The Midshipman Prince (23 page)

      
“Later that night my hand started to swell up and the pain began. After a few hours, it got worse and the swelling started to move up my arm. The ship’s doctor was drunk, as usual, so I went to Susan who tried to treat it. She soaked my arm, put compresses on it, did everything she could. Then the fever started. I would go from sweating to chills and back again in the span of a few minutes.

      
“For two days and nights she never left my side. Putting wet compresses on my head, keep me covered when I’d toss off my blankets, spoon-feeding me burgoo, and mostly just talking to me. That’s what I remember the most. Even when I was half crazy from the fever, she would talk to me so I would know that someone was there. I might have been delirious, but I
did
know. I knew that someone cared and that made me less afraid. She saved my life as far as I am concerned.

      
“I am telling you, Bill. If that woman were to ask me to walk through hell for her, I would hesitate only long enough to ask her where the entrance was located. And, it wasn’t just me. I seen her do the same kind of thing, time and again, for other members of the crew.”

      
Hayes went silent, lost in recollection.

      
“You said there were two reasons,” Hanover reminded him.

      
“Yeah, but the second one is harder to explain.” It was clear Hayes was not comfortable talking about this next item.

      
“Look, I was born and bred an Englishman. I remember once, as a child, my dad took me to see the king make his annual progress to Canterbury. He put me on his shoulder, he did, just so I could catch a glimpse of him and have something to tell my grandchildren. There was no one that believed in ‘God, king and country’ more than I did.

      
“Then, I got pressed into the navy. Just picked up off the street and hauled away like I was a criminal. Even then, that wouldn’t have been so bad, but once you’re on a ship, you’re almost never let off—at least not in an English port. They never let common seamen go ashore for fear they’ll run away, and I didn’t step foot on land for years. Hell, it was over a year before I could get a message to my family and let them know what happened to me. They thought I was dead.

      
“So, we were in Charleston harbor. By this time, I was the ship’s Master-at-Arms and they trusted me, so I was allowed to go ashore to help the ship’s purser pick up some supplies. I was on American soil. I knew freedom and a new life lay within reach; so, I took it. I ran and I became… well, I became both an American and an Englishman.”

      
“How can you be both?”

      
“Ah... yes, well, that’s the thing that’s so hard to explain. It’s also the thing that’s so hard to understand about this damn war. I would still be as loyal a subject as ever walked the earth, if they had just left me alone that day in Chelsea. That’s all. That’s all I ever asked, was to be left alone.

      
“That’s all these people are asking for. They don’t want to fight a revolution. They don’t want to rebel against their king. They would be as loyal and devoted as any subject if the government had only let them be. That’s what all this yammer about ‘freedom’ and ‘liberty’ is all about. We just want to be left alone. Is that too much to ask?

      
Hanover had no reply.

      
“Anyway, I ran across Susan and she told me about you. I decided I couldn’t let Susan down and, in a funny kind of way, that I couldn’t let my king down either—even though he’s not my king any more. Does that make any sense to you?”

      
“I am not sure.”

      
“I am not sure either, but that’s the way I feel. Hell, it’s the way I think most Americans feel.”

* * *

      
“Ouch! Damn it,” Walker swore. “That’s the third time I’ve hit my head on a beam.”

      
“Then be more careful,” Smith replied. “Rest assured those beams are not jumping out to hit you. You are hitting them.”

      
“Feels the same either way.”

      
Walker and Smith were going through the hold to see if there was anything that could be used as weapons if the
Cardinal
should close and try to board her. There was not much from which to choose.

      
Most of the cargo consisted of bails of tobacco. In front of the tobacco were several trunks, probably containing some southern merchant’s personal effects. Next to that were a couple kegs of long hull nails, a keg of gunpowder and some crates, all bound for a general store somewhere. Walker levered open the first two crates and found spools of cloth destined eventually to become ball gowns for some lucky Baltimore debutantes. The third contained a dozen silver candleholders; each placed in a protective wooden tube and covered with straw.

      
“Well, maybe we can throw the candleholders at ‘em,” Walker remarked.

      
“That’s a wonderful idea,” replied Smith sarcastically. “Fetch a man along side the head with a candleholder and, I am telling you, it’s a fearsome thing.”

      
“Three fathom, this line!” The two heard the call coming from on deck.

      
“What’s that?” asked Walker.

      
“They’re taking soundings; we must be getting close to Cape Charles. You about done?”

      
“Yeah, let’s get back on deck.”

      
The two men emerged on to the main deck in time to hear the second call from the fo’c’sle. “Two fathoms plus a half, this line.”

      
The ship had reduced sail for their transit of the dangerous Cape Charles passage. Walker looked aft and saw the
Cardinal
had gained on them alarmingly.
 

      
“Three fathoms.”

      
“What’s the plan, captain?” Smith asked.

