too northerly course for that.” Any ship sailing to the Caribbean would try and use the current, and that meant sailing much farther south before heading west.

“You think they may intend to invade England, sir?” Roberts asked.

“They don’t have enough forces for that, and even if that fleet joined with the fleet in Brest, it is unlikely they could force a Channel crossing,” Granger said confidently, although he doubted his own words. A fleet of over thirty battleships, combined with a similar force in Brest, would be a tough challenge for the British Channel fleet. Granger had based his comment on his own albeit prejudiced view of the superiority of the Royal Navy.

“Perhaps Ireland?” Roberts asked.

“Perhaps,” Granger agreed. Ireland continued to be a problem. Misruled by England, with generations of resentments, Ireland was ripe for exploitation and invasion. Like most of his ilk, Granger didn’t think about the Irish cause too deeply, and unlike many of their fellow aristocrats, Granger’s family had no estates in Ireland, so there was no self-interest to guide their hand in Irish affairs. “There is another option.”

“Sir?”

“Canada, especially the fisheries of Newfoundland,” Granger stated. Some of the richest fishing in the world was to be found in those cold seas, and fueled a big industry there.

“We wouldn’t have much to oppose them there,” Roberts observed sadly.

The wind had been neither foul nor favorable, running in an easterly direction, but Belvidera managed to milk every last breath out of it, pushing northward as quickly as she could. She’d passed Cape Finisterre, the most northwesterly point in Spain, and was skirting the Bay of Biscay. Soon they would reach Ushant, and then they’d be in the Channel. At that point, Granger would have to make a strategic decision as to whether he should put into Plymouth and spread the news that way, or shoot up the Channel directly to London.

As with most decisions, the wind would play a key role, but a path directly into Plymouth presented him with some other advantages too. The key of these was that it would enable him to alert the Channel Fleet more directly, since it was based there.

Granger paced his deck, with the same restless energy he’d had since his encounter with the Franco-Spanish fleet. He had truly become a frigate captain, enamored of the freedom and speed that came with commanding a frigate, and adapting his style to make the most out of such a splendid vessel. One of the key roles of a frigate was scouting in order to bring about an encounter of the two opposing fleets. It was something deeply ingrained into the psyche of a frigate captain, the need to herd the massive ships of the line into the right place at the right time, such that they could unleash their massive force into the enemy. It was this thing, this primal motive, which drove Granger forward.

“Sail ho!” came a shout from the masthead. Granger felt as if he was strung out, tense and on edge, so he had to forcibly calm himself as he reacted to this latest development.

“Masthead!” Granger called through his trumpet. “What do you make of her?”

“Looks to be ship-rigged, sir!” the lookout replied. That would rule out any smaller commercial vessels. They proceeded on course for a few more minutes. “Deck there, she’s sighted us! She’s closing with us!”

“How many masts?” Granger asked impatiently.

“Looks to be three, sir,” he replied.

“A ship of war, sir?” Roberts asked, appearing next to him.

“It would seem so,” Granger answered. Only a warship would so readily change directions to investigate a new sail. A warship or a ship being chased by a warship.

“Deck there!” shouted the lookout to get their attention. “Ship is a sloop and British by the look of her.”

“Mr. Clifton, prepare our number,” Granger ordered. Robey had returned to limited duty, and that left him with four lieutenants. Granger let Clifton retain his acting rank for the time being, but also let him remain responsible for the signals.

“Aye aye sir,” Clifton said, and rattled out orders to Gatling, who was assisting him.

The other ship closed with them rapidly, as was to be expected when two fast ships approached each other on a converging course. They could see her masts from the deck, and then the hull came into view. Granger saw signals fly up her mainmast.

“Sir, she’s the Flamingo, 18 guns, Commander Roger Brooke,” Clifton said. Granger knew nothing of this fellow Brooke, but as a post-Captain, he was decidedly superior in rank.

“Make our number,” Granger ordered. “Signal her captain to repair on board immediately.” He paused to consider that this was the first encounter in a crisis situation where there were two ships involved, and he was the senior captain. It would fall to him to make the decisions, and to bear responsibility for them.

“Flamingo has acknowledged,” Clifton said.

They watched as the sloop approached Belvidera and then wore around, running parallel but slightly ahead of her to make the pull to Belvidera easier for her boat’s crew. The sail handling was not terrible, but sloppy, and as Granger scanned the sloop, he could see men yelling frantically on the deck. Flamingo must be relatively fresh from port, with a new and unseasoned crew. He watched with a smile as his crew, his seasoned and experienced men, rolled their eyes with disdain at the seamanship of their countrymen.

