Hoare and the missing Mids (captain bartholomew hoare) Read online

  Hoare and the missing Mids

  ( Captain Bartholomew Hoare )

  Wilder Perkins

  Wilder Perkins

  Hoare and the missing Mids

  "So, Hoare. You decided to obey the admiral's call after all, eh?" Francis Delancey's voice was supercilious. There was no love lost between him and Bartholomew Hoare; Hoare attributed this to the frequency of the port admiral's summonses. He counted himself lucky to hold a post as general dogsbody to Admiral Sir George Hardcastle. Perhaps Delancey felt the same. Maybe he believed that Hoare was plotting to supersede him as flag secretary.

  For his part, Hoare cared nothing for Delancey's opinion of him. As long as the man avoided out-and-out affront, he could talk as toplofty as he pleased.

  "Yes," Delancey went on. "Now, let me see. What was it this time? Devil take me." He shuffled the papers on his little desk as if in search of some document that would tell him why the admiral had commanded Hoare to appear at Admiralty House, Portsmouth, upon no notice at all.

  "There it is, Delancey," Hoare whispered, "right under that minute on cordage consumption you were just handling." Mute he might almost be, but the bullet that had silenced his once-powerful voice ten years ago, on the Glorious First of June, and set him on the beach forever had left his eyes as sharp as ever.

  "Oh. Of course," Delancey whispered in reply, then pretended to catch himself.

  "Sorry, I'm sure," he said in a normal voice. "It's so easy to fall into imitation, don't you find?"

  Hoare offered no reply but flipped his coattails into place, seated himself, and waited.

  "Ah yes," Delancey said at last. "Here we are. Young Harcourt's gone adrift, that's what it is. He wants you to rout him out and get him back aboard his ship before she sails." Delancey made it sound as though he were the Almighty-which, of course, Admiral Sir George Hardcastle was, as far as the two lieutenants were concerned.

  "What's so important about a missing midshipman, pray?"

  "He's an Honourable, that's what," Delancey said. "The Honourable Gerald Love Percival Timothy Hardcourt, son and heir of Theobald Love Percival Harcourt, Earl Barncastle."

  "And?"

  Delancey smirked. "Which makes him the grandson of the Duke of Cheshire. His Grace is highly displeased with our admiral that we have misplaced the boy. As of course is the lad's father, the earl. You're to find him forthwith.

  "Sir George told me to tell you," the flag secretary added in haste, to forestall Hoare's demand to see the admiral himself.

  "I shall take your word for it-for now," Hoare whispered. "Where was he last seen, and by whom?"

  "How should I know?"

  Hoare sighed. It would take the threat of keel-hauling, he saw, to get Delancey to cooperate, and Hoare doubted his keel-hauling rights over the admiral's pet lamb.

  "Well then, what ship does the young gentleman belong to?" he asked.

  "Ah… Hebe, 32. She's under orders to the East Indies station."

  Hoare envied the missing mid; Hebe, a light frigate, had spent her last cruise snapping up stray Frenchmen, and her people had been cock-of-the-walk in the waterside taverns and brothels ever since she made fast to her designated mooring in the Solent.

  "And then there are the other two mids-gone adrift, too," Delancey added casually.

  "And that's the total of missing young gentlemen?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you quite sure, Francis?" Hoare's whisper took on an ominous tone. Levity in the course of professional rivalry was all very well, but every so often the flag secretary must be reminded, however subtly, that Bartholomew Hoare was a dangerous man to meet on the field of honor.

  "Quite sure."

  "Very good. Be so kind, then, as to inform the admiral that I am taking on the investigation forthwith. I shall report my progress, if any, to him. Good day, Francis."

  "Sloop ahoy, there!"

  The hail came from Hebe's entry port. At least the frigate's anchor watch was alert, Bartholomew Hoare said to himself. He eased his little sloop Devastation into the wind and let her run up to Hebe's landing stage.

  He raised one finger to show that there was an officer aboard-himself, since he was Devastation's sole occupant. While she was coasting up to the stage, slowly losing headway, he busied himself by collecting her flapping, clubbed leg-o'-mutton mainsail and giving it a hasty furl, using the main sheet in lieu of reef points. Then he tossed a coil of dock line to the attendant seaman and cleated his own end of it.

