HMS Belvidera - 8. Chapter 8

August, 1795

Captain George Granger of His Britannic Majesty's Ship Belvidera watched the Floreal come bounding down toward him and his convoy. He took his glass and studied her carefully, her details getting clearer now that she was only about two miles away. Floreal looked huge, especially compared to Belvidera. She was a typical French 74, with 36-pounders on her lower gun deck and 24-pounders on her main deck. Her broadside would comprise twice as many guns, and three times the weight of Belvidera’s. Not only that, but she was built to take punishment from ships like herself, while Belvidera was only built to withstand punches from other frigates. In a ship to ship action, barring some miracle, the outcome was all but certain: Belvidera would be pulverized. Granger pushed these depressing comparisons from his mind. He had no intention of getting within range of her broadsides.

He moved his mind away from her awesome power and looked at her general condition. She had been at sea for some time, and should have looked weathered, but she didn't. She should be short of stores, and heading home urgently to replenish, but she wasn't. Where was she based? Who was providing her with stores and shelter? The treaty with Spain was too new for her to have gotten support from them, unless they'd provided it even before the treaty was signed. Were the Spaniards that duplicitous?

She had done exactly what Granger had wanted her to do; she'd calculated their current course and plotted a course to intercept them. If only darkness would come, then they could alter course and sneak away from her under cover of night. They were near the equator, where darkness came suddenly, but there were plenty of hours of sunlight left.

“Mr. Lennox, signal the convoy. Course due west,” Granger ordered. That would force Floreal to alter her course too. Granger wasn't sure, but she just might have left it too long, just might have gotten herself too far to the north of their position. He had to get the convoy to the windward of her, where the ships, all former frigates, which would be able to sail much closer and faster into the wind, could slowly sail away from her.

“Floreal's altering course, sir,” Cavendish shouted. She'd come to a more parallel course, just as she should. Her captain knew the game, and knew his business.

“Take a bearing,” Granger ordered. “Check her lee-way.” They took their bearings, but although she made a lot more leeway than the convoy, it wasn't enough. He'd have to force her to change course, at least long enough to let the convoy get to windward of her.

“Let's get the topgallants on her,” Granger said. That got some nervous looks. That would put a lot of pressure on their spars, and losing one now would be disastrous. But Granger knew his ship, and he knew she could handle it. At least he hoped she could. The hands rushed up the shrouds to the third yard, the topgallant yard, and loosed the sails. The change in speed was immediate. Belvidera heeled over and surged ahead of the convoy.

“Course west-southwest,” Granger ordered. Now Belvidera was closing on the Floreal, a “V” shape that would let them intersect at some point in the future. The decks tilted to the starboard, giving her larboard guns much greater range. “Mr. Grafton,” Granger said, shouting down to the waist.

“Sir?” Grafton asked.

“You may try individual ranging shots,” he said. That would unnerve the French, and give the men something to do.

“Aye aye sir,” he said. Belvidera had surged ahead of Floreal, so even at their angled approach, Belvidera's guns would bear, while Floreal's wouldn't, unless she altered course. And that was really Granger's goal. He heard the loud crack as the first 18-pounder went off. They were far away, still over a mile, so on these tossing seas, any hit would be truly a fluke.

“That shot was over sir,” Cavendish said.

“Report the fall of shots to Mr. Grafton,” Granger ordered. It would give Cavendish something to do as well, in addition to managing his division of guns.

“Her starboard ports are under water, sir,” Merrick observed.

“That will save us from some 36-pound rain,” Granger observed wryly. Her second deck had 24-pounders, and they'd be devastating enough. That would cut her broadside power by 2/3s, still much heavier than Belvidera’s.

“That's a hit, sir!” Cavendish yelled enthusiastically. One of Belvidera's balls had plowed into Floreal's boats, sending splinters flying across her deck. That was only minor damage, but it would be demoralizing. Granger saw smoke belch from Floreal's forward guns as they tried to return fire, but Floreal was heeling so far to the starboard, the balls fell far short. And so it went, with Belvidera firing singly, or in small groups, and as the range got closer, the hits multiplied.

“The Frog is changing course, sir,” Merrick noted. She had done what Granger wanted. She had taken enough torment and was altering course directly for Belvidera.