The sloop lowered her gig smartly enough, and the crew handled their job with ease. Probably the most experienced of the men, Granger thought cynically. Brooke sat in the sternsheets, looking nervous, which is exactly as it should be, Granger thought, remembering the times he’d had to do the same thing: go and report to a senior Captain.

They piped him aboard, and Granger was surprised at the figure that actually appeared on his deck. Brooke was older, probably in his late 30s, and was quite tall. Life on a sloop would be a challenge for someone with his frame. He saluted the quarterdeck and strode confidently toward Granger.

“Welcome, Captain,” Granger said affably. “I’m George Granger. Won’t you please join me below for some refreshments?”

“With pleasure, sir,” Brooke said. He followed Granger below to his cabin, and seemed impressed with the décor.

“From whence did you come, and where are you going?” Granger asked in a friendly manner.

“We sailed from Plymouth a week ago, sir,” Brooke said as he took the glass of claret Granger offered. “I have orders for the West Indies. I’m to make for Antigua.”

“I’m afraid that trip will be postponed slightly,” Granger said. “I need you to track down the Channel fleet and convey a message to Lord Bridport.”

“Sir, I am happy to obey your orders, but I am directed to Antigua,” Brooke objected. He blanched when he saw Granger’s eyes narrow.

“Captain, we encountered a combined French and Spanish fleet south of Lagos,” Granger said. “They were heading west, into the Atlantic. This means that war with Spain is imminent, and that information must be communicated as quickly as possible to our key commanders.”

“Yes sir,” Brooke said with resignation.

“As the senior officer, it is my decision as to how we communicate that message,” Granger said for emphasis. “I will draft orders directing you to find the Channel Fleet and alert Lord Bridport. If you cannot find him, you are ordered to return to Plymouth and deliver my dispatches to the Port Admiral.”

“Aye aye sir,” Brooke said, as a good officer should.

Granger dashed out his orders for Brooke, made a copy, then called Winkler in with the sealing wax. Both he and Brooke signed off on them, then Granger affixed his seal and handed Brooke his orders. He also gave Brooke his dispatches on Langara’s fleet, a summary he had drafted on the voyage here for just this occasion, and then escorted him to the side.

“Good luck, Captain,” Granger said. “You’ll have some more time to train your crew this way, before you head out to the Caribbean.”

“Yes, sir,” Brooke said. “Finding a good crew becomes tougher with every year of war.”

“It does, but it looks like you’ve done wonders with them already. I’m sure you’ll have a crack crew in no time.”

“Thank you, sir,” Brooke said, and then descended over the side.

The fates had been with them; Granger thought as dawn broke and showed them to be off Ramsgate. They’d reached Ushant and the westerly wind had only increased, shooting them up the Channel faster than they would have gone if they’d been on horseback. Granger had opted to bypass first Plymouth, and then Portsmouth, as Belvidera had flown along, showing her amazing turn of speed on the brisk voyage up-Channel. Even now, as they prepared to wear ship and sail up the Thames, the wind worked with them, easing from westerly to southerly to aid them along the way.

“Tide is making, sir,” Roberts said to him, grinning. It was glorious to have wind and tide working with them, truly glorious. It was also unusual.

“I fear we will have to pay for all of this good luck with compound interest in the future,” Granger observed, feigning pessimism.

“Yes sir,” Roberts agreed, “so we should enjoy it while we can.”

“I want us as far up the Thames as we can go before the tide shifts. I’m hoping for Woolwich,” Granger said.

“Won’t we stop at the Nore, sir?” Roberts asked.

“We’re not attached to the fleet there, so our obligation is to head straight to the Admiralty,” Granger said. He pondered Roberts’ question. Admiral Duncan, the Commander at the Nore, would want to know about this latest development, and may very well be irritated at a young frigate captain who ignored him completely. “Let’s be courteous and let him know. Have the launch swung out and detail a party to carry my dispatches over to him. The launch can catch up with us.”

“Aye aye sir,” Roberts said happily, having gotten his point across to his normally politically astute captain. They swayed the launch out and put a party aboard with Gatling in command and left the nervous-looking midshipman to head off to see the Commander in Chief of the Nore, not hesitating for a second to back a sail or slow their progress in the least.

