The Midshipman Prince Page 9

  “Oh, yeah. Seven thousand males running around loose and the ladies are just waiting for a penniless lieutenant and a half-crazy surgeon to show up.”

  “Have a little faith, will you?”

  “Right.”

  The Richmond was anchored at the mouth of the York River while the Iris was a few miles away doing its mischief at the French anchorage in front of the Chesapeake. The boat ride was a short one; no more than a half hour from the ship to the Yorktown wharf area.

  Smith stepped out of the gig and on to the pier. “Let me say it one more time. You men are to meet us tomorrow, at precisely noon, at the mouth of Wormley Creek about three miles down river from here. Is that clear?” Smith looked around at the nodding heads. “Very well, then. Off you go.”

  And with that, the boat was dismissed. Smith and Walker glanced around briefly, strode down the long wooden walkway, and found themselves at the corner of Water and Read Street.

  “Do you have any idea where you’re headed?” Walker asked. They were walking up Read Street, a long winding incline, which reminded Walker how far out of shape he had gotten. It also re-introduced him to land-based humidity. By the time he had reached the top of the hill, both he and Smith were drenched in sweat.

  “More or less,” Smith replied. “I know that this way is the main part of town. Someone there’s bound to know where Cornwallis has... There! There’s Cornwallis’ headquarters, right there.” Smith was pointing off to the left at a large two-story brick building.

  “How do you know?”

  “Look at the garden behind it, and the steps to the front door. Have you ever seen so many officers in one place without a damn thing to do? That’s got to be headquarters.”

  The building they entered was easily the most imposing in town. It was a two-story mansion built with expensive glazed Flemish bond brickwork. The house was on a small hill. Behind it and one tier down was an expanse of lawn; and behind that and another tier down was a classic English garden. It was formerly the home of Thomas Nelson, Jr. He was a signer of the Declaration of Independence, a former Governor of Virginia and currently, as commander of the Virginia Militia, was several miles away planning to blow the hell out of his own house, if that was what was needed to defeat Cornwallis. Being a naval officer, Smith’s entry into the wide foyer of the mansion created a bit of a stir.

  “Lieutenant? I am Captain Wilcox, General Cornwallis’ Aide-de-Camp. May I help you?”

  “Yes, I am Lieutenant Smith and this is Mr. Walker. We’ve come from Admiral Hood. Is the General available?”

  “I’ll see, but I am sure he’ll want to see you right away. Please be seated.” Wilcox slipped out of the room and returned in a few minutes. “The General will see you now.”

  They were led into what must have once been a lovely parlor. It was now Cornwallis’ office with a desk at one end and a meeting table at the other that was currently covered with maps. Cornwallis was standing at a window looking out at the garden when the two entered. He turned and immediately got down to business.

  “Lieutenant, Mr. Walker, please be seated. Welcome to Yorktown.” Smith and Walker settled into two overstuffed chairs before the General’s desk and tried to ignore the sweat that had soaked their shirts. Cornwallis continued to stand at the window where the sunlight streaming in seemed to emphasize his size. At one time, Walker thought, he must have been a very powerfully built man. And he still was, but he had that portly look almost all large men develop in their latter years. The most striking thing about him, besides his receding hairline, were his eyes. They seemed to Walker to look so tired—like they had seen everything they wanted to see and more.

  “My aide tells me you bring news from Admiral Graves.”

  “No, sir. We come from Admiral Hood. It’s about Prince William Henry.”

  “Prince William Henry? What’s he got to do with anything? What about the fleet? Where’s the fleet?”

  “When we left, the two fleets were about 60 miles off shore continuing to parallel each other. As you know we had an action a few days ago, but it was... ah... inconclusive.”

  Smith was trying to be charitable. Walker was thinking, We got our tails kicked, as far as I am concerned.

  “Did Hood say when Graves would be returning?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what the hell’s going on? Graves has got to get back here and secure the mouth of the Chesapeake. Even if he can’t hold the French off forever, he can at least hold them long enough for me to get my troops across the York or the James River and off this God forsaken peninsula. We can’t stay here any longer.”

  Cornwallis seemed to catch himself and after a moment said: “I am sorry, lieutenant. That’s not your problem, of course.

  “You say you’re here concerning something about Prince William?”

  “Yes, sir.” Smith stood up and handed over the letter from Governor Clinton and Cornwallis read it immediately, his face darkening with each paragraph.

  “I see. I know Admiral Hood quite well. Did you know that my younger brother William is a naval officer? He’s captain of the Canada. I think he’s off with Admiral Rodney somewhere or another. Through him, I know Sam Hood and I know he wouldn’t have sent you if he didn’t think it was necessary—very necessary.”

  Cornwallis turned back to the window and seemed to drift off for a few moments. “All right,” he said coming back to the present. “How do you plan to get the prince back to your ship, lieutenant?”

