The Midshipman Prince Page 13

  The tavern had been built eleven years earlier where it was originally known as John New’s Ordinary. Later it was renamed the Botetourt Building, after an early governor of Virginia; but the locals just called it the “Courthouse Tavern.” It was a large two-story brick building, with a roofed porch that ran the entire length of the front—some 100 feet. Unlike most wooden colonial porch floors, this one was made of brick laid in a parquet pattern that Walker found fascinating, and it boasted eight wooden pillars that held up a stately porch roof.

  Inside was the usual eating and drinking area and hearth, and upstairs were 12 rooms that were let out to travelers. But the thing that really made the Courthouse Tavern unique was a back room complete with an honest-to-God, made in London, imported at who knows what expense, billiard table. Hanover and Smith were beside themselves at the prospect of playing a few gentlemanly games.

  They checked in with the three men in one room and Susan having one whole luxurious room to herself. After Smith got the horse and cart put away, they met downstairs. A pitcher of ale sat in the middle of the table with four mugs in front of four dour faces.

  “Well, you’re probably wondering why I gathered you here.” Walker quipped.

  “Huh... What?”

  “Never mind. I guess we’d better figure out what we’re going to do next, you think?”

  “Quite,” Hanover agreed.

  Smith took the lead. “Well, so far I think we’ve done pretty well. At least we’re no longer in danger of being swept up in Cornwallis’ defeat.

  “All right, let’s review it again. We know we want to get to New York. We can do that either by land or by sea; but I agree, we should rule out trying to get there overland. The tide of the war has clearly turned, so finding American Tory supporters to help us along the way might be difficult if not impossible.”

  Everyone seemed to agree. At least, no one objected to Smith’s premise.

  “So,” Smith continued, “that leaves the sea. All we need to do is beg, borrow or steal a ship, evade several dozen French Men-o-War at the Chesapeake entrance, traverse a few shoals, and head up the coast to New York without being detected by any other ships be they French, American, or privateer.

  “Nothing to it!”

  “Hear, him! Hear him!” They chanted while lifting their mugs. So much had already happened to them, in such a short period, that all new problems began to look slightly ludicrous.

  When they had settled down again, Walker spoke for all of them. “How are we going to do that, anyway?”

  * * *

  Two days went by with little progress. A few miles from Gloucester, the Ware River ran into Mobjack Bay, an arm of the Chesapeake. At the southerly entrance to the bay was Drum point; and on Drum Point was a small fishing village called Bailey’s Wharf. Smith managed to obtain some nautical charts on a quick trip there. The other three found out nothing more than if they wanted to secure a ship or a boat, their best bet was to cross over to the eastern shore. There were a lot more ship building towns over there and maybe something could be arranged.

  Gloucester was typical of most colonial cities or towns. The first thing you notice about the place is the aroma—primarily that of rotting garbage. Because formal garbage collection was unknown, everything from rotten food to feces was simply tossed out into the streets or strewn about individual yards. Along with the garbage came clouds of flies and armies of rats. To make matters worse, pigs ran wild through the streets feeding on the garbage and leaving droppings that mixed with the horse manure to produce yet another category of offensive odor.

  Walker was a Boston “city boy” so he thought he knew about city noise. It was nothing compared to this. From dawn to dusk, squealing animals, clattering horses, squeaking wagons, blacksmith hammers, screaming children and besotted drunks assailed him from all directions.

  It was the afternoon of their third day in town when something happened that was to unravel all their plans; and the strange thing was that only Susan saw it occur and she didn’t say anything.

  They were sitting at their usual table when a short, bowlegged, ex-seaman by the name of Nathan Taft came in to the tavern and took a seat by the door. He ordered a pint of what was billed as “Genuine German Lager.” Before his order could even arrive, he spotted the foursome, gulped a few times like a fish freshly pulled from a pond, and shot out the door. Susan briefly saw him and thought she recognized him, but it all happened so quickly she wasn’t sure. A half-hour later the Gloucester Sheriff and two deputies arrived and walked over to the table which held the four travelers.

  “Good evening gentlemen,” he tipped his hat to Susan, “and Lady. I am Jonathan Chase the Sheriff of Gloucester County. These are my deputies, he said pointing to the two somewhat bedraggled but well armed men. And you are?

  Smith answered. “I am Sidney Smith and this is my cousin Bill,” he said, nodding at Hanover who smiled politely at the Sheriff. Across the table is a good friend of ours, Lucas Walker and his... ah... wife, Susan.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve seen you here in Gloucestertown before.”

  “That’s right. We’re just passing through.”

  “May I see your letters, please?”

  Hanover and Whitney had no idea what he was talking about. Smith and Walker, however, knew exactly what he meant. Smith continued to speak for the group.

