The Midshipman Prince (6 page)

      
“But, why the navy and not the army, like your father?”

      
“My father could not afford a commission for me. Besides, I preferred the navy.”

      
“What do you mean by that? You said your father ‘sold’ his commission, and just now you said you could not afford to ‘buy’ one.”

      
“Well, in the army, that’s how you become an officer; you buy your commission. Becoming a captain cost more than becoming a lieutenant, and becoming a colonel cost more than a major. If you decide to leave the service, you can sell your rank to the next person who wants to occupy your position. To become a coronet, the lowest officer rank, would have cost my father anywhere from £450 for a line infantry unit, to £1200 for a commission in the Horse Guards. Hell, for £6,000 I could be a Lt. Colonel in the dragoons right now.”

      
“That’s crazy. You must have an awful lot of incompetent officers in the army.”

      
“We do; but we also have some brilliant ones. Don’t ask me how that happens.”

      
“How did a system like that get started? Bribery run amuck?”

      
“No, actually the system makes perfect sense. Remember that 130 years ago we had a civil war during which army officers in droves defected to Cromwell’s side. This left the Royalist Army in desperate need of experienced leadership. When Charles II regained the throne he decreed that, henceforth, all officer commissions would be purchased—under the theory that if someone had a small fortune invested in his military commission, he would be much less likely to run off with the first honey-tongued traitor that shows up.”

      
“The navy’s not like that?”

      
“No. Oh, there is favoritism, to be sure, but you can’t just buy your rank.

      
“If your family has any influence at all you start out as a midshipman, usually about age 12. You can get in earlier as a captain’s servant—as early as age 9, if you want—but, either way, you have to persuade some captain to take you on. That’s where the influence helps.

      
“Anyway, as a midshipman you’re an officer in training and you’re expected to learn seamanship, navigation, and the million details involved in running a ship, in addition to standard school subjects like mathematics, reading and writing. After a minimum of six years at sea, at least two as a midshipman, you can take the test for lieutenant, and it’s a serious test. You stand before at least three officers who are captains or higher, and they fire questions at you—questions about all the things you learned, or were supposed to have learned, as a midshipman. Little or no favoritism is shown. Either you know your stuff, or you don’t. If you don’t... well, I know of one midshipman who was 57 years old before he finally passed. There are plenty who are in their 20’s and 30’s.”

      
“Did you pass the first time?”

      
“Yes. Actually, I got to take the exam early. You’re supposed to be at least 20 years old before you can make lieutenant, but that rule is often ignored if you can pass the test.”

      
“So what happens then, after you pass?”

      
“You work your way up through the ranks with successive positions, starting as a fourth lieutenant somewhere, then as third, second, finally first lieutenant.

      
“If you’re lucky; or have shown great merit; or have a lot of patronage; or all three, you will someday go from being a first lieutenant to having command of your own ship. You’ll be a captain and will wear a captain’s epaulette on your right shoulder. The most important thing in getting a command, however, is patronage.”

      
“How do you mean?”

      
“Look at it this way. There are far, far, more lieutenants in the navy then there are ships. To get a command, you need to either have political pull in parliament, or get under the wing of an admiral. That admiral has to promote your name, or even directly appoint you, when it comes time for a ship command to be given out. The problem is that the system is a two edged sword. If you are the protégé of Admiral Barnacle and Admiral Barnacle retires or dies, you’re in a bad way unless some other admiral wants to take you on.

      
“I once personally met a lieutenant by the name of Tom Moody. He was 67 years old and had been a lieutenant for 47 years.”

      
“Why?”

      
“Because his admiral, Sir Charles Knowles, retired before he could secure him a command.

      
“You said a captain has an epaulette on the right shoulder. Why does Captain Hudson have two epaulettes?”

      
“He’s a Post-Captain, someone who has been a captain for three years or more and who commands a rated ship. When you make ‘post,’ that’s when you start your climb toward becoming an admiral.”

      
“Which is accomplished by?”

      
“Out living everyone who’s more senior to you. That’s how you make admiral. As the more senior post-captains retire or die, your name moves up the list until...
viola
... one day you have your own flag. You might not have command of anything, in which case you are called a ‘yellow admiral’ and you’re on the beach, but you
will
be an admiral.”

      
“What about you, Sidney? Do you aim to become an admiral?”

      
“Lucas, all I want in this world is to be a post-captain in His Majesty’s Royal Navy—a fighting captain. I want to command a frigate and go toe-to-toe with the French, or the Spanish, or even you Americans if the war lasts long enough. I want to know what it’s like to have shot screaming around me and still remain calm and function. I want to know what it’s like to capture another ship and lead her into port as a prize.”

      
“I see. Sort of an unquenchable desire to bleed for your country, is that it?” Walker was being sarcastic, but he had known young men that talked like Smith. Almost to a man, they had been killed, and he feared for his young friend.