  “Our ship, the HMS Richmond, is currently at the mouth of the York River. I’ve arranged to have us picked up tomorrow at noon where Wormley Creek enters the York. We selected an out-of-the-way pickup point because I want the prince’s departure to be as quiet as possible—at least until the Richmond is safely away.”

  “Good thinking,” Cornwallis said as he drew Smith and Walker over to the table with all the maps.

  “Just here is a house that was once owned by a loyalist planter by the name of James Moore. You gather up the prince and explain what’s going on. I’ll have his things packed, shipped over to Moore House and I’ll authorize horses for the three of you. You can go to Moore House, spend the night there, pick up his things, take them to Wormley Creek and... well... God speed.”

  “Thank you, sir. By chance do you know where the prince might be right now?” Smith asked.

  “Where he always is. You’ll find him a bit further down Main Street at the Swan Tavern. He only comes by here to sleep.

  “I think that will be all, gentlemen. If you need anything else, please let me know. If not, good luck with your mission.”

  Cornwallis shook hands with both men and the two quickly found themselves out on the street headed for The Swan.

  * * *

  The Swan Tavern was a complex of several buildings at the corner of Main and Ballard Streets. The main structure was a one-story white frame building with a large white swan hanging off of a post out front. It was a tavern but it also doubled as a small hotel. As you walked in, there was a hallway and a flight of stairs directly before you. As opposed to most open taverns, the main floor of the swan was divided into four rooms, each about 20 by 30 feet, each with a small fireplace built diagonally in a corner, and each contained several tables for eating or drinking.

  The hallway led to a short set of stairs in back, which led down to a door, which opened to the back yard. Along one side was a stairway leading to rooms upstairs in what Walker would have called an attic. One room was for the innkeeper and his wife, the others were for travelers; with often as many as eight or ten people sleeping in each. Behind the tavern were four other buildings: a kitchen, a smokehouse, a stable, and a privy, plus a well.

  Walker and Smith entered through the front door and stepped to one side as their eyes got used to the relative darkness of the tavern’s interior. Only two of the tavern’s eight tables were occupied. In the room to the left, by the door, two men were drinking and talking with each other. Walker would not have found tha
t remarkable except for two things. First, one of the men had a shock of the most outrageously red hair he had ever seen; and, second, the man with the red hair seemed genuinely startled to see Smith walk in. A raucous card game was in progress in the room to the right. One of the players, a lad of about 16, dressed in a naval midshipman’s uniform and quite obviously drunk, suddenly stood up almost tipping his chair over.

  “Trump! Trump! Trump! He yelled, slamming a card down with each exclamation. “That’ll be a Guinea each, gentleman,” he said sitting back down with evident satisfaction and reaching for a tankard. “And, thank you for your contribution to a poor midshipman’s sustenance.”

  “I think we’ve found our man,” Smith said as he and Walker walked over to the table and caught the prince’s eye.

  “Ah, and now the fleet’s in,” cried the prince. “That calls for another round to salute my brothers of the waves,” he said signaling a bar maid over.

  She stood before the prince’s chair smiling as he fondled her buttocks. “A round for my two friends here, my dear.

  “You two,” he gestured at two of the army officers who had been playing cards with him. “Get lost.” Then he gestured to Walker and Smith. “Gentlemen, please, take seats. What news have you?”

  Walker was looking at the prince like he had crawled out from under a rock, while Smith just sat and sputtered. Under normal circumstances, Smith was one of the most confident people Walker had ever known. Be that as it may, he was still a commoner and had a commoner’s tendency to come unglued in the presence of royalty.

  “Sir... I mean, your Highness... Ah... We’ve just come from Admiral Hood and... ah...” Smith was tripping over words like an adolescent boy trying to ask a girl to his first dance.

  “Hood? Sammy Hood? I thought Graves was in charge?” The bar maid had returned with a tray of wooden tankards which she was distributing. The prince had his hand underneath her dress this time.

  “Will that be all, my Lord?”

  “For the moment, yes; but who knows about later on.” She blushed, smiled, and moved to another room.

  Turning back to Smith and Walker: “Well, gentlemen, do we not drink a toast to our great fleet’s victory? I’ll bet Graves has those frogs running, or should I say hopping, halfway back to Brest by now.”

  “Well, sir, not exactly. You see, we’ve been tasked with...” Smith was stammering again.

  “Barney, you old snake!” The prince was waiving at a senior officer who had just walked in.” Walker wished he understood British army insignia better. He had no idea if the new officer was a general or a coronet. “Good to see you!”

  “Your highness, if I may continue. You see...”

  It was at that moment that the prince somehow managed to both burp and fart at the same time. At a college student party, Walker might have expected it; but coming from this overbearing charter member of the Lucky Birth Club, it was too much.

  Walker’s voice was low and conspiratorial. “Your Highness, what my friend here is trying to say is that there are some matters we need to discuss that are... state secrets, for your ears only, you understand,” he said as he furtively looked around him. “If we could perhaps adjourn to a more discreet area.”