  “I am sorry Sheriff, but we’re just in town for a few days and we have no letters of introduction from anyone here.”

  “You’ve been in town more than three days, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll need to see your letters. Anyone staying in Gloucester for more than three days must have a letter of introduction either from a local resident or from someone known to us outside of the town. If you don’t have them, then you’re in violation of the law.”

  “Oh come, Sheriff,” Smith began. “I know a lot of communities had that law in the old days, but no one enforces it anymore.”

  “I’ll be the judge of what gets enforced and what doesn’t around here,” the sheriff snapped. “Besides, we’ve had a lot of trouble with strollers lately and I understand you folks have been asking a lot of strange questions.

  “Now, all of you, raise your right hands.”

  Everyone complied as if they were taking an oath, while the Sheriff looked closely at each palm.

  “All right. You gentlemen are going to have to come with me.” With that, the sheriff’s deputies moved their hands closer to the pistols they carried in their belts and fanned out behind the foursome. “I am afraid we don’t have accommodations for the lady so you can stay here. I don’t suppose you’ll go far with your husband in ‘the house,’ though.”

  * * *

  The town jail wasn’t really a jail in any true sense of the word. It was a small, one-story, brick building that consisted of a single square room, 20 feet on a side with a barred window in front and one in back providing the only light. The interior walls and ceiling were 1 ¼ inch thick planks laid horizontally and whitewashed. The studs were intentionally placed very close together and laid flush against the bare brick wall. The point of this wood barrier was to keep the prisoners from picking away at the mortar, removing bricks and, making an escape.

  The room had a small fireplace, two straw mats along the far wall, a table with two chairs, a chamber pot in the corner; and the only door was made of thick oak. It was designed as a debtor’s prison but rarely used because, unlike in England, the courts in America figured a person who was out of jail was far more likely to pay off his debts than one who was in.

  Hanover, Smith, and Walker were unceremoniously thrust through the door, which was quickly slammed behind them and locked.

  Smith protested the whole way. “Sheriff, this is an outrage. We’ve done nothing wrong. When can we see a judge?”

  From the other side of the door the Sheriff replied. “The judge is out riding the circuit.”

  “When will he be back?”


  “Whenever I bother to send for him,” he laughed, while walking away.

  The three were silent for a few moments as they took in their new home. Hanover spoke first. “Does someone want to explain to me what just happened?”

  “I don’t know. Something’s going on here,” Walker replied. “This just isn’t right.

  “We’re in here because we don’t have a letter of introduction from anyone in this town. Fifty years ago, to travel anywhere you needed such a letter so the town law officers knew you were a legitimate visitor and not some criminal on the run.

  “But that’s what’s so strange. No one enforces that law anymore. He claimed we might be ‘strollers,’ itinerant con men, but he could see we were not that.”

  “What was all that ‘raise your right hand’ business?” Hanover asked.

  “He was checking to see if any of us had a criminal record. It’s a system we use here in the colonies where, if you’re convicted of a crime, they place a small brand on the base of your right thumb. He was checking to see if any of us had a brand,” Walker replied.

  “So, what now?” he asked.

  “Don’t know. Unless Susan can work some miracle, we’ll just have to wait until the judge gets back... whenever that might be.”

  * * *

  “It’s a miracle,” Susan whispered as she watched a small boat pull in to the dock.

  It was the afternoon of the day following the arrests, and Susan had taken the horse and wagon over to the fishing village Smith had discovered a few days before. She would not have been able to articulate why she went there; but she was tired, depressed, more than a little scared, and there was something comforting about seeing a body of water again.

  Bailey’s Wharf consisted of six small houses clustered around a waterfront that was dominated by a large brick building. A wooden pier jutted 30 yards or so out into the Ware River. At the base of the pier was a combination warehouse, general store, tavern and chandler’s shop, and was easily the most substantial building in town.

  It was made of sturdy brick and primarily stored hogsheads of fragrant Virginia tobacco awaiting shipment to Elizabeth Town where it would be sold to buyers from England and Europe. It was also used as a tavern and dining hall. As you walked in the door you were immediately struck by the large chimney and huge fireplace across the top of which were strings of seasoning red peppers, pickled oysters, ears of red and white corn and freshly picked onions.

  Susan sat down near the fireplace where some children, both white and black, were sitting on the floor listening to an old black man spin tales “Fo’ de war, when y’all warn’ born.” She felt like ordering a large tankard of ale, but she knew that would invite stares and possibly questions. Instead, she ordered a demure pot of tea so she would look more like the wife of a fishing boat captain in town to do some shopping.

  After several hours, Susan left the tavern and wandered out on the pier to look at the water, trying to pull herself together. She enjoyed the water. In a strange way, it calmed her; it always had, even when she was a girl. The dark blue of the water, the powder blue of the sky, the white clouds high overhead, the shrill cries of the gulls, the smell of salt air—all conspired to remind her of home and of simpler, safer, and saner times. Would she ever see Portsmouth again?

