HMS Valiant - 39. Chapter 39

February, 1800

HMS Valiant

The Mediterranean Sea

A shot crashed into Valiant below her counter, but there was no scream accompanying it. By Granger’s calculations, they’d taken eight hits, but those hits hadn’t caused major damage. Even more importantly, no one had yet been wounded.

Valiant’s stern chasers roared out in reply. Granger studied the fall of the shot, and thought one might have scored a hit on the lead xebec. Much like Valiant, though, she seemed to shrug it off, and continued to creep closer.

Granger’s mind worked furiously, trying to think of a way out of this current dilemma. It was only a matter of time until the xebecs were able to get in a lucky shot and possibly disable them. Taking out a spar would allow them to close the distance rapidly. The other alternative was for Granger to turn and fight the xebecs, but if he did that, he’d find himself facing the two battleships that loomed just beyond them. Neither option had much appeal.

He heard the sound of a shot overhead and saw it punch another hole in the main topsail. That sail was all but shredded after taking several hits. It would have to be replaced, but there was no time to do that now. “Mr. Weston, I’ll need the main course on her, but I’ll want it winged.” That would make it considerably smaller, and it would keep it clear of the deck. That was important to prevent a possible fire; sails were very flammable.

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said, and hurried to carry out Granger’s orders. Meanwhile, the stern chasers and the xebecs continued their duel. Weston returned to his side, with Valiant’s new sail drawing to replace the damaged main topsail. Daventry stood on Granger’s other side, quietly watching the battle evolve.

“Well done, Mr. Weston.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Weston said. “Will we engage them?”

“I think we are already doing that,” Granger said with a smile, even though he knew Weston wasn’t referring to this game of taking pot shots at each other. “When we are within short cannon shot, we will go about and attempt to take out some of them.”

“Won’t be long then, begging your pardon, my lord,” Weston noted.

“It is almost time,” Granger agreed.

“My lord! We got one o’ them buggers!” one of the seamen exclaimed enthusiastically, then looked abashed.

Granger turned and saw one of the xebecs falling back, even as she listed. It was the one that had been following them closest. Evidently Valiant’s bombardment had finally had an effect. This xebec may very well sink, but if she didn’t, she was now at least out of the action. “Good job lads!” Granger said encouragingly. Inside, he was less happy. Taking out one xebec would not change this battle.

The wind had started out light, and had remained barely more than a breeze. In Granger’s past actions with xebecs, the wind had been the deciding factor. Once again, he needed more of it, enough to give him the ability to pull away from the xebecs despite their oars. A shot hit Valiant below, making the ship shudder, but other than that, it did little to damage her fighting ability. When this was over, he’d have to have himself rowed under her stern. There was probably substantial damage there, although fortunately it was above the waterline. He chided himself for his optimism. When this was over, he would probably be either a corpse, or in chains being hauled off to face an irate Bey of Oran.

“My lord!” Meurice said, with almost as much enthusiasm as the seaman who had pointed out the sinking xebec. “Look!” He pointed forward, across their bows.

Granger had been focused on the action and the ships behind them, so when he turned around, he was surprised to see a mass of dark clouds bearing down on them. It was a storm front, and a significant front at that. Granger smiled, allowing himself to eschew his normal stoicism. “Will the wind veer?”

Meurice consulted with his mates. “Maybe a bit, my lord, but it should still be at least from the east.” The clouds were upon them within a quarter of an hour, with the seas rising as if in symphony with them. Half an hour ago there had been light winds from the southeast, and now there were strong winds from the east. The sea had been calm, calm enough to facilitate the cannonade between Valiant and the xebecs. Now the seas had risen to what Granger would classify as moderate in a report.

“This looks to be more of a gale than a brisk wind,” Weston noted. Granger smiled at that. The xebecs were well out to sea, and the conditions were fast approaching hazardous proportions for them.

“I think it is time for us to show them our teeth,” Granger said. “Mr. Clifton!”

He heard Clifton’s footsteps as he scampered up the ladder. “Sir?”

“Your starboard guns will be in action shortly,” Granger said. “I’ll want the lower deck guns to target those battleships, while the carronades can engage the xebecs.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Clifton said. He spent some time explaining Granger’s orders to the carronade crews then went below to get the big guns ready.

