HMS Belvidera - 5. Chapter 5

July 10, 1795

“Gentlemen, the King,” said Brookstone, his voice squeaking slightly. He was short and skinny, with bright red hair that looked slightly ridiculous next to the blue of his uniform. It was the traditional duty of the junior officer at the table to propose the toast, even though it was soon drowned out by comments like “God Bless Him,” or “Long May He Reign” from those at the table as they all rose from their seats and toasted their sovereign. Granger looked down the length of the beautifully polished mahogany table, with his officers arrayed about it. Their blue uniforms with gold lace seemed to glitter through the crystal goblets and shiny silver on the table. Like all wealthy and successful captains, Granger made sure that his cabin and its accouterments reflected his status, and that meant that everything was of the highest quality.

“Gentlemen, we are ordered to join the Mediterranean Fleet. Our presence has been requested by Sir John Jervis himself, so it is up to us to conduct ourselves always at the highest degree of efficiency,” Granger said evenly. They weren't stupid men. They knew that Jervis had requested Granger, not his ship. But that only made their admiration for their young captain greater, and their desire to perform stronger still.

“Our orders are to rendezvous with Captain Travers' ship, the Aurore, in Portsmouth, and convoy a group of troopships to St. Helena,” Granger added, bringing them up to speed on their mission. It was his tradition to invite his officers to dinner as soon as possible after sailing to brief them. “Aurore gets lucky, she only has to go as far as Madeira,” he said, respectfully teasing Travers and getting a chuckle from everyone for his efforts.

Granger studied his senior officers as they digested this news. The three lieutenants, as different from each other as possible, seemed to be happy with the news. Merrick seemed to lack the warrior instincts. His quest, his drive, seemed to come from building efficiency. That may very well change when they were in combat, but for now, he seemed more like a merchant captain, focused on where to stow things for their best effect, and how to allocate the crew to best sail the ship and fight the guns, than a wild-eyed warrior.

The role of wild-eyed warrior was filled quite amply by Lieutenant Grafton, on the other hand. His bulging muscles and round features belied the fire that burned within. When he'd spoken to Granger of combat, his face lit up, and he had almost a blood-lust. When Belvidera had mutinied, when she'd arrived at the Nore, filthy and disorganized, he'd made little effort to set her to rights. But when Calvert had arrived and directed him, motivated him, he'd sprung into action.

The final lieutenant, Carslake, was a man who had been with Granger for years now. Originally a Master's Mate, Granger had seen that he was promoted to Lieutenant, and had kept Carslake with him. Carslake was a competent officer, not inspired or brilliant, but competent. He was not a warrior like Grafton, but he could become one in a fight. He was not an efficiency expert like Merrick, but he was efficient nonetheless. And he came from humble beginnings, a man one would more likely expect to find in a merchantman. The high aristocracy, men like Granger or his midshipmen, were unusual in the navy, with its requisite long periods away from home, but the lesser aristocracy, especially the gentry like Calvert and Travers, or those professional families like the Hoods, were more prevalent. For someone not born a gentleman to rise to the officer ranks was a major achievement.

“Can't say I was looking forward to sailing all the way back to India,” Carslake said grumpily.

“My father demanded that I transfer ships before I shipped back there,” Lennox said with a smile. It seemed that every day made him more handsome and more charming. “It caused quite a rift between us when I refused.” Granger smiled at him to thank him for his comment and his loyalty. He had expected that, expected that he'd lose Lennox and Cavendish; that their fathers, both Dukes, would insist on keeping their progeny closer to home and away from the risks of foreign service. Lennox's refusal, his open rebellion by refusing, was a huge compliment. The two young men looked so much alike from afar; both of average height, with willowy bodies that were fighting their way through adolescence, but the differences became magnified under closer inspection. Lennox had blond hair and a loving, caring nature. He'd be the kind of man who would fall in love. Cavendish, with his darker hair and flashing eyes, was a rake in the making. He'd leave a string of broken hearts behind him, something Lennox would never intentionally do.

“I fear that would have depressed us all, at having been deprived of your beautiful singing voice,” Granger said. Lennox was noted for his beautiful singing voice, almost as beautiful as the sound of Cavendish playing his violin.

