The Midshipman Prince (19 page)

      
“Oh, he was a rogue, all right. Flashing black eyes. Childlike smile. So handsome, he was; and I was so in love. My mother was crushed, of course, but I didn’t care. She eventually forgave me, but I was so stupid.

      
“Anyway, I ran off with him. We never did get properly married. That’s why I reverted back to my maiden name, Whitney, after he died.”

      
“What happened to him?”

      
“We got into a dustup with a French frigate off Charleston. The Frenchie had surrendered but apparently, someone on the lower deck hadn’t gotten the word. Out of the blue, a gun went off back aft. The ball came crashing through our bulwark and caught my husband square in the back. Killed him instantly.

      
“I was terrified that Captain Hudson would put me off the ship as soon as we got back to England, so I tried to make myself as useful as possible. Unfortunately—or fortunately—our ship’s surgeon was a drunk and I was able to become useful as a surgeon’s mate.

      
“That’s where I was when the
Richmond
was captured and we were put ashore.”

      
It was a sobering story for Hanover to hear and it put him deep in thought for the next few hours.

      
The cart rambled on. It seemed like each turn in the road brought some fresh new experience. They were in a wild country, and neither Whitney, Smith, nor Hanover was quite prepared for it.

      
The Brits in the group were used to the ordered farms and fields of England, and to seeing crops planted in almost every clearing with stone walls or hedges bordering them. What they found here were random clearings over-run with weeds, yet containing some of the richest soil they had ever seen—soil that had never felt a plow.

      
By early afternoon they entered a huge virgin forest, something again none of them had ever seen, and again they were in awe. Yellow pine, white oak, walnut, and chestnut trees grew together so thick in places, that sunlight never reached the ground. They saw trees over 90 feet tall with branches spreading almost as wide, tree trunks 16 feet in diameter with limbs thick as a mans’ waist, branches that did not begin to reach out until they were 20 feet or more in the air.
 

      
Even the calls of the birds were different, placing mystery, upon wonder, upon majesty. But the biggest surprise came just before getting to Gloucestertown.

      
Susan was still sitting next to Hanover and Walker and Smith were in the back. The forest eventually ended and, while cresting a rise, Walker felt the wagon stop and heard Susan gasp, “My God.”

      
Walker rolled to one side, peered over the wagon edge, and saw... daffodils. Not just dozens or even hundreds, but daffodils stretching as far as the eye could see. The land was covered in a sea of yellow flowers that waved and rippled like the ocean in obedience to the wind.

      
By mid-afternoon they reached the Town of Gloucester. By the standards of Richmond, Baltimore or even Yorktown, Gloucestertown wasn’t much; but it
was
different. Instead of having a square grid of streets running off of a town square, the Gloucester town “square” was an oval with a three foot high brick wall running around it’s perimeter.

      
To the north and outside of the circle was the Gloucester Courthouse. Inside the oval were several houses and a debtor’s prison. To the south and across the street there was, of course, a tavern. They headed to the latter.

      
The tavern had been built eleven years earlier where it was originally known as John New’s Ordinary. Later it was renamed the Botetourt Building, after an early governor of Virginia; but the locals just called it the “Courthouse Tavern.” It was a large two-story brick building, with a roofed porch that ran the entire length of the front—some 100 feet. Unlike most wooden colonial porch floors, this one was made of brick laid in a parquet pattern that Walker found fascinating, and it boasted eight wooden pillars that held up a stately porch roof.
 

      
Inside was the usual eating and drinking area and hearth, and upstairs were 12 rooms that were let out to travelers. But the thing that really made the Courthouse Tavern unique was a back room complete with an honest-to-God, made in London, imported at who knows what expense, billiard table. Hanover and Smith were beside themselves at the prospect of playing a few gentlemanly games.

      
They checked in with the three men in one room and Susan having one whole luxurious room to herself. After Smith got the horse and cart put away, they met downstairs. A pitcher of ale sat in the middle of the table with four mugs in front of four dour faces.

      
“Well, you’re probably wondering why I gathered you here.” Walker quipped.

      
“Huh... What?”

      
“Never mind. I guess we’d better figure out what we’re going to do next, you think?”

      
“Quite,” Hanover agreed.

      
Smith took the lead. “Well, so far I think we’ve done pretty well. At least we’re no longer in danger of being swept up in Cornwallis’ defeat.

      
“All right, let’s review it again. We know we want to get to New York. We can do that either by land or by sea; but I agree, we should rule out trying to get there overland. The tide of the war has clearly turned, so finding American Tory supporters to help us along the way might be difficult if not impossible.”

      
Everyone seemed to agree. At least, no one objected to Smith’s premise.

      
“So,” Smith continued, “that leaves the sea. All we need to do is beg, borrow or steal a ship, evade several dozen French Men-o-War at the Chesapeake entrance, traverse a few shoals, and head up the coast to New York without being detected by any other ships be they French, American, or privateer.

      
“Nothing to it!”

