The Gunroom - 1. Chapter 1

It had been a long wet pull to HMS Barracuda, one that had only exacerbated the feelings roiling through George Granger. First, there was the brief sadness over leaving his comfortable life in London or at Bridgemont, leaving the known behind. Then there was the apprehension over entering into this new life, into the unknown world of the navy. And of course there was fear, terror, not at the unknown, but at letting his biggest defect out, letting people know that he found other men sexually attractive. Granger had thought about that, about being cooped up in a tight space with a bunch of men. Of seeing them naked, of even touching one of them or of having one of them touch him. He'd thought about that a lot, and the same thing always happened: he ended up with a raging erection. He resolved to keep his predilection hidden, to think about his duty to King, Country, and his family. He resolved to control his urges, and to live a normal life, a life that would make his father proud.

He looked sideways at the lieutenant sent to fetch him, and felt his resolve starting to fade almost immediately. His superior was a devastatingly handsome man. He must be in his early to mid 20s, with black hair and a long handsome face that seemed to jut forward slightly. His nose had a slight bridge where it sloped between his eyes, a feature that was more Dutch than English. The smart blue uniform coat covered what appeared to be a muscular yet slim body, the whole appearance being set off by his bulging calves barely contained by his silk stockings. Granger avoided staring at the other bulge, the one that looked to be as pronounced as his legs.

All of these thoughts and urges were thankfully overridden by excitement as they drew nearer to the Barracuda. A thing of beauty, Barracuda was a frigate, barely a year old, a thoroughbred designed to roam the seas. Carrying thirty six guns, she could sink anything she could not out-run. In addition to her artillery, she crammed some 250 men into her 150 foot long hull. Her three masts towered over her, swaying dizzily in these seas. The main mast alone must be 200 feet tall. Granger put that thought aside. He'd learned that half the battle of avoiding seasickness was to avoid the thought of it.

The boat passed the bow of the frigate where the figurehead, a ferocious looking fish, tried quite successfully to intimidate any who saw it. It progressed carefully down the lee side to the main chains. The ship showed a marked amount of gold leaf and flourishes, an outward sign of her captain's wealth and success. Granger studied the lieutenant who had thankfully left him to his own thoughts, watching him carefully as he prepared to disembark the boat. Granger watched him time his leap, waiting for the boat to rise, and then jumping up and out, grabbing the chains and pulling himself up the side.

“You want a bosun's chair?” sneered the coxswain. Granger knew what that was; a chair lowered to the boat and hauled up with the passenger dangling in a most undignified manner, being deposited safely on the deck. He'd rather fall into the ocean and be crushed between the boat and the ship. He merely looked at the coxswain with disdain, timed his jump, and then leaped for the chains. There was a precarious moment when he thought his hands would lose their grip, or his shoes would slip, but he was lucky, and he hauled himself up the side with the speed and coordination of a young man, cocky with his first small success.

The deck was abuzz with activity, none of it familiar to Granger. He stared at the organized chaos around him in wonder. “I see you've brought our latest addition with you Mr. Travers,” said an imperious voice. He turned to it, finding another lieutenant, obviously senior to Travers.

“I have indeed Mr. Preston,” said Travers, with a slight smile.

“Then perhaps you will continue to guide his journey and take him to meet the Captain?”

“Aye aye sir,” said Travers, and led him aft to the Captain's cabin. The marine guard stood to attention as Travers approached and knocked. “Enter!” boomed a deep voice.

Travers led him through the door into the Captain's day cabin, one that spanned the stern of the ship, with light flowing through the huge stern windows. Granger was aware that he was no longer walking on a solid oak deck. His feet sank deep into the Wilton carpets. The walls were painted a pleasant ivory color, and there was a large desk and beautifully carved chairs to complete the picture. He tried to take in his environment, memorizing every facet of this, the most sacred place on the whole ship, while still focusing on the man seated at the desk, busy scrawling out some letter.

Granger followed Travers lead, standing at attention and saying nothing, waiting for the great man to deign to notice their presence. The great man was Sir Evelyn Fellowes, a mere 32 years old, reputed to be the best frigate captain in the Royal Navy. His dark brown hair was tied back in a queue just like his guests', as was the fashion, except for a rebellious lock of hair that sloped down across his right temple. His skin was already a bit leathery from hours spent on deck, not in an unattractive way, but in a strong, masculine way, merely enhancing the impression of power and competence.

