HMS Valiant - 6. Chapter 6

June 27, 1799

Cowes, England

Granger stood in the bedroom and took his wife’s hands in his. “I should not be gone long,” he told Caroline.

“But you will be gone,” she said.

Granger felt the pain searing through his heart, and was once again conflicted. He had enjoyed his time ashore, and he had enjoyed having his family here at Cowes with him. He had already said goodbye to his children. William was growing up to be an intelligent and lively boy, and was old enough for Granger to actually build a relationship with him. Granger had bonded with the boy, and saying goodbye to him had been wrenching. And now he was faced with the toughest parting of all: bidding farewell to Caroline.

“You will always be with me, in my thoughts, and in my heart,” Granger said. He pulled her in and embraced her, and allowed himself to shed a few tears, a remarkable departure from his normal taciturn behavior.

“And you will be in mine,” she vowed. Granger smiled weakly, and gave her a final kiss. He left their room hastily, pausing in the hallway to wipe the tears from his eyes and to put his visage back to normal. Then he went down stairs hastily, but not so quickly as to be crass. He said nothing to Winkler, who was waiting for him, and who followed him silently as they went down the next set of stairs, past the baths, then out to the lower basin. Granger walked deliberately now, since they would be watching him from the ship, as he strode confidently toward the dock. He looked out at Spithead and cringed at all the shipping there. The Channel Fleet had returned to port a few days ago, and they were busy re-victualing, so not only would Granger have to avoid the warships, he’d have to dodge lighters and the fleet auxiliary vessels as well.

“Good morning, my lord,” Jacobs said. Granger said nothing, but merely nodded. Winkler got into the boat first, as was proper, and then Granger climbed into his gig and took his seat aft.

“Cast off,” he ordered.

“Aye aye, my lord,” Jacobs said. The lines holding the gig next to the dock were cast off, and the gig’s crew began to row the boat out to Valiant. Granger watched the men with professional interest, noting how nicely turned out they were, and how well they worked in unison. Jacobs was a good coxswain, and adept at handling small craft.

“Boat ahoy!” came the shout from Valiant. They knew quite well who was aboard, but it was a requirement that a boat nearing the ship be hailed, and Weston wasn’t about to allow for any slackness.

“Valiant!” Jacobs replied. Granger heard all of this, but his eyes were focused on his ship.

“Pull around her,” he ordered.

“Aye aye, my lord,” Jacobs said. Granger noted the trim of the vessel, his professional eye making sure that her bow and stern were level. He noted her outward appearance, and how she glistened from all the gold leaf he’d applied to her. His eyes went up to her rigging, where new lines and shrouds supported the masts, and held the yards in place. She was showing part of her fore topsail, using the pressure on it from the wind to keep her stable and to reduce the strain on her anchor. The canvas was new, and white as a result.

Jacobs guided the boat up along her lee side and hooked onto the main chains. The sea was tranquil such that there were almost no waves, so it took little effort for Granger to grab onto the chains and climb aboard. His arrival was greeted by the twittering of pipes, as the bosun’s mates and sideboys heralded his arrival. “Welcome back, my lord,” Weston said, as if Granger had been gone for a long time, and not been on board just yesterday.

“Thank you, Mr. Weston. Please have my gig brought aboard, and I’ll have the anchor hove short,” Granger ordered.

“Aye aye, my lord.” And thus Valiant began her first voyage as a frigate. Granger had been rigidly formal up to this point, but the thrill of actually going to sea again, and in his own ship, was too much for him to maintain that façade. His good mood began to show through.

“Major, I would be obliged if the band would play to help give our lads some rhythm,” Granger said to Treadway.

“Of course, my lord,” he said.

“Mr. Kingsdale, you will be busy today,” Granger said. He would have to dip the flag to each ship as they passed. “Make sure you salute each ship.”

“Aye aye, my lord.” He watched as all of these things came together. The clanking of the capstan as Valiant was pulled up even with her anchor, soon to be drowned out as the band began to play. The men heaving on the lines to raise his gig up and secure it to its davits. And Kingsdale, standing diligently at the taffrail, ready to salute the other ships.

