The Midshipman Prince (40 page)

      
In the midst of the carnage, a French ball somehow managed to strike a hencoop that had been left on the spar-deck of the
Formidable
. When the dust finally settled, a small head peeked out from the wreckage; and shortly a bantam-cock emerged determined to find out who was responsible for this outrage.

      
He fluttered to the quarterdeck rail, saw the
Ville De Paris
and instantly decided she was the source of his unhappiness. For the rest of the battle, every time the
Formidable
unleashed a broadside, he would leap about, flap his wings and, with his shrill cries, cheer on the British seamen.

      
Admiral Rodney was so charmed by the bird that he gave orders that, if anything should happen to him, the bird would be cared for and pampered for the rest of his life.

      
Thus, with the French being simultaneously abused by British guns, half-crazy captains who could swear in three languages, and an irate chicken—the battle moved into the late morning.

* * *

      
“Sidney, it’s almost time,” Walker whispered.

      
“All right, you go on deck. I’ll be right behind you.”

      
Smith climbed up to the gun deck and was about to climb the stairway to the main deck through the aft hatch when something caught his eye.

      
It was an elaborate collection of thick ropes running from the wheel on the main deck to what amounted to nothing more than an oversize tiller. The whole device, blocks, ropes and braces, had only one purpose—to move the rudder and thereby steer the ship. As he climbed the stairway Smith glanced at the apparatus, but its implications didn’t immediately register.

      
Smith went to the rail where Walker was trying to look over the side and at the same time keep his head down in case a British sharpshooter should think it a tempting target.

      
“Ah, there you are,” Walker said. I can’t see Susan; but, then again, we’re not quite up to the
Russell
yet, either.”

      
Walker turned to Smith, “Are you ready to...” His sentence died as he saw Smith’s eyes grow wide, then saw him turn and race down the hatch he had just come through.

      
A minute later, he came back.

      
“Lucas, did you see that collection of ropes in the stern one deck below us?”

      
“Yes. I assumed it was the cable run for the rudder.”

      
“That’s exactly what it is. And what would happen if that cable was cut?”

      
Understanding now dawned in Walker’s eyes. “It would be a catastrophe. They would loose control of the ship. The ship would swing into the wind and stop, and, unless they acted very quickly, the ships behind would pile into us.”

      
“Precisely. We’ve got to cut that cable.”

      
“Sidney, if we do that we’ll miss our pick-up.”

      
“I know, Lucas. I know.” Smith was quiet for a moment while Walker looked over the side in the general direction of Susan’s arrival.

      
“I am not going to ask you to join me, but I am going to stay and try to cut that rudder cable. When Susan comes up, I want you to get over the side and grab that line. I am going below.”

      
“And I am supposed to leave you here? Just like that?”

      
Smith smiled at his friend and said, “Look, Lucas, you don’t belong here—not really. This is my world. I joined it of my own free will, and I am quite prepared to die in it and for it.”

      
Walker continued to look over the side and said quietly, almost wistfully, “There she is, Sidney. There’s Susan, just like she planned it, coming up between the lines of ships.”

      
Walker paused for a moment, and then a cold resolution flooded him. It was the kind of decision that does not come from your brain; it comes from your heart and your soul.

      
“If you’re staying, I am staying. You get below and start work. I’ll wave Susan off then join you.”

      
“Lucas, if we ever get out of this, I am going to... I am going to...”

      
“You’re going to do what?”

      
“I am going to send your ass to medical school.”

* * *

      
What was it Walker had said?
Susan thought.
No battle plan ever survives the first five minutes of a battle.

      
She had forgotten about the smoke—the horrible, acrid, blinding, smoke.

      
She saw the
Diadem
coming up, eased the tiller over, and swung her boat into the lane between the two lines of ships. Then the ship ahead of the
Diadem
, the
Glorieux
, let loose with a ragged volley of fire, followed by the
Russell
opening up and the
Diadem
launching her own broadside. The lane was now choked with a thick gray, swirling cloud of gun smoke that caused her to gasp and cough and her eyes to water.

      
She looked up again and a puff of wind had cleared a gap in the smoke. There was the
Diadem
coming up.

      
She tied off the tiller, moved to the bow of the boat, picked up the line and buoy and was about to swing it; when she looked up and saw Lucas Walker at the rail of the
Diadem
waving her off.

      
He was yelling something. She couldn’t make out what it was but the intent was clear. He was calling off the rescue.

      
Why?
she thought.
It had worked. She was here. The lines were ready to be tossed. All they had to do was...

      
And she stopped. All “they” had to do? There was no “they.” There was only Walker standing at the rail. Smith wasn’t there.

