The Midshipman Prince Read online

  “Seaman Hix, I read to you Article 26 of the Articles of War: ‘No person in or belonging to the fleet shall sleep upon his watch, or negligently perform the duty imposed on him, or forsake his station, upon pain of death, or such other punishment as a court martial shall think fit to impose, and as the circumstances of the case shall require.’

  “Were you aware of this Article?”

  “Yes, sor.”

  “Do you know what it means?”

  “Yes, sor.”

  “And did you fall asleep on watch?”

  “Yes, sor.”

  “Hix, before I pronounce judgment I must ask you: do you understand that you have the right to a formal court martial?”

  “Yes, sor.”

  “And do you waive your right to that court martial? Do you except whatever my verdict might be?”

  The man swallowed hard but replied, “Yes, sor.”

  “Well then, there we have it. I have no choice but to find you guilty of willfully violating Article 26.”

  The captain paused for a bit as he thought things over.

  “In view of your record and since this is your first violation, I am NOT going to sentence you to death.”

  Hix’s knees buckled, but he caught himself. Tears of gratitude filled his eyes. Walker was spellbound by the drama going on before him.

  The captain continued: “However, through your negligence you placed this ship and all who sail on her in mortal danger. What you did simply cannot be countenanced. Not on this ship. Not on any ship. Accordingly, I hereby sentence you to 24 lashes.

  “Bosun, seize him up and strip him.”

  Hix was led to the hatch cover grating. His shirt was taken off, and he was tied, standing spread-eagled, to the grate. While this was going on, Captain Hudson had a chance to assess the tenor of the men.

  Seamen in the Royal Navy were not well educated, but they had a very highly developed sense of fair play. Sometimes after a flogging has been ordered, a captain will hear the men muttering. If he does, he knows either he has the wrong man, or the punishment was too severe. Hudson, to his satisfaction, heard nothing. The men had confirmed his sentence with their silence, and “It’s fair. Hix has it coming” was their collective verdict.

  “Seized up, sir.”

  “Bosun, do your duty,” Hudson ordered.

  The bosun reached into the red baize bag he was carrying, pulled out a wicked looking cat-of-nine tails, and shook them out. Walker could see the extra knots that were tied to the end of each of the tails.

  He stepped back a couple of paces, freed his arm, and swung the flail with all his might, stepping into the swing like a cricket player driving a ball.

  “WHAP!”

  “One,” proclaimed the master-at-arms.

  Walker stiffened, and his eyes grew wide. “What the hell,” he murmured.

  “WHAP!”

  “Two.”

  “WHAP!” The bosun drove the flail again into Hix with all his might.

  “Three.”

  By the sixth blow, deep livid welts had formed across Hix’s back. This is unbelievable, thought Walker, deeply shocked yet unable to take his eyes off the scene.

  By the tenth blow the skin had broken, and blood was running freely down to the man’s waist. By the sixteenth blow, blood was spattering in all directions with each strike of the flail. By the 24th and final blow, Walker thought he could see part of a backbone sticking out of the man’s shattered back. Walker was too stunned to speak.

  After completion of the flogging, the Bosun walked over to the side of the ship and threw both the cat-of-nine tails and the red bag overboard. No ‘cat’ was ever used twice.

  The men began quietly disbursing and Walker felt as if he were wandering in a fog. He found himself by the helm as the captain walked by. He started to say something but, for once in his life, he thought better of it. Just as the captain was turning away, they both heard a commotion behind them near the mainmast. One of the older men was grasping his chest.

  “I... Oh, God!” He fell to his knees and then toppled on his side.

  Walker rushed down the gangway ladder and pushed his way through the men who were just standing around the fallen man.

  “Why don’t you do something,” Walker demanded.

  “ Woss there ter do, sor? ‘e’s as good as dead,” replied one of them.

  “But he’s not dead yet, is he?” exclaimed Walker.

  Walker wasn’t sure he knew what to do either; but fragments of a long-ago conversation—probably while half drunk in some tavern—started to surface. It was something about...

  He fell to his knees and rolled the man over on his back, felt for a pulse in his neck then listened for breathing. “Damn,” he exclaimed.

  He shifted over a few feet and pounded the man’s chest once, hard. Then, placing his hands on each side of the old seaman’s rib cage, he started compressing it.

  That was it. It was something about... if a man had a heart attack, you could bring him back from the dead by pressing hard on his rib cage. No one knew why.

  Walker kept compressing and could feel himself getting very tired and dizzy when the man’s hand suddenly grabbed Walker’s arm. He rolled over on his side, coughed twice, and took a huge breath. In a few minutes, the man stood up and was led below.

  Walker started back toward the quarterdeck, but there was no need to push his way through the crowd this time. It opened before him; a pathway of hard-bitten seamen with their eyes wide and mouths hung open in wonder.