“Topsails, Mr. Weston,” Granger ordered.

“Aye aye, my lord,” he acknowledged. Now the topmen surged up the masts and onto the yards, loosening the gaskets and releasing the topsails. Granger could feel Valiant straining against her anchor, the force from the sails pushing her ahead. And then, as if released from a cage, she was free.

“Anchor’s aweigh, my lord!” Eastwyck called.

“Set a course to weather Foreland,” Granger ordered.

“Aye aye, my lord,” Weston said.

Granger stood by the rail, watching as Valiant slowly maneuvered past the ships of the Channel Fleet. He doffed his hat to Pellew as they sailed past the Impetueux and to Lord Bridport and his staff as they slowly moved by the Royal Sovereign. Valiant was attracting the attention of the ships at anchor, not merely because she was sailing, but because of the sounds emanating from her. She had a bigger band than most ships afloat, and was all but performing a concert as she went to sea.

Granger was keeping Valiant’s speed down, going quite slowly, since there was much traffic to dodge, and he was unfamiliar with how his ship handled. The wind today was from the west, perfect weather for them to leave Spithead. It would be less perfect once they reached the Channel.

“She appears to handle well, my lord,” Weston said.

“We are under light sail, Mr. Weston,” Granger said. “When we pass Foreland, then we will see how she performs.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said, slightly abashed at not having Granger agree with him.

They were finally beyond the ships of the fleet, and but for a few small boats, the sea ahead was clear. “I’ll have the courses on her, Mr. Weston,” Granger said.

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said. Men climbed up to the yards to release Valiant’s largest sails, those closest to the deck. Granger watched with approval as the sails were released and trimmed, with the afterguard hauling on the braces. He was fortunate in that he had been able to acquire experienced seamen for his crew. Most ships left port with a ramshackle assortment of men who had been pressed, and had little knowledge of the sea.

“Major, you may dismiss the band,” Granger said. “They played well today.”

“Thank you, my lord. I will pass your compliments on to them,” he said. The music stopped shortly after that. Granger heard Treadway, but didn’t really pay attention to him. He was too focused on how Valiant handled.

“Let’s get the topgallants on her,” he said to Weston. The winds were light enough for that not to be a problem, and they were just passing by St. Helens, so they were almost free of Portsmouth and Spithead.

Weston acknowledged his order, and shortly the topgallants were released and trimmed. Valiant picked up more speed, while Granger carefully gauged her movements.

“A cast of the log,” he ordered. The equipment was brought up and the log was thrown, to calculate her speed.

“Nigh on nine knots, my lord,” Meurice said, after calculating their speed.

Granger nodded. With the royals, and studding sails, he could milk some more speed from her, but it was quite clear to him that she was nowhere near as fast as Belvidera and Bacchante. He decided she would probably be as fast as Santa Clarita after her refit, and that inevitably made him think of Calvert, and the various emotions that Calvert evoked in him.

“Wear ship,” Granger ordered. “Lay her on the larboard tack.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” Weston said. Now clear of Foreland, Valiant changed her course to west-southwest, and that put her into the wind. Granger worked with Weston, Meurice, and Hornblower to adjust her sails, to get the best from her as she worked her way windward. She performed well enough, but it wasn’t impressive.

The seas had been calm at Spithead, and even as they rounded Foreland, it was like sailing on glass, so smooth were they. That was unusual, and it would change once they bore into the Channel. Treadway had a squad of marines assembled on the poop deck, drilling them, while Hornblower stood at the taffrail, studying the rigging.

Granger felt Valiant’s bow rise as they hit their first wave in the Channel. It was small, and he would call these smooth seas. “You there,” Granger heard Treadway shout. “Dress those ranks!”

Granger turned to watch as a few of the marines swayed on their feet. The poor men were green from seasickness. He watched them fight the symptoms of that ailment, trying not to vomit, and not to stumble out of place. “Major, I would be obliged if you would dismiss your men,” Granger said humanely.

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said. The poor men who were seasick were almost in a panic, waiting for the sergeant to dismiss them. When he did, half of them all but ran to the side and vomited into the scuppers.

“Poor buggers,” he heard Meurice say sympathetically.

