The Midshipman Prince (43 page)

      
He glanced around and saw Admiral De Grasse’s flag still flying from the mainmast of his ship and that settled it. This man had humbled them at the Capes and rampaged through the West Indies. He represented four years of reverse after reverse for the proud Royal Navy and it was going to end here and now.

      
First, he sent a signal to recall the van. The second signal came a few minutes later. It consisted of four flags and simply read: VAN. ATTACK. ENEMY FLAGSHIP. IMMEDIATELY.

      
Captain Saumarez aboard the
Russell
did not need his communications officer to read the signal. He knew what it was because he had been expecting it.

      
The
Russell
was the last ship in the British van; but Saumarez was not about to play follow-the-leader while his squadron made a huge, ponderous, U-turn. He snapped a new set of sail orders, disengaged the
Russell
from the van, and headed straight for where the
Diadem
and the
four-ship pile-up had occurred.

* * *

      
Susan’s boat was never meant to hold more than a few people. There were already 12 men on board: seven British, three French and two who were unknown. The latter two didn’t speak; they just kept staring blankly ahead, so no one knew what country they were from. Several of the men were hurt seriously and it was these Susan was tending while the healthier men continued rescue operations.

      
“Durbin,” she called out.

      
“Aye?”

      
“We’re running out of room here. I want you to take... You, what’s your name.”

      
“Pulley, mam. Isaac Pulley offn the
Princessa
.” He knuckled his forehead in a rough salute.

      
“All right. You go with Durbin. I want you two to use the rudder to angle this boat over to one of the others that’s being towed, transfer over and start pulling people in.

      
She no sooner said this then she was jerked off her feet. The
Russell
went into a sharp turn, snapping the towline taut, and headed directly at the French line.

      
“Durbin. Pulley. GO!!” She fired off the command like a bosun and nobody was about to challenge her. She looked a lot more confident than she was, however, for now she was mystified. Why on earth was Saumarez attacking the French head on? Her question was answered a few minutes later when the
Russell
pulled up behind the
Ville de Paris’
stern and backed sails.

      
The
Canada
had been there for some time. In an act of unbelievable courage, or unbelievable stupidity, Captain Cornwallis had decided to take on the
Ville de Paris
broadside to broadside. The
Canada
was no garbage scow. She was a 74-gun third-rate with a ship’s company of over 600 men. But the
Ville de Paris
was a 120-gun masterpiece—the largest ship in either nation’s Navy. Yet, the
Canada
was giving as good as she got.

      
As soon as the
Russell
slowed to a stop, the starboard side guns ran out and raked the huge three-decker. Susan gasped.

      
Being raked was the worst thing that could happen to a ship. It involves one ship crossing another and pouring gunfire through the bow or the stern and down the length of the ship. Susan knew exactly what was happening on the French vessel.

      
Round shot would be streaking down the entire length of the
Ville de Paris’
gun decks. Some of the balls would be passing through groups of men as they served their guns. Some would be striking gun carriages upending them. And some would be striking the gun barrels themselves, ricocheting in God-only-knew which direction.

      
To make matters worse, the
Duke
had followed the
Russell
over and, from a distance was already trying to get in its licks. The
Duke
was firing balls over the top of Susan’s tiny boat. The crash of her guns followed by the “wiss” of a ball overhead caused everyone to involuntarily duck.

      
For the first time, genuine fear entered Susan’s consciousness. All it would take would be one gun with a bad powder charge, or a mistake in elevation by a gunner, or a shot fired on the down-roll instead of the up-roll, or a change of munitions from the solid ball to grapeshot. If any of those things occurred then she, and everyone else in the boat, would be so much ground meat.

      
She was not alone. She looked around and saw that several of the rescued men were entertaining the same fears.

      
And the battle waged on.

* * *

      
Admiral De Grasse was many things, but incompetent was not among them. He was as shrewd a tactician as ever sailed and no one who knew him doubted his courage for an instant. He knew his line had been cut. He knew the British were devastating several of his ships. His own ship was being hammered. But, he was not without hope for he had one more card he could play.

      
“Mr. D’Ethy,” he called. A young lieutenant came running over, covered with soot, his hat gone, his coat torn and a slightly wild look in his eyes. He was the signal officer and he still clutched his precious slate, chalk and code book in his hands.

      
“Sir!”

      
“Take down these signals. To Admiral Vaudreuil: REAR. CLOSE. ON ME. Then send a second signal to Admiral Bougainville: VAN. RETURN. ATTACK. FROM WINDWARD.”

      
The lieutenant ran off to the signal halyards while De Grasse paced the quarterdeck trying to calm himself. He looked aft and saw the
Glorieux
was in dreadful shape. He had no idea how she stayed afloat; yet, there she was, still getting off sporadic rounds of gunfire. Off his starboard bow, he could see the
Caesar
and
Hector
under attack from four British ships but still fighting.