  He glanced up at the captain as he walked past. What was that on his face? Curiosity? Amazement? Yes, both of those, Walker thought, and perhaps even a trace of fear.

  * * *

  The following day Walker was summoned aft to the captain’s cabin, which was, by far, the most spacious private room on the ship. Captain Hudson was seated behind a large table. Standing to his right was John Rooney and to Rooney’s right was First Lieutenant Smith.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Walker,” the captain said.

  “You present a bit of a problem to me and I don’t like that. I have enough problems running a 220-man frigate without having additional ones dropping in on me, it seems, out of the sky. Surely you can appreciate that.”

  “Yes, I can,” Walker replied honestly.

  “Accordingly, to simplify my life, as of this moment you are now a member of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. You have been pressed.”

  “Pressed?” Walker shot bolt upright in his chair. “You can’t do that. I am a citizen of the United States of America and an officer in the United States Navy.”

  “Really? Let’s examine those claims.

  “You claim to be a citizen of the United States; but Mr. Walker, there is no United States. What you call a ‘country’ consists of a ragtag Army that has had its butt kicked from one end of the colonies to the other, and a collection of deluded old men that have decided to call themselves a ‘Congress.’

  “There is no country, Mr. Walker, and there never will be. There are thirteen colonies—British colonies—and, if you are from one of them as you say, then you are a British subject and therefore may be pressed into service to your king.

  “Then there’s your claim to being a naval officer. For two days now I’ve watched you wander around this ship like a child attending his first circus. You barely know the bow from the stern.”

  “Sir, I am an officer in the...”

  “Enough, Mr. Walker!” Hudson shouted as he banged his hand on the table.

  Hudson paused for a moment. “Let’s say you have command of a ship, Mr. Walker. Suppose you are on a lee shore, and had neither room to veer or stay, nor any anchoring ground, how would you put the ship’s head round the other way? What would you do, sir?”

  Walker was silent.

  “Quickly, sir. You’re about to go aground! What would you DO?”

  Walker remained silent.

  Without removing his eyes from Walker, Hudson said, “Mr. Smith. Answer the questi
on.”

  Smith looked startled at being included in the discussion, but responded anyway. “Well, sir, first I would put my helm hard a-lee. When she comes head to wind, I’d raise the fore and main tacks directly, make a run with my weather braces, and lay all aback at once. Then I’d haul forward my lee-tacks and bowlines as far as I can, so the ship could fall round on her heel. When the mainsail begins to shiver; I would haul it up, fill my headsails, and shift the helm hard a-weather. When the wind finally comes on the other quarter, I’d haul on board the main-tack, and bring her close to the wind.”

  “Mr. Walker that question, or one like it, is a standard one on our Lieutenant’s Exam. There isn’t an officer in the navy—in our navy, at least—that can’t answer it. No, you’re no officer, at least not a naval officer.

  “On the other hand, you’re obviously not without education. You’re no gentleman as far as I am concerned; but you are not of the common rabble either.”

  Hudson paused again as if thinking over for the last time what he was about to say.

  “Tell me, do you know anything of the sciences?”

  “I’ve had some courses, yes.”

  “Do you have a working knowledge of trigonometry?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “As captain of one of His Majesty’s ships, operating independently with no superior officer nearby, I have a fair amount of latitude in terms of how I organize my personnel. Accordingly…” Captain Hudson turned his attention to scribbling something on a certificate, “as of this date in the Year of Our Lord, Seventeen Hundred and Eighty-One, I am hereby appointing you to the rank of Warrant Officer aboard this ship with specialty as Ship’s Philosopher.”

  Walker was now totally confused. “Ship’s Philosopher?”

  “Yes, it’s an old position, not used much any more, but it’s still on the books. Maybe we should use the modern term instead. You will be the Ship’s Scientist. You will report to Mr. Rooney and will be especially responsible for creating navigational charts of any landmasses we encounter, or improving upon our existing charts. You will pay special attention to the identification and plotting of rocks, shoals, and other navigational hazards on those charts. You will also make such other observations or measurements of wind, tide, ocean conditions and natural phenomena as may be of interest to the Navy Board.”

  Walker just sat there with total disbelief coursing through his body. It was only with considerable effort that he was able to return his attention to Captain Hudson.

  “...as you will also be the Ship’s Surgeon.”

  “What? Ship’s Surgeon,” Walker protested. “I am not a physician.”

  “I never said you were,” replied Hudson. “Indeed, if you recall, I never said you were a scientist either. But, after that stunt you pulled yesterday—and I have no idea how you did that—the men think you are a physician, and that’s what’s important. They think you can literally raise people from the dead, Mr. Walker. Imagine that.

  “So, if I may continue... The Ship’s Surgeon that was assigned to us was indisposed when we left Charleston.”

  “He had been dead drunk for 20 days,” sniffed Rooney.