He finally completed whatever task he had set himself to and looked up at his two officers, his green eyes piercing right through them, missing nothing. “Welcome aboard Mr. Granger,” he said briskly. “You'll find two other midshipmen to keep you company on board. I believe the first lieutenant has assigned you to Mr. Travers' division, so I will leave you in his capable care.”

“Aye aye sir,” Granger said, finding those words to be the most useful ever. He followed Travers' lead and saluted briskly, then turned on his heel and followed his lieutenant out of the cabin.

“It appears I'm to be stuck with you,” Travers said in a not unkindly way.

“Yes sir,” said Granger. There didn't seem to be any point in sympathizing with him for his rotten luck.

Travers looked around in the passageway, making sure no one else was present. “Look, this will all seem strange to you, but just do what you're told and you'll catch on fast enough.”

Granger smiled, unable to catch himself, and Travers smiled back. He was unusual in that he had nice teeth, straight and white, and they produced a dazzling smile. “Thank you sir.”

“Well then, let's get you settled in.” He strode on deck and turned to one of the Master's Mates. “Pass the word for Mr. Bell,” he said. “Have Mr. Granger's chest taken to the Midshipmen's berth.” Granger stood there at a loss, observing the activity, when a young man appeared in front of him.

“I'm Bell, senior midshipman. You must be Granger. Welcome aboard. Let me show you to our spacious abode.” Granger smiled and followed him. Bell had an easy way about him, a nice smile and bright red freckles that matched his bright red hair. He was about the same size as the new midshipman, with perhaps a slightly deeper voice that befitted his more advanced stage of puberty.

They descended into the bowels of the ship, and the first thing Granger noticed was the series of smells that assaulted his nose. First of all, there was the smell of men, the body odor of a large group of men confined in a small space and with precious little opportunity to bathe. Then there was another smell, equally foul, that he would learn was the smell of the bilges. Urine, rats, and any other discarded material that found its way to the bottom of the ship and percolated in the ballast, and which cleaning and pumping would only partially eradicate.

The smells were nothing compared to the images that assaulted his eyes. As in most Royal Navy ships, when the Barracuda was in port the “wives” of her crew were allowed on board. Most of the wives were nothing more than whores, and as Granger stared down the main deck, he was stunned at what was nothing more than a huge orgy. Men and women rutting right next to each other, while over there in the corner a man was pounding a woman doggie style, her large breasts flopping back and forth with each of his thrusts. Granger was aware that he had stopped and was staring. Bell grabbed his elbow and pulled him along, shooting a knowing smile at him.

Bell led him into a small cabin adjacent to the gunroom that contained three bunks. Lying on one of them was another midshipman, smaller and younger than Granger, with light brown hair, a pug nose, and an obnoxious attitude. “Wilcox,” he said briefly, introducing himself.

“George Granger,” the new midshipman replied.

“Well it will be nice not to be the most junior member of the gunroom,” Wilcox sneered. “You can pick up all the crap jobs now.”

Granger studied him carefully and correctly identified Wilcox as a pain in the ass. The only way to handle him was through confrontation, until they had settled into a certain routine. “What's your date?” he asked, referring to length of service.

“June, '90” said Wilcox with an evil grin.

“August, '86” said Granger with an equally evil smile. He'd been carried on ship's books since then, accruing seniority without serving a bit of time. It was a corrupt yet common practice, one that influence garnered.

“That's rot,” Wilcox cried. “You've just joined up.”

“You calling me a liar?” challenged Granger. Things had suddenly gotten serious. Such an accusation, if intentional, became a matter of honor, and could quite easily lead to a duel.

“That's enough,” said Bell, asserting his authority. “Looks like you're still the junior Willie. We'll try not to pick on you too much.”

“Bunch of crap,” mumbled Wilcox, but he resigned himself to his fate.

Despite the rough beginning, Granger fit in quite well with his colleagues and they helped him immeasurably, especially Bell. While the Barracuda lay in port, completing her stores, they taught him how to climb up to the tops and how to slide down using a backstay. The first try had cost him some nasty rope burns, but that was a lesson well-learned, and he felt comfortable aloft, at least while the ship was at anchor.

