Northern Exposure - 59. Chapter 59

May 22, 1801

The Baltic Sea

“Ship ahoy!” came a shout from the frigate.

Granger nodded to Jacobs, who cupped his hands into the shape of a speaking trumpet and shouted back “Calliope!” Granger could see the chaos on board as the ship prepared to receive her new lord and master and could sense the tension it had caused. It was a good guess, based on Nelson’s somewhat impulsive decision to appoint him, that the officers and men aboard Calliope had no idea they were to get a new captain.

“Row around her,” he ordered the coxswain, then ignored his acknowledgment and focused on the frigate. She was a beautiful ship, barely three years old, and had been built in Toulon. Using just a telescope he had been unable to discern whether Calliope was a Sane-designed frigate like the Aurore and Cleopatre, or a Forfait-designed frigate like Belvidera. Now that he was close to her, he was almost certain she had been crafted by Forfait or one of his followers. Her lines were just a bit finer than Sane would design, and that made her appear faster and sleeker. To be sure of his conclusion, he would have to visit the hold, but he knew he was right and that was just a formality. She was trimmed forward, just as most British frigates would be, but with a ship such as this, that was a major mistake. That would explain much of her unhandiness and was thankfully easy to correct.

He mentally compared her to Belvidera, the ship he’d first been posted into. Calliope was rated for 36 guns, while Belvidera had 32; those extra guns and the need for two more gunports on each side made her longer than Belvidera. Based on the current theory that longer frigates were faster, Calliope probably showed a good turn of speed. But for that extra length, Calliope would have almost looked identical to his former ship, but on closer inspection, he noted that her scantlings weren’t as robust as Belvidera’s. Belvidera had been designed to standards that were almost British in their robust construction, ostensibly for overseas use, while Calliope appeared to have standard French bones which would make her weaker. Granger shrugged off that concern, since the ship was new and he most likely would not be in command of her for long, and that meant things like sagging knees and hogging wouldn’t be issues of concern for him.

“Your new ship is quite pretty,” Daventry said. Granger had only been looking at her overall skeleton and not how well adorned she was. Daventry’s comment focused Granger’s attention on her appearance and he noted that Smythe had fitted her out well, with ample gold leaf adornments and well-painted sides. Smythe was an older captain who had been successful with prize money during the American War, which would explain why he was able to afford such nice finishes. He was surprised the Admiralty had appointed Smythe to a frigate, as they were usually the domain for younger captains.

“Indeed, she is,” Granger said, mentally noting that there was little to do to improve her outward appearance. The boat hooked on to her chains, and Granger stood in the boat, adjusted his sword, and leaped gracefully onto her chains. He scrambled up her side with ease, pausing just before he made his final ascent to ensure his uniform was in order.

The twittering whistles and the sideboys were there to greet him as prescribed, while beyond them stood a much older man surrounded by his officers. The only one of these men Granger recognized was Haversham, who did not look happy to find his relative taking command. The other officers stared at him with awe, which Granger found simultaneously annoying and flattering. “Welcome, my lord,” Smythe said gallantly.

“Thank you, sir,” Granger said respectfully. “I fear I have come to relieve you.”

“That is a bit of a surprise, my lord,” Smythe said with no small amount of annoyance. “When I asked to be relieved, I asked that I be allowed to return with Calliope to England.” Granger almost laughed out loud at that. Serving in the Baltic would not be a very attractive station, especially after the Battle of Copenhagen had significantly reduced the chance for action and prizes. Smythe was probably angling to have Calliope sent to the Channel or Mediterranean Fleet, but his scheme had backfired, and now he was to be without a command. One was hopeful he was on good terms with St. Vincent and the other Lords of the Admiralty, or he may end up on the beach for an extended period of time.

“That is most unfortunate, sir,” Granger said in a consoling manner. It made no difference, in any event. Orders were orders.

“Quite so, my lord,” he said, but not in a nasty way. “Mr. Haversham, assemble the men.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Haversham said, and started a chain of orders that roused the crew up into the waist. Granger was pleasantly surprised to see that they were well turned out and appeared to be healthy.

Granger read out his orders to the ship and crew and sensed that their mood had significantly improved with his presence. That was, at least, a positive aspect of his good reputation. “You may dismiss the men,” he said to Haversham.

“Aye aye, my lord,” he replied. Granger introduced Daventry to Smythe, and he in turn introduced them to Calliope’s officers.

“You of course know Mr. Haversham, my lord,” Smythe said.