      
She could only conclude the obvious. Smith was seriously hurt or dead. Her eyes began to water. “This damn smoke,” she said to herself. “It’s killing my eyes.”

* * *

      
Smith was convinced that he had found the dullest ax in the history of the French Navy. He whacked away, again and again, at the rudder cable, making some progress, but not nearly fast enough.

      
Walker came bounding down the stairwell and found Smith at his labor.

      
“What can I do to help?” he asked.

      
“Unless you’ve got another ax—nothing. Just stand guard. Someone is bound to come down here sooner or later and find us. And we’ve got to get this thing cut no matter what.”

      
“That’s crazy. What am I supposed to do if someone does come? Here give me that ax.”

      
Smith turned over the questionable blade, carefully slid his sword out, and looked nervously around.

      
No sooner had Walker started work than three French seamen came running down the stairs. The first two swung around a stanchion and headed forward. The third caught Smith and Walker out of the corner of his eye.

      
When it dawned on him what was happening, he let out a scream and rushed at the two with a seven-foot boarding pike in his hands.

      
He thrust the razor sharp head at Walker’s exposed back. Smith’s sword flashed down quick as a cobra strike cutting the pike in half just as the head was only inches away from ramming home.

      
The man looked at Smith, then at the shattered remains of his pike, and ran.

      
Walker kept hacking away and the first of three cables separated. He began on the next.

      
By this time, the other two seamen had doubled back. They were both armed with cutlasses.

      
The first man eyed Smith warily as he hefted his sword. Smith circled and suddenly flicked out his sword in a point. The Frenchman clumsily parried it. Again, the sword flashed, again it was parried. Smith circled some more and tried another point, this time cutting the man badly on his left arm.

      
This enraged him. He swore and mounted a furious attack, hacking away at Smith like a wild man, spraying spittle out of his mouth with each stroke. Smith coolly dodged or parried each attack.

      
Circling again, Smith tried another point. The man parried with an inside guard which he then awkwardly tried to shift into a point. It was a bad idea. Smith anticipated his move, stepped quickly to one side, and brought his sword down on the man’s head.

      
There was a sound like a ripe watermelon being split as Smith’s sea service cutlass tore through skin, bone, and brain tissue. The man dropped to his knees, and then wordlessly fell over on his side. Smith extracted his sword from the man’s skull with a yank and readied himself for the next fight.

      
This would be much more of a contest, for the third man was clearly a swordsman.

      
Walker kept hacking away and the second of three cables separated. He began on the third.

      
Smith had his hands full. There were no wild rushes from this opponent. He was content to thrust and parry, always watching Smith with cold steady eyes.

      
This was a fight to the death and both men knew it. Their sword play covered the whole aft end of the deck, each man attacking, then retreating, then attacking again. Neither wanted to quit, yet each man was growing painfully tired. The Frenchman finally broke.

      
He knew that if he didn’t finish off the Anglais soon he would be too tired to continue, and that could be fatal. The man decided to mount a frenzied attack.

      
In a burst of activity, he made a sudden lunge forward. Smith, with a beautiful half hanger, deflected the blade; but the man had put too much force into it and he found himself off balance. Smith stepped to one side like a matador, changed his guard to a point, and ran his sword through the Frenchman’s throat.

      
The third and final cable parted and Walker dropped to his knees, exhausted.

* * *

      
It was 10:00 in the morning. The evening chill was gone, the sun was hot, the sky clear and the sea a profound blue.

      
The
Formidable
had finally passed the
Ville de Paris
and was now alongside the next ship in line, the
Glorieux
. To say the
Glorieux
was in bad shape was an understatement. She had already been quite battered and torn by both the
Hercules
and the
Resolution
when she came upon the
Duke
. Captain Gardner, who had a reputation for viciousness in battle, simply tore her apart. By the time the
Formidable
got to her, she looked like a broken child’s toy. Every upright stick on her was in ruin. Her bowsprit was gone along with all three masts: fore, main and mizzen. Even the ensign-staff, which flew the French flag, was broken in half and dangled off the stern.

      
She might have looked like a total wreck, but she still had some fight in her. As the
Formidable
came up, carpenters could be seen frantically trying to nail a French flag to the broken stump of a main mast. While they were at work, another man held the flag up on a long pole. Sharpshooters on the
Formidable
shot the man that was holding the pole through the hand; whereupon he simply shifted the pole to his other hand and kept on waving.

      
The response of the
Formidable
to this act of heroism was to pour a full 50-gun broadside into the
Glorieux
. The combined weight of that much iron slamming into her at one time literally moved the
Glorieux
sideways through the water. If your opponent is injured, you move in for the kill. Always. Always. Always. For that is the way of war whether it's between armies, between ships, or between individuals.