The Barracuda was like all Royal Navy ships in that it reflected the society that spawned it. Senior sailors still deferred to him, just like one of his father's tenants might, simply because he was an officer. Still, the institutionalized formality was a bit daunting to Granger, especially when he barely knew what he was doing.

Tonight the Captain was hosting his officers to dinner in his cabin. He'd seen the Captain's steward, assisted by both the wardroom and gunroom stewards, dashing around trying to make sure everything was perfect. Granger heard his stomach growl in anticipation. He had learned, much to his dismay, that the food on the Barracuda left much to be desired. He found his excitement building, not just for the feast to come, but to see the Captain and the other officers in a more casual setting.

He stared at himself in the mirror, checking to make sure that his white vest and trousers were impeccable. His new white silk stockings were pulled up to his trousers in perfect form, and the gold buckles on his shoes shone brightly, just as they should. He admired the cut of his blue coat with its perfectly tailored tails, smart embroidery, and polished buttons. He snatched up his cocked hat, adjusting it on his head, and fastened his dirk around his waist. He was ready.

Granger joined Bell and Wilcox as they headed to the Captain's cabin, getting a few good-natured comments from the hands. They looked quite dashing, he thought. They arrived just as four bells began to strike, perfectly punctual as midshipmen should be. The marine guard threw open the door for them and they entered nervously, as if expecting to be assaulted.

“Ah, the young gentlemen have arrived,” said a voice from the corner of the cabin. Granger glanced over to see the surgeon, Dr. Carker, already well on his way to being drunk. His bright red wig was slightly askew on top of his head, making him seem vaguely ridiculous. He was standing next to the sailing master, Mr. Buckle, whose rotund figure contrasted with Carker's scrawny frame.

“Bring them a glass,” ordered the Captain, who stepped forward to welcome them. Granger and the others stood rigidly at attention, unable to relax in the presence of the great man, the man who had almost life and death power over them. “Come join our gathering.”

Granger found a glass in his hand and sipped it gingerly. It was an exquisitely delicate white wine, chilled somehow. Granger reminded himself not to drink too much. “You seem to be settling in just fine,” said the purser, a short, ferret-looking man named Pawley.

“Thank you sir. I am.” Granger glanced around and found Travers. He looked amazing, his uniform perfectly tailored to accentuate his tall strong body. Travers winked at him, making him smile and relax at the same time. He headed over to him, assuming that it was his duty to be near his lieutenant, ignoring the desire that welled up inside of him when he thought of Travers.

“You clean up well Mr. Granger,” Travers said with a smile.

“Thank you sir. You look quite handsome yourself,” Granger responded, in a manner that was almost flirtatious.

“I don't suppose you have any musical talent Granger?” asked the Captain, moving up next to him.

“I play the flute sir, although I'm not sure I'd call it talent,” Granger said. He was getting the feel of the gathering, not all that unlike being at Court.

“That's excellent. We could use a good flute for our little orchestra.” He gestured to the small piano in the cabin. “My instrument of choice. Mr. Travers fancies the strings, so a good wind instrument would be most welcome.”

“It would be my pleasure to play with you, sir” Granger said, gulping at the double entendre. The Captain graciously ignored his gaffe. He saw Wilcox glare at him from across the room. What was with that guy? Why did he have to be such an asshole?

“Well, we must dine first,” the Captain said. He turned to face the room. “Gentlemen, pray be seated. You'll find place cards on the table. I thought it would be more interesting to spread ourselves around a bit.” He was referring to the time-honored practice of seating in order of seniority.

They wandered toward the table and Granger found himself seated next to Travers on one side, and the Captain on the other. It was almost unheard of for a mere midshipman to sit next to the Captain. On the other side of the Captain was Lieutenant Preston, a man who was hard to know, and next to him was Bell. He looked at Granger, eyes bulging, feeling just as uncomfortable in the presence of such senior officers. On the other side of Bell was Captain Pears of the Royal Marines, his red uniform clashing with Bell's red hair.