“Please allow me to offer my condolences to you on the loss of Lord Heathford, my lord,” Haversham said. His comment was cold and unfeeling, not unlike Lord Heathford had been, so it seemed humorously fitting.

“Thank you,” Granger said. “His absence will be felt by many.” That was about as positive as Granger could be in reference to his dead father-in-law.

“The Honorable James Douglas,” said the next man. He was probably in his late twenties, with reddish blond hair and the looks of a Scotsman. “I’m the second, my lord.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Douglas,” Granger said, trying to remember who this man was and why his name sounded familiar.

“If I am not mistaken, you are the son of Baron Douglas,” Daventry asked.

“That is correct, my lord,” Douglas said, smiling slightly. Daventry had prompted Granger’s memory. Baron Douglas had caused a huge ruckus some 40 years ago by fighting the Duke of Hamilton over his inheritance. It was a case that had made its way to the House of Lords and was the cause celebre of its time.

“I’m John Eaton, my lord,” the next man said. “I’m the third lieutenant.” He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, and looked rather plain, with mousy brown hair with matching brown eyes.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Eaton,” Granger said. “And from where do you hail?” He had the distinctive accent of a southerner.

“From Devon, my lord,” Eaton said.

“Excellent,” Granger said. “I have orders for you, Captain, and for Mr. Haversham as well. Perhaps you would prefer to read them in my cabin?” Smythe blanched at that a bit, since it would be hard for him to grapple with the fact that it was no longer his cabin, but Granger had phrased it in the only acceptable way.

“Quite right, my lord,” he said, and led them aft. The sentry snapped to attention as they passed him and went into the frigate’s great cabin. Granger had been expecting it to be nice but was surprised at the opulence Smythe had concocted. It was very well appointed, and other than the décor being dated and overtly feminine, it was infinitely better than Granger could have hoped for. Granger handed each their sealed envelopes, and while they read, he let his eyes take in the details of his new cabin. The covers over the guns in the cabin seemed strangely small to Granger, but he would investigate that later.

“Sir, my lord, I have been transferred to the Bellona,” Haversham said with dismay.

“You have served with Captain Thompson before, have you not?” Smythe asked.

“I have, sir,” Haversham said, hiding his original dismay. Being first lieutenant of a frigate was infinitely preferable to being one of many lieutenants on a 74-gun ship-of-the-line attached to a fleet.

“My understanding was that Captain Thompson specifically requested you,” Granger said, which was a complete fabrication, but hopefully it would help.

“That is good of you to say, my lord,” Haversham said. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I had best go pack my things.”

“God speed, Haversham,” Smythe said casually, and then waited until Haversham left before reading his own letter.

“My lord, as it seems I am to be taken aboard the flagship and then transferred on to the next ship bound to England, it makes little sense for me to move all these furnishings and accouterments. I would rather leave them for Your Lordship’s use, along with your lordship’s promise to return them to England in the condition in which they currently are,” Smythe said.

“That is a very generous gesture, sir, and I thank you for it. If anything is damaged, I will see that it is repaired or replaced,” Granger promised.

“Excellent, my lord,” Smythe said. “I must take a few of the pictures with me. Especially that one.” He gestured at a painting of a very attractive woman.

“Sir, begging your pardon, but who is that lady?” Granger asked.

“That is Cecilia, my wife,” he said. “I’m sure you can imagine how popular I would be at home, my lord, were I to forget to take that with me.”

“As a married man, sir, I can well understand those sensibilities,” Granger said, laughing with Smythe. Smythe paused to summon his steward and to give instructions for packing his things, then compiled a list of his stores and named a price which Granger thought was quite fair. He paid the man for the stores, then escorted the captain out onto the quarterdeck. “Best of luck, sir,” Granger said, and shook his hand.

“And to you, my lord,” Smythe said. He seemed teary-eyed, a feeling Granger understood all too well, but in the end, it was a relief to see him over the side, accompanied by the bosun’s mates’ twittering whistles.

“Much better than the last ship we was transferred into, my lord,” Winkler said, referring to Renown.

“Indeed,” Granger agreed. “I will leave it to you to configure my cabin for Lord Daventry and me.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” Winkler said, and went off to do that, and to supervise the loading and stowing of their personal items.

“And while you are settling into your new ship, I will have myself rowed over to the Blanche and begin conferring with St. Helens,” Daventry said.

“Perhaps you two would like to sup with me this evening?” Granger offered. He had no idea if his chef was up to generating a meal fit for them, but it was the best he could do.

