The Wardroom - 1. Chapter 1

April 15, 1793

Lieutenant George Granger stood on the quarterdeck of HMS Barracuda, watching her bow rise and fall in time to the heavy seas in the Bay of Biscay. Granger wondered if the weather here ever moderated. He ran his eyes over the decks of the ship, making sure everything on the upper deck was secure. He'd already patrolled the gun deck before his watch, making sure that all of the frigate's 38 guns were secured.

He ran his expert eyes aloft, checking the set of the topsails, and making sure the lookouts were alert. The seaman at the foretop had been up there for two hours now. He'd be frozen stiff soon enough. Granger cursed himself for not relieving him sooner.

“Mr. Ballvin,” he barked at the midshipman on watch with him. He liked Ballvin, and he knew Ballvin liked him. Maybe too much. With his cute body, his sexy brown hair and his puppy-dog-like brown eyes, Ballvin was almost too cute for his own good. Or Granger's. Still, he was a midshipman, and midshipmen were supposed to be barked at, especially by lieutenants like Granger who'd held their commissions for less than a month.

“Sir?” Ballvin said, running over to him.

“Please relieve the lookouts.”

“Aye aye sir,” Ballvin said, and began bellowing out orders. Granger studied his young, lean body and thought he must have looked like that himself when he'd joined Barracuda as a midshipman a few years ago. It had been a wild ride, but he'd learned his trade, and felt comfortable now in any weather, any condition. The interesting thing about the navy, though, was there was always something new to learn, some new tidbit of knowledge to internalize for potential future use.

But most of all Ballvin reminded him of John Travers, not in similarity of appearance, but because Granger had been infatuated like Ballvin when he'd joined Barracuda, been infatuated with Travers. And Travers had been his lieutenant just like he was Ballvin's. Ballvin had given him plenty of hints that he'd be a willing partner, but Granger wasn't sure he wanted to go there. It dawned on him that the same trepidation he was feeling toward Ballvin must be the same feeling that Travers had felt toward him. But Travers overcame his objections, had made Granger his lover, and had fallen in love with Granger as fully as Granger had with him. Now they were separated, with Travers commanding a bomb ketch in the Mediterranean while he was stuck here off the French coast.

“Good afternoon Mr. Granger,” the Captain said, surprising him.

“Good afternoon sir,” Granger said respectfully, but with a smile. The Captain was the other reason that Granger didn't follow through on Ballvin's advances. Sir Evelyn Fellowes, Captain of the Barracuda, and at 34 years old, he was already Britain's most successful frigate captain. He'd made them all a small fortune in prize money already and his astute instincts promised more to come. Granger studied his muscular frame and his dark brown hair that was pulled back except for one lock that flopped across the side of his forehead. As the Captain he was all powerful on board, and the power alone would have made him sexy, but even without that, he was a stud. And all man.

“Anything to report?” the Captain asked.

“No sir,” said Granger. “I just relieved the lookouts, everything below is battened down, and the sea is rough but clear.”

“Walk with me,” he said. He and Granger began pacing the deck, up and down, pivoting inward at the end of each segment. “I enjoyed you last night,” he said quietly.

“I enjoyed you too sir,” Granger said, grinning at him as they turned. “You are an amazing lover.”

“You have to say that, I'm the Captain,” he teased, a rarity for him on deck. He was in a good mood.

“Well sir, that may be the case, but it happens to be true,” Granger said, totally meaning it.

“So how were things at Court?” the Captain asked. Granger had spent a few weeks leave in London and gone to see the King with his father, and the Prince of Wales on his own.

“Pretty much the same sir. There is much talk about the Prince of Wales getting married, but most people think he'll avoid it until his debts are so huge he has no choice,” Granger observed.

“He thinks the King will pay them off?”

“Not the King sir, but Parliament. He expects they'll vote him the money. The King isn't too free with his money, begging your pardon sir.”

The Captain laughed. “You mean his majesty is a notorious tightwad.”

“Sail ho!” came a cry from the masthead. “Sail ho on the starboard quarter.”