Granger looked over at his purser, one of the few honest pursers in the Navy, Granger was sure. Andrews had done well with him in his first commission, and Granger had made sure the voyage was profitable for him, even digging into his own pocket to make it worth his while. Next to him was the surgeon, Dr. Jackson, an intellectual that had joined the navy to flee from angry women and creditors. His skill and knowledge was well beyond what anyone would expect from a ship's surgeon. He was the only one who seemed disappointed that they weren't going to India again. His interest in botany would have benefited from such a voyage.

There was a pause in conversation while their minds inevitably shifted to thinking about being away from home, from those they loved. They thought about how fleeting these bonds they made were. A simple order could rip life-long comrades apart and send them to opposite sides of the world. Naval friendships were strong, but ever-changing.

“Belvidera is a sweet sailor,” Travers said, changing the subject and recalling them from their unpleasant train of thought, the thought that these deep friendships they made were only temporary. Granger, who had just begun to pine for Calvert, was especially appreciative.

“She could do better,” Meurice said. They all looked at him, the other lieutenants and the master, with glares at this swipe at their ship. “Begging your pardon sir.” Granger smiled at this pride they showed in their ship, despite the shame she'd so recently borne.

“Not at all Mr. Meurice. We are all aware of your prowess with ship architecture, and having you aboard is a singular honor,” Granger said gracefully. “Your ideas on strengthening Intrepid's hull were a godsend. Any suggestions you can offer would be most appreciated.” That stopped the others from lynching the poor man.

“Please understand, sir, that I am not suggesting she is a bad sailor, I am just saying that I think she could be better,” Meurice said. “She is too heavy in the stern. It is making her erratic in her stays, and I fear in a stormy sea it may cause her to ship more water, perhaps too much.”

‘Too much’ implied a distinct danger, and Granger was too good an officer to ignore a potential threat to his ship. “I have noticed her head seems to wander,” Granger said. The others looked at him, thought about it, and agreed.

“We noticed it when we were in the North Sea,” Grafton said, as if realizing why for the first time. “We shipped a lot of water over the stern, and she was difficult at times to keep on course.” Granger smiled at him to thank him, the officer who had the most experience sailing Belvidera, for his feedback.

“We could use a long gun in the bow, as a chaser,” Merrick offered. “Perhaps we could fit her with a nine-pounder in Portsmouth. I would guess that a pair of those up front would even out the weight.”

“An ingenious suggestion,” Meurice said, stroking Merrick's ego for making the most obvious recommendation. “I would be concerned about excessive wear on her timbers with that much extra weight. In fact, I am concerned about it even without those extra guns.”

“Was she not designed to carry this armament?” Travers asked. Gunnery was a passion of his. His first command had been a bomb ketch, the ultimate refinement in naval gunnery.

“She was, sir,” Meurice said. “But we should remember that she was an experimental ship. Monsieur Forfait was trying to meet the needs of strength and stowage, while still providing ample firepower. He did this by lengthening the ship. Quite frankly, I am surprised they did not try and add more guns to her main deck.” Royal Navy captains were renowned for over-gunning their ships. “In order to justify this, I think he added armament that is too heavy.”

“If we simply added the nine-pounders, as Lieutenant Merrick suggested, you think that would tear at her fabric?” Granger asked. “I thought she was built for extra strength?”

“She is, sir,” Meurice said hastily. “But please consider that having an extra two tons of ordnance on the bow, constantly, would work her knees and beams much more than just the current carronades.”

Granger thought about that. The knees were the devices used to fasten the deck beams to the inside sides of the hull, and were a potential source of weakness in any ship. “What do you suggest?”

“I would suggest, sir, begging your pardon, that you exchange your 32-pounder carronades on the quarterdeck for 24-pounder carronades. I am confident that you will find the change in handling well worth the sacrifice in firepower.”

Granger thought about that carefully, and watched the others do the same. “You are making a bold recommendation,” Granger said with a grin. “You are suggesting to naval officers that they actually reduce the firepower of their ship.” That got the expected chuckles and nods.

“It really isn't such a sacrifice,” Travers observed. “Even most newer frigates carry 24-pounder carronades anyway. The dockyard should have no objection to swapping them out. I suspect they have uses for your 32s, probably in one of the line-of-battleships they're fitting out.”

“How would that balance the ship?” Granger asked. Meurice pulled out a draft he was working on and went into detail on Belvidera's center of balance, and how the smaller carronades would shift that forward. A lengthy technical discussion ensued, one that absorbed all of them, but especially Travers and Meurice. That was ironic, since neither one of them was assigned to Belvidera, but the others appreciated the concern these men had for their ship.