      
“No,” Smith said looking directly at Walker. “I have no desire to either bleed or die; but I will if that’s the price.”

      
Walker said nothing and just looked at him quizzically.

      
“You don’t understand, Lucas.” Smith’s voice became very intense as he rushed on. “Some day I am going to do something great. I know it. I simply
know
it. I don’t know where, or when, or how, or what it will be, but it will be magnificent. They will erect a statue of me in Greenwich. People will write novels about my exploits hundreds of years after I am dead.” Smith abruptly stopped talking and looked at Walker as if he had said too much.

      
Walker wasn’t sure what to say, or whether to say anything at all. In the few days they had been thrown together, Walker had come to like Sidney Smith a great deal and enjoy his company; but he doubted if Smith had ever seen combat before. Walker’s father had served in the French and Indian War. He never talked about his experiences much, but when he did, it was nothing like Smith’s romantic view.

      
According to him, it was hours and hours of boredom followed by instant noise, confusion, and people yelling orders—usually contradictory ones—over the screams and sobs of people who had been hit. It was the smell of gunpowder so strong you could hardly see, because your eyes were watering so badly. It was the urgent sensation of fear that jammed every organ in your body into overdrive followed, after it was over, by the shakes as the fear left.

      
It was fighting, but it was not for God, country, or some political ideal. You fought, first and above all, for the people around you. You fought because you wanted their respect. You fought because, if you didn’t, one of your friends might die. You fought because, if you didn’t, YOU might die. And, you fought because there was a piece of your soul that urgently needed the answer to a simple question: “When the enemy comes, will you run or will you stand?” That was a question that Walker believed was seared into the soul of every male who has ever lived—including himself.

      
“What’s the likelihood you’ll get your chance for ‘glory’ on this trip?” Walker finally asked.

      
“What do you mean?”

      
“I mean, what the devil are we doing out here, anyway?”

      
“Good question. I can tell you what I know, but it’s not all that much.

      
“Since the spring of last year our troops have been rampaging around the southern colonies. We captured Savannah. We captured Charleston; and, we pretty much laid North and South Carolina to waste.

      
“Last March General Cornwallis decided to move into the Virginia Colony, which was probably a pretty good idea. Virginia’s the largest and richest of the colonies. Its tobacco output alone could provide enough revenue to support the rebels for years. If Cornwallis can conquer Virginia, there are a lot of people, me included, who think the rebellion will collapse.

      
“So, last May, Cornwallis’ army entered Virginia. After tramping around half the state for several months, he started looking for a suitable port from which he could receive supplies, additional troops and, if need be, to serve as a means of escape.

      
“A few weeks ago, he settled on a place called Yorktown which was a perfect choice. It’s on the James River, has a large deep water anchorage that runs almost to the shore; it’s easily accessible from the sea and it’s more-or-less defensible.”

      
“And there was no American Army anywhere to challenge him?” Walker asked.

      
“Right. The Americans were all up around New York City somewhere, hoping to retake the place, I suppose, or so we thought.

      
“So there we were in Charlestown, happily eating, drinking and whoring ourselves under the table, when we received two pieces of very bad news.

      
“First, soon after Cornwallis had made himself nice and comfy in Yorktown, American troops arrived from God knows where and sealed him off on the Yorktown peninsula. Second, we got news that the French were going to get involved in a big way. Some frog admiral named de Grasse arrived in the Caribbean with no less than 28 ships of the line, not to mention frigates, tenders, and whatever all else.

      
“On August 5th de Grasse left Cape Francis to head north with supplies and additional French troops to help the rebels at Yorktown. A few days later, when our Admiral Hood heard about it, he gathered up the British fleet in the Caribbean and took off after him.

      
“That’s about all I know for sure—that, and the fact that we’re carrying some dispatches. Our job is to find the British fleet, give the dispatches to Hood, and place ourselves at his disposal.”

      
“So, where are we now?”

      
“Almost there. Come on, I’ll show you.”

      
Smith walked aft and Walker followed him. He stopped directly in front of the helm and put his hand on a shielded box held up by a stand, which was anchored firmly to the deck. “This is called the binnacle. It holds the ship’s compass.”

      
Walker could see the ornate object and that, on either side, was a special windproof lantern so the helmsman could see the compass at night.

      
“Under here,” Smith continued, “is a drawer where we keep whatever chart is operational at the moment.” Smith reached in, pulled out a large document, spread it across the light shield, and pointed.

      
“There are three rivers that empty into the Atlantic hereabouts. To the south is the James River; in the middle is the York River, and north of that, the Potomac. Over here is Chesapeake Bay. To get to any of them you have to go through a narrows formed by two peninsulas. At the tip of the peninsula to the north is Cape Charles; to the south is Cape Henry.

      
“The thing is; you can’t just sail straight in. Right in the middle is a horror of silt and sand known as the Middle Ground. If you want to get into or out of the Chesapeake, or any of the three rivers, you have to come in through here along Cape Henry.”