The cry brought them out of their conversation and spurred them to action. “Mr. Granger, call the watch. Prepare to put the ship about,” ordered the Captain. Granger yelled at the bosun, who blew his whistle and passed the call. Within a few minutes, men had poured both aloft and onto the upper deck, waiting patiently for the Captain's instructions.

“Put the ship about Mr. Granger,” the Captain ordered. “I want her on the larboard tack, aimed right at that sail.”

Granger grabbed his own speaking trumpet and rapped out the orders, putting the wheel down and heaving the braces, until Barracuda turned around gracefully, like a ballet dancer, and retraced her steps, heading back north toward the unknown sail.

“Deck there, looks like a frigate!” He paused while they stared. “Looks to be a Frog sir.” They trained their telescopes on her from the deck. The white sails, new from lack of use, were almost a guarantee she wasn't British.

“Beat to Quarters Mr. Granger. Clear for Action,” the Captain ordered, a thin smile breaking out on his face. There was nothing more longed for by a frigate captain than a frigate to frigate duel, one on one. For the men on the Barracuda, trained and honed into a finely tuned machine, there was no question as to the outcome.

The drums pounded as the drummer beat to quarters, and that brought the whole ship alive in a sort of organized chaos. All the partitions and screens were taken down, the Captain's cabin would have all of its beautiful accouterments removed safely below, so that Barracuda's gundeck was one, long uninterrupted platform crammed full of her powerful artillery.

Granger stayed on deck until Dacres came up, then he went below to supervise his guns. He had the starboard division, while his superior, Bell, had the larboard. He watched the men cast off the lashings, getting them ready for battle, and checked each gun carefully to make sure that it was fully manned and ready.

“Begging your pardon sir, but what's coming our way?” asked one of the seamen.

“Looks like a Frog frigate wants to join the King's navy,” Granger joked, getting a laugh. “Mr. Ballvin,” he yelled unnecessarily. Ballvin was at his shoulder, just like he always was. “I'm going up on deck. Take charge here.”

“Aye aye sir,” Ballvin chimed smartly.

Granger walked calmly up to the quarterdeck. “Are you ready below?” the Captain asked.

“Yes sir. Mr. Bell is down there with Ballvin. The men are in good spirits.”

“That's excellent news Mr. Granger, since we have a Frenchie who wants to play.” He gestured toward the starboard bow where the Frenchman was closing aggressively, accepting Barracuda's challenge to battle.

“She's a big one sir,” Granger observed. “Looks like a sister ship to the Apollo.””

“Well, we dished that one up; we'll dish this one up too. Now back to your guns, and tell Mr. Bell to load both sides, double shotted for good measure.”

“Aye aye sir,” Granger said, and went down to report to Bell.

“What are we up against Georgie?” Bell asked. Bell was universally popular, and even though he was Granger's superior, he always approached him as a colleague, as part of his team.

“Big Frog frigate. Looks like the Apollo's sister, sir.”

“Ya hear that boyos?” Bell called to the men. “We got another Frog frigate just like the one we dished up last time, only this time we can capture her and fatten up our purses!” The men gave a deafening cheer, a cheer that was picked up on the decks above.

There was a crash above. “Sounds like the Frog tried a ranging shot and got lucky,” Bell observed. Granger swallowed hard, burying his fear deep, trying not to imagine the carnage to come. He wrapped a cloth around his ears.

“Mr. Ballvin!” he yelled.

“Yes sir,” said Ballvin, right there as usual.

“Tie a cloth around your ears or you won't have eardrums when the action is over,” Granger said thoughtfully.

“Yes sir. Thank you sir,” Ballvin said, his eyes gleaming with admiration.

Granger felt the Barracuda begin to turn to the larboard. “Ready on the starboard battery Mr. Granger. Fire as you bear!” came a call from above. Granger rushed forward.

“A guinea for any crew that can get two shots in her as we pass!” he cried, getting a cheer from the men. He saw the Frenchman's bow in his sights, and saw her first gun belch out her contents. He heard a howl as the shot went wide. The Frenchman had fired too soon. Granger knew better; he waited until the gun was level with her foremast.

