The Midshipman Prince (37 page)

      
“Sir, may I ask what is happening. Do you know when we might be getting underway?” It was actually an inappropriate question coming from a midshipman. But, midshipman or not, Hanover was still “Prince William” under that humble uniform and that bought him some occasional leeway, whether he wanted it or not.

      
“I don’t know myself,” Saumarez replied. “I do know that the Admiral is concerned about De Grasse’s strength but no one can figure out a way to get into his anchorage to find out.” Saumarez paused for a second. “Actually, getting in to the anchorage is no problem, we’ve just never figured a way to get anyone out again.

      
“Well, I must go. It won’t do to keep my new command waiting, you know.” And, he started to walk back to the gangway.

      
Susan’s mind was working in overdrive. “Captain,” she said, grabbing him by the arm and leading him out of earshot. “What if I had a plan to get the intelligence the admiral needs? Would you present it to the admiral?”

      
“I might. It depends on the plan.”

      
Susan then launched into her idea. It took a minute or two to explain it, punctuated by occasional comments like “That’s mad!” from Saumarez. At the end, Susan turned on her combination “little-girl/sultry women” smile and Saumarez was a goner. He agreed to present the plan.

* * *

      
Susan listened to the rhythmic beat of the paddles as the rowboat set forth across the anchorage. The boat was a beat-up old piece of junk that had been rowed in the previous night from the British frigate just off shore. The frail-looking old man in civilian clothes who was rowing was, in fact, a leather-tough able seaman from that same ship. Susan was dressed in a reasonably nice gown, complete with parasol, which she had borrowed from one of the other women on board the
Tisiphone
.

      
A woman, being rowed by an old man, in a beat-up boat was the last thing that was going to attract the attention of the French harbor patrol boats. They went completely unchallenged.

      
Pulling up to the
Diadem,
she demonstrated that the lessons learned at the Portsmouth Grammar School had indeed taken hold. She really could speak several languages—including French. It was not perfect, but she could make herself understood well enough.

      
“Excuse, me there,” she said to the midshipman standing duty by the gangway. “But, I must speak to the captain.”

      
“I am sorry madam, but he’s not available.”

      
“Please. Please, you must contact him.”

      
“I said he is unavailable. Now go about your business.” And he dismissed her as if she were a harbor whore, which he thought she probably was.

      
“You don’t understand. The captain’s the only one who can help me.” And she started to cry... loudly.

      
Captain De Monteclerc, who was standing near the quarterdeck, could hear the exchange. “Yes, madam. I am the captain. Now, what is it?”

      
“You’re holding my husband prisoner. Please, sir. I beg you. Release him to me and let us go on our way.”

      
“And who might your husband be?”

      
“Lucas Walker,” she said, dabbing her eyes.

      
“Ah yes, from that packet boat we picked up. Well, I am sorry madam, but that’s not possible. You may take comfort in the fact that he is unharmed; and I am sure he’ll be exchanged in due course for a French officer of similar rank and station. Until then, you’ll just have to be patient.”

      
“Sir, please. My husband is a surgeon, a man of healing. He’s never fired a gun in anger in his whole life. I’ll even wager he has voluntarily treated your own men. You say he’s unharmed. Can I not at least come aboard and see him—to see for myself?”

      
De Monteclerc was about to dismiss her again but then thought about it. Walker
had
treated his own men and, by all accounts, did an excellent job. Even that other person... what was his name? Smith. Even Smith, although untrained, was a willing worker. That settled it.

      
“All right, Madam. You may come aboard and visit with your spouse; but only for a short period.”

      
Susan moved forward to where a series of steps were built into the tumblehome of the ship. On each side of the steps were hand ropes. Timing her next move to perfection, as the rowboat rose in a swell, she transferred her weight to a step, simultaneously grabbed a hand rope, and started up the ship’s side. She was boarding like a pro, when it suddenly dawned on her that that was precisely the way she should
not
be boarding. To compensate, she managed to fake a suitable series of difficulties the rest of the way up. She landed on deck flashing a calculated amount of leg and gathered herself together.

      
About this time, Walker came up through the after hatch with Smith trailing behind.

      
“Susan? What the hell are...”

      
Susan ran to him, threw herself in his arms, and started covering his face with kisses. “Oh, darling. You’re all right. I thought I’d never see you again.”

      
Walker had no idea what was going on but he knew a good thing when he saw it. He started to return the kisses with equal passion—which, truth be known, Susan didn’t mind at all.

      
Finally, Susan broke the embrace and turned to De Monteclerc. “Captain, might my husband and I be alone for a while?”

      
“I am afraid not, madam. After all, your husband is a prisoner. But, perhaps if you two were to walk back to the stern rail, I am sure the guard could watch you from here.”

      
“Thank you, good sir.” She took Walker’s arm and escorted him aft. When they got to the stern rail, she gave him a quick kiss and hugged him tightly, swaying back and forth, with her head on his chest looking out over the starboard railing a few yards away.