The amount of food was truly prodigious. At the center of the table was a huge dish topped with a crust in the shape of a castle. “Cheevers, carve into those battlements and pass that ragout around,” the Captain said to his steward. It seemed a shame to destroy such a work of art, but it surely tasted good. Everything tasted good. Conversation languished while they all ate, sating the hunger that permeated life at sea. Granger felt Travers next to him, the warmth from his body reaching out to touch him. Travers leaned over to grab a plate of the ragout, his thigh rubbing against Granger's, sending an electric shockwave through his body.

“So what do you miss most Mr. Granger?” Travers asked him.

“Fresh water, sir. There's a spring at Bridgemont that spews the purest of water.” Travers laughed his booming, masculine laugh.

“I doubt you'll find anything like that here,” he said. “Hopefully you'll find other things to drink to make up for it.” Granger almost choked at his comment, knowing what he'd really like to drink. He reached down to brush his trousers into place and inadvertently ran the back of his fingers across Travers' firm thigh. He furtively adjusted his trousers to hide his erection.

The Captain looked at Wilcox purposely until Wilcox got the hint. As the junior officer, it was his job to toast the king. “Gentlemen, the King,” he squeaked, his voice still changing, as he stood with his glass. Murmurs of “Hear hear” and “God bless him” emanated from the table as everyone stood to drink to the King's health. Granger bent slightly to hide his erection. He glanced sideways at Travers and noticed a pronounced bulge in his pants as well. Travers was sporting wood too? They sat back down and Granger felt Travers fingers brush against his thigh. He was worried he'd actually ejaculate into his pants.

“I thought I'd take this opportunity to share our destination with you,” the Captain said. The immediate silence was indicative of their collective curiosity. “We have been tasked to pick up one of His Majesty's diplomats in Gibraltar and convey him to Naples.” He waited for the buzz of conversation to die down. Italy! Land of the Romans! Granger fought down his excitement. “I don't suppose any of you speak Italian?” the Captain teased. That got a round of laughter.

“Not even you Mr. Granger?” the Captain asked, focusing on the young midshipman.

“No sir. Only French. Sorry sir,” Granger replied.

“Well, it's nothing to feel sorry about. How were you supposed to divine that your first mission would take you to Italy?” The Captain said, in perfect French.

Granger smiled warmly at him, and then thought better of it, thinking that might be too presumptive. “Yes sir. If you want me to, I could try and learn,” Granger replied in the same language. Finally something he felt confident about. His French was close to fluent.

The Captain laughed at that. “Have you always been so anxious to please?”

Granger felt himself blushing and the Captain and Travers just laughed even harder. Apparently Travers spoke French too, while Preston just stared curiously. He obviously did not. After that the party seemed to relax, and the conversation became more casual. Granger found that he could actually calm himself enough to enjoy the company of the three most powerful men on the ship arrayed around him simultaneously.

The party seemed to be waning, and the Captain gave him a subtle look. Granger had only been on board Barracuda for a brief time, but he understood the social graces. “Begging you pardon sir, but I've got the next watch,” he said, perhaps a bit too loudly. The Captain smiled, and that served to break up the party.

Travers staggered a bit when he got up. He'd obviously had a lot to drink. Granger moved in close to his lieutenant, giving him a shoulder to lean on. “I'll help you back to your cabin, shall I, sir?” Granger asked politely.

“Thank you Mr. Granger,” slurred Travers quietly. Granger helped him in such a way that the others wouldn't know that he needed help, but Bell caught on.

“You get him back to his cabin and I'll cover the first part of your watch,” Bell whispered into Granger's ear. Granger said thank you with his eyes. He led Travers down to the Wardroom, a foreign land to him, a land occupied by lieutenants and senior warrant officers. Travers headed to his cabin and Granger followed him in, shutting the door behind him. The ship chose that minute to take a rogue wave, knocking Granger back into Travers. Drunk though he may be, Travers sea legs were solid. He grabbed the midshipman as he fell back into him, keeping them both firmly upright.

Granger felt Travers behind him, felt Travers arms wrap around him protectively, felt Travers groin against his ass. Then Travers grip became less protective and more loving as he pulled Granger into him. Granger could feel Travers hard cock growing against his cheeks and sighed, moving himself back into the Lieutenant. Travers responded by thrusting his hips forward, pushing his hard cock into the soft crack between Granger's ass cheeks.

