The Midshipman Prince (13 page)

      
“While the
Iris
is busy in the Chesapeake, you are to proceed to Yorktown. You will land, I presume, these two gentlemen, get Prince William Henry and take him, again with best possible speed, to New York and deliver him to Governor Clinton for immediate transport back to England.”

      
Hood slid another sealed envelope across the table. “In case you run into any objections anywhere along the line—including from the prince—this is a letter from Governor Clinton authorizing and requiring the full cooperation of any authorities you should meet. He makes it quite clear, however, that these orders are not coming from him, but directly from His Majesty.

      
“Are there any questions?”

      
Smith and Walker shook their heads, Captain Hudson said “No, sir,” and Admiral Hood stood up to see them off.

      
“Oh yes, Charles. One more thing...”

      
“Yes, sir?”

      
“Don’t even think about failing.”

CHAPTER FOUR

      
CAPTAIN Hudson had made his gig available to transport the two men ashore. There were six seamen on board, three on a side, rowing at a steady, measured, pace. In the bow sat a young midshipman trying to look as dignified as possible, having just been evicted from his usual place in the stern by Smith and Walker. A ship’s bosun’s mate manned the tiller. All of the men were in their regular work-a-day clothes, although that would certainly change if this same group came back to pick up the prince. Walker was looking glum.

      
“Come on, Lucas. I’ve done you a good turn. We’ll spend a night ashore, eat some decent food for a change, gather up His Nibs, and be gone. Besides, there are other possible delights.”

      
“Such as?”

      
“The Town of York was not evacuated prior to the arrival of the Jonathans. Which means there are, I am sure, any number of young ladies up ahead who will be delighted to make our acquaintance.”

      
“Oh, yeah. Seven thousand males running around loose and the ladies are just waiting for a penniless lieutenant and a half-crazy surgeon to show up.”

      
“Have a little faith, will you?”

      
“Right.”

      
The
Richmond
was anchored at the mouth of the York River while the
Iris
was a few miles away doing its mischief at the French anchorage in front of the Chesapeake. The boat ride was a short one; no more than a half hour from the ship to the Yorktown wharf area.

      
Smith stepped out of the gig and on to the pier. “Let me say it one more time. You men are to meet us tomorrow, at precisely noon, at the mouth of Wormley Creek about three miles down river from here. Is that clear?” Smith looked around at the nodding heads. “Very well, then. Off you go.”

      
And with that, the boat was dismissed. Smith and Walker glanced around briefly, strode down the long wooden walkway, and found themselves at the corner of Water and Read Street.

      
“Do you have any idea where you’re headed?” Walker asked. They were walking up Read Street, a long winding incline, which reminded Walker how far out of shape he had gotten. It also re-introduced him to land-based humidity. By the time he had reached the top of the hill, both he and Smith were drenched in sweat.

      
“More or less,” Smith replied. “I know that this way is the main part of town. Someone there’s bound to know where Cornwallis has... There! There’s Cornwallis’ headquarters, right there.” Smith was pointing off to the left at a large two-story brick building.

      
“How do you know?”

      
“Look at the garden behind it, and the steps to the front door. Have you ever seen so many officers in one place without a damn thing to do? That’s got to be headquarters.”

      
The building they entered was easily the most imposing in town. It was a two-story mansion built with expensive glazed Flemish bond brickwork. The house was on a small hill. Behind it and one tier down was an expanse of lawn; and behind that and another tier down was a classic English garden. It was formerly the home of Thomas Nelson, Jr. He was a signer of the Declaration of Independence, a former Governor of Virginia and currently, as commander of the Virginia Militia, was several miles away planning to blow the hell out of his own house, if that was what was needed to defeat Cornwallis. Being a naval officer, Smith’s entry into the wide foyer of the mansion created a bit of a stir.

      
“Lieutenant? I am Captain Wilcox, General Cornwallis’ Aide-de-Camp. May I help you?”

      
“Yes, I am Lieutenant Smith and this is Mr. Walker. We’ve come from Admiral Hood. Is the General available?”

      
“I’ll see, but I am sure he’ll want to see you right away. Please be seated.” Wilcox slipped out of the room and returned in a few minutes. “The General will see you now.”

      
They were led into what must have once been a lovely parlor. It was now Cornwallis’ office with a desk at one end and a meeting table at the other that was currently covered with maps. Cornwallis was standing at a window looking out at the garden when the two entered. He turned and immediately got down to business.

      
“Lieutenant, Mr. Walker, please be seated. Welcome to Yorktown.” Smith and Walker settled into two overstuffed chairs before the General’s desk and tried to ignore the sweat that had soaked their shirts. Cornwallis continued to stand at the window where the sunlight streaming in seemed to emphasize his size.
At one time,
Walker thought,
he must have been a very powerfully built man.
And he still was, but he had that portly look almost all large men develop in their latter years. The most striking thing about him, besides his receding hairline, were his eyes. They seemed to Walker to look so tired—like they had seen everything they wanted to see and more.