Then they were beyond the Nore and into the Thames, and among all the shipping one normally encountered there. They almost rammed a ferry, which should have known better and yielded to them, but other than that, they were given wide clearance by the normal river traffic. Granger tore himself away from the sights of London just long enough to go below and put on his best uniform and set his appearance to rights. Winkler was already packing up his gear in readiness to haul it ashore for a more thorough, freshwater cleaning.

Granger ordered flags and bunting to be hung out, and had the band play as well to herald their homecoming. He did it as much for his own men, to celebrate their arrival back home, as he did for the interested passersby. It was early when they rounded the bend in the river and found Woolwich in front of them.

“Mr. Roberts, I intend to call at the Admiralty, and then return to my home. I will send a messenger to you with instructions, but if you need me, you will find me at Portland Place.”

“Aye aye sir,” Roberts said. His gig was already in the water, loaded with Winkler and his trunk, before they actually reached Woolwich. Granger guided them to a suitable anchorage, and as soon as the anchor dropped, but before all the sails had been furled, he was over the side and in his boat.

“The Admiralty,” he said to Jeffers. The wind and tide were still with them, enough that the men didn’t have to row until they got to the Admiralty steps, and then they only had to row enough to maneuver them in. Granger saw the crowd waiting for him there and felt his heart sink. Evidently Belvidera had been recognized, word had spread, and his admiring fans had turned out to welcome him home.

He emerged from his boat and was relieved to find a squad of marines to escort him through the crowds. With the redcoats as a shield, Granger was able to smile affably to the mob and pretend to be happy they were there, cheering him on, and shouting idiotic phrases of encouragement. He was relieved to reach the gates of the Admiralty and shed his admiring fans like a whale scraped off a barnacle. “Thank you, Sergeant,” Granger said to the marine in charge.

“It was my pleasure, sir. Welcome home,” he told Granger. Granger headed directly into the Admiralty office and found a secretary attending the appointment book. Granger signed in and then addressed the man.

“I must see His Lordship at once.”

“He’s in a meeting with their lordships,” the secretary said with respect, much as a minister refers to God. So Spencer was with the other lords of the Admiralty. So much the better.

“That is excellent. Please alert him at once that Captain George Granger has just arrived with important and urgent news,” Granger said. He and the secretary locked eyes in a subliminal power struggle that Granger inevitably won.

“I see,” the secretary said, pretending to be suddenly enlightened. “If you will wait right here, sir, I will convey your message.”

“Thank you,” Granger said politely. He stood in front of the desk as the secretary ambled off down the hall. He came back in a much more cooperative spirit.

“Their lordships will see you, Captain,” he said respectfully. “Please follow me.” Granger strolled down the corridor and was led into a large room with a relatively small table, around which sat the leaders of the Royal Navy. The wall was covered with maps, some with pins or other markings, to indicate items or ships of interest.

“Welcome home Granger,” Spencer said in a friendly tone. “I think you know everyone here.”

“Yes, my lord, and thank you,” Granger said. He went around the room and greeted these men, some that he knew better than others. Sir Phillip Stevens, the man who seemed like a permanent feature at the Admiralty, and whom Granger had dealt with on prior occasions. Lord Arden and Charles Small Pybus, who were both politicians. Admiral Gambier, whom Granger hardly knew at all, was there along with Admiral Lord Hugh Seymour and Admiral William Young, men who Granger knew from his time with Lord Hood at Toulon. Granger had also run into Seymour at Clarence House, as he had been quite the rake about ten years earlier, cavorting with the Prince of Wales and his party.

“So what is this urgent news that is worth interrupting a damned interesting meeting?” Spencer asked.

“I encountered a French and Spanish fleet sailing in concert, my lords,” Granger said. “South of Lagos we intercepted Admiral Langara. We counted 20 Spanish ships of the line and some 14 Spanish corvettes and frigates, sailing with Admiral Richery’s squadron of 7 ships of the line and three frigates. In addition we counted three small ships of the line en flute.”

Granger watched their reactions, and saw that he now had their full and complete attention. “Where were they headed?” Spencer asked.

“I’m not sure, my lord,” Granger said. “By their deployment they appeared to be headed west. They were hove to when we came upon them at dawn, but the van was to the west, and the rear was in the east. They weren’t heading south. We captured a French frigate, the Friponne, but could find no papers aboard that would indicate their destination.”

“You captured a French frigate from under the noses of a Franco-Spanish fleet?” Seymour asked, surprised.

