The Midshipman Prince (44 page)

      
The
Caesar
surrendered between one and two in the afternoon. When the British prize crew came over, the Frenchmen were so out of control that the British had to herd them quickly below decks and seal-up the hatchways so they could get the ship straightened up and underway. With no officers and no discipline, the men quickly got into the spirit room and spent the rest of the afternoon getting drunk and fighting among themselves.

      
Tragedy finally struck when a drunken seaman, carrying a lantern, bumped into a liquor cask whose top had been stove in. The flames quickly spread from one deck to another, trapping men by the dozens. The British prize crew, amid the demented shrieks of those caught below in the fire, worked furiously to put the fire out; but it was to no avail.

      
As the ship burned to the waterline, the prize crew threw open the hatches to let the Frenchmen out. The French seamen sized up the hopeless condition of the ship and, almost to a man, jumped over the side. What they hadn’t figured on were the sharks.

      
All day the sharks had been feeding on men thrown or knocked overboard in the battle; but, still, they were not satisfied. With fresh meat in the water, they renewed their efforts. Men were grabbed, released, and grabbed again. Men, who a few hours earlier had been masters of the sea, were now being torn from retched scraps of debris to have huge chunks of their body ripped away. Each of the British ships sent boats to help in the rescue, but little could be done.

      
About five o’clock, the
Hector
surrendered. She was trapped along with the
Caesar
in the second British breakthrough, but did not fight nearly as well.

      
When the British broke the line, the
Hector
faced the prospect of an entire squadron unloading into her as they passed by. It was more than the men could take and a near mutiny ensued. Men threw down their weapons and ran for the safer reaches of the lower decks. Their captain, however, was having none of it. He ran among the fleeing men, beating them with the flat of his sword, until order was restored. Unfortunately, a short time later, a British ball tore off the captain’s leg at the hip and the last of shipboard discipline went with it.
 

      
The next to go was the
Ardent
, and this was the most poetic surrender of the day. To begin with, the
Ardent
was the only ship in the French van to return when ordered by De Grasse. Second, until 1779, the
Ardent
had been a British ship. The French had captured her in the Channel a few years earlier. It was as if her re-capture now symbolized Britain’s return as a naval power.

* * *

      
Durbin and Pulley had made it over to a good-sized launch that was also being towed; and they began work immediately throwing lines to other men in the water. Their boat could hold 25 men comfortably and it was already starting to fill up.

      
Susan looked over at the launch, caught Pulley’s eye and waved. Pulley smiled and waved back. As he did, however, something caught Susan’s attention.

      
Over on the far side of the
Russell
, between the
Russell
and the
Formidable
, she thought she saw two men on a raft. The smoke would reveal them one moment and hide them the next. But, there was something about them.

      
“There. Just there. Was that not... yes, there were two people, one in uniform, one in civilian clothes.” She put her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun. “Could it possibly be?” she speculated.

      
She finally decided she had to know for sure. “You, up forward. Cut the towline. The rest of you get out the oars, we’re going to row over to where I think I see some men.”

      
She had given an order, but no one moved.

      
At first, she couldn’t believe it. Then the reality struck home that she was a woman in a boat full of men, seamen at that. They were used to obeying orders automatically, which is probably why she had gotten as far as she had; but they were
not
used to taking orders from a woman.

      
She tried again. “Men, cut the towline and rouse out the oars. There are some people over there I mean to rescue.”

      
A voice from amidships answered, “Bint, ain’t nobody gonna cut that line. That’s us only connection ter the ship. Wot ‘appens if we cut it and the chuffin’ ship, hell the ‘oole damn fleet, gets under way, eh? We gonna row after them?”

      
Susan found herself pleading. “You don’t understand. There are two men over there. They are...” Susan stopped short, thinking how to describe them. “They’re friends of mine. Very good friends. And I just can’t leave them there!”

      
“No, ‘mam. Th’t line stays. And I ain’t takin’ no more orders from a bitch.”

      
It was a standoff. The thin, nervous, man was as adamant in his position as Susan was in hers. The issue was finally decided in a very straightforward way.

      
Sitting in the back of the boat near the tiller was a huge seaman by the name of Raymond Hayes. Susan was to later find out he was Hugh Hayes brother. He sighed once, got to his knees, then stood up—all 6’5” of him—and started to slowly walk forward. When he got to the protesting man, he reached down, grabbed him by the neck, and literally lifted him off the deck.

      
“Yer know, cully, 20 minutes ago I didn’t ‘ear yer callin’ the lady a ‘bitch’ wen she were ‘aulin’ yor worffless hide out’a the drink, did I?”

      
The man tried to gurgle a response.

      
“No, I didn’t think so. Now, she says she ‘as some mates over yonder ‘oo need some ‘elp. And if she ‘as some mates in trouble, we’re gonna ‘elp ‘er ‘elp them, ain’t we?”

      
The man gurgled again.