The seas began to get even rougher as the storm front passed by them, and now the weather was punctuated by thunder and lightning. The xebecs had started out this battle at their peak sea conditions, but with the increasing waves, they’d gone from confident to vulnerable. “Stand by to go about!” Granger ordered. He looked along the length of the ship, at the men who watched him expectantly, waiting for his orders. “Put down your helm.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” the helmsman said. The wheel spun, and so did Valiant, turning counter-clockwise even as the men labored to trim the sails to match her changing position. The Oranian fleet went from being on Valiant’s starboard quarter, to being on her larboard bow, to directly in the line of Valiant’s starboard broadside. The xebecs were now at close range, close enough that Granger could see the scimitars brandished by their crews. The battleships were farther away, but still within range. “Steady,” Granger said to the helmsman, then to Clifton. “Fire as your guns bear!”

Valiant’s armament roared out. In seas like these, even at close range, they’d be lucky if a third of their shots struck home, but his move had seemingly confused and flummoxed the enemy commander. The xebec closest to Valiant took several carronade balls and began to founder, but her consorts were too anxious to escape to help her. That ship would sink, and her men would drown.

Valiant had fired three broadsides before the Oranians had fired back, but when they did, it was disastrous. Granger had managed to position the xebecs between Valiant and the two ships of the line. Precision firing in seas like this was impossible. The ships of the line obliterated the two xebecs closest to them, while only a few balls found their way to Valiant, and those caused no harm. “Splendid!” Daventry said gleefully.

“And they cannot close with us, or they will ram their own ships, my lords,” Weston noted with barely concealed zeal.

Granger sensed the admiration in their tones, and that made him uncomfortable. “Mr. Weston, see that our guns maintain their fire.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” Weston said, and went to see about rotating the crews from the larboard and starboard sides to keep the men from exhaustion.

Valiant was firing so quickly that the smoke was blocking Granger’s view, even with the winds strong as they were. In addition, his vision was further impacted by the darkening skies. Valiant’s attempt to escape had indeed delayed the Oranian attack, and it was now dusk. He strode to the poop deck and looked through the darkening, hazy night. What he saw made him happy enough that he allowed himself to smile, and smile quite broadly. “Cease firing,” Granger ordered.

Valiant fell silent as her guns stopped firing, and everyone on the ship peered over the sides at their Oranian foes. The Arabs were in sad shape. The xebecs had not only blocked the fire from the battleships, they had drifted into them. Two of the craft had fouled the leading ship of the line, which had evidently been rammed from astern by her counterpart. The ship that had rammed the leader had drifted at an angle from her consort, in an almost jackknife position. They were now a floating, vulnerable, and drifting mass. “Not much danger from them now, my lord,” Weston noted.

Granger was normally a merciful person, and if this were an honorable foe, he would probably haul off now, content with the damage he’d caused. But he was not merciful when it came to these cretins. “I’ll have the starboard battery double-shotted, with grape for good measure. We’ll render passing honors as we leave them to their own devices.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” Weston said. His tone told Granger that while he didn’t share the venom of his actions, he did not condemn them either. The men were ecstatic, more than happy to pour some more iron into their tormentors.

“Put us on the starboard tack,” Granger ordered. Valiant altered course and tore down toward the Arab fleet, with the moderate winds pushing her quickly, even with her reduced sail. “You may fire as you bear.”

The quarterdeck carronades sparked off, targeting the xebecs which were struggling just to remain afloat. They were only able to get off two rounds each, but that was enough to devastate the remaining xebecs. Granger felt he could reasonably note in his report that there were only two xebecs that survived, and that was assuming those could endure the storm that was brewing.

They had passed the xebecs now and were up to the battleships. They were strange craft, with their hybrid sail plans and garish decorations. The lead ship was the larger of the two, and appeared to be an old 70-gun battleship. Her consort was just as old, and based on the number of gunports, she was a 60-gunner. They passed the bow of the lead ship, and poured their carefully prepared broadside into her bow. Granger watched as the old wood splintered apart, her forward bulkheads collapsing in the face of this massive bombardment. “There goes her foremast!” one of the men shouted, and it was true. They watched as the spar seemed to bow, then collapse onto the deck of the leader.

“Starboard a point,” Granger ordered. The other ship had collided with her, and had drifted in an angular way so she was almost alongside her consort. “We’ll cross her stern.”

The gunners hurriedly reloaded their guns, running them out just as Valiant’s nose began to cross the other ship’s stern. Granger saw a name scribed out on her stern, but he could not read the Arabic letters. The starboard smasher fired, and the ball hit a bit low, shattering her ornate stern to pieces. The rest of the guns were better aimed, and poured a devastating fire into the already crippled Arab ship. They watched as her mizzenmast fell, as if to make her symmetrical with her wounded consort.

“Larboard a point,” Granger said. “Mr. Weston, you may secure from quarters, and rig for storms. Pass the word for the carpenter.”