“Thanks for helping me down here,” Travers said as he began to gently hump his cock against Grangers cute little ass.

“My pleasure sir,” Granger said with a sigh as he pushed back into Travers, matching his thrusts, offering himself to this dark haired Adonis that had so infatuated him. He felt Travers lips against his neck, then against his ear.

“Will you help me into my cot?” he asked in a sultry voice. Granger turned around then, facing him, their faces so close, their hard cocks pushing against each other. Their lips moved toward each other, ever so slowly, and were just about to meet when there was a clattering outside the door. Both men recoiled, with Granger adjusting his trousers to once again try to hide his erection, while Travers fell face down onto his cot to hide his.

There was a knock at the door and the Wardroom steward peeked in. Granger read his look, the look of someone trying to figure out if he'd interrupted something or not. “I helped Mr. Travers to his cabin,” Granger said firmly. “Help him get ready for bed.”

“Yes sir,” said the Wardroom steward, snapping to attention. Granger swept past him, disappointed that his dream had only almost come true.

He was on the quarterdeck with his two colleagues listening to the Master drone on about navigation. Figuring one's position using a sextant required some neat mathematical calculations, something that Granger's logical mind grasped quickly, but something that Wilcox seemed destined to struggle with. The tension between the two of them hadn't eased much, and these lessons, where Granger was so obviously better than him, just made things worse. Still, the thing that seemed to irritate Wilcox the most was Granger’s budding friendship with Bell. It was almost as if Wilcox was jealous.

“Alright you sods, let's see where you've placed us,” said the Master, grabbing their slates with their calculations. “Bell, you've at least gotten us in the Thames. Granger, you've done about as well.” Then he studied Wilcox's slate. “Bloody hell Wilcox. You've got the ship in the middle of Paris.” The quartermaster on duty at the wheel snickered until a glare from the Master shut him up. The Master was about to turn his full fury onto poor Wilcox when a deep voice from behind cut him short.

“Mr. Buckle, be so kind as to call Mr. Preston and prepare to make sail,” said the Captain. He turned to face the three midshipmen, whose eyes bulged at the awesome attention of this man who was next only to God on board the ship. “Your lessons will have to wait until later,” he said in a kindly way.

Then all hell broke loose. Wilcox went forward with the Third Lieutenant, Mr. Dacres, to supervise the anchor party, while Travers and Granger were on station at the main mast. On orders from the First Lieutenant, the hands flew up the masts and out along the yards like birds. “Mr. Granger, I want you up on the main topsail yard, watching our boys and learning,” said Travers.

“Aye aye sir,” Granger said, and shot up the mast as fast as most of the sailors, thanking his lucky stars that Bell had made him practice the maneuver constantly. He watched as the men stood on the rope and leaned over the yard, grasping the rings that furled the sails. On an order from Preston, they released them in unison, and the huge sail was exposed to the moderate wind.

“Anchor's hove short,” cried Dacres from the bow. The fore and aft topsails were loosed as well, and with the anchor free of the water, the Barracuda heeled over, responding to the awesome power of the wind. Granger had only been aloft when the ship was stationary. Now, as a moving, living thing, the experience became exhilarating, and not a little scary. The mast swayed exponentially greater than the movement of the ship, and it seemed as if it were trying to whipsaw him off the cross trees at every change in direction. It took some getting used to, and it took an even greater effort to keep his stomach calm, but through providence and good fortune, he achieved both.

England was at peace, so leaving port presented no immediate danger. Still, lookouts were posted to keep a sharp eye out for other ships which may represent a navigational hazard, and for familiar landmarks that the Captain could use as he guided the ship out of port.

Travers summoned him from the Main Top and looked at him with approval, a look that Granger hoped he'd see often. “Well, you survived your first experience at setting sail,” he said.

“Yes sir. Makes you feel a bit like an acrobat,” Granger said.

“So it does,” Travers said, and then turned on his heel and left. Bell had the watch, so Granger headed back to his berth. Wilcox was there in a foul mood.

“Bloody math. What's it matter anyway?” he groused.

“Well, seems that if you were in charge, we'd be in the Seine right now,” Granger joked. It fell flat. “You've almost got it; you've just got to learn the last set of calculations.”

