The Midshipman Prince Page 2

  “HERE!! OVER HERE!” His voice cracked as he waved his arms while trying to stay upright on his perch. He kicked his feet to try to propel himself higher so that he would be more visible.

  “HEY!! HERE!!” He knew that they had seen him, but he continued to wave his hands anyway as if, by stopping, they might somehow go away.

  Strong hands grabbed him and hauled him into the boat. After a minute of catching his breath, he looked up to see a young man staring into his face with a look of concern. He was a little younger than Walker and had on a British naval uniform.

  “Are you all right?” The young man asked.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. But do you have... do you have some water.”

  The young officer nodded to a seaman who opened a small water butt that was carried in the boat. He gave Walker a cup, which he eagerly drank, coughing as he did so. Then another.

  “Now, who the devil are you.”

  “I am Lucas Walker. I am... I was a passenger on the ship Mary Louise. It went down in the storm last night.”

  “You went down?” The officer’s head shot up to look around and he could begin to pick out bits of debris floating in the vicinity but no other people. “But where are...”

  “Everyone went down with the ship. It happened so fast they... they never had a chance. I think I am the only survivor.”

  The man just nodded slowly, looked around one more time, and muttered, “I’ll be damned.”

  By this time, they had arrived at the ship, and a rope boarding ladder was dropped. Walker pulled himself up and soon found himself on the main deck of the vessel, dripping wet, facing two men who were obviously in charge and a small crowd of seamen.

  “I am Captain Charles Hudson of His Britannic Majesty’s Frigate, Richmond. This is John Rooney, the ship’s Master. Do you speak English?”

  Walker looked up and saw a man in his mid-thirties in a blue jacket with gold-lace, two large gold tasseled epaulettes on his shoulders, faded light blue breeches, and a cocked hat placed sideways on his head. He was handsome in a boyish sort of way, except for his eyes. His eyes were a penetrating green and suggested there was some steel behind his youngish good looks. “Yes, more or less,” Walker replied with a limp smile.

  “Good. Then who the devil are you and what are you doing bobbing around the middle of the ocean?”

  “As I explained to your... to him,” nodding over at the young man who had now joined them, “I am Lucas Walker. I was a passenger on a merchantman called the Mary Louise. It went down last night with all hands... except me.”

  The captain said nothing but looked shocked, although he covered it up better than the young man had.

  “What is your nationality, Mr. Walker, and where were you bound?”

  That, Walker knew, was a loaded question. Healthy young Americans were, likely as not, to be pressed into the British navy if they were anywhere near shorthanded—and the ships were always shorthanded. Making matters worse, Walker was exhausted and not thinking clearly. If he had been, he would never have blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

  “I am an American,” he paused, and then went on quickly. “I am a military officer and claim protection as a prisoner under the Articles of War.” Walker was smugly proud of himself. He had just foiled any attempt Hudson might make to press him.

  “And what type of officer are you, sir? What branch of the military? What unit?”

  For some reason Walker was not expecting to be pressed on the matter. He looked quickly around and blurted out, “I am a naval officer. I was on my way to join my ship at... Well, I am sorry sir, but I am not at liberty to give you my ship’s location.”

  Walker was getting into this game. He was surprised at how clever his answers were, and he should have left it at that. Unfortunately, all too often that simple ability was not in his nature. He decided to press on with his bravado.

  “So, you see sir, I demand that you turn this tub around and take me to the closest port where I may be exchanged.”

  Hudson’s eyes widened. “You demand?” He sputtered. “This TUB?” Captain Hudson’s face began to flush, and his hands clenched into fists. Behind him, two red-coated Marines started forward, and Walker knew he had gone too far. Fortunately, Rooney intervened to defuse the situation.

  “Captain, if I might have a word with you.” And quickly drew him aside. This also gave Walker a chance to assess his situation.

  The most striking immediate thing was the hostility radiating from the crowd standing around him. Nobody said anything but that just made the intensity of their hostility even worse. He was a good judge of men and there were few in this group that he would care to meet in a dark alley.

  Hudson and Rooney finished their conversation, and the captain turned around. In an icy tone he said, “Mr. Smith, take this gentleman down to the sick-berth and have him looked over by the surgeon’s mate. Then get him some dry clothes, something to eat if he’s hungry and show him to the fourth officer’s cabin. Mr. Rooney, please get the ship underway. There we have it.”

  Hudson started to walk to a door that was directly behind the helm. Rooney began bellowing orders:

  “All right, the show’s over. Look alive there. Main and fore, standby to release topsails. Waisters, standby to sheet her home...”

  With that the young man from the rescue boat came forward and said stiffly: “I am William Sidney Smith, First Lieutenant aboard this ship; and if you ever insult the captain or this ship like that again, I will personally break you in half. Now, follow me, please,” and he turned and walked away without bothering to see whether Walker was following.