Granger turned back to the quarterdeck and saw Hornblower’s face, and was surprised to note that he was as green as the seasick marines. “Permission to go below, my lord,” he stammered.

“Of course, Mr. Hornblower,” Granger said. The poor man almost dashed from the deck and down the ladder, presumably to head to his own cabin where he could wretch in peace. For the sailors, the plight of the seasick marines brought forth sympathy. For the seasick lieutenant, it conjured up amusement.

“Interesting career choice, to be an officer in the Navy when you get seasick, my lord,” Weston noted, with his usual jovial demeanor.

“We are all flawed creatures, Mr. Weston,” Granger said evenly, unwilling to see Hornblower denigrated for such a malady. He turned to look at Treadway, and saw he was not doing much better. The major strode off the deck in a brisk manner, completely at odds with his normal demeanor, as he too headed below to tackle his seasickness.

July, 1799

Gulf of Cadiz

“Sail ho!” came the cry from the foretop, announcing they’d sighted a sail, something quite expected as they sailed through these waters inhabited by the British Mediterranean Fleet. Granger stood on the deck, saying nothing, waiting for additional information.

“Deck there,” cried the lookout at the maintop. “There’s a fleet off the starboard bow. I make fifteen sail of the line.”

“It is time for some exercise,” Granger said to Weston with a smile. He grabbed his glass and climbed up the shrouds to the maintop. It was most likely the contingent of the British Mediterranean Fleet, left to blockade Cadiz, but the French fleet in Brest had sailed, so it was possible these were enemy vessels.

“Over there, my lord,” the lookout pointed. Granger scanned the ships and smiled as he recognized these familiar veterans. This was no enemy fleet. Closing to investigate was the Phaeton, one of the frigates attached to the fleet.

“Mr. Weston, alter course two points to starboard,” Granger called. As soon as Weston acknowledged, Granger grabbed a backstay and skillfully slid back to the deck.

“The frigate’s showing her number, my lord,” Kingsdale said. “Phaeton, 38, Captain Morris.”

“Show our number, Mr. Kingsdale,” Granger said. He waited until they’d hoisted Valiant’s unique number, although that alone should cause some surprise, since the last time any of these sailors had seen Valiant, she was a 64-gun battleship, rotting at her moorings. “Make Valiant to Flag: Have dispatches.”

“Phaeton has acknowledged and is relaying the signal, my lord,” Kingsdale said.

“I suspect I will need my gig shortly, Mr. Weston,” Granger said. “I will be in my cabin.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” Weston said.

Granger strode back to his cabin, marveling at how convenient it was to have it just off the quarterdeck. There were no ladders to climb, and no passageways to navigate.

“Your best uniform, my lord,” Winkler said, having already anticipated his wishes. “Here’s a better shirt. And we’ll need to put on your good stockings.”

Granger surrendered to Winkler’s ministrations, and in a quarter of an hour, he re-emerged from his quarters looking as if he was going to Carlton House. “Signal from flag, my lord,” Kingsdale said. “Our number. Captain to repair on board.”

“Acknowledge,” Granger said. He guided Valiant toward a spot just slightly ahead of Queen Charlotte. “Mr. Weston, let’s get down to topsails.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said. Whistles blew, and men scurried up into the rigging to take in the courses and the topgallants. Granger watched them execute this simple evolution flawlessly, as it should be when one was under the scrutiny of at least two admirals. Granger felt Valiant slow, almost as if someone had put the brakes on. Closer and closer they got to Queen Charlotte, with Granger mentally gauging the speed of that huge battleship, the direction and strength of the wind, and Valiant’s own velocity.

“Wear ship,” he ordered. “Man the braces!” The wheel went over, and Valiant turned, coming nicely alongside the flagship, with half a cable separating them. “Trim the braces!”

“Aye aye, my lord,” Weston said, and attended to that. Granger took a few minutes to make sure that Valiant was matching Queen Charlotte’s course and speed.

“You have the ship, Mr. Weston,” Granger said. He took his dispatch bag from Winkler and descended into the gig. There were already large bags in the floor of his boat, containing mail that had been sent out for the fleet. Granger nodded at Jacobs, who cast off and guided the gig over to the massive ship of the line.