“Mr. Grafton, I believe this is long cannon shot. You may open fire in earnest,” Granger called.

“Aye aye sir,” he called. And now the gunnery drill paid off. Round after round flew toward the Floreal's vulnerable bow. He could see the scars they were causing, but his dream, his hope, of a shot that would dislodge a spar, was not to be.

“Mr. Lennox, signal the convoy. Course west-southwest.” Lennox scampered off to do that, while Granger gauged the distance. In a few minutes, he would have given the convoy enough room to escape, and then it would be his job to extract his own ship from this challenge.

“Convoy has acknowledged, sir,” Lennox said.

The Floreal was almost upon them, close enough for the carronades to join in. He heard the one next to him go off and it almost made him jump. “Course due west helm,” Granger ordered. Belvidera steadied on her new course while Floreal came looming up behind them. He had offered the Frog two choices. Stay after the convoy and follow Belvidera, or try and rake Belvidera by crossing her stern. He guessed she'd try for the raking maneuver, and he was right.

“Mr. Carslake, we're changing course. I need the jib to spin us northerly!”

“Aye aye sir!” Carslake called from the foc'sl.

Closer and closer she came, her bow chasers and Belvidera's stern chasers blazing away. He heard the crash as one of Floreal's balls hit Belvidera's hull, but there was no corresponding scream. He hoped that meant no one was injured.

Granger gauged the moment, and just when it seemed like Floreal would cross their stern, he made his move. “Mr. Carslake, Now!” he shouted. “Starboard your helm,” he ordered the helm. The rudder bit and the force of the wind on her jib accentuated her turn, spinning Belvidera onto a northerly course so quickly it was if she had turned in place. “Trim those braces,” Granger ordered. Belvidera settled on her new course, the Floreal looming up behind her. He was drawing her further and further from the convoy, but she was gaining on the frigate with each second. He knew what her next move would be, and he knew what it meant. It meant they'd have to take at least one broadside. He looked down the deck at his beautiful ship and cringed at the carnage that was about to hit them.

“Mr. Grafton!” Granger shouted.

“Sir?” Grafton said, poking his head up.

“I want the larboard guns loaded with chain and langridge shot,” Granger ordered. Those were balls specifically designed to slice through rigging.

“Aye aye sir,” he said. In less than 90 seconds, they'd loaded the guns and were ready.

“Sir, she's turning to larboard!” shouted the lookout.

“Helm, match her moves!” Granger ordered. “Mr. Carslake, get the jib in!” As the Floreal turned, so did Belvidera, until they were side by side, in close range.

“Fire!” Granger ordered. Belvidera's guns went off almost simultaneously and the crews immediately began to reload with round shot. Granger heard the freakish noises, almost ghoulish, of the chain and langridge as it whistled toward Floreal, but only for a second before the sound was drowned out by Floreal's response.

He watched with horror as Floreal's guns belched out their own contents, and felt Belvidera shudder as the balls smashed into her side. Most of Floreal's guns were aimed low, so the carnage was mostly on the lower deck. He heard the screams as the 24-pound balls from her secondary battery tore through Belvidera's side, sending splinters flying.

“Look sir!” Merrick shouted. He looked over at Floreal and watched as her foremast began to tilt, and then fall to her deck, taking with it her main topmasts as well. The fallen spars acted like a big sea anchor, turning her into the wind. Now Belvidera would have her chance for revenge.

“Larboard your helm, bring her around a point,” Granger ordered. While Floreal swung north, Belvidera steered west-southwest, and neatly crossed her bows. As she came up level with the battleship, Granger watched as the “smasher” in front fired, her ball blasting through the weak timbers on Floreal's bow. The smasher fired a 68-pound ball full of grapeshot, and when it burst along her gun deck it would cause frightful damage. The Belvidera was speeding through the water, so they only got off one shot per gun as they tore past her bow, but that one shot was enough. Granger watched as the shots blasted her bow as they passed.

“Helm, steer due west,” Granger ordered. He watched as Floreal drifted downwind, and felt the temptation to try and continue the battle, to take or destroy her, but she'd only had damage to her rigging, and her massive main armament was probably still largely intact. Frigates weren't made to fight ships of the line, that wasn't his job. His job was to protect the convoy.