      
“It is not lost yet,” he told himself. “It is NOT... lost... yet...”

      
What he had just done with the signals was to bring his badly torn rear squadron up to join his center in a defensive position. He would create what amounted to a floating fortress consisting of his two squadrons massed together so they could protect each other.

      
The British could encircle this cluster and eventually destroy them, but that’s where he had played his ace. His van was almost unscathed. They could come back and attack the British even as the British were attacking them. He would have them caught in a pincer between his “fortress” and the ships of his free ranging van.

      
It will work,
he thought.
It all depends on the van, but it will work.

      
The signal lieutenant returned. “The signals have been sent and acknowledged, sir.”

      
“Very well, Mr. D’Ethy. Stay near me in case I have more signals to send.”

      
Several minutes passed. The remnants of the rear squadron were swinging around the four entangled ships and coming up to join the French center. But, the van was another question entirely.

      
“Mr. D’Ethy, are you certain Admiral Bougainville acknowledged your last signal?”

      
“Yes, sir. I am positive.”

      
“Damn it. Send it again and this time fire a signal rocket. That should get their attention.”

      
De Grasse continued pacing, feeling the hits his own ship was taking through his feet as he walked. He was determined not to show fear to the men. His pace was measured and steady, like he was taking a Sunday stroll.

      
He glanced over the side at the
Canada
just a pistol shot away. Secretly he admired the amazing rate of fire the ship was keeping up; but that was not a feeling he wanted to portray. Instead, he screwed his face up into a look of utter contempt and turned away.

      
D’Ethy returned. “Sir, I sent it again and they acknowledged it again; but, sir, except for the
Ardent
, they are not coming back. They’re running, sir. They’re running!”

* * *

      
“This is a hell of a time for the froggies to be putting on a fireworks display,” Walker said, nodding skyward.

      
“Trust me they aren’t. It looks like someone’s not paying attention to signals,” Smith replied.

      
The two were bouncing around on their improvised hatch cover raft. They had each recovered a piece of broken wood and were paddling in the direction of the British line.

      
“Oh, Jesus God,” Smith exclaimed. Walker looked over, saw he had stopped paddling and was staring at the water.

      
“What? What is it?”

      
“Look over there,” Smith said, pointing. And, as if on cue, a shark fin broke the surface, leisurely making its way toward the raft.

      
“Oh, Jesus God,” Walker echoed.

      
“Lucas, if he comes for us, what are we going to do?”

      
“All right, look, don’t panic. I read once that if you bang a shark on the snout, he’ll leave you alone.”

      
“Are you sure?”

      
“Yes, positive. Sharks have bad eyes but great noses. Bang’em a good one and they’ll turn tail. It’s their most sensitive part.”

      
The shark had to be at least eight feet long. Not at all large by Great White standards, but enough to scare the wits out of anyone who is in close proximity. He slid down one side of the raft, turned, and cruised down the other, eyeing the occupants on each pass. Suddenly, he seemed to make a decision and swam toward the raft head on to see if there was anything he could snatch.

      
The shark had gotten his head over the edge of the raft and opened his huge mouth displaying several rows of serrated teeth. Smith scuttled backwards almost knocking Walker into the water.

      
“Hit him, Sidney! Use your piece of wood. Hit him on the nose.”

      
Smith quickly got to his knees, reared back, and cracked the shark, hard, right across the point of his snout. The shark slid back into the water.”

      
“Atta’boy. Way to go, Sidney! That’s giving it to him. That’s the last we’ll see of him!”

      
The shark retreated about thirty yards away, then turned and headed straight back at the raft—800 pounds of thoroughly enraged carnivore. The shark plowed into the frail raft at full speed, smashing it to pieces. Walker and Smith spun into the water, right where the shark wanted them.

* * *

      
With the French van disappearing, ship-by-ship, over the horizon, De Grasse knew it was over. His fleet—well, most of it anyway—had fought well; but it was now just a matter of time before they would have to surrender. If it hadn’t been for the betrayal of Bougainville... If it hadn’t been for the cowardice of...

      
“Damn it,” he suddenly yelled. “Will that poxy ship never stop raking us from the stern?”

      
The first ship to surrender was the
Glorieux
. Indeed, there were so few people left alive on her that she almost didn’t surrender at all for lack of anyone to take down the flag. Her decks were littered with dead men, whose collective blood was flowing in torrents out of the scuppers, creating numerous graceful red swashes along the side of the ship. Finally, the ship’s only remaining officer staggered to the pole upon which the tattered French flag was nailed, and tore it down. Her battle was mercifully over.

      
The next to go was the
Caesar
. The
Caesar
too had fought well, but she had been trapped by the second British breakthrough and was simply out-gunned. What happened to her, however, should not have happened to any ship, let alone one as brave as she was.