The Midshipman Prince Read online

“I’ll be in my cabin if you need me, Mr. Rooney.”

  “…fifteen... sixteen... twenty...”

  The captain stopped abruptly, frozen in place as he was reaching for the knob on his cabin door. Suddenly, he whirled around and raced back to the quarterdeck.

  “...twenty-two... twenty-six... twenty-eight...”

  “All hands to the braces,” Hudson was screaming. “Topmen away aloft. Come on! Come on! Get cracking. Do it NOW!”

  Rooney was not far behind the captain, for he too had figured it out. He had picked up the megaphone from its storage slot. “Helm hard a’starboard,” Rooney yelled. “Waisters stand by to wear ship. Top men, fore, main and mizzen... drop every stitch of canvas we’ve got. Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  Walker, hearing all the commotion, came on deck. Grabbing a seaman who was busy unlashing one of the 12-pound guns he asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Th’ French fleet, sor. We was about ter sail in and drop us an anchor, pretty as yer please, in the middle of the ‘oole chuffin’ French fleet.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Admiral ‘ood only ‘as 14 ships. The lookout were at 28 and still countin’ wen the captain called quarters.”

  To most people, it would appear like a blur of random activity. In the past few days, however, Walker had learned enough to know that battle station activities were anything but random. Each man was rushing to a specifically assigned place, to do a specifically assigned task, in a specifically assigned way.

  They scrambled up ratlines and sidestepped out on the yards, ready to take in or let out sail. They ran to precise locations on deck, standing by to haul on lines that would alter the direction or stiffness of the sails.

  Below decks, the cook would be dousing the cooking fires; and men would be taking down room dividers and hauling below anything that was not directly needed for battle. The ship’s boats would be quickly swayed over the side, and anything that could get in the way or serve as a source of wooden splinter shrapnel was stowed.

  Susan Whitney would be laying out instruments and pushing several of the midshipman’s trunks together to form a crude operating table. The gunner would be in the powder room hanging felt drapes all around and dousing them with water to suppress any sparks that might enter. He would have on felt slippers so he wouldn’t cause any sparks that in turn might cause the “explosion you’ll never hear.” Outside the room the ship’s boys—“powder monkeys” they were called—would be lined up to get measured charges in flannel bags from the gunner, place them in wooden boxes and race to the guns they were assigned to serve, then race back to pick up the next charge.

  But, above all, the men ran to their gun stations—26 12-pounders on the main deck, four 6-pounders on the quarterdeck and two long-nines on the fo’c’sle—heaving, sweating and cursing until each gun was loaded and each gun captain could stand next to his piece, fist raised in the air, signaling that his gun was ready to fire.

  They had all done it before—hundreds of times, in daylight and at night, in fair weather and foul, when feeling sick and feeling well. No thought whatsoever was required; and that was exactly what the officers wanted. In a matter of minutes, the ship and the men had transformed themselves into a single, unified, flesh and oak machine.

  “Mr. Smith, away with you to the maintop. Take a glass and tell me immediately if any of those ships are starting to get underway.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  Sidney Smith flew to the larboard side mainmast ratline, and starting scrambling up like he was being chased by an outraged husband. When he got to the maintop platform, he bypassed going through the lubbers hole, the easy entrance to the platform. Instead, he crawled out along the futtock shrouds, briefly hanging in a nearly upside down position, and swung up on the platform.

  “On deck there,” he cried a few moments later.

  “Deck, aye,” came the reply from the quarterdeck.

  “I confirm 28 ships of the line with possibly a few more farther up. Definitely French, Sir. They’re in two groups. The smaller group’s in Lynnhaven Bay and the other’s strung out into the Chesapeake. I see three ships flying a broad pennant—three admirals. And... wait... yes... that one has to be the Ville de Paris—de Grasse’s flagship.”

  “Do any of them seem to be getting underway to come meet us?”

  “No, sir. The water’s alive with small craft ferrying supplies and men to the shore. Looks like they’re too busy to bother with the likes of us.

  “Wait one,” Smith continued. There was dead silence on deck as everyone, officer and seaman alike, strained to hear the report. The men knew that what they were hearing could spell either continued life or death by nightfall for many if not all of them.

  “There’s a sloop-of-war underway from Cape Henry and heading toward us. It’s probably the picket boat that should have intercepted us before we ever got in this far. And behind her is a frigate—no, two frigates—preparing to get underway”

  “Very well, Mr. Smith. Stay up there and let me know if the situation changes in any way.”

  “Mr. Rooney, as soon as we clear the middle ground I want you to plot a course due east. Stay on it until we can no longer see land or, more important, they can no longer see us.

  Rooney cut the corner of the middle ground as close as he dared—and closer than the captain thought possible—and shot out into the Atlantic. The sloop pursued as far as the place where the Richmond had first spotted the fleet, and then turned back. The frigates never got underway at all.