  “Was indisposed,” repeated the captain. “We need a Ship’s Surgeon, and so, you’re it. You will have a good surgeon’s mate and two loblolly boys under you.

  “You will be paid as a surgeon—5 pounds per month, plus 5 pounds for every 100 cases of venereal disease you treat. You will sleep in the Fourth Lieutenant’s cabin and dine in the officers’ mess. When we get into the next port that has a packet going to England, I will forward both appointments to the Sick and Wounded Board at the Admiralty for approval. They will, of course, reject them both out of hand; but, meanwhile...”

  “And what if I refuse to perform these duties?” asked Walker.

  The steel now came unsheathed in Hudson’s gray-green eyes as they bored into Walker. He leaned forward on the table: “Then I will place you in irons in the hold, among the ships rats, on bread and water for the duration of this cruise. When we reach port—which might be a month or more from now—I will transfer you to similar princely accommodations on a ship headed for England. Once in England you will be placed aboard the prison brig in Portsmouth Harbor until your trial as an American spy is called and you are hung—unless, of course, someone carelessly forgets to give you a trial at all and simply hangs you to keep in practice. Am I making myself clear, Mr. Walker?”

  “You are indeed, sir. Quite clear.”

  “One more thing. I am assigning Mr. Smith here as your ‘Sea Daddy.’ His job will be to bring you up to speed on this ship and her operations as quickly as possible. A cram course, if you will, in being... a REAL officer.” The irony was dripping from Hudson’s voice.

  “There we have it. Are there any questions?”

  “No,” Walker replied.

  “That’s ‘No SIR,’ Mr. Walker,” snapped Rooney.

  “No, SIR... Sir.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “ALL RIGHT. Let’s go over it again. Tell me about shrouds.”

  “Shrouds are the lines that extend from each masthead to the starboard and larboard side of the ship. They support the mast.

  “What supports the masts fore and aft?”

  “The backstays and the forestays,” he said smiling. “I knew you were going to ask that.”

  It was early afternoon on a glorious late summer day. The sky was such a bright blue that it almost hurt your eyes to look at it. Below was a darker blue extending as far as the eye could see, and way up high there were wisps of white clouds to provide little accent marks to the scene. The Richmond was cruising along at 5 or 6 knots under mere topsails, riding the southerly breezes and the recently named “Gulf Stream” current. She was making the sounds that all wooden ships make while underway—the sounds of wood rubbing against wood—ranging from low harmonics coming from deep within the hull, to the higher, shriller sounds of the upper masts and yardarms. It was not the sound of distress, Walker noted. It was almost as if the ship was humming to herself as she made her way across the ocean.

  Walker and Smith were on the fo’c’sle. Smith was leaning against one of the two nine-pounders; Walker was sitting on a hatch combing. In the past few days, they found themselves forming something of a friendship. Smith’s stiff, proper, British demeanor was in sharp contrast with Walker’s loose, irreverent, American brashness. Yet, despite that, or perhaps because of it, they were finding in each other something that they sensed they lacked in themselves.

  “All right, now, what are the names of the mast sails starting from the deck up,” Smith quizzed.

  “Mainsail, topsail, topgallant, and royal.”

  “Right, and sometimes you’ll see a fifth sail deployed above the royal called a ‘skyscraper,’ but it’s mostly for showing off. It doesn’t really add much to the speed of the ship.

  “Now, let’s cover the fore and aft sails...”

  “Sidney, how old are you?” Walker suddenly asked.

  “How old am I? Almost 18. Why?”

  “How many years have you been in the navy?”

  “Let’s see... going on seven years, I guess.”

  It was a number Walker had not expected. “Seven? You mean to tell me you’ve been in the navy since you were 11 years old?”

  “Yes. Oh, I know that was a little young. Most young gentlemen have to wait until they’re at least 12 before they’re admitted; but, because of my father, I got appointed as a Captain’s Servant at 11 and by 12, I was a midshipman aboard my first ship. Actually, if you count my home life as a child, in a sense, I’ve been in the military my whole life.”

  “Who’s your father?”

  “He’s a drunk.”

  “I am guessing that drunks don’t have the influence to get their sons into the navy at age 11.”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Well, actually, I do; but if you don’t want to tell me, that’s all right too.”

  Smith looked at Walker ha
rd and knew that he was at a crossroad of sorts. Walker represented something that Smith had wanted all of his life but never had—a friend. He had had many acquaintances and several drinking buddies, but never—even when he was a child—did he have someone he could genuinely call his friend. Maybe it was time for that to change, he thought, and decided to roll the dice.

  “My father was a soldier, a captain in the Horse Guards, and was involved in the Battle of Minden back in ‘59. To make a long story short, he was aide-de-camp to General George Sackville. Right at the end of the battle, when one more blow would have finished the French off, Sackville was ordered to attack with his cavalry. He refused.”