  "Let her fall back till she lies astern of the frigate," Hoare ordered in his loudest whisper.

  "Sir?"

  Hoare was used to this. He beckoned the startled hand closer and leaned forward to repeat his whisper.

  "Aye aye, sir," the other bellowed. "Can ye make it up the boardin' ladder yerself, sir, or shall I hail the deck fer a chair to be lowered for ye?"

  Hoare was used to this reaction, too. All too often strangers assumed that because he was nearly mute he was deaf as well, and enfeebled. Others, like Delancey, whispered in imitation-unconscious or all too conscious-of Hoare himself. In this case the hand's bellow was perfectly innocent. Hoare merely gave him an insulted stare and swung himself lightly up Hebe's boarding ladder. His purchase of Devastation from a poverty-stricken fellow lieutenant had taken place only a few weeks ago, but he was already feeling the result in an improved physical condition.

  The officer of the watch awaited him, telescope under his arm. Hoare raised his hat to the quarterdeck; the other touched his own hat in response.

  "And you would be…" he asked.

  Hoare had ready one of the explanatory printed slips of paper he used for such occasions.

  "Bartholomew Hoare," it read, "Lieutenant, Royal Navy. That I am not speaking to you is not a matter of intentional discourtesy but is due to my inability to speak above a whisper."

  "On the matter of your frigate's midshipmen," Hoare whispered.

  "Oh yes. I'm Satterly, second lieutenant. Welcome aboard."

  The two men shook hands.

  "Mr. Steptoe!" Mr. Satterly sang out.

  "Sir?" To Hoare's surprise the child who presented himself at his lieutenant's elbow was a midshipman.

  "Escort Mr. Hoare here to Captain Davison."

  "I had thought," Hoare whispered, "that Hebe's mids had all gone adrift. That's why I'm here, after all."

  "Mr. Steptoe is by far the youngest in her cockpit," Mr. Satterly said. "Considering what his seniors were likely to get up to during their run ashore, Mr. Edwardes-that's our first lieutenant, you knowthought it best to make him duty mid the other night. Now, Mr. Hoare, unless you work a miracle on our behalf, he'll be duty mid for the rest of this commission."

  At this, Mr. Steptoe looked ready to drown in a sea of dismay. Hoare made what he hoped was a reassuring noise.

  "This way, if you please, sir," Mr. Steptoe squeaked. At least, Hoare thought, he can squeak. That was more than Hoare could manage.

  Hoare could have found his way aft himself; as he had known immediately by her vestigial poop deck, Hebe was built to the standard lines of the 1791 series of frigates, and he'd shipped in one of her sisters himself. But he followed his guide obediently, ducked through the low door below the quarterdeck into officers' country, and brought to at the door to the captain's cabin. It was guarded by a red-coated marine, of course.

  Upon sighting an officer, the lobster came to the "present." Mr. Steptoe opened the door and stood aside.

  "Mr. Hoare, sir, from the port admiral," he said.

  "Oh yes. Thankee, Mr. Steptoe. Come in, Mr. Hoare."

  Captain Virgil Davison lai
d his pen down and rose to receive his guest. He looked relieved by the interruption. Hoare had hardly ever seen a captain in port who looked less than harried-burdened with accumulated ship's paperwork from ashore, and with the disciplinary problems that sprang up like mushrooms whenever a vessel dropped her hook for more than a casual hour or two. This captain was no exception. His graying black hair was tousled as though he had been running his fingers through it steadily ever since he sat down at his desk this morning. He was in his shirtsleeves, the right cuff of which was turned back to prevent ink-stains.

  "You may go, Barkis," he told the anxious-looking, pouchy man at his side. The man, liberally sprinkled with snuff, had the earmarks of a purser, and Captain Davison appeared to have been raking him over the coals for some dereliction. For all Hoare knew, every purser afloat was derelict in one way or another-skimping on the slops, adulterating supplies, general petty cheating if no more. When this one had slunk off, Davison extended his hand.

  "Welcome aboard, Mr. Hoare. Forgive the informality, do. Sorry it can't be a more pleasant occasion."