“I will convey your invitation,” Daventry said. “If he will not make the journey, then I will sup with you when I return.”

“Enjoy yourself,” Granger said with a grin, then gave orders for his gig to be swung out. “Mr. Douglas!”

“My lord?” Douglas said, approaching him.

“I am told that we will have a replacement arriving for Mr. Haversham, but I am unsure as to whether he will be senior or junior to you,” Granger explained. “In the meantime, you will assume the duties of first lieutenant,”

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said, with a slight grin.

“I would like you to escort me around the ship, and acquaint me with her and the men,” Granger said. “We can then dine together with the other officers.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said again, as a good officer should.

Granger led him back to his cabin, for he was most curious about the strange gun covers he’d seen in there. “I wasn’t expecting you back quite so soon, my lord,” Winkler said a bit frantically. He was scurrying around trying to get Granger’s cabin in order.

“I’m merely here to inspect these strange gun covers,” Granger said. “I plan to entertain my officers to dinner. I will sup with Lord Daventry and possibly Lord St. Helens.”

“I’ll make sure the arrangements are made,” Winkler said, even as his mind grappled with all he’d have to do.

“Jacobs, can you remove this cover?” Granger asked, interrupting his muscled coxswain from moving other furniture about.

“Of course, my lord,” he said. He walked over and gently but firmly undid the gun cover and then pulled it off. Granger was stunned at what it revealed: A 68-pound carronade. He glanced over at the other side of the cabin, where presumably there was a similar gun.

“Where is the 18-pounder that should be here?” Granger asked Douglas.

“It is stored below, my lord,” Douglas said uncomfortably. “The master had recommended that by replacing the 18-pounders with these carronades, we could correct the trim of the ship, give her more firepower, and give Captain Smythe more space in his cabin.

“I’ll have them replaced with the 18-pounders at once,” Granger said, then stood there until Douglas jumped into action.

“I’ll attend to that at once, my lord,” he said and left the cabin.

“We’ll have to make new covers for the 18-pounders,” Granger told Jacobs, who acknowledged that as a directive. Granger was starting to understand this ship he had taken over. It seemed that Smythe had viewed it almost as a luxury yacht and had given preference to comfort and appearance over fighting ability. Granger digested that for a moment, then shrugged it off. That would change shortly.

A knock on his door heralded the arrival of one of his young gentlemen. Midshipman Preston Parker was all of 15 years old, and would have been handsome with his dark brown hair but for the acne that seemed to have invaded his face. He was one of the ubiquitous Parkers that one found in His Majesty’s navy. “Mr. Douglas’s respects, my lord, and there’s a boat from the flagship approaching.”

“Thank you, Mr. Parker, I shall come at once,” Granger said. He led the way out of his cabin and on to the quarterdeck just in time to see Fitzgerald climb through the entry port. It was interesting to note he was now wearing the uniform of a lieutenant. “Welcome back, Mr. Fitzgerald. I am assuming you bring me dispatches from the admiral?”

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but my orders are to join your ship,” Fitzgerald said, trying to hide his smile. He handed Granger a sealed packet that probably contained that notice along with an explanation from Nelson.

“I am glad you are here,” Granger said warmly. “Mr. Douglas, please see that Mr. Fitzgerald is accommodated in the wardroom. I believe he will be our third lieutenant.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said, and led Fitzgerald off.

“Signal from the flag, my lord,” said Colston, the senior midshipman, and by default the one who was charged with the signals. He had light brown hair, flashing dark eyes, and was very handsome. He was also connected in some way with the Colstons of Bristol, a merchant family that had made their wealth from the slave trade. “Course West.”

“Do not acknowledge, Mr. Colston,” Granger said, since Calliope had been detached from the fleet.

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said, then turned his attention. “The fleet has acknowledged.”

Granger watched as this disciplined force once again got underway, this time heading toward Karlskrona to make sure the Swedes caused no problems. Granger had gathered from the conversations at the dinner table that the Swedish fleet had avoided action, but Swedish privateers were more active than ever. Nonetheless, it would do no harm for King Gustaf to know that a large British fleet still dominated his shores. Granger was frustrated that no progress had seemingly been made on changing the guns in his cabin. “Mr. Eaton, did Mr. Douglas tell you that I wanted the carronades in my cabin exchanged back for the 18-pounders that were supposed to be there?”

“He did, my lord, and was consulting with the master about it before Mr. Fitzgerald came aboard,” Eaton said nervously.