“Like I didn't know that,” Wilcox said grumpily.

“If you want me to help you with them, I will,” offered Granger. Wilcox just rolled his eyes and turned over on his cot. In no time Granger heard his soft snoring. In the navy, you learned to grab sleep whenever you could. He was about to do the same when one of the ship's boys peeked in. It was Matthew Clay, a lad about 13 years old, with dark auburn hair and a pleasing face. Granger pondered that the only difference between Clay and him was their social background, and that was what propelled Granger to the rank of Midshipman while Clay was merely a ship's boy. But Granger liked Clay, who had a friendly manner about him.

“Mr. Woodworth wants you to help him make his rounds,” said Clay, hiding a smile. Woodworth was the carpenter.

“Very well,” Granger said, pulling himself out of his cot. “What's the grin for?”

“Mr. Woodworth fancies young lads,” Clay whispered. “He's harmless, but he'll cop a feel or two while he guides you through the bowels of the ship.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Granger said. Well, he'd had a few anonymous men pinch his ass already and no harm came of it. A feel was one thing; anything else with the grizzled and bent carpenter was just gross.

Granger reported to Woodworth on the quarterdeck. “I need someone to hold the lantern for me while I make my rounds, and I figured it would be a good time to show you the innards of the old girl,” Woodworth said in almost a growl.

“Aye aye sir,” Granger said, taking the lantern from Woodworth and following him down the aft ladder. They descended, past the main deck, and the orlop, and into the hold.

“She's a new ship, so no real risk of rot. If she weren't, we'd look here, and here,” Woodworth said, pointing to spots between the outer planks. It was intriguing to think that these oak planks were the only thing between him and the sea itself. Granger held up the lantern and felt a hand brush across his ass. He said nothing, but the physical contact was enough to start another reaction in the front of his breeches.

The old carpenter led him further along the hold, pausing to point out some feature or another, and to run his hand along Granger's ass in a manner that could be considered innocent, only it wasn't. Granger found that although he found the carpenter physically repulsive, the attention was incredibly stimulating.

“I want you to look over those casks there and see if you see any leakage,” Woodworth said. Granger knew damn well there wouldn't be any leakage there, but he obeyed the order. “I'll hold you up so you don't fall.”

Granger climbed up on the edge of a cask and felt Woodworth's hands ride up his legs, across his calves, and up the inside of his thighs. There was no stopping his erection now. Then Woodworth's hands divided, one grasping his ass firmly, driving his fingers into Granger's crack, while the other landed on his front, on his groin, firmly grasping his hard cock. Granger let out an involuntary sigh. “You alright?” Woodworth asked. Clearly his question was less about balance then about Woodworth's hand on his dick, but Granger hadn't had a good wank in a couple of days, and the rough hand holding his cock felt damn good. In the light, he couldn't see the carpenter, so he fantasized that it was Travers instead.

“Yes sir, I'm just fine,” Granger said, slightly thrusting his hips forward, driving his dick against Woodworth's hand. Woodworth responded by wrapping his fingers around Granger's hard dick and stroking it through his thin white trousers. He felt the hand leave his ass and reach up for the string holding his trousers up, pulling it and undoing the knot. Granger's trousers began to lower until they were below his waist. Now Woodworth's hand grabbed his hard cock, skin on skin, and began masturbating him with an expertise that years of practice had shown him.

“Is this alright Mr. Granger?” asked Woodworth politely.

“Yes sir, this feels good,” Granger replied, pumping his hips into Woodworth's fist. He felt his balls starting to rise, and knew that he was going to cum. He let out a slight moan to alert Woodworth, who raised his other hand to catch Granger's precious load. Granger moaned again, this time a little louder, as he shot his wad into Woodworth's hand. Spurt after spurt he shot, until he was spent. When he was done, Woodworth let him go and Granger moved the lantern to watch the carpenter. He licked most of Granger's cum off of his hand, savoring its taste, and used what was left to masturbate himself. Granger watched in fascination as the carpenter took out his own large tool and stroked himself to a huge orgasm.

“You won't tell the Captain about this will you?” he asked, worried.

“No sir. It was just between you and me,” said Granger with a smile, knowing that he'd made a good friend and gotten a nice hand job out of the deal.