  By late afternoon the fishing boats were starting to come in. As ships go, they weren’t much—mostly ketches, doggers, and a peculiar craft she had no name for that was apparently used by the local clam fishermen. A bit further out two sloops sat at anchor all afternoon, with a third now coming in. The newcomer was much smaller than the others, only a single mast, but was handled beautifully. After dropping anchor, she could see the crew putting a boat over the side.

  A man got out of the boat to tie it up to the pier, and was followed by another person who was obviously the primary passenger. Susan couldn’t believe her eyes.

  “Hugh? Hugh Hayes? Is that you?”

  “Susan? By God, what are you doing here?” He then seemed to catch himself. Looking around suspiciously, he asked, “Is the Richmond in port somewhere hereabouts?”

  “Nope, don’t worry. She’s probably halfway to France right now. She was captured a few... days ago.” Susan caught herself. My God, it was only a few days ago.

  Hugh Hayes was one of the biggest, most powerfully built men Susan had ever known. From a distance, you would think he was short. It wasn’t until you got close-up that you realized he was over six feet tall and was simply a massive person.

  He had thick legs, a barrel chest, and arms like tree limbs, little in the way of a perceptible neck, and a roundish face that was always slightly red, and usually smiling. One of the most popular seamen on the Richmond, he had been rated “Able” in record time and was the ship’s Master-at-Arms—the ship’s policeman—until he went ashore one day on ship’s business and simply never returned.

  “Hugh, it’s so good to see you. I haven’t seen you since... ah, that is...”

  Hayes laughed. “It’s all right Susan. I ran from the Richmond. You don’t have to be polite about it.”

  “So, are you working on that barkey?” she asked, nodding at the ship.

  “Yup, I am her captain.”

  “Captain?” Susan clapped her hands with delight. How’d you become captain of a ship?”

  “Well, after the Richmond pulled out, I made my way to Bal-more by signing on to a merchantman. I was sitting in a tavern and I overheard two people—investors they were—talking about a ship they were going to buy and how hard it was to find a capable man to captain her. I sidled over and said I used to be a master’s mate in the navy and I might be able to help them out.

  “All right, so it was a bit of an exaggeration. I was never a master’s mate, but the ship ain’t nothin’ but a little, single masted, fore-and-aft rigged river sloop and I figured I could sail her well enough.

  “They were desperate; I was desperate, so they offered me the job and I took it. Been running small cargos around the Chesapeake ever since.

  “What about you?”

  As soon as he asked the question, Hayes saw a reaction in Susan that shocked him. Her eyes were becoming misty as she summoned her thoughts and, except when her husband died, he had never—but never—seen that happen.

  Words tumbled out as if she were unburdening her soul, starting with Walker’s peculiar appearance on the scene, the Battle of the Capes, the surrender of the Richmond, the rescue of the prince and their escape. Hayes stopped her a few times for clarification, but otherwise just leaned against a bollard and let her talk.

  “And where are these gentlemen now?”

  She completed the story with the strange arrests in Gloucestertown.

  Hayes sat in thought, not saying a thing. After a few minutes he simply said: “All right.”

  “All right, what?” Susan asked.

  “All right. You and I are going to go into that tavern over there and have us the best roast beef dinner they can provide. I haven’t forgotten how you took care of me when I got sick that time in the Med.”

  “And then?”

  “And then tonight we go bust your friends out of jail.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT was nearing midnight as the wagon entered Gloucester. Susan was convinced they were making enough noise to awaken half the county. Hayes had the horse at a slow walk and had shifted their track off the well-worn ruts to lessen the number of potholes they encountered. Susan’s fears notwithstanding, they were being about as quiet as could be expected while driving a broken down wagon and an even more broken down horse.

  “Do you know where the jail is?” asked Susan.

  “Oh yes,” Hayes replied with confidence, but did not elaborate on the reason for that assurance.

  He was right. He pulled off the town circle and alongside the Debtor’s Jail at exactly the right spot. Susan scrambled off the buckboard and went to the jail’s rear window.

  “Walker? Smith? You in there,” Susan whispered.r />
  A few seconds later Smith’s voice replied, “Susan? Is that you?”

  “Yes, I am here with a friend. We’re going to get you out.”

  “How?”

  Susan suddenly realized she had forgotten to ask Hayes how he was going to do it. She turned to him, “How?”

  Hugh stepped to the window. “I’ve got the wagon here. I am going to pass you men a rope, tie it around the bars. When you’re ready, let me know and I’ll start this nag slowly pulling on it. I don’t want to tear down the whole damn wall; it’d make too much noise. I just want to free up the bars from that cheap cement they used so you can slide through the window.”