“Good weather today, my lord,” Jacobs observed.

“We have been lucky on this entire voyage,” Granger said. The weather had been gorgeous, with moderate winds and relatively smooth seas. The voyage this far had been more like a yachting expedition.

Granger took a moment to study the Queen Charlotte. She was a first-rate, one of the biggest ships afloat, carrying 100 guns. Granger thought it was rather sweet that her sister ship was the Royal George, both named after the King and Queen. She was less than ten years old, and had been Howe’s flagship at the Glorious First of June. Lord Keith must have transferred into her from his prior flagship, the Barfleur. Barfleur was one of those cranky 98-gun ships of the line, ships that handled about as well as a cork.

“Boat ahoy!” came the cry from the flagship.

“Valiant!” Jacobs shouted back. They hooked onto the main chains, and Granger climbed easily up the side.

He was greeted by Lord Keith’s flag captain, Andrew Todd. “Welcome, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Granger said affably.

Lord Keith (all dressed up)

“His Lordship will be waiting for you, my lord,” he said, leading Granger aft. Granger entered the great cabin, noting that it was well appointed, as one would expect from a senior admiral commanding a fleet.

“Welcome, Granger,” Keith said. His manner was not overly friendly, but it was not hostile either. He had not really interacted with Keith since the siege of Toulon, some six years ago. That was before he was a peer, and was known as Sir George Elphinstone.

“Thank you, sir,” Granger said. “I brought dispatches with me, along with mail for the fleet.”

“Let us hope that makes you popular,” Keith said, giving him a brief smile. “Are you joining the fleet?”

“Not yet, at least, begging your pardon, sir,” Granger said respectfully. “I’ve been sent out to retrieve Lord St. Vincent.”

Keith nodded. “I received notice that he resigned his command last month, but I have not seen him yet. He was to take passage aboard the Argo.”

“Do you know where he last was, sir?” Granger asked.

“He was in Minorca, but it was my understanding he was on his way to Gibraltar, so I should look for him there first.”

“Thank you, sir,” Granger said.

“So they cut the Valiant down,” he mused. “How does she handle?”

“She’s an easy ship, sir, but not as fast and agile as a standard frigate. I should think she is comparable in speed to one of our 32s that were built in the last war.” Those ships were shorter and bulkier than the newer frigates, and were slower as a result. “She isn’t as nimble as they are though.”

“That would stand to reason, since she has the scantlings of a battleship,” Keith noted. That had made her heavier, and it showed in how Valiant handled. “Has she shown any of the problems with stability Anson had?”

“No sir, but then again, we were fortunate with the weather,” Granger said. “We encountered nothing more than a brisk breeze on our voyage from Portsmouth.”

“Evidently luck is still with you,” he said, with that same fleeting grin. “If you end up back here, we should be happy to have you.”

Granger smiled at what was fulsome praise from Keith. “Thank you, sir. If I am lucky, this is where I will be sent. I feel as if the Mediterranean Fleet is my home.”

“Especially since, after the Nile, we are actually back in the Mediterranean,” Keith said.

“That is a good thing, sir,” Granger agreed.

“If memory serves, you were acquainted with Major Jardines, although I don’t recall if you were friends or not.” That last phrase was an interesting commentary on how Jardines had managed to alienate a good number of people before he left England.

“I have that honor, sir,” Granger said. “He was my guide when I traveled through Egypt.”

“I don’t envy you that experience,” Keith said.

“It is not something I would like to relive, sir,” Granger said, smiling ruefully.

“I received some dispatches from Sir Sidney Smith. It seems that Major Jardines was wounded during the siege of Acre.”

Granger manfully restrained the emotions that coursed through his body, the predominant one being concern. He was not surprised that Jardines was at Acre, since he had been headed in that general direction the last time Granger had seen him, immediately after the Battle of the Nile. And it was no surprise that Jardines was assisting Smith. They would be kindred spirits, both of them being adventurers. “Do you know if he was wounded badly, sir?”

