The Midshipman Prince (46 page)

      
Walker thought about the shark’s tooth that now hung around his neck, spontaneously took Susan in his arms and hugged her. Smith came up, Walker extended his arm to him, and he joined in the embrace. Hanover soon followed and the embrace became four-way. Each of them would forever be bound to the others by the experiences they had shared.

      
And Walker had found a home.

EPILOGUE

      
WALKER got up to put another log on the dwindling fire. He didn’t mind cold weather; but this constant chill was something else entirely. He put the log in, stoked it, and returned to the only comfortable chair in his meager apartment in London’s east end.

      
The
Russell
had been paid off for the French ships that had been captured at what was now called the “Battle of the Saints” and his share had come to a reasonable sum. All told the British had captured ten ships: the
Glorieux
,
Hector
,
Ardent
,
Cato
,
Jason
,
Armille
,
Ceres
,
Caesar
,
Diadem
and, above all, the
Ville de Paris
. This latter ship was a huge achievement for two reasons. First, she was the first three-decker in any war ever to be taken. Second, she was the paymaster for the French fleet. In her hold was found thirty-six strong boxes, containing over 25,000 pounds in gold that was added to the prize money. True, the prize money would be shared among every ship and every man who was in the battle; but, still, his share came to a tidy sum. Walker knew he could afford to live a bit better, but there was no telling how long that money would have to last.
Better to pinch pennies,
he thought,
than to have no pennies to pinch.

      
The battle was being hailed as a major triumph by the London newspapers. The French had over 8,000 killed or wounded. On the
Ville de Paris
alone over 300 men had died, which was 40 more than had died in all the British ships combined. But perhaps the greatest irony of the battle occurred when they pulled into Jamaica.

      
The Jamaicans went wild with delight over the British victory. In fact, their zeal was so excessive that Admiral Rodney preferred to remain aboard the
Formidable
rather than be literally killed by kindness ashore. Three days later a mail packet, the
Jupiter
, arrived from England with an urgent dispatch for the admiral. It seems the government of Lord Sandwich had fallen and the new government had no confidence in Rodney’s abilities. He was ordered to strike his flag and come home. He was being fired. Apparently, the ship carrying the message of no confidence crossed paths somewhere in the mid-Atlantic with the ship carrying news of his crushing victory.

      
Rodney set forth in the
Montague
to return home. The
Russell
and several frigates were selected to escort him. On a bleak November day, they landed in Bristol and Walker will never forget the week that followed.

      
The fair citizens of Bristol were beside themselves and literally swept Admiral Rodney off his feet. Not content with offering him the keys to the city, they planned a massive parade in his honor.
What a sight that was,
Walker thought.

      
First came a wagon with “Britannia” on board, strewn with flowers. Next came javelin-men, some trumpeters, a boat with fife and drums, more trumpets, flags, more flags, a boat called “The Rodney” manned by eight gentlemen dressed as common seamen, the city sheriff, floats of “Mars” and “Minerva,” a banner with the words: “The gallant and illustrious Lord Rodney, savior of the country, protector of its islands, and scourge of his perfidious foes,” and finally, bringing up the rear, Lord Rodney himself.

      
The people had forgiven the government for firing him and bringing him home because, well, they had brought him home. Any town that was anywhere, anyone who was anyone, wanted to honor him. His wife and daughters could not even attend a concert or a play without receiving a standing ovation, not only when they came in but also at odd intervals during the evening, which quite unhinged the performers.

      
“Oh, that was a time,” Walker smiled in reminiscence. But it was also a sad period. A few days after they landed at Bristol, a platoon of Coldstream Guards showed up to take Bill Hanover back to London in royal exile from the navy. Then Sidney Smith left to see if he could get a new assignment from the Admiralty; and a day later Susan Whitney caught a carriage to Portsmouth, anxious to see if her mother was alright or, for that matter, even still alive. He would miss them. He really and truly would.

      
He heard a polite tapping at the door and his landlady came in bearing a letter.

      
“A messenger just came for you, sir, in a naval uniform. Such a handsome young man, too.”

      
“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson.”

      
He broke the red fouled-anchor seal on the back and opened it.

Sir,

      
Your presence is requested and required at Admiralty House, this Thursday December 12th, instant, at 2:00 PM. A carriage will be sent for you at your lodgings at 1:30 PM sharp.

      
I am...

      
      
Your most obedient servant,

      
      
      
Lord Walter Howell

      
“Thursday? That’s tomorrow.”

* * *

      
As promised, a stately coach and four pulled up to his doorstep at precisely 1:30. It was big, black, and quite out of place in his neighborhood. A very stiff and formal footman opened the door and Walker stepped in to see that both Sidney Smith and Susan Whitney were already inside.

      
They greeted each other as only old friends can, quickly getting caught up on the events of the past few weeks. Smith had been unsuccessful at getting another ship, but he still had hope. Susan’s mother was visibly older looking than she remembered, but in good health. Her mother couldn’t believe the prize money that Susan took out of her purse and started crying. In her poverty, that small purse represented over two years living expenses—more if carefully managed.

