The Midshipman Prince Read online

  By 2:00, the French had sorted themselves out and they came pouring through the Cape Henry Gap.

  “Signals from flag, sir. ‘To all ships:’ ‘Execute on my command,’ ‘Wear ships on larboard tack.’ ‘Form line ahead,’ ‘Heading east.’”

  This time Captain Hudson, watching the signal flags himself, had decoded the message before Smith. “No, it can’t be.”

  Rooney was more practical. “All hands man the braces. Standby to wear ship. Helm standby to come four points to larboard.” Rooney was responsible for the navigation of the ship and didn’t have time to question the order. He had to make sure that the Richmond could make the turn and still keep perfect station on the Barfleur.

  Upon his command, all British ships were to make a simultaneous 180 degree left turn and, yet again, form into a single file line, only this time heading due east. This would place the British line parallel to the French line and headed in the same direction. He then, amazingly, ordered his entire fleet to back their sails and come to a stop. In short, Graves was letting the French come out of Cape Henry without challenge.

  It only took a few minutes for word of this maneuver to reach all hands aboard the Richmond. The response was predictable with expressions of disgust emanating in four known and one unidentifiable language. The British would not challenge the French when and where the French were the weakest. They would wait until the French had emerged and formed themselves up, and then fight them.

  Worse, from the standpoint of Captain Hudson, his division was no longer in the lead. When it did its “about face” the British line had reversed itself so that now Admiral Drake’s division was in the van, Admiral Graves’ division still in the center, and Admiral Hood’s division, along with the Richmond, in the rear.

  For the next two hours the British and French fleets ran parallel to each other with the British fleet having the weather gage. In other words, the British ships were up-wind of the French, which gave the British a major advantage. By having the weather gage, the British could attack at the time of their choosing and have the wind at their back. If the French wanted to attack first, they would have to sail against the wind to do so. The ball was clearly in the British court.

  At 2:30 Graves had decided the British line was stable in its new formation and ordered the Shrewsbury, the lead ship in the formation, to “Lead the formation more to starboard.” He repeated the command at 3:17 and again at 3:34. The problem, however, was that the wind that was blowing from off the British larboard beam was also pushing the French ships away from them.

  Finally, Graves had had enough. It was after 4:00 and they would be running out of daylight soon. He had to attack now or postpone the attack until tomorrow—and who knew if they would even be in contact with the French in the morning.

  The same alternatives had occurred to the men of the Richmond but the betting heavily favored the notion that no fight would be happening this day. That was not necessarily a good thing from a morale standpoint. The men were willing and, more importantly, ready to fight. They had resigned themselves to that fact and were mentally prepared for what was to come—at least as prepared as one could be. To have to stand-down from that readiness would make it that much harder to achieve again the following day. Besides, the men also knew that the two fleets would lose visual contact with each other when night came. In the dark of night, either fleet could lose the other just by sailing off in a slightly different direction.

  “Two signals from the flag, sir. To all ships. ‘Maintain line ahead,’ and ‘Bear down and engage,’” Smith shouted.

  Hudson screamed: “Smith, damn your eyes, pay attention to what you’re doing sir or, I swear by God Almighty, I’ll have you busted to midshipman before the day is out.”

  Hudson’s face was red with fury while the blood seemed to have drained completely from Smiths.

  “Those are two completely contradictory orders, damn you,” Hudson continued. “‘Line ahead’ means the ships must remain in single file, bow to stern; and ‘Bear down and engage’ means the ships are to break ranks and engage their opposite in battle. You can’t have both at the same time ‘midshipman’ Smith.”

  Smith’s hands were shaking, but he retained enough presence of mind to snap the telescope up to his eyes and look again.

  “I am sorry, sir; but those are the flags that are flying.”

  “By God, he’s right, sir,” chimed in Rooney looking through his telescope. “Both flags are flying at the same time.”

  “Then it’s a signal mistake. Does it look like they’re about to correct it?”

  “No, sir. I can see the flag hoist,” Rooney replied. “I can even see two officers standing in the vicinity; but no one’s moving to change anything.”

  “Then what’s he doing?” Hudson muttered. “What in God’s name is he DOING?”

  In the British rules of engagement, it was called a “Lashing Approach.” Drake would lead the line to starboard, approach the French from an oblique angle to form a “V” with the converging lines, and make first contact. This was to be followed shortly afterwards by the center division (Graves) who would open fire on the French center division, followed shortly thereafter by the rear division (Hood) who would arrive and do the same to the French rear division.

  The problem was that the maneuver was designed for two lines of ships that were running in perfect lockstep order. The British had such a line but the French did not. Whether by a fluke of wind and sea, brilliant tactical planning or bad seamanship, the French line was staggered. The van was the closest to the British, the center was offset about a half mile farther away, and the French rear division was a half-mile beyond that. In order for the British center, and especially the rear division, to reach the French more or less together, they would have to really crack on some sail. That was what Graves was trying to convey with those two signals. He was saying: “Let’s keep our line ahead formation, but center and rear... you’re going to have to aggressively close with the enemy because your counterparts are each so much farther away.” But there was no signal in the British codebook to communicate that intent. So, he ran up both “Maintain line ahead,” and “(Aggressively) Engage the enemy” in hopes the squadrons would figure it out.