“That is all I know, Granger. I felt quite privileged to receive that much information from Smith. He rarely deigns to communicate with me,” Keith said gruffly. Another admiral who was annoyed with Smith’s independent command in the Levant, and with his unconventional nature.

“I will hope that he has recovered, sir. Thank you for sharing that news with me.”

“Perhaps you will humor me and keep my flag lieutenant company for a bit?” Keith asked. “I would like to pen a quick note to St. Vincent.”

“Of course, sir,” Granger said.

“Pass the word for Cochrane!” Keith said loudly. Granger heard the marine outside his cabin repeat the order. In a very short period of time, a handsome young man entered the cabin. He had dark hair, and his whole being seemed to ooze energy, as if he were an untamed stallion. “Granger, this is Thomas Cochrane.”

“A pleasure to meet you, my lord,” Cochrane said, his eyes twinkling as he did.

“As it is for me, Mr. Cochrane.”

“Keep Granger company while I write to St. Vincent,” Keith said to Cochrane in his clipped way.

“Aye aye, my lord,” Cochrane said, then turned to address Granger. “If you will follow me, my lord?”

“I am at your service, Mr. Cochrane,” Granger said. Cochrane led him up to the quarterdeck. The lieutenant of the watch yielded the lee side to them, and they began to pace up and down. Granger enjoyed the massive quarterdeck on Queen Charlotte, with ample room to walk.

“I am glad to have an opportunity to meet you, my lord,” Cochrane said.

“I hope you will still feel that way when I have gone,” Granger said, turning on his charm.

Cochrane smiled, which made him quite compelling. “Ah, and that would be your legendary charm, my lord. My brother told me all about it.”

“Your brother?” Granger asked.

“Angus Cochrane,” he said.

Granger smiled, remembering that man, whom he’d met in Rio de Janeiro. This lieutenant had darker coloring than his brother, who had dark red hair that had a bit more brown in it than red. But now that he studied Cochrane, he could see their family similarities. Cochrane had the same basic facial features, with a nose that was rather large for his face, but also thin, giving him the appearance of a hawk. Just like his brother, Cochrane’s eyes were close together, and just like his brother, he was quite attractive. “It was a pleasure to work with him in Brazil. He impressed me with his intelligence, and conducted himself honorably.”

“With your permission, my lord, I will pass those comments on to him,” Cochrane said.

“Of course,” Granger said. “And what is he doing these days?”

“He has been occupied at the Foreign Ministry, my lord. I believe he is dealing with issues with Scandinavia, but that could have changed by now.”

“Please send him my warmest regards when next you write to him,” Granger said. For some reason, he was suddenly reminded of Hornblower, and his mission to deliver him to his ship. “I am carrying an officer who is transferring to Marguerite. Do you know where she is?”

“She was detached with dispatches to Minorca and Gibraltar, my lord. I would recommend that you seek her out in Gibraltar. If Marguerite is not there when you arrive, she should call there shortly.”

“Thank you,” Granger said.

Granger and Cochrane paced and chatted about the fleet in general, with the young lieutenant giving Granger a nice overview of the politics involved in a short period of time. Granger was surprised to see Keith himself come up on the deck, carrying a sealed envelope. “Here is my letter for St. Vincent,” he said.

“I will deliver it, assuming I can find him, sir,” Granger said with a grin.

Keith merely looked at him. “I won’t delay you further. If St. Vincent should pass this way, I will divert him to Gibraltar.”

“If I cannot find him, sir, my orders are to return to England.”

“If you should intercept us on your return voyage, we will give you dispatches then,” Keith said. “If you cannot find us, it is no matter.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Granger said.

They had left the Mediterranean Fleet behind three days ago, and had pressed on to Gibraltar in the face of winds that were almost foul. That had been preferable to yesterday, when there had been no wind at all. Valiant had lain becalmed, wallowing in the sea, and that had changed her motion enough to give poor Hornblower another bout of seasickness.

Valiant beat her way toward the Gut, passing by Cadiz, the port which the fleet was blockading. “Sail ho!” called the lookout. Here, near where the Atlantic and Mediterranean met, sighting a sail was not unusual, but it was still interesting.