  It was a dark world inside that ship. There were no portholes to let in light or shafts for ventilation. The light and air that did get in came from the hatches and ladders leading from one deck to the other. The men that he could see were, as a group, fairly small men but, even so, many of them had to walk slightly bent over because the overheads were so low.

  They descended two decks into the orlop deck when Smith finally halted.

  “Whitney! Got some fresh meat for you,” Smith called.

  To Walker’s surprise, around the corner came a woman holding a curved knife in her hands.

  “Yes, sir,” she said acknowledging Smith and putting the knife into a case. “Ah, you must be the jack they fished out just now. All right, have a seat; let’s have a look at you.”

  She was short, not much above five feet tall, not thin but not overweight either. She had the kind of pleasant body that Walker thought of as designed to comfort a man, not seduce him. Her wiry brown hair was pulled back and tied off in a bun with the inevitable errant strands casting loose in odd places. But, the most amazing thing about her was her smile. It seemed to light up what was, in fact, a dark and dreary room.

  “What hurts,” she continued.

  “Look, I am fine. I bumped my head and my shoulder’s a bit sore.”

  “We’ll see about that. Take off that jacket.”

  She maneuvered his arm for a while with a gentleness that surprised Walker and finally grunted in satisfaction. “Arm’s all right. Your head...”

  “Is fine.”

  “...needs a little bit of St. Vincent’s Balm.” She reached into a nearby drawer and uncapped a jar of foul smelling unguent. Using a small damp cloth, she gently cleared away the blood, then smeared a bit of the ointment over the cut on Walker’s forehead. It stung like hell for a few seconds then, amazingly, seemed to go numb.

  “You’ll have a bit of a scar there, but that’ll just make you more attractive to the ladies. Where’s Mr. Smith?”

  “Right here. And here are some dry clothes,” he said while dropping them at Walker’s feet rather than handing them to him. “Better change.”

  Walker, who was becoming more uncomfortable by the moment in his wet clothes eagerly agreed.

  “Are you hungry?” Smith inquired as he led Walker up one deck and walked aft.

  “No, not really,” Walker replied
.

  “Good because we’d pay hell trying to rouse the cook to come up with some rations in-between meals.”

  “Lieutenant, I’ve got to ask. What’s a woman doing on board?”

  “There are women on board almost every ship in the fleet. Some are the wives of commissioned officers, some the wives of warrants, some tend to the Marines on board. We currently have three women on this ship. Susan Whitney, the person who just took care of you, was the wife of our ship’s gunner, but he was killed in action about a year ago.

  “And before you even think about it... keep your hands off. Those women perform important functions on this ship, and we don’t need the disruption of jealousies and intrigue.”

  They finally arrived at the aft part of the gun deck and Walker was led to the fourth door on the starboard side.

  “Here’s your cabin.”

  Walker looked into what he could only describe as a large closet. On one side was a wooden frame hanging by chains from the overhead rafter. On the frame were a straw mattress and a rather stained feather pillow. In the corner was a straight-backed wooden chair and, other than some hooks on the wall and a chamber pot. That was it.

  “Whitney says you’ve had a rather nasty blow to the head and you need to get some rest.”

  Walker was tired; he had to admit that. In fact, he could hardly remember ever being this fatigued both physically and mentally.

  “Well, perhaps I could lie down for a while,” he said. And “for a while” turned into the following morning.

  * * *

  Walker awoke to the sound of men yelling from the forward part of the deck he was on.

  “All hands! Wakie! Wakie! Show a leg! Starboard watch, rouse out! Out or down! Out or down, you lubbers!” And, thus, the new day began.

  It was 5:00 AM, still well before dawn. The men rolled out of their hammocks, most of them fully clothed, and started running along the deck and up the ladders to the main deck. Walker followed them.

  Some men ran to their positions as members of the gun crews serving the ship’s 32 guns. Others ran up the ratlines and out on the yardarms to handle sails. Red-coated Marines took up positions along the main deck rails and in the tops of the main and mizzenmasts with loaded muskets. The big guns were run in, loaded with powder and shot, and rolled out again, ready to be fired at a moment’s notice. Men were walking along the deck squirting water from a kind of fire hose. Just behind them were other men throwing sand down on the deck like farmers sowing a field. And then, everything came to a halt. All was quiet, waiting for dawn in a time of war.

  Dawn finally arrived, and the lookouts from the three masts reported “All Clear.” Walker could see the ship’s company visibly relax. They began securing the guns and came down from the masts and yards.

  The rest of the morning followed a routine. By 7:00 AM, the decks would have been scrubbed by men dragging a very large stone called a “Holy Stone” across the deck. A smaller version of the stone, used for getting into small spaces, was called a “Prayer Book.” Other men could be seen using brick dust and a damp cloth on anything metallic that could be polished.