“Fire!” he ordered, and the gun captain pulled the lanyard. The gun roared out, and they saw the first ball blast into the Frenchman's side.

“Reload lads! I want to hand out a bunch of guineas!” Granger said as he walked down the deck, making sure the guns fired in sequence, oblivious to the carnage around him as the Frenchman's guns found their mark. He saw loblolly boys dragging wounded men below, but shut that out of his mind, focusing on his guns.

He found Bell watching him jealously, wanting to get his own battery into action. They felt Barracuda tack to the larboard, turning back to the south to exchange broadsides with the Frog again. “Looks like you'll get your turn now sir,” Granger said.

The Barracuda completed her turn and there was the Frenchie, right in their sights. “Fire!” Bell screamed, and Barracuda's larboard battery discharged its fresh contents into the Frog. The first broadside, with guns carefully loaded and double shotted, was the deadliest, and the Captain had been able to dump both into the Frenchman. There was no time to revel in the devastation they'd caused, as she loosed her own broadside into Barracuda. Granger felt the ship shudder as the balls hit home, but this time they largely missed him. Must have hit below. That would mean some work on the pumps later.

“Fire!” screamed Bell, as the months and years of drill bore fruit. The Barracuda was firing three broadsides to every two the Frenchman managed. The ships were appreciably nearer to each other now, so close that Granger could see the faces of the enemy gun crews peering out of their ports.

Granger saw a ball smash through the side of the French ship and send splinters flying. One of them lanced an unfortunate seaman directly in the groin. A fate worse than death, Granger thought with a macabre smile. He ignored the death and destruction around him, pretending it wasn't happening, relying on the loblolly boys to carry the wounded below to the surgeon. There were their men, plus other men being carried below from the upper deck as well.

The Barracuda loosed another broadside and he paused to look at the Frenchman through the nearest port. She was in a bad way. She'd lost her mizzen mast, and there was blood flowing from her scuppers, a testament to the human toll the guns had taken. It looked like the ship herself was bleeding. Granger expected her to strike her colors, but she wasn't done yet.

He saw smoke from her side as she loosed a broadside, such as it was. At least half of her guns were out of action or being served slowly. That didn't matter to the ones that were. Granger cringed as balls crashed into the Barracuda. And then something happened that threatened to ruin his composure. A cannon ball came through an open port and slammed directly into Ballvin, cutting him in half. Granger rushed toward him but he was dead almost immediately. Granger stood over his corpse, his head and upper torso seemingly detached from his legs.

Granger knelt down next to him, trying to fight the tears. This wonderful young man, who'd saved his life on the Vesuvius, who had followed him loyally, and who had now met such a horrible death. He heard another crash and looked up only to feel something slam into his head. And then everything went black.

Bell saw him fall. “Get a surgeon's mate over here. Get him below!” he yelled. A splinter had hit Granger in the head above the eye. Two men came over and grabbed the unconscious lieutenant and carried him below.

“Cease fire!” came the call from above, and Bell ordered his men to stand away from their guns. He looked through the port and saw that the Frenchman had struck. She was theirs. A cheer went up along the gundeck and on the upper deck as well, as the Captain tried to find one of the ship's boats that wasn't blasted apart to take a group over to take possession of the Frenchman.

Gatling, one of the midshipmen, came up to Bell urgently. “Sir, the Captain wants you to take charge of the Frog. He said to leave the guns in Mr. Granger's hands.”

“Mr. Granger has been wounded Mr. Gatling. You take charge here,” Bell said, and scrambled up to the quarterdeck. He found more carnage there, but at least Barracuda had all of her spars left. He walked up to Sir Evelyn, who was apparently unwounded, thank God.

“Sir,” Bell said, reporting. He saw Dacres over on the side, a bandage wrapped around his head. “Mr. Granger has been wounded. He's below.” The Captain seemed really disturbed by that, more disturbed than one would normally expect.

“You will take command of the Rhone,” he said, gesturing at the French frigate, “and follow us to Portsmouth.”