And with those orders, Granger had ended the action and refocused them on repairing Valiant’s wounds. The damage had not been severe, but her stern was holed, and with the storm increasing in intensity, they had much to do to keep out the surging ocean.

“We’ve got six inches of water in the well, my lord,” the carpenter said abruptly upon his arrival on the quarterdeck.

“Mr. Clifton, we’ll need the pumps manned at once,” Granger ordered, then turned back to the carpenter. “Where is the damage?”

“Most of it is aft, my lord,” he said. “Running as we are, with the sea behind us, it’s coming in something fierce.”

“Heave to, Mr. Weston,” Granger ordered. The Oranian ships were still in sight, but they would not bother them now. Granger dispatched Kingsdale to assist the carpenter, then focused on securing Valiant while simultaneously rigging her for storms. “You have the ship.”

Weston acknowledged his orders and continued to direct the repairs, while Granger went below and meticulously inspected each 24-pounder. Having just been in action, those guns would be hot and difficult to manage. He wanted to make sure that the men had not let that discourage them from properly tying down those guns. If one of them broke loose in the storm, it would careen around and could feasibly break through the side of the ship. In that case, Valiant could very well founder. Granger’s inspection found no flaws, a fact he was glad of since he could feel the motion of the ship increasing. As he ascended to the upper deck, he was stunned by how strong the winds were, and how much bigger the seas had grown. “My lord, look at the Turks!” Weston shouted.

Granger trained his eyes toward where the Oranian ships should be, wondering how Weston expected him to see anything in the black of the night. But off in the distance he did see the battleships, and it appeared as if one of them, at least, was on fire. She burned like a bright torch, with the flames being whipped around in the strong winds. It was quite possible that none of the men on those ships would survive this battle and storm. Granger briefly let himself feel sympathy for those sailors fighting for their lives, then he felt guilt, knowing that the last assault he’d made hadn’t really been necessary. If all of those men perished, were his actions justified? He shook that off. They had set a trap for him, and had waited to destroy him and his ship. He decided that such barbarians deserved whatever fate awaited them.

“I will take the first watch,” Granger said to Weston. In a storm like this, either Granger, Weston, or Clifton would be on deck. With the repairs underway, and the ship rigged for storms, Valiant fought the winds and the seas, just as she’d just fought the Oranians.

Weston relieved Granger four hours later, and Granger took that opportunity to escape to his sleeping cabin. It was wonderfully warm, what with the small stove stoked and emitting heat. Once again Granger thought of what a wonderful gift that was. He had labored through Caroline’s tryst with Treadway and Cavendish to the point where he was no longer vexed at Cavendish, and that allowed him to appreciate his present that much more. Winkler brought him some food, which he ate so quickly he barely tasted it. Granger allowed himself some precious sleep, even though it was fitful.

Winkler awakened him well before dawn, plied him with some more food, and helped him put on a dry uniform.

Granger went out on the quarterdeck to find Clifton with the watch. If anything, the winds seemed even more violent than before. “Quite a gale!” Granger shouted.

“Indeed, sir,” Clifton shouted back. Granger stood on the deck, balancing against the waves, then descended to the main deck to check on the guns one more time. The sound of hammers took him aft to the wardroom, where he found crews frantically trying to repair the damaged stern, even as water poured in around them.

“It’s no use, my lord,” the carpenter said. “We can’t plug them in these seas.”

“Well the seas show no signs of abating, so we have no choice,” Granger said acidly. ‘I cannot do it’ was not an acceptable answer in the Royal Navy.

“We’re just keeping the water level in the hold, my lord,” the carpenter persisted. His negativity was clawing at Granger’s normally stoic reserve.

“If we cannot repair the damage now, do what you can to minimize the flow of water,” Granger said, then caught sight of the boatswain. “Hercule!”

“My lord?”

“Assist the carpenter. See if we can at least reduce the amount of water we’re taking in. Fother a sail, or do whatever you can. We’ll try to find a place to make better repairs,” Granger said.

“Aye aye, my lord,” Hercule said, a much better answer than the carpenter’s whining.

Granger went back up on deck to find the skies lightening. Dawn was a dull affair, what with the clouds and rain all around them, but at least they could see their immediate surroundings. “Ship ahoy, off the stern!” It was a testament to the lungs of the lookout that they could hear him through the blowing wind.