“Yes, my lord,” Granger said. “We caught her at dawn unawares. She struck after 20 minutes of firing, without ever having managed to bring her guns to bear. I was unfortunately compelled to release her by Admiral Langara.”

“How did you manage to extract yourself?” Seymour asked.

“I pointed out that our countries were still at peace, and that I’d just met with His Most Catholic Majesty a fortnight before and he had personally assured me that we were indeed at peace. I explained it would be an act of dishonor to their king to seize my ship.”

“You had an audience with the King of Spain?” Spencer asked. “And just what were you doing in Madrid?”

“Actually, my lord, it was at the Alhambra Palace in Granada. I had rescued two noblemen, sons of the Duke of Medinaceli, and the King wished for me to attend him so he could thank me. He gave me the Collar of the Order of Carlos III.”

They stared at him, amazed. “You see, gentlemen, why I always look forward to reading Granger’s reports,” Spencer said, making them all laugh.

“My lord, I was unable to locate Admiral Mann’s squadron off Cadiz. Did they fall foul of the French and Spanish fleet?” Granger asked.

Their lordships looked at each other, highly irritated, until Stevens answered for them. “No, Captain, Admiral Mann saw fit to sail back to England last month.” Now it was Granger’s turn to stare at them, speechless. Mann had simply sailed to England? Jervis would be apoplectic.

“Your previous dispatches indicated that you had captured the prized ruby of the Bey of Oran?” Gambier asked.

“Yes, sir,” Granger responded. “It is aboard Belvidera.”

“You are planning to present it to His Majesty, I understand,” Stevens said.

“Yes, sir, as long as that is consistent with your orders.”

“You present us with an opportunity to flaunt our naval successes, Granger,” Lord Arden said. “I think that warrants a procession, with a regiment of the Household Guards as an escort.” Of course he would look at this in political terms.

Granger, fortunately, thought quickly. “Begging your pardon, my lords, but I would like to request most fervently that the honor of escorting the ruby fall to my marines. The efforts of Captain Somers, their commander, were instrumental in its acquisition.”

“That seems reasonable, Captain,” Spencer said. “Perhaps you would be willing to leave us with your reports and dispatches. I will contact you at Portland Place and advise you of our final decision, and give you orders for the conveyance of the ruby to His Majesty.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Granger said. “I also have dispatches from Lord Bute to the Foreign Office.”

“We will make sure those are sent over to our diplomatic brethren promptly,” Spencer said assuredly.

“Thank you, my lords,” Granger said, bowing as he left. He strode confidently through the Admiralty and out in front of the building to be met by another, or perhaps it was the same crowd. Beyond them, Granger could see the bright blue and yellow carriage that Caroline had obviously sent on hearing that he was home. The marines helped him carve a path through to the carriage, and then cleared a path for it to depart. Granger sat back in the soft leather seat and smiled across at Winkler and Jorge.

“You certainly are popular, sir,” Winkler said.

“Go to hell,” Granger said, but with a smile. The carriage tore through the streets at an indecent speed, as much to keep people from getting too close as to get Granger home as quickly as possible. The coachman reined in the horses with a loud clatter as they arrived at Granger’s home. He hopped out of the coach and practically dashed up the steps to be greeted by footmen who opened the doors wide for him, and by Cheevers, who waited patiently in the foyer.

“Welcome home, sir,” Cheevers said politely.

“Thank you Cheevers,” Granger said. “Is Mrs. Granger at home?”

“I fear not, sir,” he said. “She is at Brentwood with the children. She gave birth to your third child there. A fine, healthy boy.”

Granger couldn’t stop smiling at that news. “And my wife is well?”

“Yes sir,” Cheevers said, grinning as well. “All went well with the birth.” So Caroline had opted to give birth and recover in the country, where there was less risk of disease and pestilence.

“What is his name, my son’s name?” Granger asked curiously.

“Mrs. Granger named him Alexander George Albert Granger, sir,” Cheevers said. So Caroline had named his son after his grandfather. It was a nice thing to do, especially since he’d given them this townhome and an indecent amount of money to restore it.

“Please send her a message letting her know I have returned,” Granger said. “In the mean time, I think I will indulge in a bath.”

“At once, sir,” Cheevers said. Winkler helped Granger out of his clothes and down to the pools, and then left Granger alone to enjoy some peace and solitude while the fresh water leeched the salt out of his pores.