      
“That’s it, Lucas. Oh yes, that’s wonderful. That’s perfect.”

      
Lucas Walker had never been a great ladies’ man but, he had to admit, he
had
learned a trick or two in his time. Maybe he wasn’t a swashbuckler, but he never knew a girl to complain. He smiled to himself. It was good to know that he hadn’t lost the old Walker touch.

      
“Lucas, keep holding me but turn us around so I am looking out over the stern.”

      
“Certainly darling, but whatever for?” He asked while kissing her hair.

      
“Because I am trying to count ships, you jerk. What do you think I am doing here?”

* * *

      
“Miss Whitney, this is spot on,” Saumarez exclaimed as he read her report. “It’s exactly what the Admiral needs. You’ve got ship types, number of guns, secondary ships, even the number of lighters they’re using for transport. I can’t believe it all worked out so well.”

      
“Never underestimate the power of a devious woman, captain.”

      
“Yes, I can see that,” he replied. “And how are your two friends?”

      
“They seem to be doing just fine, especially Walker,” she said with an enigmatic smile. “We only had a chance to speak briefly, though.

      
“Walker is assisting the French surgeon and Smith has been assigned to the sickbay as... well... basically as a loblolly boy.” Susan was referring to the ship’s boys who were assigned to do most of the scut work in the sickbay. Because the porridge they served to the sick each morning was called “loblolly,” these helpers became known as “loblolly boys.”

      
“Did you see any possibility of escape for them?”

      
“No, sir. None at all. At least none that I could see right now.”

      
“Well, this information is wonderful. If there is ever anything I can do for you...”

      
“Actually, captain, there is.” She paused for a moment as if gathering her thoughts. “Would you be so kind as to authorize a transfer of Midshipman Hanover and myself over to your ship?”

      
Of the many things Saumarez might have expected for favor requests, this was not among them. Still, a new captain was traditionally allowed to bring over a limited number of people from his old command; and, what she had done really was quite daring.

      
“Miss Whitney, are you sure you want to do that? The
Tisiphone
is headed back to England, you know.”

      
“Yes, sir. I am quite sure, and so is Mister Hanover.”

      
“Mister Hanover, I am afraid, is a another matter. We must get him to safety as soon as possible.”

      
“That might not be so easy, sir. I am afraid you will find him quite insistent. To the best of my knowledge, he has never ‘pulled rank’ in all the time he’s been in the service, but I believe he’s prepared to do so now.”

      
Saumarez thought about that, and thought about the career ramifications of having an enemy two heartbeats away from the throne.
The devil take it,
he thought.
Let Hood or Rodney make this decision.

      
Saumarez shrugged his shoulders. “Let it be so, then. Move your things over as soon as possible. I have no idea when we or the
Tisiphone
might be pulling out of here.”

* * *

      
The sounds of a British ship of the line getting underway were unmistakable.

      
The bosun and his mates were scattering around the ship trilling on the silver pipes they continually wore around their necks like a badge of office. The pounding of several hundred feet, most without shoes, set up a patter like heavy rain falling on a wooden roof. On the main deck, one of the ship’s boys was hammering a frantic beat on a drum, a captured French drum at that. Open gun ports were being slammed shut and the calls of officers could be heard encouraging speed as men ran up the ratlines and out onto the yardarms to handle the sails.

      
After the initial flurry of activity, the squeal of a fiddle could be heard from the vicinity of the foremast. A team of large and very strong men had inserted thick bars over ten feet long in the sockets of the capstan and were taking position behind them. A taut line was inserted through eyehooks connecting the tips of the capstan bars welding them into a single unit. Locking their feet in the ribs built into the deck for greater traction, the men leaned their chests into the bars and wrapped their arms around them from underneath.

      
The fiddler then jumped on top of the capstan and began scratching out a perky tune. The men started walking in a circle, straining against the pull of the anchor cable, trying to get the anchor to break its hold on the bottom; while other men stood by to coil the thick rope into the rope locker, and ship’s boys attached and released the cable from the messenger line that hauled it in. All that could be heard was the fiddler, the click of the capstan pawls and the calls of the bosun.

      
“That’s it, lads! Heave around! Put your backs into it! Now you have it. Stomp and heave, boys! Stomp and heave!”

      
The bosun, looking over the side, called out to the quarterdeck. “Anchor’s up and down, sir.” And a few seconds later, “Anchor’s Away!”

      
This began another series of quite different sounds. Orders were called up from the quarterdeck to the men dangling on the yardarms, held in place only by a thin rope at their feet. “One hand for yourself, one for the ship” was their rule. Sails started dropping as men undid the gaskets that held them to the yards. Men on deck manned ropes that controlled the downward movement of each sail, while other men were tasked with ropes that tightened the sails once they were fully released. With a loud POP, each sail opened and filled.

      
A fleet of ships, men of war, were underway and looking for a fight.