“You will personally attend to that transfer at once, and I will expect a report from you on the progress every quarter of an hour,” Granger said, furious at not being obeyed at once. “Failure to achieve such an easy objective will earn you a mark of disfavor in my book.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” he replied, completely flummoxed, and began belting out orders to get that task done.

Winkler arrived after that. “When will you want dinner, my lord?”

Granger thought about that. At just that moment Douglas appeared, looking ashen, probably after speaking to Eaton. “Mr. Douglas, send the hands to dinner.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said, glad to be able to direct himself to something else and thus avoiding Granger’s ire.

“One hour,” Granger said to Winkler. “Mr. Fitzgerald, you can accompany me on my tour of the ship.”

“With pleasure, my lord,” he said. And so, as he’d done so many times before, he began to tour the ship. Douglas joined them after a bit, as did Carson, the Master, and Drummond, the carpenter. The bilges were foul, but not as foul as some ships, and viewing the lines of the hull, Granger confirmed his suspicion that the ship was designed by Forfait or one of his disciples.

They climbed up to the deck that housed the crew and found them in seemingly good spirits as they ate their prime meal for the day. The one thing that struck Granger was how many Irish accents he heard. “What portion of our crew is Irish?” Granger asked Douglas.

“Close to half, my lord,” he said in a way to imply that was a bad thing.

“They’re a good enough bunch, my lord,” Carson said, “but require a firm hand and a taste of the cat.”

“When I require your opinion on how to manage my crew, Mr. Carson, I will ask for it,” Granger snapped. He had put up with listening to this man ramble on about his expertise and ideas throughout this tour, and his self-importance revolted Granger.

“Of course, my lord,” Carson said abashed.

Granger left them and strode onto the deck, his presence causing an immediate reaction like a wave, as those closest to Granger stood up at attention in silence, while those next to them followed suit as soon as they realized why their shipmates had done the same thing. “At ease, men,” Granger said with a smile. “I just wanted to see what you were having for dinner.”

“A hard piece of meat and some weevilly biscuits, my lord,” said the nearest man with a smile.

“That sounds like the staple of His Majesty’s navy,” Granger said, getting a chuckle. “I heard there are a number of men from Ireland aboard?”

A red-headed man who looked like a leprechaun knuckled his hand to his forehead respectfully, even though he looked terrified. “Aye, my lord.”

“I’m assuming some of you can dance a good jig?” Granger asked.

“That we can, my lord,” the man said again, smiling.

“Well then, we’ll have a contest for the best jig, and a contest for the best hornpipe,” Granger announced. “A guinea each to the winners.” That got raucous cheers. When those died down, Granger continued. “We’ll have our contest on Sunday.”

“The sabbath, my lord?” Carson asked, as if Granger had blasphemed.

“The lord appreciates good cheer and celebration, Carson,” Granger said curtly. He continued to walk aft through the deck, pausing to talk to each mess. By the time he had arrived at the aft ladder, he was a long way toward being pleased with his crew. How they performed at gun drills and sail handling remained to be seen, but they at least had a good attitude.

Winkler was waiting to greet him at the top of the ladder. “My lord, dinner is ready.”

“Excellent,” he said. He headed to his cabin, pursued by Douglas.

“I am sorry about the guns, my lord,” he said, so anxious was he to atone for his error.

“Mr. Douglas, I expect my first lieutenant to execute my orders promptly. Consulting with others over them smacks of insubordination, something I will not tolerate,” Granger said firmly, with a hint of venom. “However, since you have just assumed that role, I will not hold it against you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” he said with relief. Granger adjusted his mood to be pleasant and welcomed his officers. He guided them to the vast dining table, which had been set with Captain Smythe’s good china and crystal and began to dine on a meal that was good but very conventional. Smythe evidently saw no need for flair. Granger drank little, but just observed them, attempting to identify their strengths and weaknesses. Granger’s third midshipman was Devon Anson, a handsome blond lad of 15 who was descended from the famous admiral of the same name. It seemed that with Parker and Anson, Smythe had chosen young gentlemen from good naval families, while with Colston he had most likely chosen one who was wealthy. The doctor had seemed drunk when he had arrived, and had only added to his inebriation since. Captain Pitcairn commanded the marines, and seemed to be a dry soldier, while the purser seemed surprisingly honest, although appearances could be misleading.

“My lord, I’m assuming that you’ll want to adjust the trim down by the bows, now that we’ve changed out the guns,” Carson said.