Granger trained his glass aft and saw a single Arab ship off in the distance. It was the leader, and she had not yet managed to repair her foremast. That did not surprise Granger, as repairing a spar in these seas would be hazardous for any crew, and probably impossible for the Turks. He studied her carefully, and she looked to be in a bad way. It was entirely possible that she would founder in this storm. She must have sighted Valiant, for she immediately tried to put herself on course to intercept them. Granger internally shook his head at their fanaticism and determination. It was short lived, as the enemy ship’s main topsail soon split into a million threads, and the ship herself floundered about until they managed to get her into the wind again. Another failed maneuver like that would probably mean her doom.

“Only one ship?” Daventry asked. Granger had not even noticed his arrival on deck, yet here he was, looking as spruce as ever.

“So it would seem,” Granger replied. It was unlikely that any of the xebecs had survived in this sea, and based on the fire they had seen last night, it was likely that the other battleship had been lost as well. In this case, victory was largely attributable to the weather, but it was indeed a victory.

“My lord, breakfast is ready,” Winkler said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Please join me,” he said to Daventry. He noticed that Weston was on deck, as was proper at sunrise, and invited him to eat with them as well.

“Thank you for the invitation, my lord,” Weston said. “Some food would not be amiss, but I will cherish the warmth and dryness even more.”

“It is a bit wet on deck,” Daventry said.

“It is even wetter in the wardroom,” Granger said. His officers would be seriously inconvenienced, as would the men in the gunroom, until they repaired the holes. “It seems we must delay our voyage home to seek a place to make repairs.”

“Do you know where we are?” Daventry asked.

“I would estimate that we are probably about even with Oran, or somewhere thereabouts,” Granger said. “As we are still enduring an easterly wind, that means that Gibraltar is our most likely refuge.”

“Unless you fancy putting in to a Spanish port, my lord,” Weston joked.

“We are at war with Spain,” Daventry noted.

“His Most Catholic Majesty’s servants are especially fond of me,” Granger joked, making them chuckle.

“Which is remarkable, considering the amount of treasure you have wrested from His Most Catholic Majesty’s clutches,” Daventry said.

“In any event, I think we will endeavor to reach Gibraltar, repair our ship, then continue our voyage home,” Granger pronounced.

February, 1800

HMS Valiant

Gibraltar

“Let go!” Granger ordered, and with that, Valiant’s anchor was released and sank to the bottom of Gibraltar’s harbor. “Mr. Weston, I am going ashore to meet with the governor. I will task you to do your utmost to complete our repairs.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said. “Will you allow the men shore leave?”

Granger pondered that for a second. “I will leave that decision to you, contingent upon how speedily they work to right our ship.” He knew he could count on Weston to get Valiant into shape, and with the lure of shore leave, that would give him a useful carrot to hang over the heads of the men.

“I suspect that will be an excellent motivator, my lord,” Weston said with a smile. “I’ll have your gig brought around.”

“Thank you,” Granger said. He retired to his cabin to retrieve his portfolio and then returned to the quarterdeck. Daventry was waiting to join him.

“I assumed that Governor O’Hara would be entertained by my company.”

“I suspect that he will,” Granger said with a smile. He followed Daventry into his gig, then instructed Jacobs to row around Valiant’s stern. The seas had been too rough to inspect the damage, so this was Granger’s first look. He saw the jagged holes the Arab cannon balls had made, and ruefully observed the makeshift repairs that were flimsy at best.

“It looks worse from this angle,” Daventry noted.

“It is much worse than I feared,” Granger said. “I suspect we will end up reconstructing much of that part of her stern.”

“Will that delay us?”

Granger nodded. “I fear so. I would estimate it will take us nigh on a week to finish up.”

“It can’t be helped,” Daventry said philosophically.

“We will endeavor to complete the repairs as quickly as possible, in any event,” Granger said. He was annoyed at this delay. He knew that it was important for him to make it back to England with haste, so the news of their actions with the Guild could be relayed to the government. At the same time, it had been hazardous enough to endure the gale they’d just gone through in the Mediterranean. Granger wasn’t about to risk Valiant to the much worse weather of the Atlantic in winter without first repairing her holes.

They landed at the jetty, and found Harleton waiting for them. “Welcome back my lord!” he said, with real enthusiasm.

“It is good to see you, Colonel,” Granger said warmly. “Have you met Lord Daventry?”

“I have spent some time with His Lordship in London,” Harleton said. “Good to see you as well, my lord.”

“Colonel Harleton is quite the rake,” Daventry explained.

“And when you are around, I am not alone in that,” Harleton joked. The three of them boarded the carriage for the brief ride to the Governor’s house. Their conversation was friendly and informal. “Granger is a most dutiful husband, and we have not been able to tempt him with some of the more beautiful women of Gibraltar.”

