The Midshipman Prince (5 page)

      
“Tell me, do you know anything of the sciences?”

      
“I’ve had some courses, yes.”

      
“Do you have a working knowledge of trigonometry?”

      
“Yes. Why?”

      
“As captain of one of His Majesty’s ships, operating independently with no superior officer nearby, I have a fair amount of latitude in terms of how I organize my personnel. Accordingly…” Captain Hudson turned his attention to scribbling something on a certificate, “as of this date in the Year of Our Lord, Seventeen Hundred and Eighty-One, I am hereby appointing you to the rank of Warrant Officer aboard this ship with specialty as Ship’s Philosopher.”

      
Walker was now totally confused. “Ship’s Philosopher?”

      
“Yes, it’s an old position, not used much any more, but it’s still on the books. Maybe we should use the modern term instead. You will be the Ship’s Scientist. You will report to Mr. Rooney and will be especially responsible for creating navigational charts of any landmasses we encounter, or improving upon our existing charts. You will pay special attention to the identification and plotting of rocks, shoals, and other navigational hazards on those charts. You will also make such other observations or measurements of wind, tide, ocean conditions and natural phenomena as may be of interest to the Navy Board.”

      
Walker just sat there with total disbelief coursing through his body. It was only with considerable effort that he was able to return his attention to Captain Hudson.

      
“...as you will also be the Ship’s Surgeon.”

      
“What? Ship’s Surgeon,” Walker protested. “I am not a physician.”

      
“I never said you were,” replied Hudson. “Indeed, if you recall, I never said you were a scientist either. But, after that stunt you pulled yesterday—and I have no idea how you did that—the men
think
you are a physician, and that’s what’s important. They think you can literally raise people from the dead, Mr. Walker. Imagine that.

      
“So, if I may continue... The Ship’s Surgeon that was assigned to us was indisposed when we left Charleston.”

      
“He had been dead drunk for 20 days,” sniffed Rooney.

      
“Was indisposed,” repeated the captain. “We need a Ship’s Surgeon, and so, you’re it. You will have a good surgeon’s mate and two loblolly boys under you.

      
“You will be paid as a surgeon—5 pounds per month, plus 5 pounds for every 100 cases of venereal disease you treat. You will sleep in the Fourth Lieutenant’s cabin and dine in the officers’ mess. When we get into the next port that has a packet going to England, I will forward both appointments to the Sick and Wounded Board at the Admiralty for approval. They will, of course, reject them both out of hand; but, meanwhile...”

      
“And what if I refuse to perform these duties?” asked Walker.

      
The steel now came unsheathed in Hudson’s gray-green eyes as they bored into Walker. He leaned forward on the table: “Then I will place you in irons in the hold, among the ships rats, on bread and water for the duration of this cruise. When we reach port—which might be a month or more from now—I will transfer you to similar princely accommodations on a ship headed for England. Once in England you will be placed aboard the prison brig in Portsmouth Harbor until your trial as an American spy is called and you are hung—unless, of course, someone carelessly forgets to give you a trial at all and simply hangs you to keep in practice. Am I making myself clear, Mr. Walker?”

      
“You are indeed, sir. Quite clear.”

      
“One more thing. I am assigning Mr. Smith here as your ‘Sea Daddy.’ His job will be to bring you up to speed on this ship and her operations as quickly as possible. A cram course, if you will, in being... a REAL officer.” The irony was dripping from Hudson’s voice.

      
“There we have it. Are there any questions?”

      
“No,” Walker replied.

      
“That’s ‘No SIR,’ Mr. Walker,” snapped Rooney.

      
“No, SIR... Sir.”

CHAPTER TWO

      
“ALL RIGHT. Let’s go over it again. Tell me about shrouds.”

      
“Shrouds are the lines that extend from each masthead to the starboard and larboard side of the ship. They support the mast.

      
“What supports the masts fore and aft?”

      
“The backstays and the forestays,” he said smiling. “I knew you were going to ask that.”

      
It was early afternoon on a glorious late summer day. The sky was such a bright blue that it almost hurt your eyes to look at it. Below was a darker blue extending as far as the eye could see, and way up high there were wisps of white clouds to provide little accent marks to the scene. The
Richmond
was cruising along at 5 or 6 knots under mere topsails, riding the southerly breezes and the recently named “Gulf Stream” current. She was making the sounds that all wooden ships make while underway—the sounds of wood rubbing against wood—ranging from low harmonics coming from deep within the hull, to the higher, shriller sounds of the upper masts and yardarms. It was not the sound of distress, Walker noted. It was almost as if the ship was humming to herself as she made her way across the ocean.

      
Walker and Smith were on the fo’c’sle. Smith was leaning against one of the two nine-pounders; Walker was sitting on a hatch combing. In the past few days, they found themselves forming something of a friendship. Smith’s stiff, proper, British demeanor was in sharp contrast with Walker’s loose, irreverent, American brashness. Yet, despite that, or perhaps because of it, they were finding in each other something that they sensed they lacked in themselves.

