The Midshipman Prince Page 6

  The peace and tranquility of that moment was transformed by a call from one of the lookouts.

  “On deck, there!”

  “Deck, aye,” replied someone from the quarterdeck.

  “Sails dead ahead!”

  * * *

  As the Richmond sailed toward the line of ships, a frigate broke station on the outside of the battle line and headed toward her.

  “Message from the approaching ship, sir,” called the signal midshipman who was stationed with a telescope at the maintop, a platform about halfway up the main mast.

  “He’s sending an identification challenge: the four-flag at the maintop and seven at the foretop.”

  Rooney went to the binnacle box and pulled out a small book entitled: “Private Signals: American Station.” The first page held the “Table for Challenging and Distinguishing Friend from Enemy” which consisted of four vertical columns divided horizontally into 10 rows. In the top left box were the numbers 1, 11, 21, 31 and referred to those dates. The next box down held, 2, 12, 22; the next, 3, 13, 23, and so on until all ten boxes were filled and every date of the month was covered. At the top of the next column were the words: “The First Signal Made is—” and the column to the right of that was entitled: “Answered by a—.” The next two columns were titled: “Main topmast head” and “Fore Topmast head” respectively and each box contained a number.

  Rooney quickly found the correct date and ran his finger over to the correct reply.

  “Send them our ship number followed by eight on the foretop and seven at the main,” he called back with the challenge reply number for all British ships anywhere on the American Station that day. The midshipman got busy seeing that the proper signal flags were hoisted.

  “She’s replying with her ship number: 288.”

  Rooney leafed to the back of the book and said to the captain, “It’s the Santa Monica, sir.”

  “The Santa Monica. That’s one of Hood’s frigates. Mr. Rooney, steer for Admiral Graves’ flagship and have the signalman run up: ‘Enemy sighted’ and ‘Report to Follow.’”

  Twenty minutes later, the Richmond was drawing close to the biggest wooden object Walker had ever seen. Admiral Grave’s flagship was the H.M.S. London, a 98-gun ship of the line. She was 176 feet long, 46 feet wide and had three ominous looking gun decks that were operated by a ship’s company of over 800 officers and men.

  The London acknowledged the Richmond’s signal, replied with “Send Report,” and took in enough sail to allow the Richmond’s Second Lieutenant to be rowed over to deliver Hudson’s written report on what they had seen on the Chesapeake.

  A half-hour later, he was back with a handwritten note from Graves that said:

  Charles,

  Well done.

  You and your ship are hereby assigned to Adm. Hood’s division. He has only one frigate and could use your help.

  Regards.

  Graves

  And as Captain Hudson was wont to say: “There we have it.”

  The Richmond took her place in the line of battle, heading to the Chesapeake and a winner take all fight with the French.

  * * *

  Walker had to admit, it was the most spectacular sight he had ever seen—twenty-seven men of war, under full sail, in calm seas, on an absolutely gorgeous day. It was nothing short of breathtaking.

  The battle group was divided into three squadrons sailing in a single line, bow to stern. In the lead was the group under the command of Rear Admiral Samuel Hood. Six capital ships: the Alfred (74 guns), Belliqueux (64 guns), Invincible (74 guns), Monarch (74 guns), Centaur (74 guns), and Admiral Hood’s flagship the Barfleur (90 guns). In the middle was Rear Admiral Thomas Graves’ squadron consisting of: the America (64 guns), Resolution (74 guns), Biddeford (74 guns), Royal Oak (74 guns), Montage (74 guns), Europe (64 guns) and his flagship the London (98 guns). Bringing up the rear was the squadron lead by Rear Admiral Francis Drake with the: Terrible (74 guns), Ajax (74 guns), Aldila (74 guns), Intrepid (64 guns), Shrewsbury (74 guns) and the flagship Princessa (70 guns).

  In addition, there were the frigates, dashing out to scout ahead of the convoy or serving to relay signals. Despite the frigate’s speed and maneuverability, they really weren’t all that much help in a major battle. The Richmond, for example, carried 32 guns all of which were 12 pounders or smaller—that is, the shot they fired weighed 12 pounds or less. The London, on the other hand carried 98 guns all of which were 12 pounds or larger—including 28 32-pounders. For a frigate to enter the fray against the likes of these ships would be like a boy entering the ring to get between two professional prizefighters. He wouldn’t inflict much damage and could only get hurt. Still, despite all that, the frigates had their usefulness.

  One of the biggest problems during battle was communications. All the major navies had developed a system of signal flags. Various colored and patterned flags stood for letters and numbers, which, in turn, stood for phrases that could be looked up in a codebook.

  The problem with naval communication, however, was this. The ships normally went into battle in a long single file. If the admiral signaled a command with flags, the only ships that could clearly see them were the ones immediately in front or behind the flagship. The flag hoist would be blocked from other ships’ view by the sails of the ships in front of them.

  To solve this problem the fleets started placing frigates some distance away from the ships of the line but on a parallel course. From there, the frigates could see the flag hoists of all the ships in their squadron and repeat the signals so everyone else could see them. It was not a popular role for most frigate captains, but everyone knew it had to be done.