  Two hours later, the land had dropped below the horizon, and they were in the clear. Everyone on board breathed a lot more easily for they knew that if just one of those ships of the line had bestirred itself to get underway, the Richmond would now be a pile of floating match sticks. Any one of them would be faster than the Richmond, and their 32-pound guns could easily reach out and touch someone over a mile away with considerable accuracy. They would simply mutilate a small frigate like the Richmond.

  “Where to now, sir?” Rooney asked.

  “Good question,” Captain Hudson replied. “But an even better one is: Where the devil is Hood?

  “He couldn’t have doubled back to the south or we would have seen at least some part of his fleet. Heading east makes no sense. No... I’ll wager he headed north. He probably headed for New York to link with Admiral Graves’ fleet and so, therefore, shall we.

  “Let’s fly, Rooney. I don’t know whether he knows that the French have arrived in Yorktown; but, if not, he and Graves, and Governor Clinton, need to know right away. That fool Cornwallis has trapped himself on that peninsula.”

  With that Rooney sprung into action, bellowing orders. “All hands secure from quarters. Bosun set the Watch. “Helm, come around to...”

  The officers and men of the Richmond were quite right in thinking the stakes were high; but, it would be some time before they would learn how high.

  * * *

  It would be at least another two days until the Richmond could get to New York. With good winds maybe they could cut it to a day and a half, bad winds maybe three or four, no wind... forever. That’s the way it was on a sail-powered vessel.

  The ship settled back into its routine, but now there was an edge to it that Walker had not seen before.

  Outwardly, everything looked the same. At dawn, the men were at quarters, followed by scrubbing the decks, lashing up the hammocks, taking their tot of rum at noon, another at supper, down hammocks, lights out, and sleep. It was what he saw in-between those events that had changed.

  There were fire drills, sail handling drills, musket loading for speed, and shooting for accuracy. The more skilled were holding cutlass classes for the less skilled; and the ship’s armorer had his wheel on deck and going all day long. Every cutlass, pike, and dirk on the ship was receiving a new and sharper edge. Gun drills were different, too. Besides there being a seriousness of purpose that was not there before, each gun crew was
now practicing firing the guns shorthanded. Seven man guns were being loaded and fired by five and four man teams in silent acknowledgment of the reality of battle where comrades could and would fall.

  True, the men’s off-hours were much the same. There would be socializing and “make and mend” during the dogwatches. And, as the day started to cool off, fiddles or penny whistles would come out and off-duty men would dance the occasional hornpipe because... well, because they were young and they could.

  But, there was another side that Walker also noticed. A lot more people were spending time by themselves reading through prayer books or dog-eared Bibles. Those men in the ship’s company who could write would setup impromptu tables in secluded areas where other men could quietly come and have letters written—perhaps final letters—to loved ones back home.

  But, all this paled in comparison with the shock he received the second day out of the Chesapeake.

  Susan Whitney had come on deck with a chest of knives and saws and proceeded to the armorer to have them sharpened. Normally, Susan was welcome anywhere on the ship. Her lively personality, radiant smile, sense of humor, and the fact that she genuinely cared for the well being of each seaman, made her easily the most popular person on the ship. Woe be unto any man who mistreated her because he would be facing the vengeance of 200 adopted “older brothers” within the hour. That’s not a pretty thought on a ship with lots of out-of-the-way dark places.

  This time, however, the men pretended to be suddenly busy with something else—anything else—when she came on deck. They knew what she was carrying, and they knew why the instruments needed to be sharpened. They just preferred not thinking about it, that’s all.

  When the armorer was done, she came over to Walker who was standing by the larboard rail. “Mr. Walker, may I have a word with you?” she said rather sternly.

  “Of course, Susan. How are you doing?”

  She ignored his question. “Do you know what’s in this chest?”

  “Yes, I saw the armorer sharpening them. They’re surgical instruments... some rather nasty-looking saws and knives.”

  Susan nodded. “And do you know what they’re for?”

  Walker was getting a bit disturbed. Why is she talking to me like I am a child, he thought. “Yes, I do. If we get into a battle men are going to be hurt, some very seriously. Some will have to be operated on, legs removed and such.”

  “Uh-huh. And precisely who do you think will be wielding these instruments if and when that comes to pass?”

  It was at that point that the enormity of Hudson’s words came back to him: “...and you will also be the Ship’s Surgeon.”

  “Holy Mother of God,” he muttered. “Susan, you’re not suggesting that I... I mean, look, I have no training, no experience at all in... I couldn’t possibly...” Walker was unable to get out a coherent sentence.

  “Mr. Walker, like it or not, you are the Ship’s Surgeon. Now, I’ve been doing the sick calls and all the other work ever since you were appointed. I don’t mind that, but you’re going to have to start pulling your weight.”

  “No, you don’t understand, Susan. You see I am NOT a physician. All right, I know a little about anatomy, sure, but that doesn’t qualify me to take care of the sick and wounded, and it certainly doesn’t qualify me to perform operations.”