“Perhaps that is because he has a wife that is not a shrew,” Daventry said.

“In any event, I would be happy to introduce you to some of the more reputable places in this port,” Harleton said with a lascivious grin.

“I think I would enjoy that,” Daventry said. The whole conversation irritated Granger, but he hid it well. Their arrival at Government House enabled him to focus on something besides Daventry and Harleton and their carnal activities.

Governor O’Hara was as gracious and welcoming as always. “I was hoping we would see you on your return voyage, my lord!”

“I think you would say that even if I were an unpleasant guest, merely to have me carry your despatches back for you, Your Excellency,” Granger teased. O’Hara paused to greet Daventry, then turned his attention back to Granger.

“That is most definitely an added bonus,” he said. “It appeared as if you incurred some damage to your ship. I spotted the scars on her stern.”

“We had an encounter with the Oranians, sir,” Granger said. “First, we were assaulted off Bizerte on our way to Palermo, then we were ambushed off Oran on our return.”

“You seem to have survived,” he said, but it was more of a question.

“They managed to scrounge up two ships of the line in addition to xebecs this time, sir,” Granger said. “Thanks to the arrival of the storm that has been raging these past few days, the Oranians lost at least one of their battleships and all eight of their xebecs.”

“That is a splendid victory!” the Governor said.

“Thank you, sir,” Granger said politely. “I fear we owe our success more to the weather than anything.”

“And that is simply not true, but it merely takes away from the brilliant way in which you handled your ship,” Daventry corrected. He did not have Granger’s inherent modesty. His comment irritated Granger considerably, who found that crowing about his own achievements was incredibly tacky.

“I did not know the Oranians had any battleships,” the governor said.

“They were older craft, sir,” Granger said. “One was a 70-gun ship of the line, while the other had 60 guns. They were both Ottoman ships, although I am not sure how they ended up in the service of the Bey.”

“If the Sultan is attacking our ships, that constitutes an act of war,” the governor said with concern.

“I can only hope that the Sultan was ignorant of this plan, and that he will take actions to make sure it does not happen again,” Granger noted wryly.

“You are determined to torture poor Elgin in return for subjecting you to his horrible wife,” O’Hara joked. “He will have to tackle this issue with the Porte.”

“Then I would submit that Lord Elgin has still gotten the better deal,” Granger said.

“I would agree with you,” O’Hara said. “I wonder if you will be able to serve in these waters without risking the wrath of the Bey of Oran.”

“I’m not sure, but it certainly won’t distract me from doing my duty,” Granger said much too stiffly. O’Hara’s statement had bothered him considerably, enough that he’d let it show in his manner.

“Of course not,” O’Hara said hastily. “And now you gentlemen must join me for dinner.”

“With pleasure,” Granger and Daventry said. They had a fun, lively dinner. Granger finally took his leave of the governor, and was more than a little inebriated. Daventry was in no better shape.

“I think I will stay ashore and explore some of the local haunts with Harleton,” Daventry said to Granger.

Granger pasted on a smile. “Enjoy yourself.”

“I fully intend to,” Daventry said with a leer. Granger walked down the street toward the harbor on his own. He ultimately stopped in the same hotel he usually visited, and since they knew him, they were able to attend to his needs. They led him up to the familiar room with the large bathtub, filled it with warm water, and left him to enjoy his fresh water soak.

Only Granger didn’t enjoy it, because his mind was reeling, and he proceeded to torture himself like only he could. He sat in his bath alone, thinking of the other men he’d enjoyed this same tub with. Appropriately enough, his mind went first to John Travers, and that brought a melancholy smile to his face. That smile faded when he thought of Francis Calvert. He wondered if that relationship would always be an open wound for him. He had heard no news of Calvert lately, and part of him was glad of that, while the other was curious as to how he was doing.

Granger pulled himself away from that topic and on to an even more annoying one. The governor’s words haunted him. His presence in this sea seemed to do nothing but provoke the Arabs. As Britain needed allies, even barbarous and untrustworthy ones, it made sense that he would be relegated to serve elsewhere. Granger had begun his career in the Mediterranean, had his biggest successes here, and truly enjoyed this moody and mercurial body of water. More than that, he was reminded of his conversation with Daventry. The Mediterranean was the closest posting to home that offered the best prospect for action. Would he be stationed, instead, with the Channel Fleet? Would he be damned to lurk outside Brest, chasing after coasters, for the rest of this war? He tried to shake off those thoughts, but couldn’t quite pull it off. In the end, George Granger had himself rowed back to his ship, feeling clean on the outside, but quite uncomfortable inside his skin.