  They did not.

  When everyone saw the contradictory signals, the British line broke into chaos. Admiral Drake, in the lead division interpreted the flags as: he should close with the French and begin the battle. Admiral Hood, in the rear division, knew that according to British rules of engagement the “Line ahead” signal superseded all others, so his division remained doggedly in line, in the rear, and never fired a serious shot. The center division was split. The lead ships, the Europe and the Montagu headed off after Drake’s ships to join in the fight. The middle two ships, the powerful Royal Oak and the London, decided to bombard the French from afar while slowly closing. And the rear ships in the division, the Bedford, Resolution and America fired a few long-range shots but stayed in line ahead.

  Walker could contain himself no longer. He worked his way over to the main mast ratlines and climbed part way up so he could have a clear view of what was happening. What he saw took his breath away. The six ships in Drake’s van had closed to within 40 or 50 yards of the French—point blank range for both sides—and simply started slamming shot into each other.

  Walker knew that the British approach to naval warfare was to fire solid shot into the other ship’s hull. When the balls penetrated, they would shower the French personnel on the other side with wooden splinters, very much like the shrapnel that would be used in future wars. The theory was that you couldn’t fight if you had no men to fight with. The French approach was different. The lower gun decks were tasked with firing round shot at point blank range, like the British and for the same reasons. In addition, the upper gun decks would fire bar-shot at the rigging and masts of the British ships. Bar-shot consisted of two half cannonballs joined by an iron bar. When it came out of the barrel centrifugal force wou
ld cause the bar-shot to spin. This whirling object would then rip through the British rigging, sails, and masts, tearing them apart. The theory? You can’t fight if you have no masts or sails with which to control the ship.

  Two different philosophies of warfare were being brought to the ultimate test before Walker’s eyes. 517 guns were blasting away at “pistol shot” range—225 on the starboard sides of the six British ships and 292 on the larboard sides of the eight French. By way of comparison, while this battle was occurring General Cornwallis was facing a total of 100 American guns spread across the whole Yorktown peninsula—and this was virtually every cannon the American military owned! At sea, 517 naval guns were in action and the center and rear divisions of both fleets had yet to commit themselves!

  Within minutes, the hulls of the ships on both sides were obscured from Walker’s view by gun smoke. All that could be seen were mastheads sticking out above the smoke clouds and flashes coming from within them. Walker would forever remember the flashes. Terrible flashes. Two here. One there. Then three in a ragged volley. They followed each other in rapid succession like random lightning flashes in a deranged storm cloud, followed a few seconds later by the driving “boom” of their report.

  Making it worse, Walker could imagine what those flashes and bangs meant. With this flash, a British seaman would fall to the deck with a 12-inch splinter sticking out of his left eye. With that boom, a French seaman would have his right arm torn off by a round shot. With another flash, a British man would never see his children. Boom again and two French brothers would die.

  FLASH-BOOM! FLASH-BOOM! FLASH... BOOM! Walker could not stand to watch it, nor could he take his eyes off it. It was like watching gods hurling lightning bolts at each other.

  The two ships that had broken off from Grave’s center division had now arrived on the scene and the intensity of the battle increased in fury and volume as the other French ships also joined in. To those who were in the middle of it, it was an unending stream of horror

  It continued like that for over an hour before Graves finally lowered the “line ahead” signal leaving just the “Bear down and engage.” Unfortunately, it was too little, too late.

  The Shrewsbury reeled out of the battle in shreds. Her main topmast was tilted at a crazy angle. She had so much rigging blown away that what was left of her sails looked like laundry being hung out to dry. Her starboard side, the side facing the French, was punctured by so many shot holes that it was hard to make out which holes were gun ports and which were gaps caused by the French gun fire.

  The next ship in line, the Intrepid, wasn’t in much better shape. Her rigging too was in ruin; in addition, her rudder was torn to pieces. In short, the Intrepid was out of control and being blown by the prevailing breeze toward the French fleet where she would almost certainly be taken captive.

  The bow sprit on the Montagu had been shot away, which caused her main topmast to snap and hang over the side acting like a sea anchor, spinning her around so she was facing in the wrong direction. The Princessa was about to lose her main topmast; and the Ajax and Terrible were listing at crazy angles, a sure sign that they were taking on water rather badly.

  “Another signal from the flag, sir. It’s our number and says, “Assist...” Smith paused while he leafed through the back of the signal book where it showed every ship in the Royal Navy and their identification numbers. “Assist Shrewsbury, it says.”

  “Very well,” Captain Hudson replied. “Mr. Smith acknowledge the signal. Mr. Rooney, get us there.” Rooney started barking orders to the sail handlers and the Richmond leaped off station like a greyhound being taken off a leash.

  “Mr. Smith, make signal to the Shrewsbury. “Can we assist?”

  Almost immediately, the Shrewsbury sent back: “Need medical help.”