For Granger, the experience was quite different. He'd made the decision to swap out the guns a long time before the discussion ended; he was just using the debate to observe the others in action. Grafton was full of fight and fire, and it seemed to really irk him to give up firepower of any kind, but he worked his way through it. Merrick was an entirely different beast, with his passion for organization, a passion which would serve him well as a first lieutenant. For him, it was simply a matter of efficiency: Belvidera with a lighter armament would actually be a better fighting machine.

But Granger enjoyed Travers the most, not his viewpoints, but his conversation. He had been desperately trying to find common ground with this man that he loved, a way to reconnect again, and he felt they'd been succeeding, but they weren't there yet. Having them both back in their milieu as naval officers brought back one of their strongest bonds.

“Well gentlemen, I'm not opposed to this idea if it will work. Having a ship that is strong and maneuverable is worth more than a small reduction in firepower. Why don't all of you ponder this, and I'll make a final decision on whether to make the change when we reach Portsmouth.” Granger turned to Travers. “Will we have time to implement the changes before we leave?”

“I don't know,” Travers said. “We're at the mercy of the army. We can't leave until they're ready.” His frustration was obvious, and Granger understood why. It was a tough thing to not have control of your own destiny, or at least your own schedule. But that was the naval officer's lot in life.

The party ended after that. Granger went back up on deck with Merrick to check on their progress, then left the ship in his hands and went below to sleep for a few hours, only he knew there would be no sleeping done at all. He got to his cabin to find Travers in his cot, and could see his smile despite the faint light of the lantern. “I hope you don't mind me taking over your cot,” he said.

“Not as long as you share,” Granger said. He took off his clothes carefully, laying them out just in case he needed to dress hurriedly. A captain was always on call. He watched Travers take in his body in the dim light as he disrobed, could feel the lust in his eyes, and that elicited an obvious reaction in Granger. He stood there, naked and hard, for only a few moments before he walked over to the cot and climbed in, lying on top of Travers.

Granger leaned in to kiss Travers, feeling his body respond, his hard cock rubbing up and down Granger's crack as he thrust against him. Granger felt the familiar strength, and the familiar warmth, remembering the time as a midshipman when he'd fallen into the Mediterranean and had been put in Travers' cot to warm him up. That was the first night they'd made love. The memory fueled Granger's lust. He reached down and guided Travers cock to his ass and lowered himself onto it, ignoring the fact that he didn't need any lanolin after his morning fuck with Calvert.

“Ahh,” Travers moaned softly. “You feel so good. God, you feel good. Being inside you makes me feel so complete, like such a man.”

Granger slowed his pace to an almost imperceptible motion, just enjoying the feel of Travers' big dick in his ass. “You are all man, so strong, so virile. Being with you is like a dream.” All day they'd been trying to connect, to re-build that bond, and finally, here in the cot, naked and coupled, they achieved their goal. Granger remembered all the good things about Travers, his strong sense of honor, his dedication to duty, and his unquestionable loyalty. Then there were the physical things, the things that made him so attractive. His jet-black hair that framed his long face with its Dutch nose, his muscular body, the body of a man. Granger reached back and stroked his strong legs with their bulging calves, then focused his attention on Travers' torso, so masculine with a bit of hair on his chest and a sexy treasure trail that led to his bushy patch of black pubic hair. He reveled in the feel of Travers' cock inside him, all six and a half thick inches, as he raised and lowered himself.

And then he remembered that other thing about Travers that was so sexy. The way he kept such tight control of himself and his feelings until he got really excited, like now, and he pushed that all aside and became a crazed animal, a sexual animal. Travers rolled Granger onto his side, and Granger expected him to really fuck him then, but he didn't. Instead, he gently pushed Granger onto his back and pulled Granger's leg back so he could re-enter him from the side.

Their lips met intermittently as Travers slowly fucked Granger, pausing to look at him, to appreciate the beauty that he was. He ran his hands across Granger's slim torso, gently flicking his small nipples, then grabbing his long blond hair forcefully, pulling him into a deep kiss. It fueled their passion still more, too much to keep up the slow pace. Travers pivoted Granger around so his back was to Travers chest. He wrapped his arms around Granger tightly, pulling him close, while he started to really fuck him, picking up his pace with an intent to make them both cum.