“My lord,” called the lookout. “She looks to be a brig. Permission to come down and report.” That was rare, and meant that the lookout had sighting something unique that was difficult to explain by yelling from the masthead.

“Come on down!” Granger called, to confirm his request. A nod to Weston was all that was required to have a replacement lookout sent aloft. The man slid to the deck as agilely as Granger did, and landed in front of his captain. “Well, what is it Barnhart?”

“My lord, she’s a brig, looks to be a packet, but she’s flying British colors over Spanish.”

“That is not so unusual,” Granger said with a smile. “We capture a goodly number of Dons.”

“No, my lord, but she’s also flying an admiral’s flag.” Granger said nothing, and hid his surprise, but surprised he was. What would a captured Don brig be doing flying an admiral’s flag?

“Mr. Weston, clear for action,” Granger said. “Helm, a point to larboard.” That was as close to the wind as Valiant would go. If the brig did not want Valiant to catch her, she would not. “Mr. Kingsdale, raise our colors.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said, and sent Valiant’s jack up the main mast, so it could clearly be seen.

Clearing for action was unnecessary, since the brig could not possibly harm them. Even if she were full of men, they could disable her before she could close with them. But Valiant had a new crew, and while they were experienced men, they weren’t necessarily experienced working together. Gun drill had been remarkably bad when they’d left Portsmouth, but daily toiling at the guns had done much to correct that. Clearing for action would be good practice for the men.

The brig closed with them confidently, showing no signs of deception. “My lord,” Kingsdale said, unable to hide his surprise. “The brig is signaling. Flag to Valiant. Captain to repair on board.”

“What kind of admiral chooses a brig for his flagship?” Weston asked Clifton sarcastically.

“Hand me that glass!” Granger snapped, realizing just what kind of admiral would do that. He focused on the brig’s quarterdeck and saw a lieutenant who seemed to be in command, but he was talking to a captain. Granger studied the captain more carefully, and saw that it was Grey, St. Vincent’s flag-captain. “Call away my gig,” Granger said.

“Aye aye, my lord.”

“Winkler, I’ll need my best uniform,” Granger called. Winkler nodded, but looked exasperated, since all of his things had been carried below when they’d cleared for action.

“You may return the ship to her normal state, Mr. Weston,” Granger said.

“Of course, my lord,” Weston said, and transmitted those orders on. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but who is on that brig?”

“As Captain Grey is on the quarterdeck, I would assume that Lord St. Vincent is aboard.”

“On a brig, my lord?” Weston asked.

“We will find out soon enough,” Granger snapped, bringing Weston back to his duty. “While I am gone, make arrangements to bring him aboard.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” Weston said.

“My lord, we’ve managed to find your uniform,” Winkler called from his cabin, which they were frantically trying to restore.

“I am fairly certain that Lord St. Vincent is on that brig. You should prepare for his transfer,” Granger said. Winkler looked at Granger, then around at the dismantled cabin, and then looked back at Granger.

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said, the only real answer.

“I will attempt to slow his transfer a bit, just for you,” Granger teased, as he put on his cravat. “You may give him my cabin, but modify my chartroom as a sleeping cabin for me.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” Winkler said.

Granger walked out onto the quarterdeck to find that Weston had conned Valiant quite close to the brig, and had hove to. “Your gig is alongside, my lord.”

“Well done, Mr. Weston,” Granger said, and then descended into his gig. He paused to admire his nicely turned out oarsmen, wearing tunics of Bridgemont blue, with the rest of their clothing done in Lammert yellow, Granger’s family colors. The boat was painted in a similar fashion, with the hull and thwarts in blue, while the insides were in yellow. The oars were blue as well, while their blades were yellow. The whole thing was quite tasteful, Granger grudgingly admitted.

They pulled up to the brig and hooked on. After climbing the sides of Queen Charlotte and Valiant, boarding the brig was easy. “Welcome aboard, my lord,” Grey said. He gave Granger a genuine smile, one that was quite heartening.

“It is good to see you, sir, but you will pardon me for noting that you have chosen smaller accommodations than when we last met,” Granger joked, getting a chuckle from Grey.