“Sir, she's steering north-northeast!” shouted the lookout. She was disengaging.

“Very well. Secure the guns,” Granger ordered. “Mr. Merrick, lay in a course to intercept the convoy.”

“Aye aye sir,” Merrick said.

“Pass the word for Mr. Grafton,” Granger ordered.

“Sir, Mr. Grafton was killed in that last broadside,” Merrick said sadly. Granger stared at him, stunned for just a moment, and saw the pain in Merrick's eyes. He could still feel Grafton's load leaking out of his ass, macabre as that was. He felt his mind starting to slip, and knew that he was close to breaking down, to showing emotion. He grappled with himself internally, struggling to get control, a phenomenon which seemed like an eternity to Granger, but only a few seconds to Merrick.

“Mr. Carslake!” Granger shouted.

“Sir?” he asked.

“Take charge below!”

“Aye aye, sir,” the ever competent Carslake said.

“Sir,” said another man, the carpenter, trying to get his attention.

“What is it?” snapped Granger, still not entirely in control of his emotions.

“We've got six inches of water in the well and it's getting higher fast. Some of those shots must have hit below the waterline,” he said.

“Mr. Merrick, we'll need men on the pumps at once,” Granger ordered. “See what you can do to repair the holes.”

“Aye aye sir,” the carpenter said.

The surgeon came up to report to him. The casualties had been remarkably light, only two men killed and four wounded. But to lose Grafton was really tragic. Granger paced the deck, thinking about him, about the warrior that he was. That's how Grafton would have wanted to die, in the thick of battle, with the smoke of gunpowder all around him as the cannons went off.

August, 1795

HMS Belvidera and her consorts lay becalmed in the doldrums. They'd been stuck here like this for two days now, without a hint of a breeze. They'd crossed the equator and celebrated the event in the traditional way, with Neptune rising from the waves to take control of the ship. The other ships had celebrated too, so they'd made quite a party of it. Granger looked at the deck as it tilted to starboard at a dangerous angle, and adjusted his stance to accommodate it.

“That's good sir!” came the cry from over the side. The sound of hammers began to resonate through the ship. Belvidera had received three holes below her waterline, and those had been the source of considerable anguish for her crew. For one thing, it meant constant work on the pumps, and even the superb pumps Granger had acquired with money from his own pocket were hard pressed to keep up with the influx of water. Then they'd had to fother a sail over the holes, a difficult procedure, but one that had finally reduced the leakage to a manageable amount. Now, with the ship becalmed, they moved guns and stores to the starboard side to careen her over, rolling the damaged holes out of the water so they could be repaired.

This was a dangerous maneuver, and one that most captains avoided at all costs. They had to be careful not to move her too far to the starboard, lest she roll over and sink. They also had to be careful that a freak gust of wind didn't appear and push the ship over, with the same disastrous result. But no captain is happy unless his ship is in the best possible condition, and Granger was perhaps even more dedicated to maintaining his new command. So they persevered with their operation, using this break in the weather to give them completely calm seas.

Without the wind, the heat was almost unbearable. With Belvidera careening over, they couldn't open the starboard ports, not that it would have mattered with this hot, humid, stagnant air. Granger felt his shoes sticking to the deck seams as the heat melted the pitch. He found himself longing for the Mediterranean, with its unpredictable weather and hazardous coastlines. And he found himself longing for Travers. He had been fighting his demons since Grafton had been lost, but to no avail.

Granger glanced over to the binnacle where Merrick stood, watching their progress. He'd thought about promoting Lennox to fill the void left by Grafton, but he was still a little too young. In another year, he'd give him his chance, but right now it was too soon. Granger felt a pang of guilt at that, given his own meteoric rise, but Lennox wasn't just young physically, he was young emotionally. He was still forming his own style, learning how to work with the men, to command their respect while still maintaining his kind and humane persona. He contrasted Lennox to Cavendish, who had much less experience as a seaman but was a born leader. The men liked Lennox, who was friendly and jocular with them, but they respected Cavendish, who was more imperious and reserved.