Granger found himself submitting completely, giving himself over to Travers' dominance, savoring the feel of having this man that he loved wrapped around him, the feel of having him inside and knowing how much Travers was enjoying his ass. Granger felt his body responding, thrusting back into Travers' abdomen, begging for more of him, and knew he wouldn't last much longer. He couldn't reach down and stroke his dick for relief; his arms were pinned to his side by Travers' bear hug, yet he still felt the orgasm building deep in his balls. And then, without any direct stimulation, he felt himself start to blow. He bit his lip to keep himself from screaming and felt his lover's teeth on his own shoulder as Travers blasted his own orgasm into Granger. They rode the waves, wave after wave of bliss, until they were both spent.

Neither one of them moved, they stayed like that, still linked at the groin, but now linked with their hearts again as well. Granger snuggled back into this man, the first man he'd ever fallen in love with, and enjoyed the feel of his warm body and his familiar smell. He fell asleep, still cognizant of Belvidera's movements, never forgetting his ship, or the man that was still wrapped around him.

July 14, 1795

“Aren't you glad I brought you here?” Travers teased as he pulled Granger to him, the water splashing out of the bathtub they were sharing. They kissed passionately, and then Granger lowered himself gently onto Travers' erect dick. They didn't need lanolin; they were still well-greased from the fuck they'd shared not more than an hour ago.

“Yes,” Granger answered, more of a moan than a word. He began to ride up and down on Travers' pole, savoring the feel of this man he'd bonded with all over again, enjoying the love that had come surging out from the shadows as soon as they reconnected.

“Stop,” Travers said, forcing Granger to cease his movements. “I just want to be here with you, connected, for a minute.” Granger tried, tried so hard to stay still, but his body refused, yearning for the ecstasy their movement brought him.

“Can't, John. You excite me too much,” Granger murmured. They writhed together in the tub, ignoring the water as it cascaded over the side and onto the floor, ignoring the world around them, and just enjoyed each other. When they came, it wasn't quite simultaneous, but that didn't matter. For both of them, it was about using their bodies to express love; deep, passionate love.

“If it weren't for you, I would never have learned to enjoy the wonders of a bath for two,” Travers said with a chuckle, the closest thing to a giggle he'd allow himself.

“And if it weren't for you, I never would have experienced the true joy of it,” Granger shot back. They dried off and then lay on the bed, with Granger snuggled up on top of Travers, his mouth strategically placed next to Travers' right nipple.

“Are you ready to sail?” Travers asked, bringing them back to the real world of duty.

“We finished changing out the 32-pound carronades for 24-pounders this morning,” Granger said. “We're just picking up a few extra stores we couldn't get at Woolwich, and we'll be ready to sail at first light.”

“Excellent,” Travers said. “Are you ready to jump into the cesspool that is the politics of the Mediterranean Fleet?”

“They are different from the other fleets?” Granger asked curiously. He'd been Hood's Flag Lieutenant when the old Admiral was Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean Fleet and he didn't recall excessive politics, any more than the normal grumbling you'd get from a bunch of egotistical captains and admirals.

“There are a lot of strong personalities,” Travers said. “They don't all like each other. Hood was a tough commander, tough enough and well respected enough to keep them in line. Hotham hasn't been. There's been a lot of back-biting.”

“Jervis should shake that all up,” Granger observed. He'd been away from the fleet for most of his last commission, long enough that he'd forgotten all the little battles that emanated from prima donna naval officers, usually over assignments and precedence.

“He should, when he gets there,” Travers said. “In the meantime, there have been some strong accusations leveled against Hotham and his inability to bring the French fleet to action. There was that action off Corsica where Nelson and the van of the fleet peeled off two of their ships, one was the Ça Ira, but Hotham didn't feel strong enough to push a full fleet action.”

“What did Nelson say?” Granger asked. He had a high opinion of Nelson.

“He didn't say anything at first, but his criticism has grown as others have voiced their opinions,” Travers said. “You see how I've become a complete political beast.”

Granger laughed. “I fear I should have brought Caroline out here with me.”

“I suspect she'd be running the show in no time at all,” Travers joked back. “You will need her in London, watching out for you.”

“What about you?” Granger asked. “Who has your back when you are at sea?”