“I do plan to change the trim, but she will be two points up in the bows,” Granger said.

“My lord, the Admiralty recommends two points down in the bows,” Carson admonished.

“The Admiralty recommends, but does not mandate,” Granger corrected. “It recognizes that individual captains may change the trim to improve how the ship handles.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but the regulations leave the issue of trim and stowage of stores to the Master,” Carson said.

“Allow me to share a story with you all,” Granger said whimsically. “I once had a master who was particularly difficult, and thought that his warrant gave him the right to challenge me as to how I managed my ship. He forgot that the captain is the supreme authority aboard a ship at sea, and managed to make a nuisance of himself.”

“Is that when you sailed around the world, my lord?” Fitzgerald asked.

“It was,” Granger said. “I found him to be so argumentative and unpleasant that I had him spend his days in the masthead, and ultimately put him ashore on a Portuguese island and left him to find his own way home.”

“I was just trying to do my duty, my lord,” Carson said, his face showing both his anger and humiliation.

“You will do your duty by following my orders, and anything other than that will land you in hot water,” Granger said. “This ship was designed by Monsieur Forfait or one of his followers.”

“How do you know that, my lord?” Parker asked, his eyes wide. They got wider when he realized he’d actually asked the question.

“Because she is similar to the first frigate I commanded, the Belvidera,” Granger explained gently. “His ships are designed with a ‘V’ shape, such that the bottom of the hull is pointed rather than round. Handled correctly, they are fast and very maneuverable ships. Handled incorrectly, and they will balk in stays as Calliope does.”

“It will be most interesting to see how the ship sails under Your Lordship’s guidance,” Carson said, trying desperately not to sound bitter.

“I had a reasonable amount of success with Belvidera,” Granger said, getting laughter from these men who knew of his exploits. “Calliope is in good hands.”

“We have three hands for punishment this afternoon, my lord,” Douglas said, which was an unpleasant topic to bring up.

“I told one of those lads he was looking at two dozen,” Carson said, shaking his head.

“The only person who awards punishment aboard this ship is me,” Granger said firmly. “I am glad that you raised this issue, Mr. Douglas, as it gives me a chance to acquaint you with my methods. I view flogging as a last resort. I would rather give a miscreant some especially unpleasant duties to do.”

“You don’t believe in flogging, my lord?” Pitcairn asked, truly shocked.

“If necessary,” Granger said. “But I find that it usually makes good men bad and bad men worse. In addition, it reduces their usefulness until they have recovered.”

“My lord, what other punishments might you award?” Colston asked.

“A good question, Mr. Colston,” Granger said. “Some time on the pumps is usually a good discourager, as is cleaning out the bilges.”

“That would probably make a man think twice, my lord,” Fitzgerald noted sagely.

“When you gentlemen are contemplating punishing someone, I would also ask you to question your own methods of handling the crew,” Granger said. “Using the lash to drive men forward does not inspire loyalty or make a crew willing to fight to the death. There are other ways to lead men.”

“I, for one, am looking forward to learning from your lordship,” Fitzgerald said. The others nodded their agreement, some insincerely, but Granger would either acclimate them to his methods, or he would find other men to do their jobs.

“My lord, that picture is different,” Eaton said, gesturing at the wall where Smythe’s wife’s portrait had hung.

“Indeed, it is, Mr. Eaton,” Granger said. “I had that portrait painted during my stay in St. Petersburg. “The man seated in front is Count Alexei Stroganov, and next to him is his daughter in law. Standing behind him are his son Pavel, myself, and Lord Daventry.”

“It is quite well done, my lord,” the purser commented.

“Thank you, Mr. Creevy,” Granger said. “It was painted by Vladimir Borovikovsky, the most popular artist at His Imperial Majesty’s court. I think he did an especially good job, although it is a bit different than most English portraits.”

“Other than perhaps Mr. Reynolds, my lord, I think his work would stand up quite well against most English artists,” Eaton said, exposing himself as a latent art connoisseur. That prompted him to think along those lines, and to pose a different question.

“I am wondering if there is a schoolmaster aboard for the young gentlemen?” Granger asked.

“There is not, my lord,” Colston said nervously.

“Well then, I will impose upon Lord Daventry when he returns to spend some time with you and round out your knowledge of the classics,” Granger said, then laughed with the others at their horrified expressions.

“I am sure that will be most educational, my lord,” Anson finally stammered.

“I am quite sure it will,” Granger said, and chuckled some more.