The Gunroom - Prologue. Prologue

October, 1791

The gleaming carriage rocked in the blowing wind, a testament to how well sprung it was. The carriage was painted blue, a blue with a hint of purple, a color cynics would say described the family itself, with its blue blood but virulent ambition, perhaps ambitious enough to aspire to the royal purple. For those who didn't know that this unique blue was the color of the earls of Bridgemont, a prominent family crest was splayed across the door in a style that managed to be both subdued and gaudy at the same time.

Inside the carriage, their posteriors cushioned by soft leather upholstery, sat the Fourth Earl of Bridgemont and his third son, a contrast if ever there was one. The earl, old and grizzled, his face lined with his years and the schemes that had propelled his family to greater fortune and influence; and his fifteen year old son, George, tall for his age, with blond hair, blue eyes, and smooth skin that had survived the ravages of smallpox unscathed.

The young man turned to his father, waiting for a dismissal, an acknowledgement, any show of emotion at all. He was to be disappointed this time. The Earl was not one to reveal anything to anyone. The young man, his mind full of the playfulness of youth, wondered briefly whether his father changed his expression even when he had an orgasm, and decided that he probably did not.

Then the Earl relented. “I'm sure you'll do well son. You have a good captain. Sir Evelyn has an excellent reputation, and he can guide your career. You must show him the same obedience and respect you have always shown me.” The young man stared at his father, amazed at the old man's openness.

“I won't let you down Father,” he said sincerely.

“The thought never crossed my mind,” the Earl said, briefly cracking a smile. It was difficult for him to remain impassive with George. George had always been his favorite son, the one who caused him no problems, who made every effort to please him, and who took up the flute solely because it was the Earl's favorite instrument. The young man had worked to master the game of whist, just to spend time with his father. The old man had never overtly noticed these efforts, but he had appreciated them, and the young man seemed to know this intuitively.

They shook hands and the old Earl briefly grasped the young man's hand with both of his, the only sign of physical affection he'd shown the young man. He pondered this decision, the decision to send his son to sea, and wondered if he'd made a glaring mistake. The Earldom, the title and land, not to mention a sizable chunk of money, would ultimately pass to his oldest son, Frederick, a heartless and calculating brute. The old Earl knew that Freddie would drive the family to new heights, even higher than he'd achieved, but at what cost to his tenants and retainers the Earl could hardly imagine.

He sighed. The alternative was worse. His second son, Albert, was dissolute and corrupt, even at the age of 18. The cost to maintain him in the army, to pay for his gambling debts and his whores, was prodigious. If Freddie died, Bertie would inherit the great estate, and he would squander everything within a generation. Of that the Earl was certain.

This son, his last one, George, was a different beast entirely. A kind young man, almost too kind, one that seemed unsuited for the arts of war. The Earl had briefly considered a career in the Church for the young man, but he couldn't abide clergymen himself, and the thought of delivering his youngest son into their clutches was too much to think of. They'd have loved him at the university, with his fine, almost pretty looks. They'd have buggered him every night. No, that was not to be the fate of his son.

Ironically, the decision to join the navy had ended up being made by George himself. He'd had a fascination with the sea since he was a small boy, and took every chance he could to get afloat, whether it was a rowboat, a ceremonial barge, or a simple skiff; he'd taken to the water like a fish. Still, the Earl had not been convinced, not until he'd seen the spark in the boy's eye, the spark that belied the constrained emotions, the spark that said he had deep feelings and emotions beneath his smooth outer veneer. That was the spark that swayed the Earl, the spark that told him the boy could kill if he needed to, that he could indeed be a warrior.

“I will write to you Father,” the young man said, his eyes watery.

“I would like that,” the Earl said, his eyes tearing as well. Time to end this painful goodbye. “There's the boat waiting to carry you off. Best to not be late.”

The young man nodded and hopped gracefully out of the carriage, his sea chest already waiting for him by the quay. A ship's boat approached, handled crisply despite the strong winds and rough waves, even here at the Nore. An incoherent shout and the oars shot out of the water and were seated in the boat, standing directly upright in perfect form, while the boat was guided smoothly against the stone jetty.

A lieutenant jumped out and strode toward the young man, stopping short to wait for his salute. The young man thankfully remembered it, and did it well, just in the nick of time. “You are George Granger?” the lieutenant asked, as if he couldn't believe this youth was the scion of a leading aristocratic family.

“Yes sir,” the youth stammered nervously.

“Very well. Marsh, stow that chest,” the lieutenant said, shouting to a seaman. Then the lieutenant briefly doffed his hat to the old Earl sitting inside the carriage, and motioned the young man into the boat.

The young man, with his misplaced sense of propriety, waited for his senior to enter first. The lieutenant hid a smile, remembering when he'd made the same mistake some seven years ago when he'd joined his first ship. “Junior officers in first and out last Mr. Granger,” he said in an almost friendly way, or at least as friendly as a lieutenant could be when speaking to a mere midshipman.

“Aye aye sir,” said the young man, spewing forth the navy's time-honored response to an order from a senior officer.

The lieutenant smiled to himself, wondering at what a coup the Captain had achieved with this acquisition. In one fell swoop, he'd repaid a favor to Lord Bridgemont and built a valuable political link to the boy's grandfather, the Admiral commanding in the West Indies. And the boy didn't seem all that daft either. The lieutenant didn't admit to himself that the boy had a beautiful face, with blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. He pretended to ignore the young man’s long, willowy body. The lieutenant didn't allow himself to acknowledge his thoughts about the boy's cute, bulging butt, nor did he permit himself to fantasize about how good it would feel to strip him down, bend him over, and plow into that ass with his throbbing cock. Maybe later, alone in his cabin, the lieutenant would allow himself that fantasy, but not now.