“Aye aye sir!” said Bell, and headed off to assemble a crew and marines to guard the prisoners.

The two frigates fought their way north slowly, fighting adverse winds and rough seas. Bell had done wonders with the French frigate, and had sent some of her men over to Barracuda to be used on the pumps. That and it was a good idea to spread them around a bit to avoid an uprising where they could potentially retake their ship.

Bell gazed across the sea to the battered French frigate, still beautiful despite her scars. Dacres had been wounded, a blow to the head, but he had recovered enough to relieve Bell on board the Rhone. It was a tough blow to Bell, having done so much to set the Rhone to rights, but he understood the navy and how things worked. A successful frigate action like they'd just fought usually brought promotion to the first lieutenant, and such a move was considered a compliment to the Captain. So it was Dacres' turn, and thus it would be most appropriate for him to command the French frigate. Still, the sight of her out there made him miss the feel of command. That had been a heady drug.

Bell saw the Captain come on deck. He'd been on deck a lot since the action, and Bell wasn't sure whether to take offense at that or not. As Acting First Lieutenant, he should be able to handle things without constant supervision. But Bell had served with the Captain for most of his career, and knew him to be a fair man, and one who was a wealth of knowledge.

“Good afternoon sir,” Bell said cheerfully.

“Good afternoon Mr. Bell,” he replied. “I'm going to go below and check on the wounded.”

“The wounded”, as he referred to them, would mean Granger. Everyone liked Granger. Bell knew that he had a similar reputation, but he thought it was more apropos with Granger. He was so smart, so charming, and so handsome. And damn, could he suck a dick, Bell thought, grinning to himself.

The Captain worked his way below to the orlop, nodding to the men who watched him pass by. The orlop reeked of the ship's bilge, making the air foul. He found Dr. Morris attending to the men who had survived the action. They'd had ten killed outright and 24 wounded, and of the 24, they'd already lost five. The Captain gave himself credit for replacing the hack of a doctor he'd had on board before. Morris was a skilled and caring surgeon.

“Good afternoon sir,” Morris said off-handedly, unwilling to stop what he was doing to focus on the Captain. He was changing the dressings of a man who had had his leg amputated, a grisly experience under any circumstances. The Captain could smell the wound from five feet away, could smell the gangrene, and knew what that meant. This man would not see many more days.

“How is Mr. Granger?” The Captain asked. Morris nodded to one of his assistants and asked him to finish up.

“He is conscious, but very weak. He lost a lot of blood. I have him propped up over here sir,” he said, indicating a relatively remote corner of the area partitioned off for the wounded. “He will seem mazy because I have given him laudanum for the pain.”

“I was thinking it may be better for him to be moved,” the Captain offered delicately, not wishing to interfere too much in the doctor's demesne. “I've had an area rigged in my day cabin where he should have more room, and fresher air.”

Morris thought about that. “I think that would probably be good for him, sir. In fact, I'd like to get some of these other men up on deck for some fresh air as well. With your permission of course, sir.”

“Whatever you can do to heal up my men Doctor, you will have my full support. In the meantime, please make arrangements to move Mr. Granger as soon as possible.”

“Aye aye sir,” said the doctor. He looked at the Captain knowingly. It was not easy to have someone so influential on your ship, and to have him wounded was very stressful. At least that is what the doctor attributed the Captain's visible concern to, to his worry over possibly losing a scion of one of Britain's most powerful aristocratic families.

With a considerable amount of bumping and scraping, none of which could have been good for the young lieutenant, they maneuvered him up to the Captain's cabin on a stretcher. As he went by, the men watched him, saddened and concerned. He was indeed popular. Finally he reached his destination, part of the Captain's cabin, a big part, with relatively fresh air and without the screams and moans of the other wounded. The Captain studied Granger as he slept and worried about him. He hadn't shown much sign of life since he was wounded. His eyes would open, and he seemed marginally coherent, but he was incredibly weak, and very dazed. The Captain decided that in the end he was a strong young lad and he'd beat this wound, and then found himself hoping that he was right.