“We were on Argo when we captured this brig. She is the Infanta Amelia. His Lordship released Argo and opted to return to England in her,” Grey explained. “Let me take you to see him.”

Grey led him below to the small cabin once occupied by the ship’s master. He went in and found St. Vincent lying in his cot, staring at the deckhead. Granger approached him and sat next to the cot. “What are you doing out here, Granger?”

“I’ve come to fetch you, sir,” Granger said.

“I’m quite fine here,” St. Vincent growled. Granger noted that even though he was weak, his voice was still gruff and loud.

“Sir, we can accommodate you much better than this,” Granger objected.

“Have you forgotten how to obey orders?” St. Vincent snapped.

“No, sir, and that is exactly what I am trying to do. Lord Spencer sent me out here to bring you back. I do believe the First Lord outranks you, sir.” St. Vincent scowled at him. “His salute has more guns than yours, sir.”

He saw St. Vincent forcing back a smile. “You’re still an impertinent sod.”

“Yes, sir,” Granger agreed.

“Very well,” St. Vincent agreed. “I’ll have to leave my flag lieutenant behind. He’s in command here.”

Granger’s mind worked quickly, devising a solution to that. “Sir, I am conveying a lieutenant to Gibraltar. Mr. Hornblower is joining the Marguerite there. You could give him command of the Infanta Amelia, and he could take her to Gibraltar.”

St. Vincent nodded. “I’ll leave it to you to arrange that with Captain Grey.”

“Aye aye sir,” Granger said. “We’ll want to move you as soon as we can, while we have calm seas.”

“Coordinate it with Dr. Baird,” St. Vincent said. Baird was St. Vincent’s physician, a man who sometimes found himself in conflict with the Admiralty because of his outspoken viewpoints on naval medicine. But with St. Vincent to protect him, he had little to fear.

“I will attend to that directly, sir,” Granger said. He left the cabin and found Baird and Grey waiting for him.

“Doctor, I have orders to take His Lordship back to England aboard Valiant, and he has agreed,” Granger said smoothly. “I would appreciate your guidance and assistance on transferring him.”

Baird had given Granger a rather foul look at first, but then seemed to relent since Granger was basically giving him free reign to effect the transfer. He was a man who would not easily be marginalized. “If you would have your largest boat sent over, my lord, we will hoist him into that, and then hoist him into Valiant.”

Granger nodded, and picked up a speaking trumpet to summon the launch. “The boat will arrive here shortly,” Granger told him. He then turned to Grey. “I am conveying a lieutenant to Gibraltar, sir. His Lordship has agreed that he will take command of this vessel, so your lieutenant may return with us.”

“If that is how His Lordship wishes things to be arranged, we will certainly obey orders,” he said somewhat gruffly. The flag lieutenant had probably hoped that his command of this ship would lead to promotion.

“I’m sure that His Lordship will see that your lieutenant is amply rewarded for his services when we reach England, sir,” Granger offered.

“I’m sure he will, my lord,” Grey said.

“I was planning to return to Valiant to prepare for your arrival, sir. Could I impose upon you to supervise things on this end?” Granger asked delicately.

“Certainly, my lord,” Grey agreed.

Granger took his leave of them and headed back to Valiant, noting that Eastwyck was in command of the launch. He intercepted that boat midway between Valiant and the brig and gave him a brief description of what would happen, and then let the launch continue onto the captured Spanish ship.

He boarded Valiant and brushed aside Weston’s pleasantries. “Lord St. Vincent will be transferring over here shortly. You’ll need to rig a hoist to bring him aboard.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” Weston said, and began to tackle that problem.

“Mr. Hornblower!”

“My lord?”

“It appears we are to lose your services,” Granger said. “You are to take command of the Infanta Amelia and convey her to Gibraltar, where you can meet up with your own ship.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” Hornblower said stiffly. “And thank you, my lord, for all you did for me.” Granger watched as the shy young man unbent enough to say that last sentence.

“I should be thanking you, Mr. Hornblower, for your assistance. We will miss having you with us,” Granger said. He shook Hornblower’s hand. “Good luck.”

Within a few hours, they had gained St. Vincent and his entourage, and lost Hornblower. Valiant turned around and headed back to England.