  “Oh yes, I see. Quite. Quite.”

  “Perhaps out back, Your Highness.”

  Walker and Smith half supported the prince as they made their way down the brief stairs and out the back door.

  “So, what is...” the prince started to say.

  “Not here. Perhaps over there.” Walker led the prince to the back right corner of the yard where there was a slightly dilapidated livery stable with a large, very full, watering trough in front. When they got to the trough Walker turned the prince around so he was facing him. He then slipped his right leg behind the prince and flipped him over his hip into the trough.

  “Walker!!” Smith let out a horrified yell, but Walker was already on the prince. Despite Smith’s best efforts to drag him off, Walker grabbed the prince by his shirt collar, plunged his head under water, and then brought him up.

  “Now listen up, gumdrop! We’ve got some important business here so...” The prince’s head went under again, then back up. “So it’s time for you to sober-up.” Back under and up. “Is that reasonably clear to you?” The prince was coughing which mattered not a bit to Walker. Under and up again. “Are you starting to get the picture here?” He started to put him under again but the prince was shaking his head and grabbing Walker’s arm.

  “No. Please, that’s enough.”

  Walker threw him back in the water and stood up. Smith was wide-eyed and utterly paralyzed. And the prince? The prince started laughing.

  “Oh my,” he said as he got up out of the fetid trough. In between peals of laughter he said: “Oh my, you have no idea how bad that water tastes.”

  Climbing out of the trough the prince immediately grew serious and said: “All right, now what’s going on.”

  The prince was a slightly built lad with light brown hair, thin lips, and a pale almost feminine complexion. His blue eyes were set off by a natural rosy coloration in his cheeks, and he had an underlying air of confidence, almost cockiness, about him. All in all, he was a very handsome young man.

  “Perhaps we should start this again from the beginning. I am Lucas Walker, ship’s surgeon from the Richmond. This is her First Lieutenant, William Sidney Smith. We’ve just come from the fleet,” and Walker explained the situation and the very real danger that existed for the prince.

  “I see,” said the prince. “And you’re convinced that the frogs will again secure control of the Chesapeake?”

  “Yes, I am, and so is Admiral Hood. That’s why he sent us to get you the hell out of here. You can understand the international implications of your being captured or, worse, killed.”

  “So, what are we to do?”

  “From here we go to someplace called Moore House and spend the night. General Cornwallis will have your things packed and sent there. Tomorrow at noon, we’ll rendezvous with a boat and go out to the ship. From there, we head to New York to give you over to Governor Clinton. And from there, I don’t know; I suspect you’ll probably be shipped back to England.” The prince looked saddened by the news, especially the prospect of being sent back to England.

  “All right,” the prince sighed. “It’s getting late so we’d better get some horses.” The three men turned and started walking back to the tavern, the prince still sopping wet.

  “Oh yes, Walker, one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  The prince turned and caught Walker on the side of his chin with a roundhouse right that sent him staggering back several paces and almost knocked him down.

  “That’s for dunking me in the tank.”

  It was Walker’s turn to laugh. Maybe this guy isn’t so bad after all, he thought.

  * * *

  Horses were waiting for the three when they got back to Nelson House and they began their journey along the road headed southeast out of town. As they were getting on their horses, however, Walker looked back and saw the man with the red hair and his companion walking down Main Street. Walker got Smith’s attention.

  “Sidney, don’t do it obviously, but look behind me at those two men walking by the Custom’s House across the street,” he said. “Notice anything strange about them?”

  Smith casually glanced over Walker’s shoulder and quickly studied the two over.

  “They’re sailors, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, but how did you conclude that?”

  “Look at the way they walk or, I should say, waddle, with their feet wide apart as if expecting the ground to start rolling and pitching under them at any moment.”

  Walker was impressed with young Smith’s power of deduction.

  The prince quickly assumed the role of the affable host pointing out the uniforms of the various regiments as they headed out of town—the 17th Foot, 33rd Foot, the Royal Artillery and the two units composed of Ameri
can loyalists: the British Legion and the green-coated Queen’s Rangers. He saved special pride, however, for the Brigade of Guards and the Jagers.

  The Brigade of Guards was composed of men from three units that ordinarily served as bodyguards to the king—the Grenadier Guards, the Coldstream Guards, and the Scots Guards. The brigade that was presently at Yorktown consisted of 15 men chosen from each of the three companies. They were the elite of the elite, knew it, carried themselves that way, and backed it up with a reputation as utterly fearless fighters.

  Equal in reputation to the Brigade were the Jagers. Very early in the revolution, King George III realized he didn’t have enough troops to defeat the rebels and meet all his other military obligations around the world. However, in addition to being the King of England, he was also the King of the German Principality of Hanover; so, he drew troops from there and from neighboring kingdoms and sent them to America. In all, some 30,000 troops were raised in that way.