“I am too unimportant to require that kind of assistance,” Travers said. Granger knew that to be a lie. The only other way to defend himself would be shameless self-promotion, something Nelson excelled at but Travers was completely unable to do. Granger looked up at him, irritated that Travers would not reveal who his benefactor or benefactors were. He knew that his father and Caroline kept a weather eye out for Travers, but his hidden implication was that there was someone else too.

“If I were that naïve, I would be in mortal danger,” Granger said, partly joking, but with more severity. He waited for Travers to relent, to reveal his source of patronage, but he did not. “So you are going to make me find out on my own?”

“It really doesn't concern you George,” Travers said, irritated. “There's no reason for you to worry about it.”

“It is your affair, so conduct it as you will,” Granger said, his anger buried beneath his veneer. But in this situation, maintaining that veneer, saying nothing, was just too taxing. “I am sorely tried that you do not trust me, though.” Granger rarely allowed his anger or irritation to show, but this was different on so many levels. First of all, Granger knew that Travers had almost no political instincts. That made him a potential pawn in the hands of a skilled manipulator. Secondly, since he had gone out on a limb for Travers, any manipulations that went wrong might backfire onto him. And finally, Granger had gotten his family, especially his father, to support Travers. If Travers had aligned himself with those who were opposed to the Earl, that would smack of disloyalty and ingratitude. Granger tried to calm himself, telling himself that those negative traits were not traits Travers had. But it wasn't Travers' malice he feared, it was his naïveté.

Travers swallowed hard, and then made to get up. “We must return to our ships.” Granger stared at him, completely stunned now at the wall Travers had thrown up between them.

“After all that we have been through together, after I have shown you my love, and have enlisted my family to help you as well, you still cannot trust me?” Granger demanded. What good was love without trust? Who could command more loyalty, more devotion from Travers than he himself? Robey? Was their love so strong that it superseded theirs? Was Travers mired up in influence peddling with Robey?

“It is not my place to say, George,” Travers said. And there it was. He said flat out that he couldn't trust Granger. Granger looked at him, confused for but a second, and then glared at him while he hurriedly put his clothes back on. They dressed in silence, the tension so thick he could cut it with a knife.

Granger finished dressing first. “I will be ready to sail when you give the orders, sir,” he said, watching the formality hit Travers like a brick. Then Granger nodded to Travers respectfully and simply said, “Good day to you Captain.” He didn't wait for a response; he just strode down the stairs of the Inn, ignoring Travers' one call for him, then maintained his brisk yet unassuming pace and didn't stop until he reached the pier, and the safety of his gig.

July 15, 1795

Granger stood on the quarterdeck as Belvidera slowly emerged from Portsmouth, the Isle of Wight off her bow. He turned back briefly to gaze at the place they'd just left, the crowded anchorage at Spithead. The skies were overcast today, threatening one of those summer thunderstorms that could be so dangerous to sailing ships. Granger looked up at the masts, fitted with their new-fangled lightning rods, and hoped that would save them from being pulverized by a lightning strike. They were sailing close hauled, barely able to use this wind to leave Portsmouth. If it veered any more, or if they'd been escorting merchantmen instead of transports, they'd be stuck cooling their heels in port.

Granger looked ahead at the three transports, all former frigates with their guns removed, and now packed full of soldiers. They were handling themselves in a professional enough manner, which was to be expected since they were under navy control. Each had a Commander as captain, a sinecure for aging lieutenants, something useful for them to do instead of sitting on the beach. The lead ship, Caryatide, had once been a 32-gun frigate. Built in the 1770s, she was now relegated to carting troops around. The second ship, Hidalgo, was a former Spanish frigate, taken as a prize in the last war, as was the Cybille, a French vessel that had been captured in 1782. But they all were once frigates, and sailed as such, making them fast and maneuverable, and able to sail into the teeth of these winds. It was only their weakening knees and timbers that had left them too frail to carry the massive weight of artillery required of a ship like Belvidera.

The last few days had seen a flurry of activity. They'd spent a day in the dockyard swapping out the 32-pounder carronades for the 24s. The new guns looked little different from their slightly bigger kin, but Granger was hoping the difference in handling would be worth the loss of broadside weight. He imagined he could feel it now, even as they crawled out of port, but they wouldn't know until they got some speed going. Then there had been the rendezvous with Travers at a Portsmouth hotel, one that had included a glorious freshwater bath, combined with round after round of amazing sex. And had ended with both of them irritated at the other.