  Davison was Hoare's height, which meant that both men had to stoop to clear Hebe's low overhead. The two were about of an age. The captain's brown eyes looked keenly into Hoare's faded gray ones.

  His uniform coat hung from a hook fixed to a nearby bulkhead. Hoare noted that it bore an epaulet on each shoulder, signifying that its wearer had more than three years' seniority as post captain. With his entire being Hoare envied him. He, Bartholomew Hoare, would never carry the weight of even a single epaulet, on either shoulder.

  "Take a chair, won't you?" Davison gestured toward a corner on the starboard side of the great stern window; through the sparkling panes Hoare could see his own Devastation lying at the end of her dock line, well clear of Hebe's stern so that neither vessel could damage the other. The hand at the landing stage was well trained, then; high marks for Edwardes, her first.

  Davison called to his servant for port and biscuits. While they were awaiting them, Davison inquired about Hoare's little craft.

  "How have you named her?"

  "Well, sir, she's Devastation-today, that is."

  "Today?" Davison's eyebrows lifted in inquiry.

  "Yes. You see, after I purchased her I received so many suggestions for names from friends whom I did not wish to offend that I decided I would make her something of a movable feast…" (here Hoare had to pause to take breath) "… like Easter in the church calendar, you know. So I adopted them all. I keep a variety of trail boards below in her bilges, their inscriptions facedown, where they can serve double duty as floorboards. I change them as the mood strikes me, or when we set forth on a new adventure together. I've only owned her for six weeks, and Devastation is the third name she's carried."

  Captain Davison roared with laughter.

  "First good laugh I've had since my mids disappeared," he said. "Your good health, sir, and may you and your ship have good luck."

  "I seldom trust in luck, sir," Hoare whispered, "so I've been arming her in readiness for whatever hazard may come her way."

  "Indeed? Tell me about it."

  "Well, sir, if you look sharply at her bows, you'll see a pair of odd-looking sockets."

  Davison rose and peered out his cabin window at the little vessel. Devastation looked smug, Hoare thought, as if she knew she was being inspected by an expert.

  "Yes. I see them," Davison said. "What are they for?"

  "The sockets are for mounting a one-pounder swivel or jingal, sir, from a hulk that was being broken up. It had been part of miscellaneous ballast, it seems… and from its looks it was cast somewhere in the Levant. It might have been fired at Lepanto. But I found it to be sound, so I furbished it up, procured a garland of shot for it, and stowed the whole thing in her bilges."

  "Beneath her spare names, I imagine," Davison said. "What else?"

  "At last count, sir, she also carried five grenades, a cavalry saber, a Kentucky rifle that is my pride and joy… and a crossbow with a sheaf of quarrels."

  "A dangerous craft indeed, Mr. Hoare. I shall make sure not to run athwart your hawse.

  "Now. You'll want to know about the event that caused me to request your services of Sir George."

  Hoare nodded.

  "Do you want to question me, sir," Davison asked, "or shall I recount the history?"

  "The latter, if you please, sir. It's easier on my voice… or rather, on my lack of one. I'll interrupt you at need, if I may."

  "Very good," Davison said. "Well, then:

  "You know, I'm sure, that Hebe is under orders for the East Indies. I'd much rather we joined Nelson, of course, but their lordships in London chose otherwise. Out of kindness to my three elder midshipmen, I granted them twenty-four hours' shore leave, beginning four nights ago. They're a decent group of lads-no bashfulness, no bullyin', no buggery-and in Edwardes' opinion they deserved a last fling ashore. I agreed.

  "Besides, all of 'em have interest at the admiralty. Young Harcourt's the Duke of Cheshire's grandson. Young Dacres is a nephew of Dacres of Guerriere; Buchanan-well, his people have owned half of Scotland since James III. Why, even little Steptoe's mother is in-waiting to Queen Charlotte. Only decent-looking woman at court in my opinion. So you can see it's in my own interest to keep the lads as happy and as healthy as the Service permits while we train 'em up to be good officers and good sailors. They are shapin' well if I do say so. Or at least they were.