      
“That’s Cape Charles up there on the left. We know there’s a shallow off to starboard and in-between is the passage. What we don’t know is how deep the passage is; it changes literally every day.”

      
“What’s your draft?”

      
“We draw about eight feet; the
Cardinal
draws nine or ten.”

      
Hayes had placed his second mate in the fo’c’sle where he could watch the water ahead. His job was to look for lighter colored water indicating a shallow area, or even for actual sandbars peaking above the waves. By using hand signals, he could direct Hayes to avoid the hazards.

      
With this combination of hand signals from the second mate, soundings coming from the leadsman and pure luck, Hayes was able to thread his way through the Cape Charles passage. The thing was the
Cardinal
also had a man in her fo’c’sle sending signals and a man swinging a weight. What they didn’t have was luck.

      
“Sir, the
Cardinal
… She’s grounded!”

      
All hands looked aft and, sure enough, a sandbar that had just tickled the keel of the
Trojan
had caught the slightly deeper drafted
Cardinal
.
It’s like watching a bad carriage accident in slow motion,
thought Walker.

      
The
Cardinal
was driving along at about eight knots when it hit the submerged sand. The prow struck first and climbed the bank followed by the rest of the bow, which displaced a huge quantity of sand as it plowed in. The effect on the ship’s occupants was dramatic. Everyone shot forward and, unless they happened to be holding on to something, were knocked off their feet.

      
The burden of the damage, however, was borne by the masts. When the hull came to a sudden stop, the masts continued to move forward. Add to that the fact that the masts grow thinner as they move higher and that they had their topsails run out; and the
Cardinal
was lucky that only one of her masts had snapped.

      
Walker looked back and saw the
Cardinal
’s bow much higher out of the water than it should be and the foremast topsail slowly toppling over at a crazy angle, like a badly broken arm.

      
“We got’em,” Walker exclaimed, pumping his fist.

      
“Maybe, maybe not,” replied Hayes. “The main thing is we’ve gotta get out of here as quick as we can.”

      
“What do you mean, ‘maybe not’? They’re high and dry?”

      
“I’d feel a lot better if they were hung up on rock or clay instead of sand. Rock usually breaks open the hull. Clay usually creates a suction that keeps the hull stuck fast. But sand? Let’s just hope their skipper doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

      
Unfortunately, while Captain Finch might have his failings, incompetence at sea was not one of them.

* * *

      
“Damnation and hell fire,” swore Finch as he picked himself up off the deck. He knew exactly what had happened and his immediate worry was whether he still had any masts left. He looked up relieved to see that only the foretopmast had gone by the boards. Everything else seemed to be holding. He quickly ordered his men to release the lines holding up the mainsails and jibs. By dropping those sails, all forward pressure was taken off the ship to keep his situation from getting worse.

      
He knew there were only two ways to get off the sand bar, by using the sails to push her off, or by using the anchor. Doing the latter, called kedging, would involve placing the anchor in a small boat, rowing out 30 or 40 yards, dropping the anchor, securing the free end of the anchor line to the windless, and using human power to haul in on the anchor rope, pulling the ship off the bar.

      
The fastest way to do it was with the sails and, with the
Trojan
free of the shallows and about to round Cape Charles, speed was of the essence.

      
He decided to try it, first, by using his remaining topsail. It would not give him much thrust but if it worked, it would make it less likely that he would back into yet another sandbar, perhaps destroying his rudder. On the other hand, he had hit the sandbar under full sail so he knew he had driven on pretty hard. The only thing he could do was try. The
Trojan
had almost disappeared around the cape, and with it went his dreams of wealth and fame.

      
He snapped an order to his afterguard and the square-rigged main topsail started to swivel around the mast so that it’s face pointed directly into the wind. This mashed the sail directly against the mast, which was the opposite of its usual configuration of pushing the sail from behind. The wind was coming in off the port quarter, an oblique angle to the ship so Finch could not hope that it would push the ship straight back. But maybe… just maybe… it would exert enough side pressure to break the bow loose.

      
By now the
Trojan
had disappeared, which made Finch even more frantic. Two minutes, three minutes, five minutes went by and the
Cardinal
was still hard aground. He could only stare at the men who were cutting away the useless fore topsail and wish he could bring it into play.

      
Another set of commands and the boom for the fore mainsail was swung to port; and the sail hoisted so that it’s face, too, was facing the wind. Three minutes, five minutes, no luck; but Finch had one more trick to play with the sails.

      
He gave a series of commands that ran up the mainsail and swung the main mast boom out to the starboard side. By cajoling his crew to pull ever harder, he got the boom past 90 degrees so that it too was catching some of the eastern wind.

      
Nothing happened. Three minutes, five minutes, 10 minutes, still nothing.

      
“Bosun, prepare one of the small boats to take the anchor. We’re going to have to kedge this damn thing off. I want you to also…”
 

      
“Sir, she’s coming off,” came a cry from the fo’c’sle.