  At 7:30 the Bosun’s Mate blew a particular call on his pipe and started yelling: “All Hands, up hammocks.” The men disappeared below to fold their hammocks into tight rolls and bring them on deck to store them in netting along the sides of the ship. This not only aired out the hammocks a bit, but provided additional protection against musket fire and splinters should they see action that day. Several of the bosun’s mates held metal hoops. If a man’s rolled hammock could not fit through the hoop, he had to do it again.

  By 8:00 AM, the ship’s Bosun piped the men to breakfast. Walker took a seat at the inboard side of a narrow wooden table that was hinged into the wall, then swung down and suspended by two ropes. There were four men seated along one side and two, plus Walker, on the other.

  Another man soon appeared with two pots. The first was a bread barge with the mess table’s number stenciled on it. From it, he placed two biscuits on each man’s plate. The second was a mess kid; a small tub-shaped barrel with a rope threaded through holes in the top. It too had the mess table’s number on it, and was used to carry hot food. From it, the man ladled out a kind of oatmeal porridge the men called “burgoo.” The “wealthier” among the men had pewter plates and cups of their own. The less endowed used wooden cups and bowls issued by the ship. Everyone provided their own cutlery, and Walker was given loaners.

  The biscuits were hard and stale, but Walker was ravenously hungry so he started with those. After consuming the first one, he bit into the second and noticed an interesting habit the men around him had. Before biting into their biscuit, they would tap it several times on the table, put it down, and wait a few seconds. At that point, Walker could see several weevils exiting each of their biscuits. It was only then that they took a bite. Walker examined his second biscuit—the one he had just bitten into—and could see where he had severed a weevil in two with his bite. God knows how many were in the first one he had devoured.

  His appetite was now somewhat diminished.

  The rest of the morning would find half the ship’s company on watch and half off. The ones who were off duty would be given various repair and cleaning assignments by the petty officers, but when they ran out of those they mostly skylarked or napped until noon when it was their turn to go on watch.

  Every day at noon, a ceremony of sorts would take place on the quarterdeck. The ship’s master, master’s mates, and midshipmen would assemble with their sextants to take a noon sighting of the sun. They then, independently, calculated the ship’s position. The ship’s Master, in this case Rooney, would go around and examine each midshipman’s work—some earning praise, others a cuff on the head.

  Near the mainmast, Susan Whitney had set up a table, a small chest of medicines and equipment, and was holding sick call. Eight or ten men stood in line with a variety of complaints ranging from fever, to follow-up treatment for a broken arm, to treatment for syphilis.

  At exactly 12:30, Walker followed Lt. Smith to the foremast to supervise the mixing of rum and water (one part rum to three parts water). Each man was poured a cup (called a “tot”), which was clearly one of the high points of the men’s day. If there was no rum then a kind of small beer was used or, if they were in the Mediterranean, perhaps a cheap wine called “Blackstrap.” Either way, the men would have their tot twice a day, noon and evening, and woe-betide the captain or purser that failed in the execution of that duty. It was one of the few things over which the men could stage a near mutiny, and not have anyone blame them.

  After that, they again disbursed and went about their various duties.

  * * *

  About 3 o’clock, Walker was standing on the fo’c’sle looking out at the ocean, trying to make sense of his situation. The bosun’s mates, circulating through the ship tweeting their whistles, had interrupted his thoughts: “All hands. All hands on deck to witness punishment. All hands.”

  “Witness punishment?” Walker murmured. “What now?”

  The captain and ships officers were standing in a line on the raised quarterdeck. Below, on the main deck, a row of Marines in their red coats and white belts was lined up across the deck between the ship’s company and the officers—muskets in hand, bayonets locked onto the muskets. A wooden grating, taken from a hatch, was leaning against the face of the quarterdeck.

  On the main deck, in front of the captain, stood the Bosun’s Mate carrying a red bag and a burly fellow who Walker later learned was the ship’s master-at-arms. In between the two was a fellow who looked wretched.

  “Captain,” began the master-at-arms, “two nights ago Ordinary Seaman James Hix was assigned duty on the fo’c’sle as a lookout during the mid-watch. At four bells he was found by the bosun’s mate of the watch, sitting on the deck, leaning against the starboard side long nine, dead asleep.”

  “Hix, what have you to say for yourself,” the captain snapped.

&nbs
p; Hix looked up at the captain with tears misting in his eyes. “Nuthin’, sor, other than I never done anythin’ like this afore and, I swear, I’ll never do it again. It’s just, I don’t know, Cap’n, I were just so tired that night.”

  Hudson pursed his lips and looked around. “Are there any officers or warrant officers who wish to speak for this man?”

  At first there was silence, then a young midshipman spoke up from the officers line.

  “Sir, Hix is in my division. Basically, he’s a good seaman, sir—making steady progress toward being rated able; and, it’s true, he’s never had any previous problems.”

  Hudson nodded to the officer, turned back to Hix, unfolded a large piece of printed parchment paper, and studied it for a few seconds.