      
“So why are we here?” Walker asked. “Why are we going to Admiralty House?”

      
No one had an answer. Susan just commented on the stir it made in her neighborhood when the carriage arrived to pick her up.

      
They entered through the ornate double oak doors of Admiralty House, were greeted by a reception clerk, and presented him with their letters.

      
“Lord Howell is waiting for you. Follow me, please.”

      
They were led up a flight of ornate wooden stairs, down a darkened hallway lined with portraits of famous captains and admirals, and escorted into a large conference room. At one end, seated behind a table, was a gentleman preoccupied with the papers in front of him.

      
As they approached, he stood and came around the table. He introduced himself as Lord Walter Howell and shook hands all around. He already knew the names of the three people standing before him.

      
“Thank you for coming. Please, be seated,” he began. “I know you are all very busy people so I’ll not keep you any longer than I must.”

      
Howell pulled together several sheets that were before him on the desk, adjusted his spectacles, and consulted the papers.

      
“I have recently come from St. James Palace. It seems His Majesty is most grateful for your efforts in rescuing his son, Prince William. The prince has told us about the... ah... various adventures you had. The Queen Mother, after recovering several times from the vapors, told the king that he simply
must
do something for ‘those young people,’ and the King quite agreed. That’s why I am here.

      
“More specifically...” and here he consulted his papers again.

      
“Lieutenant Smith.” Sidney straightened up in his chair. “You are to be given command of the 18-gun sloop of war,
Fury
. The Admiralty Board has also received a ‘strongest suggestion’ from His Highness that this is to be viewed as a temporary command and that, as soon as you have acquired the requisite experience, you are to be promoted to post-captain and given command of a frigate of not less than 32 guns.”

      
Sidney could hardly believe what he so clearly heard. He was to be made post-captain years ahead of his time; and, better yet, given the one thing that all naval officers desire most in life—command of a ship—his
own
ship.

      
“Miss Whitney. As a member of the fairer sex, His Majesty thanks you in particular for your heroism. As a small token of his esteem, he would be most pleased if you would accept Thistledown, a 500 acre estate, with manor house, in Kent and a stipend of 1000 pounds a year.

      
The color began to drain from Susan’s face.

      
“Oh yes, one other thing. At the absolute insistence of the prince—and I know this for a fact as I was in the room at the time—you are to be appointed a ‘Maiden-in-Waiting to the Court of St. James.’ As a result of that appointment, you will henceforth be known as: ‘Lady Susan Whitney.’”

      
The color now reversed itself, bringing a blush to her face as she thought about her mother and the discussion she once had with Bill... with the prince... so long ago.

      
“And, finally, Mr. Walker. The king thanks you as well for your heroic efforts and also awards you a stipend of 1000 pounds a year. In addition, and I am not quite sure I understand this, but... the prince insisted the Admiralty be given the king’s ‘strongest suggestion’ to confirm your permanent, active-duty, warrant as a Ship’s Surgeon and Natural Philosopher in His Majesty’s Royal Navy—effective immediately.”

      
Lord Howell looked up, smiling, only to see Walker’s eyes open in horror. Walker’s head jerked to the left and saw Sidney Smith convulsed with laughter. He knew. Smith
knew
this was going to happen. Hell, he probably arranged it.

      
“SMITH!!!” Walker screamed.

HISTORICAL POSTSCRIPT

      
In many ways historical fiction is, I believe, the easiest kind to write. The reason is because the things that actually happened usually outstrip anything the author could have imagined, or anything the reader would otherwise readily believe. Very little needs to be made up. You simply create the main characters, then get out of their way and let them bring the actual events to life. That’s what happened here, and what will be happening throughout the Sir Sidney Smith series.

      
Be that as it may, most readers of historical fiction still have a question constantly running in the back of their minds. “Did that
really
happen, or did the author make it up?” “Did they
really
say that?” “Did they
really
do that?”

      
I can understand the question and, at risk of revealing how un-fertile my imagination really is, I’ve written this postscript to separate fact from fiction in the novel you just read.

      
To wit:

CHAPTER ONE

      
The HMS
Richmond
was a real frigate in the Royal Navy and participated in the “Battle of the Capes.” Captain Charles Hudson was her commander at the time. John Rooney is a fictional character, as is Susan Whitney and Lucas Walker.
 

      
William Sidney Smith, however, was very real and was, in fact, a young lieutenant serving on the HMS
Alcide
at the battle. I merely moved him to the
Richmond
to make the acquaintance of Walker and Whitney. Smith, later Admiral Sir William Sidney Smith, went on to a brilliant and daring career that rivaled that of the British national hero, Horatio Nelson—whom Smith detested. The remainder of the books in this series, will involve Walker, Whitney and Smith in some of Smith’s actual, and most extraordinary, exploits.