  "In any case, off they went in a body, merry as grigs, leavin' little Steptoe behind lookin' ready to weep his heart out at bein' kept aboard. Millar, cox of the liberty boat, saw 'em troop off into the town, on their way to drink, dissipation, and worse, I suppose. That was the last any one of us has seen of 'em."

  "Did anyone make inquiries, sir?" Hoare inquired. "Were they seen by others?"

  "Yes to your first question, Hoare, no to your second." Captain Davison's desk might be a hurrah's-nest, Hoare observed, but his mind was shipshape enough.

  "I put Mr. Galloway ashore-he commands our marines-with his sergeant and half his men, ordered to inquire at all the drinking spots and other gathering places. They drew a complete blank. No one had seen any stray midshipmen, none at all."

  In Hoare's opinion Captain Davison's choice of sleuth-hounds was a poor one. Since the marines' duties included those of a kind of seagoing police, the maritime world tended to look on them with a mixture of contempt and fear. The innkeeper or whore ready to answer a lobster's questions would be hard to find. However, Hoare kept that opinion behind his teeth.

  "My story's not quite ended, Mr. Hoare," Davison said. "The night before last, after securin' the liberty boat for the night, Millar asked permission to see me. This is what he handed me."

  He rose from his place beside Hoare and crossed the cabin to his cluttered desk. After leafing through the piles of papers and muttering, he returned triumphantly with a paper that he handed his guest.

  The paper was severely crumpled and caked with dried mud. This made for hard reading, so Hoare laid it flat on the little table between their two elegant chairs and smoothed out the creases. Even then he found it hard to decipher the penciled handwriting and must hold it up to the fading light. A passing shower had hidden the afternoon sun.

  Sir:

  We have your three Mids in our keping. At this writting they are in good helth and spirits but how long they shall continue in this state, depends on the maner of your redem-ing them. In the folowing fashon:

  For the Duke's lad, TБ1000 in gold. For young Buchanan, TБ750 in gold. For the Dacers boy only TБ500 in honnor of his galant Uncel. For the entire Lot, TБ2000 sterling in Gold. Warranted Unharmed.

  You will set the sum afloat in a unmaned skiff off Bembrige, on the next ebb tide after your receipt of further instructions from us. When we have the Gold in our posesin we will Reese those Mids you have Paid For.

  If not you an their grieving Parents can say a long Goodby to thiere Pride and Joys.

  Yours fa
ithfully,

  Robin Hood

  For now, Hoare decided, he would withhold his opinion of this demand note. It had some odd properties, and he wanted to think about them. If only he had a handwriting specialist on hand. Not for the first time, in fact, he wished he had access to a team of experts in forensic matters-lay as well as criminal. He could pen them up somewhere, in a ship perhaps, where they would be on call at all times.

  But, he realized, Captain Davison was looking at him expectantly.

  "Well, sir," Hoare said, "'Robin Hood' is explicit enough about what he wants for his captives. I don't suppose you've had word from the boys' families. There won't have been time."

  Davison shook his head. "Naturally, as soon as I read the message you are holding, I sent off letters to the families posthaste, as well-of course-as the signal I sent to Sir George. The one that brought you here."

  "Yes, sir," Hoare said. "And there is something strange there. Sir George's flag secretary gave me the impression that Cheshire already knew of Harcourt's abduction."

  "Impossible," Davison declared. "Why, I only sent word to the boys' families night before last, as I said. My letters can hardly have reached any of them yet."

  "As you say, sir. In any case, will you permit me to question some of your people? Mr. Steptoe, for example, and Millar, the coxswain? Mr. Galloway, the lieutenant of marines, too, if it's not too much trouble."

  "Of course. I'll have Edwardes put all three of 'em at your disposal."

  Davison raised his voice.

  "Pass the word for Mr. Edwardes! Ask him to be so kind as to attend me for a moment!"

  There, Hoare told himself bitterly, is an example of why he was debarred eternally from command at sea. He had no voice to raise.

  Mr. Edwardes, a spry, white-haired man clearly double Captain Davison's age, appeared within moments. The captain introduced the two lieutenants and explained Hoare's needs.

  "Perhaps, Mr. Edwardes, you would make space available for Mr. Hoare in the wardroom so that he can hold his interviews in private."