The Barracuda sailed into Portsmouth looking to all who saw her from afar like a ship that had seen no action. Closer up, though, a different picture emerged. Water poured from her pumps, a testament to how much water she shipped even now, and the unpainted scars from the action were clearly visible, holes expertly repaired by the ship's carpenter.

The Rhone, on the other hand, looked in all respects like a vanquished enemy. Part of that was contrived on Dacres' part, who had had the topmasts sent down to make her appear partially dismasted. But without a full crew, she hadn't been able to repair herself as Barracuda had. There were holes in her side where the balls from Barracuda had slammed through her hull. But most importantly, there was the huge British flag flying over French colors, declaring to all that this former French ship was in British hands now.

Lieutenant George Granger saw none of this. He lay in the Captain's cabin, trying to recover his senses, and trying to regain his energy. Everyone around him seemed to be blurred, the whole world seemed blurred. When he spoke, he could manage only a word or two, and to him, those words rang strangely as if they were spoken by someone else. Yet part of him wanted to remain blurred, to remain numb, to help him block out the horrible vision of Ballvin being sliced in two before his very eyes.

“Relax Mr. Granger,” he heard Dr. Morris say. The doctor came to see him every few hours during the day, doing everything he could to nurse him back to health. Granger looked up to see the doctor’s eyes, to see a degree of care rarely seen in a ship's surgeon. “You took a severe blow to the head, but it does not appear that your skull was fractured. You lost a great deal of blood, which is why you are so tired. It drained away the ill humors, but your body must work hard to produce more.” Granger could only look at him. “You'll feel like your world is blurry, and you'll feel sluggish. That's because of the laudanum I'm giving you. If I stop it, you'll experience a lot of pain, and then ultimately you'll experience some sweats and anxiety without the medicine.”

Still, even though his mind wasn't working at full efficiency, he could feel the motion of the ship cease as they anchored, could feel the ship list as they shifted guns to force the shot holes out of the water, and could hear the comings and goings of the Captain as he was piped up the side. Days passed, or seemed to. Granger had no sense of time.

“George,” he heard a voice say, and looked up to see the Captain staring down at him. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes sir,” Granger croaked.

“Good. Excellent. We've made enough temporary repairs to get us to Sheerness. We're sailing on the evening tide. Do you want to disembark here, or go with us?”

“Stay here,” Granger said weakly. The last thing he wanted was to be left in Portsmouth at the naval hospital. Sheerness meant London, and even if he had to leave the Barracuda, he'd be home.

“I thought you'd say that, but I wanted to give you the choice.” He stroked Granger's face lovingly, and leaned in to kiss him. “The doctor thinks you'll get better soon. He says it will just take time.”

Granger tried to smile, but wasn't sure if he'd pulled it off until the Captain's grin told him that he'd succeeded. He dozed in and out of sleep until that evening, when he heard the noise of the ship getting underway, the anchor being raised, and then felt the ship move as it worked its way out of Portsmouth. He felt the movements of the ship increase and assumed they were in the Solent, and ultimately he felt the more violent motions of the Channel.

Granger held his hand to his head, trying to lessen the severe pain that rocketed through his body. Dr. Morris had begun to reduce his dose of laudanum, and that had some relatively dire consequences. Loose bowels, sweats, and the pain had been the worst of them.

“Bloody hell,” Granger cursed. “It hurts.”

“I understand Mr. Granger,” the doctor said patiently, “but dependence on laudanum can be a serious problem as well. Plus I thought you'd prefer to be more level headed for your arrival.”

Granger eyed him carefully and thought about grinning, but couldn't. “I suppose you're right.” The smooth, fast voyage up the Channel had seen him gain some of his strength back, enough to sit up and actually have a conversation. What was really bothering him was that he wanted to return to duty, and he knew there really was no way that was going to happen. The doctor smiled and nodded, and left him to his own devices.

Granger closed his eyes in an effort to shut out the din of shipboard voices and to try and block the pain. Still, he was a member of the aristocracy, a class of people trained to endure pain and hardship with no outward complaint. Granger felt a presence next to him and opened his eyes to see the Captain smiling down at him. He smiled back, not having to force it this time.