      
“My aide tells me you bring news from Admiral Graves.”

      
“No, sir. We come from Admiral Hood. It’s about Prince William Henry.”

      
“Prince William Henry? What’s he got to do with anything? What about the fleet? Where’s the fleet?”

      
“When we left, the two fleets were about 60 miles off shore continuing to parallel each other. As you know we had an action a few days ago, but it was... ah... inconclusive.”

      
Smith was trying to be charitable. Walker was thinking,
We got our tails kicked, as far as I am concerned.

      
“Did Hood say when Graves would be returning?”

      
“No, sir.”

      
“Then what the hell’s going on? Graves has got to get back here and secure the mouth of the Chesapeake. Even if he can’t hold the French off forever, he can at least hold them long enough for me to get my troops across the York or the James River and off this God forsaken peninsula. We can’t stay here any longer.”

      
Cornwallis seemed to catch himself and after a moment said: “I am sorry, lieutenant. That’s not your problem, of course.

      
“You say you’re here concerning something about Prince William?”

      
“Yes, sir.” Smith stood up and handed over the letter from Governor Clinton and Cornwallis read it immediately, his face darkening with each paragraph.

      
“I see. I know Admiral Hood quite well. Did you know that my younger brother William is a naval officer? He’s captain of the
Canada
. I think he’s off with Admiral Rodney somewhere or another. Through him, I know Sam Hood and I know he wouldn’t have sent you if he didn’t think it was necessary—very necessary.”

      
Cornwallis turned back to the window and seemed to drift off for a few moments. “All right,” he said coming back to the present. “How do you plan to get the prince back to your ship, lieutenant?”

      
“Our ship, the HMS
Richmond
, is currently at the mouth of the York River. I’ve arranged to have us picked up tomorrow at noon where Wormley Creek enters the York. We selected an out-of-the-way pickup point because I want the prince’s departure to be as quiet as possible—at least until the
Richmond
is safely away.”

      
“Good thinking,” Cornwallis said as he drew Smith and Walker over to the table with all the maps.

      
“Just here is a house that was once owned by a loyalist planter by the name of James Moore. You gather up the prince and explain what’s going on. I’ll have his things packed, shipped over to Moore House and I’ll authorize horses for the three of you. You can go to Moore House, spend the night there, pick up his things, take them to Wormley Creek and... well... God speed.”

      
“Thank you, sir. By chance do you know where the prince might be right now?” Smith asked.

      
“Where he always is. You’ll find him a bit further down Main Street at the Swan Tavern. He only comes by here to sleep.

      
“I think that will be all, gentlemen. If you need anything else, please let me know. If not, good luck with your mission.”

      
Cornwallis shook hands with both men and the two quickly found themselves out on the street headed for The Swan.

* * *

      
The Swan Tavern was a complex of several buildings at the corner of Main and Ballard Streets. The main structure was a one-story white frame building with a large white swan hanging off of a post out front. It was a tavern but it also doubled as a small hotel. As you walked in, there was a hallway and a flight of stairs directly before you. As opposed to most open taverns, the main floor of the swan was divided into four rooms, each about 20 by 30 feet, each with a small fireplace built diagonally in a corner, and each contained several tables for eating or drinking.

      
The hallway led to a short set of stairs in back, which led down to a door, which opened to the back yard. Along one side was a stairway leading to rooms upstairs in what Walker would have called an attic. One room was for the innkeeper and his wife, the others were for travelers; with often as many as eight or ten people sleeping in each. Behind the tavern were four other buildings: a kitchen, a smokehouse, a stable, and a privy, plus a well.

      
Walker and Smith entered through the front door and stepped to one side as their eyes got used to the relative darkness of the tavern’s interior. Only two of the tavern’s eight tables were occupied. In the room to the left, by the door, two men were drinking and talking with each other. Walker would not have found that remarkable except for two things. First, one of the men had a shock of the most outrageously red hair he had ever seen; and, second, the man with the red hair seemed genuinely startled to see Smith walk in. A raucous card game was in progress in the room to the right. One of the players, a lad of about 16, dressed in a naval midshipman’s uniform and quite obviously drunk, suddenly stood up almost tipping his chair over.

      
“Trump! Trump! Trump! He yelled, slamming a card down with each exclamation. “That’ll be a Guinea each, gentleman,” he said sitting back down with evident satisfaction and reaching for a tankard. “And, thank you for your contribution to a poor midshipman’s sustenance.”

      
“I think we’ve found our man,” Smith said as he and Walker walked over to the table and caught the prince’s eye.

      
“Ah, and now the fleet’s in,” cried the prince. “That calls for another round to salute my brothers of the waves,” he said signaling a bar maid over.

      
She stood before the prince’s chair smiling as he fondled her buttocks. “A round for my two friends here, my dear.

      
“You two,” he gestured at two of the army officers who had been playing cards with him. “Get lost.” Then he gestured to Walker and Smith. “Gentlemen, please, take seats. What news have you?”