  This was the role of the H.M.S. Richmond.

  * * *

  The evening watch had just been set when Walker retired to his quarters. Sleep, however, did not come easy, for he had far too much on his mind—far too many things he had to sort out.

  He was an American—a citizen of the United States, no matter what Captain Hudson thought of that claim—and there was no force on earth that could cause him to take-up arms against his countrymen.

  Yet, in the next few days, in all likelihood, he would be carried into battle aboard this ship against the French and possibly directly against the Americans. Would I be taking up arms against my country if in the eyes of the world my country doesn’t really exist yet, he thought. Am I bound to a flag that has yet to be created in final form, let alone recognized?

  On the other hand, what if Sidney or Susan was injured or about to be killed? Could I possibly NOT do something to help them? What if it meant killing one of my own countrymen? What would I do if I had to defend my own life?

  On the other, other hand...

  Sleep was indeed hard for Walker to come by that night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE first indication that today would be “the day” came when the HMS Solebay came streaming back over the horizon, racing for the fleet. As a fast frigate, part of Admiral Graves’ squadron, she was tasked with scouting ahead, and she was now returning flying the signal flags for “Enemy Fleet in the Southwest.” It was 9:30 in the morning of September 5, 1781.

  By 10:00 AM, the British ships were running southwest by west and Cape Henry was some six leagues (about 18 miles) west by south of them. At 10:30, Grave’s flagship sent up the signal “Prepare for Action” followed at 11:00 by “Form line of battle ahead” and “two cables separation” (about a quarter mile).

  “By God, we’ve got ‘em,” Captain Hudson murmured as he looked anxiously through his telescope. Then, much louder: “We’ve got them, Rooney! Have a look,” and he handed the brass instrument over to his sailing master. Rooney quickly opened it out to the small mark indicating his particular focal length and snapped it up to his eye.

  What he saw caused him to smile. The French fleet was clearly visible, still at anchor, and strung out across the entrance to the Chesapeake from Cape Henry to the middle ground. The wind was behind the British
and the weather was fair. Even more importantly, the French were taken by surprise. Over 90 officers and 1800 men were either ashore or ferrying materials back and forth to the beach.

  “We do indeed, sir,” replied Rooney. “We’ve still got a ways to go, but they’ll never get that herd of cattle underway in time to beat us to the Cape Henry choke point. The tides going in, the wind’s against them... they’ll have to tack like mad to get out and by then we’ll be in position to pick-off each one as she emerges.”

  “Exactly! Summon the men to quarters. And place us in our communications relay position two cables off the beam of the Barfleur. And while you’re at it, I’d admire if we took some speed off so we don’t outrun our station. You can start by getting those stuns’ls off her.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Rooney spun around, walked to the quarterdeck rail, and began exercising his not inconsiderable lung power. “All hands, general quarters. General quarters!” The bosun and his mates began trilling on the whistles they always wore around their necks, and took up the cry. It was because of those whistles and their shrill sound that the bosun’s mates were called “Spithead Nightingales.”

  “Starboard watch, stand by to take in stuns’ls,” Rooney cried next.

  The maneuver was a simple one. They were going to take in the studdingsails, an extra set of sails that hung off long booms on both sides of the ship to give it extra speed. The orders came from Rooney like a Gregorian chant, only at five times the volume.

  “Away aloft... Settle the halyards... Haul out the downhauls... Haul taut... Come on there, damn your eyes, I said haul TAUT on that line... That’s the way... Lower away, men... Lower away... Haul down...” And with that sequence, the starboard sails were on deck, being subdued, and folded by other seamen before the wind could get to them. The quartermaster quietly reminded the helmsmen to mind the rudder. With one stuns’l in and the other out, the ship was going to try to skew around.

  The larboard sails quickly followed, which left the booms from which the studdingsails, had hung still sticking out on either side of the ship. They were the next to go.

  “All right, starboard watch, stand by to rig in the booms.... Rig in... Aft lower boom... Top up... Now, ease away the fore guy and haul aft...”

  The ritual continued until both the starboard and larboard stuns’ls were in, and Rooney could finally bellow: “Starboard watch, carry on at general quarters.”

  It was a big ballet and Rooney was the chorus master calling out the steps. No one hurried. No one looked lost. Everyone knew exactly where and when they needed to be on stage and exactly what they would do when they got there. They had done it a hundred times before.

  During the middle of all this activity, Captain Hudson waved Smith over to his side.

  “Mr. Smith I want you to gather our three keenest lookouts. Give each a glass and assign each to watch a different squadron for signals. How well do you know the tactical signal book?”

  “I believe I have it memorized, sir. At least I should by now.”

  “Well, keep it with you anyway.”

  Hudson reached into a canvas bag that was riddled with brass grommets holding holes open. In the bottom of the bag, a heavy lead weight was sewn in place. This bag contained the ship’s codebooks. If the Richmond were ever taken—if it even looked like the Richmond might be taken—that bag, along with the codebooks, was to be tossed over the side. Failure to do so was simply the end of your career and every captain in the Royal Navy knew it.