  Captain Hudson passed the word for Walker and Susan Whitney and was surprised to see Walker already on the main deck watching him. He and Susan arrived on the quarterdeck just as Rooney pulled the ship up next to the Shrewsbury, backed sails, and stopped her exactly where he wanted her to be. It was an amazing feat of seamanship that would have drawn openmouthed admiration from anyone who saw it, were not those same people fighting to keep their ship, and by extension themselves, alive.

  “Walker, the Shrewsbury needs medical help. You and Miss Whitney, gather together whatever you need and off you go.”

  “Captain, I am not a physician.”

  “I am well aware of that, sir; indeed, you’ve made that fact abundantly clear on several occasions. But that ship over there needs our help and you, God help us, are the best we have to send. Now, get your buttocks into that boat they are putting over the side, or I will...

  “Yes, sir. Sorry sir,” Susan chimed in while literally dragging Walker away from the captain and down the ladder to the main deck.

  “Walker, would you please just shut-up for once. The captain has no choice but to send us. No choice, do you understand?”

  “But...”

  “I said, just shut-up. The Shrewsbury is a 74-gun ship with over 600 people on board. They are going to have a physician and a surgeon on board, possibly two surgeons—real ones—plus a host of surgeon’s mates. They need help. All right, fine. We go over, give them a hand here and there, and come back in a couple of hours. All right? Now, just relax.”

  * * *

  He and Whitney arrived on the Shrewsbury to a scene of total carnage. On the main deck, just before the fo’c’sle, bodies were piled up like firewood, presumably to get them out of the way. Some were missing arms or legs, some had huge wood splinters sticking out of them at odd angles, and others did not seem to have anything wrong with them at all. They were just dead.

  Walker turned to see a number of starboard guns that had been blown off their carriages by direct hits, their gun crews lying on deck as if still hoping to service the gun in death as in life. He had special trouble taking his eyes off one man who had been crushed when an exploding gun landed on top of him. It was obvious that the gun had been red hot from firing and the man had not died immediately. He felt gorge forming in his throat and looked away.

  Numerous holes had been blown in the Shrewsbury’s side—holes of random size and placement, and so many that it reminded Walker of a large slab of Swiss cheese. When he looked up, he could see the main topmast had broken off and was about to fall either on deck or overboard, depending on how far over the ship was listing when it finally let go. Every sail on the ship was in tatters with ball and grapeshot holes in them. Lines and shrouds of all kinds were parted and flapping in the breeze so that Walker had no idea what was still holding the fore and main masts up. Beneath his feet was the sand and water mixture they always put down on deck before battle, and Walker wondered where on earth the Shrewsbury had gotten all that red sand to mix in with the standard brown. He then realized it was not red sand.

  Walker had seen blood and bodies before, but nothing like this—nothing even remotely of this size or savagery. He thought he was numb by the time he and Susan had been led down to the orlop deck to the cockpit where the surgeons had set up what passed for a hospital.

  Arriving in the cockpit was like experiencing a scene from Dante’s Inferno. His eyes had not adjusted to the dark of the lower deck so initially the only senses that were truly working were his senses of smell and hearing. His nose revealed the odor of rum mixed with the coppery smell of blood. His hearing, however, revealed a series of low moaning sounds as if he were in a darkened pen with a small herd of cattle.

  “Make a hole, there. Come on, damn you. Get out of the way. Your turn’ll come.” Walker looked up and saw a young seaman crossing the room, his front covered in blood and carrying an arm that had just been detached from some hapless soul.

  In the center of the room, several large trunks had been pushed together to form an operating table. A surgeon was hunched over it, busy sewing up the former owner of the limb he had just seen being carried away. Bodies were strewn all over the place, some qui
et, some moaning softly, and some vigorously calling for help.

  Closest to Walker was a man whose right thigh had been torn off close to the pelvis by a round shot and his right arm was shot to pieces. The stump of the thigh presented Walker with a large slab of mangled flesh to view. Most amazing of all was that the man was very much alive, awake, and coherent. He was waving his shredded arm in the air and calling out to anyone and everyone to help him. No one would, of course. The man was as good as dead, as there was nothing that could be done for injuries that severe. The surgeon’s mates were needed to help those who had at least the possibility of living.

  As soon as the stricken men saw Walker entering the room he was assaulted on all sides by fresh melancholy cries for assistance by the wounded and dying, coupled with pitiful moans and wailing from men convulsed with fear, pain and despair. Hands, sometimes only stumps, reached out to him. He felt himself start to panic, turned toward the cockpit hatchway, took a step, tripped over a body, and fell to his knees. He looked down to see a man who had been near a powder charge that had gone off prematurely. His clothes were in tatters and his face looked like a steak that had been left too long on the grill. It was more—WAY more—than Walker could bear and to his horror he threw-up all over the man. Curiously, the man didn’t say a word. He just briefly looked at him as if to say: “That’s all right, mate, nothing can happen to me now that’s worse than what’s already been done,” and continued to stare off into the distance calmly awaiting death.