  Susan looked at Walker for a long moment, cocked her head and said: “Do I somehow look like I went to Oxford?”

  “No, but...”

  “But nothing. I was made assistant to a surgeon who hasn’t had two back-to-back days of sobriety since I’ve known him. Men were suffering, and in some cases dying, because of his incompetence. So, do you know what I did?”

  Walker shook his head dumbly.

  “I learned, Mr. Walker. I learned.” And, with that, she spun on her heels and proceeded below to the infirmary.

  * * *

  Walker’s routine changed once again. When Smith was off-watch, Walker was with him learning at least something about both the practical and theoretical aspects of seamanship. When Smith was on-watch, either he was with Susan Whitney learning the practical aspects of medical care, or he was reading the many medical textbooks his predecessor had brought aboard. In his private time, what little of it there was, he thought about his predicament.

  In many ways, the easiest thing to learn was the medical side. In 18th Century Britain, it was not required to have a college degree in order to practice medicine. Indeed, you could do so without any formal training whatsoever. Some of the universities, most notably Aberdeen, would award the M.D. degree upon payment of the appropriate fees. Attending classes was completely optional.

  So, Walker didn’t have far to go to become at least as good as some of those who were, on land, considered full-fledged practicing physicians. Helping also was the fact that the field of medicine itself was not terribly complicated.

  To the physician of the time, all disease was caused by one of three factors. The first possibility was that the patient was simply predisposed to the illness because of occupation or station in life. Everyone knew, for example, that Walker’s seamen were predisposed to pneumonia, scurvy, diarrhea, and dysentery. Why? Because they were seamen.

  The second possibility was that the patients symptoms were caused by “antecedent causes.” either miasma’s or contagions. “Miasma’s” were invisible disease causing particles that were produced by rotting animal or vegetable matter; and “contagions” were similar particles emitted from other people who had the disease.

  The third possibility was that there was a disturbance in one or more of the “six non-naturals.” These were air, quality of food and drink, sleep, exercise, and mental state.

  While all disease was considered the result of one of those three factors, the classification was not of much help in knowing what to do about the problem. Diseases were not classified and treated according to their causes. At that time, the symptom was the illness and no further inquiry need be made.

  Nevertheless, some standard procedures did evolve. For example, in the case of a fever, it was noticed that the patients usually had a rapid pulse. So, obviously, the first thing a competent physician would do is to reduce the “irritability of the heart” by inducing vomiting. This helped to rid the body of whatever it was that had upset its “balances.” Failing that, he might give the patient a tonic to strengthen the heart and arteries. This, in turn, would also speed the removal of whatever factors were causing the imbalance and thus the illness. In short, the chief task of the physician, Walker learned, was to restore the normal balances of the patients’ humors, the tensions within his circulatory system, and/or the body’s acid and base levels.

  Fortunately, seamen were, in general, a healthy lot. Over 50% of the illnesses reported by the men were colds, flu or pneumonia. Another 25% was accounted for if you added diarrhea and dysentery. He knew that with most of those diseases people would recover no matter what he did—or if he did nothing at all. Add to that syphilis, gonorrhea, and scurvy (about which neither he nor anyone else could do a thing), and these illnesses would account for about 80% of his “practice.” It was the other 20% that worried him. While colds and flu might account for 80% or his patients, injuries accounted for 80% of the deaths and disabilities, and that scared the wits out of Walker.

  Injuries were a fact of life aboard any sailing ship. You have several hundred men, working in a very confined space, under almost impossibly dangerous conditions; so, of course, you’re going to have accidents—lots of them. Fortunately, Susan Whitney and her wealth of practical experience came to the rescue.

  She showed him how to apply olive oil to burns to keep the air away and to keep the skin soft while healing; how to manipulate a loop of intestine back into the abdominal cavity and how to design a truss that would keep the hernia closed; how to cut and drain boils and abscesses; set broken bones and even how to pull teeth—at which Walker eventually got to be quite good.

  In return, he taught her everythi
ng he knew about anatomy, chemistry, and biology. Together they were forming a close-knit team, and Walker found himself very much enjoying the time he spent with her. He couldn’t quite explain it, but he found himself… comfortable... just being around her.

  However, there was one area that neither one of them wanted to bring up—combat injuries. Susan didn’t mention it because she knew first hand what happens to small men on big wooden ships when shot starts to fly. Walker didn’t want to bring the subject up because he didn’t want to think about the responsibility that would be in his hands when he had to root around for a musket ball lodged in a person’s chest, or when the first leg or arm had to come off. He honestly didn’t know if he could do it and told Susan as much.

  “Don’t worry,” she replied. “No one knows if they can do anything until the time comes and there are simply no other options.”

  Walker could see that some hideous scenes were replaying in her mind; so, he decided to say nothing and just put his arm around her.