  Hudson handed one copy of the codebook to Smith. “I am placing you in charge of the communications lookouts and the quartermasters who will be operating the signal flags. You will repeat to the other ships every signal you see, and I want you personally to keep me informed of every signal that comes in. Understood?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Walker heard the commotion and came up on deck. Looking around, he knew immediately what was happening and that he would probably be ordered below if he made himself conspicuous. The action was taking place to starboard so Hudson and Rooney were on the starboard side of the quarterdeck one level above him. Walker quietly slid along the larboard side of the main deck and positioned himself along the rail where he could see and hear almost everything, but not be easily seen himself.

  The ship was a study in casual nervousness. The men were at their stations, the guns had been rolled back from the gun ports and all the rammers, swabs and other paraphernalia were out of their storage lockers and in the hands of seamen. Shot was stacked in pyramids inside special holding trays next to the guns, tubs of water were at hand for swabbing out the guns after each firing, slow matches were lit and smoldering over the water tubs for use in firing the great beasts. The powder monkeys were standing by amidships with their first charge of powder in boxes between their feet. The decks all had a layer of sand and water spread on them—to provide the men’s feet with extra traction, said some—to stop any spilled powder from igniting, said others—to soak up the blood, said still others. The truth was that all three reasons were correct.

  It’s funny, Walker thought. The only people who don’t seem nervous are the powder monkeys. These boys, 10-12 years old, simply had no idea what was coming. Everyone else however...

  Walker looked around to see men studiously inspecting the roundness of shot, others testing over and over the sharpness of the cutlasses they were issued, others were lounging in various positions trying to make jokes with their shipmates, and still others sat on hatch combings or stood by the rails staring out to sea, quiet, lost in thought.

  Across from him on the upper deck catwalk Sidney Smith looked like a hen who knows the fox is somewhere, but is not quite sure where. He paced forward, then aft, looked up at the Richmond’s signal hoists, then looked through his telescope to the flagships, then looked in his signal book, paced some more, looked at the signal hoists again, and so on. He was already a wreck and the battle hadn’t even started.

  Up on the quarterdeck Captain Hudson was the picture of casual indifference, standing on the starboard quarterdeck rail with his hands behind his back. He looked like he was out for a pleasure boat ride on the Thames. But then, he had to look that way. Nothing would cause the men to come undone quicker than a captain who showed worry or, God forbid, panic.

  Amidships on the quarterdeck, Rooney reflected the same casual indifference as the captain. Fortunately, as it was nearing noon, he had something to do in organizing the midshipmen and master’s mates to take the day’s noon position. Walker sensed that none of them had ever been happier to be looking through a sextant rather than looking out at the French fleet.

  By noon, the British fleet had sorted itself into the proper order and the frigates had all come back in and positioned themselves to serve their signal relay duties. The British battle line was divided into three divisions. The leading division, called the van, was commanded by Admiral Hood and consisted of six ships, plus the frigates Richmond and Santa Monica. Next in line was the center division commanded by Admiral Graves, who also had overall command, and his seven ships, including the massive 98-gun flagship, the London. Bringing up the rear was Admiral Drake’s division with his six ships.

  At 1:00 Smith sang out, “Signals from flag, sir. The signal for ‘Line ahead’ has been taken down. They’ve just run up...” Smith quickly consulted his codebook. “‘To all ships,’ ‘Form an east-west line,’ ‘Heading West by South,’ and ‘One cable separation.’” Graves had ordered the line to turn and head toward Cape Henry where he knew the French would have to come out.

  “What do you think, Mr. Rooney? Will the weather hold?”

  Rooney looked skyward and gave his usual noncommittal sniff when adjudging the weather. “It’ll get a bit squally, sir, but nothing that’ll affect us.” He held up the eyepiece to his telescope again. “What I am more worried about is the fact the tide is ebbing and the French are finally getting underway.”

  Within five seconds, every officer with a telescope had it to his
eye to confirm Rooney’s observation. Within one minute, word of the French getting underway had transferred itself from the quarterdeck to the fo’c’sle at the other end of the ship. Within five minutes, every person aboard the ship from the mainmast lookout, to the man checking the water level in the bilge knew of it.

  “It looks like we’ll have the honor today,” Hudson said to Rooney. “Obviously Graves wants to pin each French ship between us and the land as they come out. They’ll have to run a gauntlet of our ships as they exit the Cape Henry gap and they’ll bloody-well run into our division first. It will be glorious, Mr. Rooney. Glorious!”

  The tension on the ship rose yet again as everyone who could steal a glance over the bulwark at the French, did. On the opposite side of the bay, the French were making a mess of it. Twenty-four major ships were trying to get underway at the same time. About a third were trying to rendezvous with their squadron leaders, another third were trying to force their way out any way they could, and the final third simply looked lost. The Pluton was about to run her jib booms into the Marseillais, who had just cut off the St. Esprit, who shouldn’t have been anywhere near either of them. It was like that all over the bay.