Granger took his speaking trumpet and yelled up at the tops: “Lookouts report!” There was a chorus as they all chimed “nothing sir” almost in unison. Granger was irritated at himself for asking them, but he wanted to make sure they were awake. They weren't looking for ships, they were looking for squalls.

Merrick came forward and touched his hat. “The holes are repaired sir, there's only the re-coppering to be done. Shall we do that now, or wait?”

Granger was anxious to get Belvidera righted, but now was as good a time as any. “Let's get it done.”

“Aye aye sir,” he said. Granger gazed off toward the transports. He'd spent the last three days in a social whirl, entertaining the army officers and the captains of the three ships, and then visiting their ships as they'd returned the favor. He'd used the excuse of Belvidera's repairs to beg off today. He saw them rowing from ship to ship. The army officers had been grateful that they'd avoided the Floreal, while the captains of the transports had eyed him with almost hero worship for extracting them from the situation. That was really strange too, considering that two of them were old enough to be his grandfather. Granger found all of their attention made him uncomfortable, and he longed to just stay here on board and tend to his ship and his men.

Another hour later, and the copper had been replaced. Granger descended into the gig to inspect their work. The coppering would help Belvidera maintain her speed, would keep the weeds from growing on her bottom too fast, and would also shield her from the nasty Teredo worm, a parasite that could eat the bottom out of a ship. After he was satisfied, they put the ship to rights as quickly as they could. By evening, Belvidera was like new, just short a lieutenant.

Granger gave his night orders and went down to his cabin to try to get some sleep. As he was entering, he almost ran headlong into his coxswain, Jeffers. “What brings you here Jeffers?” he asked.

Jeffers seemed nervous. “I was looking for you sir,” he stammered.

“You were, eh?” Granger asked. He thought about Jeffers, with his big body and long, thin dick, and how good it felt when Jeffers fucked him. Without a word, he nodded to the coxswain and led him into his sleeping cabin. Jeffers was almost nervous, letting Granger make all the moves. It wasn't until Granger got his pants off and took out Jeffers' cock that Jeffers sprang into action. He seemed to sense what Granger wanted and needed, and forcefully pushed Granger onto his cot, on his knees. Then with a glob of lanolin for lube, he entered Granger not gently, not roughly, but forcefully. Granger gave in to the sensation, to being dominated by this incredible man, and went along for the ride. He blocked out how much it reminded him of Grafton and tried to enjoy the release. Jeffers had amazing staying power, and went on for what seemed like an eternity before he came and brought Granger off with him.

“That was wonderful as always,” Granger said as he pulled up his trousers. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure, sir,” Jeffers said. Jeffers left his sleeping cabin while Granger remained, getting himself ready for bed. He heard a sharp exchange of voices in his cabin, something that was almost unheard of, but by the time he went outside to see what it was, there was only Winkler standing there.

“I'm going to bed now,” Granger said.

“Aye aye sir,” Winkler said, with almost a surly tone. Granger decided to ignore him, and instead went into his sleeping cabin to try and get some rest.

September, 1795

Granger sat in his cabin, enjoying the brisk breeze that was blowing through the stern windows as he sat at his desk and finished drafting his report. They'd sighted St. Helena just as night fell, so they'd set a course to reach Jamestown at first light.

“Will you need anything else, sir?” Winkler asked him in the tone he'd adopted recently. It wasn't quite surly, it wasn't insubordinate, but it was enough to let Granger know that Winkler was mad at him. He'd noticed in other ways too. His meals weren't as timely as they used to be, and the endless nurturing, the almost mother-hen aspect that had characterized Winkler before, had completely vanished.

“Have a seat Winkler,” Granger said.

“I still have your coat to get in shape for tomorrow,” he said.

“It wasn't a request, it was an order,” Granger said.

“Aye aye sir,” Winkler said.

“I want to know what is bothering you,” Granger demanded.

“Nothing is bothering me, sir,” Winkler lied.

“We have served together too long for me to believe that,” Granger said. “If I have done something to vex you, I want to know what it is.”

“Nothing sir,” Winkler said.

“Well then you are vexing me. You have been lax in your duties for the past fortnight. If you cannot explain why, then I will have to appoint someone else to fill the role of head servant,” Granger said boldly.