      
“Hear, him! Hear him!” They chanted while lifting their mugs. So much had already happened to them, in such a short period, that all new problems began to look slightly ludicrous.

      
When they had settled down again, Walker spoke for all of them. “How
are
we going to do that, anyway?”

* * *

      
Two days went by with little progress. A few miles from Gloucester, the Ware River ran into Mobjack Bay, an arm of the Chesapeake. At the southerly entrance to the bay was Drum point; and on Drum Point was a small fishing village called Bailey’s Wharf. Smith managed to obtain some nautical charts on a quick trip there. The other three found out nothing more than if they wanted to secure a ship or a boat, their best bet was to cross over to the eastern shore. There were a lot more ship building towns over there and maybe something could be arranged.

      
Gloucester was typical of most colonial cities or towns. The first thing you notice about the place is the aroma—primarily that of rotting garbage. Because formal garbage collection was unknown, everything from rotten food to feces was simply tossed out into the streets or strewn about individual yards. Along with the garbage came clouds of flies and armies of rats. To make matters worse, pigs ran wild through the streets feeding on the garbage and leaving droppings that mixed with the horse manure to produce yet another category of offensive odor.

      
Walker was a Boston “city boy” so he thought he knew about city noise. It was nothing compared to this. From dawn to dusk, squealing animals, clattering horses, squeaking wagons, blacksmith hammers, screaming children and besotted drunks assailed him from all directions.

      
It was the afternoon of their third day in town when something happened that was to unravel all their plans; and the strange thing was that only Susan saw it occur and she didn’t say anything.

      
They were sitting at their usual table when a short, bowlegged, ex-seaman by the name of Nathan Taft came in to the tavern and took a seat by the door. He ordered a pint of what was billed as “Genuine German Lager.” Before his order could even arrive, he spotted the foursome, gulped a few times like a fish freshly pulled from a pond, and shot out the door. Susan briefly saw him and thought she recognized him, but it all happened so quickly she wasn’t sure. A half-hour later the Gloucester Sheriff and two deputies arrived and walked over to the table which held the four travelers.

      
“Good evening gentlemen,” he tipped his hat to Susan, “and Lady. I am Jonathan Chase the Sheriff of Gloucester County. These are my deputies, he said pointing to the two somewhat bedraggled but well armed men. And you are?

      
Smith answered. “I am Sidney Smith and this is my cousin Bill,” he said, nodding at Hanover who smiled politely at the Sheriff. Across the table is a good friend of ours, Lucas Walker and his... ah... wife, Susan.”

      
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you here in Gloucestertown before.”

      
“That’s right. We’re just passing through.”

      
“May I see your letters, please?”

      
Hanover and Whitney had no idea what he was talking about. Smith and Walker, however, knew exactly what he meant. Smith continued to speak for the group.

      
“I am sorry Sheriff, but we’re just in town for a few days and we have no letters of introduction from anyone here.”

      
“You’ve been in town more than three days, haven’t you?”

      
“Yes.”

      
“Then I’ll need to see your letters. Anyone staying in Gloucester for more than three days must have a letter of introduction either from a local resident or from someone known to us outside of the town. If you don’t have them, then you’re in violation of the law.”

      
“Oh come, Sheriff,” Smith began. “I know a lot of communities had that law in the old days, but no one enforces it anymore.”

      
“I’ll be the judge of what gets enforced and what doesn’t around here,” the sheriff snapped. “Besides, we’ve had a lot of trouble with strollers lately and I understand you folks have been asking a lot of strange questions.

      
“Now, all of you, raise your right hands.”

      
Everyone complied as if they were taking an oath, while the Sheriff looked closely at each palm.

      
“All right. You gentlemen are going to have to come with me.” With that, the sheriff’s deputies moved their hands closer to the pistols they carried in their belts and fanned out behind the foursome. “I am afraid we don’t have accommodations for the lady so you can stay here. I don’t suppose you’ll go far with your husband in ‘the house,’ though.”

* * *

      
The town jail wasn’t really a jail in any true sense of the word. It was a small, one-story, brick building that consisted of a single square room, 20 feet on a side with a barred window in front and one in back providing the only light. The interior walls and ceiling were 1 ¼ inch thick planks laid horizontally and whitewashed. The studs were intentionally placed very close together and laid flush against the bare brick wall. The point of this wood barrier was to keep the prisoners from picking away at the mortar, removing bricks and, making an escape.

      
The room had a small fireplace, two straw mats along the far wall, a table with two chairs, a chamber pot in the corner; and the only door was made of thick oak. It was designed as a debtor’s prison but rarely used because, unlike in England, the courts in America figured a person who was out of jail was far more likely to pay off his debts than one who was in.

      
Hanover, Smith, and Walker were unceremoniously thrust through the door, which was quickly slammed behind them and locked.
 

      
Smith protested the whole way. “Sheriff, this is an outrage. We’ve done nothing wrong. When can we see a judge?”

      
From the other side of the door the Sheriff replied. “The judge is out riding the circuit.”