      
With that as an apparent assent, Hayes released his grip and the man crumpled to the deck.

      
He continued forward, took out his knife, and slashed at the towline. When the line finally parted, he turned around.

      
“Alright, ye useless lubbers, get them oars out. We got places ter go.”

* * *

      
For the next half-hour after the
Ardent
struck her colors, De Grasse moved like he was in a bad dream. It was the kind of dream where you knew something bad was going to happen to you at any moment, but there was absolutely nothing you could do to prevent it.

      
The
Canada
, off his starboard beam, had surgically removed every stick of timber from his main deck. In a spectacular display of gunnery, there wasn’t a single mast left standing taller than a man’s height. The
Russell
, on his stern, had blown away his rudder and was streaking shot after shot down the length of his decks, mangling and mutilating men and material as they went.

      
In a daze, he looked at his feet and wondered when he had put a pair of red shoes on. He didn’t remember even owning a pair of red shoes. He saw also that he was standing in a pool of blood, but he was not able to connect that with his shoes. The pool of blood was connected, in turn, to Lieutenant D’Ethy who in death was still clutching his slate and codebook. D’Ethy’s body didn’t register with De Grasse either.

      
Dimly, he knew he had to surrender soon, but to whom?

      
He looked over the side and saw yet another British ship coming up. Squinting against both the smoke and the setting sun, he could see a long, thin, blue pennant streaming from the newcomers foremast.

      
“NO!” He screamed. “No, I will not! Not to HIM!”

      
De Grasse rushed to a 12-pound gun that its crew had just loaded and run out. He shoved the gun captain away, took up the slow match and, just as the
Barfleur
came into his sights, touched off the gun. When it had finished its recoil, he climbed up on the rail to shake his fist and scream at his old nemesis, Admiral Hood.

      
To a 90-gun warship, being hit by a 12-pound ball was more puzzling than dangerous.
No matter,
Admiral Hood thought.
If the
Ville de Paris
sill wanted to fight, that was fine by him.

      
Hood gave a series of rudder commands that placed him in-between the
Canada
and the
Ville de Paris
. Once he had pulled even, he gave the order for a broadside.

      
Even if the
Ville de Paris
had been a healthy ship, catching 45 balls, ranging from 12 to 32 pounds each, at point-blank range, would have been a serious matter; but the
Ville de Paris
was not healthy. She was, in fact, on her last legs.

      
The force of the broadside crashing into his ship’s side knocked De Grasse off the rail and into an untidy pile at the foot of the catwalk. Suddenly, the daze he had been in for the past hour lifted. Suddenly, his head was clear. Suddenly, he knew what had to be done.

      
Doing his best to maintain his composure, he walked to the temporary flagpole the men had erected and, with shaking hands, took down the French flag. The shrewd and cunning victor at the Capes, had finally surrendered to the equally shrewd and cunning victor at Frigate Bay.

      
And one of the bloodiest battles ever fought at sea was finally over.

* * *

      
Susan was at the tiller. “Come on, men. Pull. Get some way on. We’re almost there!” The boat cut through the final cloud of smoke just in time to see Walker and Smith’s raft being demolished by the huge shark.

      
“Oh my God,” she screamed. “Pull, you men. Standby forward. Get ready to throw them a line.” But they were still not close enough for the line to be thrown.

* * *

      
Smith had settled down somewhat from his initial thrashing in the water. “Just relax, Sidney, I’ve got you,” Walker said as he held Smith around his chest from behind.

      
“But, the shark. Where’s the shark?”

      
“I don’t see him. I think he’s gone.” Walker said it, but he didn’t really believe it.

      
As they bobbed around in soul-shattering terror waiting for the next shark attack, Walker realized he was hearing things. It was strange, but he thought he could hear Susan calling to him. Then he heard her again, and again.
 

      
He finally turned around in the water far enough to see the boat heading straight for them.

      
“Sidney, look. There. It’s a boat. It’s Susan!” With that, he loosed one hand from the grip he had around Smith and started frantically waving.

      
Within a minute, a line with a loop tied on the end came snaking out toward them. Walker slid the loop around Smith’s body, under his arms. “You go first, Sidney. You can’t swim.” Before Smith could object, strong arms were pulling him toward the boat; and, soon after, even stronger arms were pulling him on board.

      
Susan was by his side as he struggled to his feet. There was no time for greetings, however. “Get that line out again. Quickly,” she ordered. The line was tossed and it landed not more than five yards from Walker, but he never got the chance to get hold of it.

      
Walker saw the line coming toward him and, at the same time, felt a tug on his right leg. The sensation returned a moment later; only this time it was not a tug.

      
He screamed. He couldn’t help it. His calf felt like burning coals had been wrapped around it. He screamed again and thrashed his arms, but the shark had him in a solid grip. This was
his
domain.
He
ruled here, not those silly tentacled creatures.

      
Walker managed to get in a breath of air before the shark pulled him under.