“I'm very sorry sir,” Winkler stammered. “I'll try and do better.”

“I don't believe that you can, and I don't believe that you will,” Granger stated firmly. “I would like to take you back in time, to a conversation that we had on HMS Victory about loyalty. Do you remember?”

“That was about poor Mr. Shafte, sir,” Winkler said. “I remember.”

“And the premise behind that loyalty is that you won't hold back information, that you will always be open and honest with me,” Granger said.

“And I have sir....” Winkler objected.

“Until now,” Granger said, his voice firm, possibly even severe. “Now there is something bothering you, something festering, and you won't tell me what it is. And since your attitude toward me has changed, it must involve me. Do you see how there could be any other conclusion?”

“No sir,” Winkler responded glumly, but still didn't spill his guts.

Granger thought about it, and knew he'd have to apply more pressure. “In fact, I think your attitude borders on insubordination. Are you plotting something evil, Winkler?”

“No sir! No sir! I could never do that!” he objected.

“How do I know that? You are sitting here in front of me, lying to me. What am I to think? I am put in a very difficult position. I must find out what has you so perturbed, even if it means introducing you to the gunner's daughter.” That really terrified Winkler, the thought of corporal punishment, of being bent over an 18-pounder and having his posterior caned until it was red and possibly bleeding.

“It's not about that, sir,” Winkler said, finally opening up. “It's about Jeffers.”

“What about Jeffers?” Granger asked. He felt himself getting angry, angry at Jeffers for causing this boy so much torment. “Has he hurt you? You should know to come to me if that happens. You know I will not abide abuse on my ship.”

“No sir, it's not like that at all. It's hard to explain.” He paused, and blushed so red Granger could see it in the dim light from the lantern. “We are very good friends.”

“Friends?” Granger asked.

“Friends like you are with Captain Travers and Commander Calvert sir, begging your pardon sir,” Winkler stammered. And then all of the events, all of the attitude, fell into place.

“And you are mad at me for the interlude I had with him,” Granger said.

“Yes, sir,” Winkler said meekly.

Granger poured a glass of wine for him, and one for Winkler, which really shocked the young man. “I wonder how I was supposed to know that you two were together.”

“I'm not sure, sir,” Winkler said as he sipped his wine.

“So you are angry at me for not guessing that you were engaged in buggery with another man, something I had no idea you'd ever even contemplated?” Granger asked.

“Yes sir,” Winkler said.

“So in addition to all of my other responsibilities, to earn your loyalty and support I must also be clairvoyant?” Granger asked.

Winkler looked at him and smiled, realizing how ridiculous his attitude was, and how unreasonable his position was. “From what I heard when we were in London, you are said to be God-like, so I presumed that you were, sir,” he said with his old cheeky demeanor.

“You know never to believe rumors,” Granger chided. “I am sorry that I wounded you Winkler. Had I known, I would never have done that. And now that I do, it will not happen again.”

“Thank you, sir,” Winkler said. “I'm sorry for not coming to you before.”

“Do you think there may come a time when you will trust me enough to raise these issues before they become problematic?” Granger asked sternly.

“Yes sir. As my years advance and I grow to be as old as you sir, I expect I will acquire wisdom to go with it,” he said.

Granger just shook his head. “Alright, Winkler. You keep me attuned to your love life so I don't tread on your feelings, and I pledge to keep what you tell me to myself. Will that work for you?”

“Aye aye sir,” he said, and walked out. Granger looked at the young man, and for the first time noticed what a cute lad he'd become. No wonder he'd taken up with Jeffers. Plus there was a convenience to their relationship that few on the ship would be able to have. Their positions gave both of them unfettered access to his cabin, so when he was on deck, there would be ample opportunities for a quick tryst.

Granger sighed. Even his head servant had someone on board to make him happy, while Granger had no one. Except Lennox. That made him smile. They'd worked out a normal routine, where they'd get together three or four times a week. He still hadn't tried to fuck Lennox again, but that didn't matter. Lennox seemed perfectly happy with fucking him, and Granger was perfectly happy with that too.

Granger eyed the anchorage, full of shipping. The inbound East India Convoy was here, and evidently they were preparing to sail. Most of them had their anchors hove short and were showing a bit of sail. Off to the side were two squadrons of warships, presumably one to guard the homebound convoy and one to guard the transports.