      
“All right, now, what are the names of the mast sails starting from the deck up,” Smith quizzed.

      
“Mainsail, topsail, topgallant, and royal.”

      
“Right, and sometimes you’ll see a fifth sail deployed above the royal called a ‘skyscraper,’ but it’s mostly for showing off. It doesn’t really add much to the speed of the ship.

      
“Now, let’s cover the fore and aft sails...”

      
“Sidney, how old are you?” Walker suddenly asked.

      
“How old am I? Almost 18. Why?”

      
“How many years have you been in the navy?”

      
“Let’s see... going on seven years, I guess.”

      
It was a number Walker had not expected. “Seven? You mean to tell me you’ve been in the navy since you were 11 years old?”

      
“Yes. Oh, I know that was a little young. Most young gentlemen have to wait until they’re at least 12 before they’re admitted; but, because of my father, I got appointed as a Captain’s Servant at 11 and by 12, I was a midshipman aboard my first ship. Actually, if you count my home life as a child, in a sense, I’ve been in the military my whole life.”

      
“Who’s your father?”

      
“He’s a drunk.”

      
“I am guessing that drunks don’t have the influence to get their sons into the navy at age 11.”

      
“You don’t want to know.”

      
“Well, actually, I do; but if you don’t want to tell me, that’s all right too.”

      
Smith looked at Walker hard and knew that he was at a crossroad of sorts. Walker represented something that Smith had wanted all of his life but never had—a friend. He had had many acquaintances and several drinking buddies, but never—even when he was a child—did he have someone he could genuinely call his friend.
Maybe it was time for that to change,
he thought, and decided to roll the dice.

      
“My father was a soldier, a captain in the Horse Guards, and was involved in the Battle of Minden back in ‘59. To make a long story short, he was aide-de-camp to General George Sackville. Right at the end of the battle, when one more blow would have finished the French off, Sackville was ordered to attack with his cavalry. He refused.”

      
“Why”

      
“Because he didn’t want his cavalry commander, Lord Granby, whom he detested, to get any glory from leading the attack.”

      
“Terrific.”

      
“Yes, well, it gets worse.

      
“So, after the battle General Sackville gets sacked, no pun intended, and is hauled before a court martial. Not only does the court martial find him guilty but they declare him: ‘...unfit to serve his Majesty in any military capacity whatsoever.’”

      
“So, what’s this got to do with your father?”

      
“Well, my father gets it into his head that this moron Sackville has been wronged and decided to deal a crippling blow to the British Army, sell his commission, and resign. The British Army, as you might have noticed, somehow managed to survive that mortal blow.”

      
“So how does that get you into the navy.”

      
“I am getting to that. It all has to do with a wash tub and a girl.”

      
“Oh, this ought’a be good. Pray continue.”

      
“All right,” Smith said while cracking a smile for the first time.

      
“It was during the summer just after I turned 11 years old. We were staying at a cottage on the grounds of Midgham Hall in Berkshire; and I decided one afternoon to entertain a neighbor girl who was about my age, but with considerably more ah... ‘experience,’ shall we say?

      
“Anyway, I got this huge old washtub and launched it on the pond that was on the grounds there. I placed the girl—I don’t even remember her name—in the tub and poled out into the middle of the pond to attempt to explore a meaningful relationship with her. In so doing, however, I knocked the pole into the water and it quickly drifted out of reach.

      
“About that time, I heard several blasts on a horn coming from the cottage. That was the signal that my brothers and I were supposed to return immediately to the cottage for evening prayers. We were never allowed to miss that. I knew that they would wonder where I was, and my father and some of the grounds workers would be searching for me soon, thinking I was hurt.

      
“Naturally, they quickly found me with the girl, who by now was becoming hysterical, but no one had any idea how to get us in to shore. So, I finally told them to get the string off my kite, tie it to the collar of my dog and I would call him out to the raft.

      
“Sure enough, the dog paddled out, I got the string by which they could send me a rope, and they pulled us in. But, you have to picture it... me standing with one foot on the rim of the tub trying to look as heroic as possible; a dog gleefully shaking himself, spraying water in all directions; and a girl at my feet who had come completely unhinged.”

      
Walker was convulsing with laughter. “So, what happened when you got to shore?”

      
“Before my father could say anything, I stepped ashore and, calmly as you please, said: ‘Now, father, we will go to prayers’ to which he replied in some exasperation: ‘Yes, we had better.’”

      
Walker was still laughing. “I still don’t see how this got you into the navy.”

      
“Well, my father had always been something of a rakehell; but after he got out of the military he became even worse—with heavy drinking thrown in to boot. He simply decided that two rakehells in the immediate vicinity was one too many. Besides, my brothers and I were consuming far too many of his ‘resources’ for his comfort. So, my oldest brother, Charles, was sent off to become a page to Lord Harcourt, the Viceroy of Ireland. I was sent off into the navy and, as I understand it, my youngest brother, Spencer, will be placed upon the navy rolls later this year.”