Granger thought about that, and found himself unable to think about their encounter without pacing the deck, using the physical exertion to work off the anger that still consumed him. Who was watching out for Travers in London? And even more to the point, why wouldn't Travers tell him? Granger had gotten back to Belvidera yesterday and spent a goodly part of his evening composing a letter to Caroline, asking her to discover who it was. He'd find out in the end, of that he was sure, but that wasn't the issue that rankled his psyche. What bothered him is that Travers wouldn't tell him. What had he done to destroy Travers' trust? What could possibly be so important or damning that he couldn't reveal the source of his political patronage? Hadn't Granger's own father provided him with political cover and connections? Wasn't it the Earl himself who had taken Travers to Court and helped him repair himself, his family's damaged reputation with the King? And this is how he was repaid? With back-alley sleuthing games? Such ingratitude was infuriating, and Granger stopped his train of thought lest his whole face turn red with rage, revealing his feelings to his officers and his men.

“Mr. Merrick, we'll exercise the lower deck guns. Two hours should suffice for today,” Granger ordered. It let him distract his mind to ease his anger, and he needed to make sure Belvidera got up to peak fighting efficiency as soon as possible.

“Aye aye sir,” Merrick acknowledged briskly. The whistles peeled and the men began running to their stations, or finding them as the case may be, this being their first gun drill. Granger took in the activity subconsciously, letting his thoughts stray back to the issue that was dominating his train of thought.

So who could be providing cover for Travers? One possibility was Arthur. That would make sense. Arthur would defend Travers to the heavens if Travers would simply fuck him, Granger thought with a smile. Then Granger remembered Arthur and how mysterious he'd been about Jardines. Who had Jardines been caught with? Why had he been shipped off? And did this have anything to do with Travers? There simply wasn't enough information to answer his questions, and he wouldn't have that information until Caroline found out for him. He'd been earnest enough in his letter that he knew she would. In the meantime, he'd have to be patient.

He glanced down into the waist to watch the men labor with the 18-pounders, fighting to run them out uphill against the sloping deck. They would be hungry by dinner time.

Granger thought about Travers and about how close they'd gotten, or how close he thought they'd gotten. He stopped himself from sighing out loud, and instead forced himself to stop his mind from thinking about this for a few lengths of the quarterdeck. Granger had thought that Travers was his man, the one he'd grow old with, but not if Travers didn't trust him. Besides, Travers didn't need him anyway, he had Robey. Robey was young, cute, and willing. There was no reason for Travers to think twice about Granger now that he'd gotten what he wanted from him. He'd used Granger's family, his connections, and then tossed him aside as soon as he had an opportunity. But his anger returned, and Granger had to force his mind into a different direction.

“Mr. Merrick, is there a reason why it is taking so long for the starboard side to load and run out?” Granger snapped. There was no answer to his rhetorical question, only a message passed down to Grafton on the main deck. He'd channel that through to his men and urge them to do better. Yet Granger felt guilty, knowing that he was only venting his own sour mood onto his sweating gun crews as they went through this, their first gunnery practice, together.

Granger allowed his mind to think about Robey and their one brief sexual encounter in Toulon. Thinking of Robey made Granger think of Calvert, ironically enough, because they were so alike, and Travers was so different. Travers was such a man, so mature, so steady, every inch a captain. Calvert was more playful, with much of the boy still in him. One was steady and reliable; the other was boyish and spontaneous. He almost smiled externally, thinking of how Travers was willing to push his boundaries with Granger, and how, when he let himself go, it made it just that much more special since it conflicted with his normal, conservative nature. But then he remembered that he was supposed to be mad at Travers, and that destroyed his pleasant thoughts. He took out his glass and stared ahead, past the transports, to Aurore, and fancied he could make out Travers' form as he looked back to inspect his charges. Probably trying to figure out whom to use next, Granger thought cynically.

Granger sniffed the air, his seaman's instincts telling him the squall was nigh. Barney, the master, was close at hand, and noticed Granger's sniff. “Looks to blow hard soon enough, sir,” he ventured. Granger thought briefly about venting his anger at Barney, but then they'd know something was bothering him, and that would never do.

“I fancy you're right Mr. Barney,” Granger said, forcing himself to act like a captain and not an adolescent lover. “D'ye think the wind will veer as well?” Barney was a weather sage, although he didn't do as well predicting these northerly climes. The Indian Ocean and Caribbean were venues he was most familiar with.