“Sir, there are three ships of the line,” Lennox said. “One flies a rear admiral's flag. It is the Centurion.”

“Rear Admiral Wilcox?” Granger asked. There could be worse news, but he was unsure what it would be. The man hated him, hated his family. He must be sailing back after being recalled. He would be in a foul mood.

“I'm not sure, sir,” Lennox said, stating the obvious. “Illustrious is with her. The other ship is the Arrogant, 74, Captain Lucas.”

“Thank you Mr. Lennox,” Granger said. He had put on his best uniform and was prepared to make his report.

“Flag to Belvidera, Captain to repair on board immediately,” Lennox said. “She's signaling to Arrogant too, sir.”

“Very well. Clear away my gig, Mr. Merrick,” Granger said.

“Aye aye sir,” he said.

Granger climbed down into the gig and watched as Jeffers deftly handled it through the various boats and ships that crowded the harbor. He tried to visualize Jeffers and Winkler fucking, and found the vision so erotic he had to push it from his mind lest he board Centurion with an erection. The trip to Centurion was mercifully short. He climbed up her familiar sides, remembering only too well how difficult and obnoxious Wilcox could be.

Captain Flagg was there to greet him. “Granger. I didn't expect to see you commanding a frigate. Congratulations!”

“Thank you sir,” Granger said respectfully.

“News reached us of your exploits in the Caribbean, and of Belvidera's misfortunes,” Flagg said carefully.

“We've worked hard to repair her, body and soul, sir,” Granger said, referring to the Belvidera.

“Let me take you back to see the admiral,” he said nervously.

Granger walked into the big but amazingly plain stern cabin of Centurion and saw a man he did not know. The other man, the admiral, he knew only too well.

“Well look at you Granger, a post-captain!” Wilcox said. “How did you manage to swing that?”

“Mostly luck, sir,” Granger said, keeping his temper under control.

“I shouldn't wonder,” he said. “So you've finally arrived with the transports. Sir George will be happy about that.”

“Yes sir, he will,” said the other captain. He held out his hand. “Richard Lucas.”

“George Granger,” Granger responded, shaking his hand. “It's nice to meet you sir.”

“How do the transports sail?” he asked.

“Quite well, sir,” Granger told him. “We ran into the Floreal, a French 74, and we were able to work our way around her.”

“You didn't engage her?” Wilcox asked.

“Yes, sir, we did. We had a brief action. We were able to take out her foremast and main top, enough so we could get around her. We managed to repair our damage at sea.”

“You disabled her but did not capture her?” Wilcox asked.

“Excuse me,” Lucas said. “Did you say this was a French 74? And you're in Belvidera, a 32-gun frigate?”

“Yes sir,” Granger said. Lucas got it, but he didn't know Wilcox was just trying to be difficult.

“Captain, I am conducting this interview,” Wilcox snapped. He turned to Granger. “Is that not the same ship that captured Zenith, using a clever ruse?”

“Floreal captured Zenith, sir, but the ruse wasn't clever, it was quite transparent.”

“I'll have you know Captain Freemantle is a friend of mine,” Wilcox said.

“I'm sorry to tell you, sir, that the last time I saw Captain Freemantle he was very nearly insane,” Granger said politely. He saw Lucas and Flagg try not to snicker. Everyone knew Freemantle was an idiot.

Wilcox chose to ignore him. “We're ready to sail. Prepare to get underway at once.”

“We need to replenish our water and stores, sir, then we can sail,” Granger said.

Wilcox' eyes narrowed. “I'm not going to sit here for two or three days with a whole convoy just so you can get fresh drinking water.”

“I'm sorry sir. Belvidera is not ready for sea,” Granger said adamantly.

“I will note that in my report,” Wilcox said, gloating. “You will complete your stores and endeavor to catch up with us, preferably before we reach England.”

“Aye aye sir,” Granger said. “Captain,” he said, nodding first to Flagg, then to Lucas. He left the Centurion and headed back to Belvidera to prepare her to take on water and stores. Granger decided that this time, there was no hurry. The less time they spent in the convoy with Wilcox, the better.