“Good to see you alert Mr. Granger,” he said.

“It is good to see you too sir,” Granger said. “Thank you for sharing your cabin with me.”

“It's the least I could do for all you've done for me,” the Captain said with a leer.

“Sir, you know that it was as pleasurable for me as for you. I only wish I was feeling healthy enough to help you along further.”

The Captain chuckled. “I wish you were as well. As it is, you'll be leaving the ship shortly. I've chartered a craft to take you up to London, where your father will have you taken to your home.”

“Thank you sir. There is another matter that I'd like you to settle for me, if I may impose.”

“Certainly Mr. Granger. What is it?”

“I promised the starboard gun crews a guinea each if they could get two shots in while we passed the Rhone the first time. They all did it. Would you distribute the money from my purse for me?”

The Captain smiled at him again. “I will take care of it for you Mr. Granger. It was a good thing to do. Barracuda is to be refit and sent back to sea in short order, so it looks as if you may be leaving the ship.”

Granger stared at him, horrified. The Barracuda was his world, and the men and officers aboard her were like his family. “I'm sure I'll recover in time sir. How long will I have before we sail again?”

The Captain looked sad now. “I can't say Mr. Granger. I'm leaving her as well.”

“You? Leaving the Barracuda sir?” Granger was stunned.

“It seems, Mr. Granger, that this latest success has persuaded the Admiralty that I am fit for higher command. I'm to be posted to a ship of the line, probably a 74. Hopefully not a worm-eaten one.” He was trying to joke, but Granger knew better.

“I'm sure you'll be as successful in a battleship as you were in a frigate sir.”

The Captain looked away briefly. “I don't know George. I'm a frigate captain at heart. I'm not sure I'm made to be tied to the fleet's apron-strings.”

The Captain's use of his Christian name told Granger how deeply this was impacting him, and how he was opening up. “Well with all due respect, sir, you'll need to get used to such things for when you're commanding your own fleet.”

The Captain chuckled at that. “We shall see about that. And now I must take my leave of you.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir. And if you have a spare moment, you are always welcome to call at Bridgemont House.” In other words, thought Granger, please come visit me.

“I'm sure I can find room in my schedule for that Mr. Granger.” He looked around furtively then leaned in and kissed Granger, delicately at first, and then more passionately as the young lieutenant responded. Then he was gone.

They hoisted Granger into a boat using a cargo whip, and Granger was saddened that he had no time to so much as say goodbye to his shipmates. Granger felt suddenly very alone until he turned to see a worried Winkler looking down at him. The boy whose leg he'd saved, and was now his loyal servant. The boat worked its way up the Thames, fighting against the wind, but fortunately not against the tide. Still, it was a laborious pull for the men, and it was a tired bunch that deposited him at the Whitehall steps.

“George,” he heard his father say, and looked up to see the man's worried countenance. The venerable Earl of Bridgemont, an astute politician and a savvy investor, focused on building his family dynasty ever bigger.

“Father. It is good to see you.” Granger said feebly.

The Earl rapped out orders and in no time at all Granger found himself inside a coach, somehow inserted stretcher and all. The ride to Mayfair was blessedly short, and Granger found time to wonder at how much smoother a trip by boat was than a trip by carriage.

They drove up to the imposing home on Grosvenor Square where a bevy of footmen rushed out to assist him. They put him on the ground floor in his father's library. Granger noted that a bed had been prepared for him. “George,” came another familiar voice.

“Mother. It's been a long time,” Granger said as she leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. The Countess had been away at Bridgemont in Derbyshire the last time he'd been in London, so they'd missed seeing each other.

“What has happened to you?” she demanded, her voice seething with concern.

“A splinter hit me in the head Mother. Fortunately I'm thick-headed, so it just shook me up a bit,” he joked, forcing himself to smile.

“Well you'll stay here with us until you're better.”

“Yes Mother,” Granger said, yielding to the inevitable.