“Can't say sir,” he said thoughtfully, “but it's good that we're not carrying much sail.” Granger nodded, and thought about how smart that was, and how typical of Travers to set such a prudent tone to their voyage. Travers was a good officer. It was going to be hard to find things to hate him for.

They sailed on, close hauled, with the Isle of Wight passing by them slowly, but the squall they'd feared was upon them never materialized. Granger looked at his watch and realized that they'd had their two hours of gun drill, and dismissed the hands. Merrick came up to report, expecting a tirade from his grumpy captain, but that just made Granger more affable, ironically enough.

“I think that was a good start, Mr. Merrick,” Granger said encouragingly. He watched Merrick's cute features resist spreading into a grin as he digested this backhanded compliment instead of the reprimand he was expecting. “We'll practice every day until I am satisfied.”

“Aye aye sir,” he said, maintaining his composure, as he walked off to make sure the guns were secure. Granger stayed on deck, pacing slowly up and down his quarterdeck, torturing himself with his internal deliberations. By afternoon they had cleared the Isle and turned down Channel. And now, freed from the land, Granger saw Aurore shake out her sails, picking up her speed.

Grafton was the officer of the watch. “Mr. Grafton, shake out the reefs. Keep station on the Cybille.”

“Aye aye sir,” he said smartly. The seamen swarmed up the shrouds, and in no time the reefs shook out and Belvidera surged ahead.

“She seems a bit more balanced sir,” Merrick said, surprising him. He must have come up on deck when he felt them pick up speed.

“She does. We won't know for sure until we get more speed on her or have to tack,” Granger observed. Still, he felt Belvidera's motion, her ease in handling the light seas, and knew she was more composed than before.

“Signal from Aurore, sir,” Lennox said. “Take night stations.”

“Acknowledge, Mr. Lennox. Mr. Merrick, we'll need two lanterns hung from the stern, and one from the bow, if you please,” Granger ordered. Those were the beacons they'd use for sailing in convoy at night. The number of lights would let them know if the other ships were heading toward them or away from them.

“Aye aye sir,” he said crisply.

“Your supper is ready, sir,” Winkler said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Very well. Call me if I am needed,” he said to Merrick. His standing orders, that he be called if there was an alteration of course, an increase or decrease in the amount of sail Belvidera needed to show, or a major event like the sighting of another ship or a change in the weather, those orders clearly defined to Merrick when he'd need to contact his captain.

Granger descended below to his cabin and stopped to admire it. It was like walking into a London townhouse, he thought with a smile. There were beautiful carpets beneath his feet, carpets in blue and cream to match the décor theme. His massive dining table had several chairs for entertaining and was complimented by the huge hutch to hold all the dishes and silver that would require. Comfortable armchairs for a casual conversation, and a large desk, all illuminated by the lights of the stern lanterns. On the walls and partitions were paintings that he'd accumulated, including a recent portrait of his parents and of Caroline, done by the most fashionable painter in London. To the starboard was a quarter gallery, a room of almost all windows, that was his own private bathroom, while on the other side, the matching gallery had a nice seating area, a way for him to relax and still see the rigging. Screened off were two smaller compartments, his sleeping cabin, with his cot, and his chart room, with as complete a set of charts as he could acquire. Outside his cabin was the gun deck with its massive 18-pounders, and no one else. That only emphasized the loneliness and majesty that surrounded the captain of a ship.

Granger sat at his table and ate alone, enjoying the solitude that defined his world. Being a captain could be a lonely job, but now, after all of the labor and exertions of getting Belvidera ready for sea and away from the land, to be alone and at peace, with a good meal and a good bottle of wine was heavenly. He felt Belvidera's gentle motion, and smiled briefly to think how all that would change when they hit a storm. When the water would cascade from the deck above onto the gun deck, then flood its way aft and soak his carpet. When everything on the ship would become damp and the salt water would make it seem impossible to dry. He thought about Intrepid and that made him sad. How he missed his little ship, how he missed Calvert. Then he thought of Caroline and his family, and how good it had been to see them. Soon the pangs of homesickness grabbed him, refusing to let him out of their grip. Frustrated, he once again was in the conundrum of not being able to be happy regardless of where he was, at sea or on shore.