Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities cbh-1 Read online

Upon this, the two parted for the night.

  Leaving Dr. Graves's borrowed breeches in the care of the landlord at the Dish of Sprats, Hoare set forth down the High Street in the dawn mist to embark for Portsmouth. The town was in great disarray, with heaps of neglected bricks,

  Portland stone, and lumber scattered throughout its narrow streets. The King's unheralded decision several years before to make Weymouth his preferred watering place may have thrown the townspeople into confusion but, determined to make the most of it, they had begun a frenzy of speculative building. But His Majesty had apparently dropped Weymouth from his increasingly confused mind, and much of the promising civic beautification had stopped in midproject.

  An addicted snoop, Hoare wondered about Mrs. Graves's victim. It was a curious chance, he thought, that the dead man should have been the leader of the two. And who had known this to be the case? He could not remember.

  He stopped, turned in his tracks, and climbed up the town hall steps. Common sense told him the town lockup would be in the hall's cellars; that would be the proper location for a dungeon, be it real or fictional. He found it there, guarded by a whiskery turnkey who was sleepily closing a barred door behind him.

  "I'm a friend of Mrs. Graves," Hoare told him. "I want to see the man who died attacking her."

  "Ye needn't whisper, sir," the guard said, pointing over his shoulder. "Dead as King Charles, 'e be. 'E be right in there, layin' quiet as can be."

  Hoare pushed open the door. Below the rough, bloodstained bandage around its head, the face of the corpse was an ashen blue. No one had closed its staring eyes. There were traces of blood around its nostrils and a crust of dried foam around its lips.

  Hoare had seen enough men dead of enough causes to know this man had not been killed by the blow of Mrs. Graves's slung stone. He had been smothered.

  Thoughtfully, Hoare left the morgue.

  "Where is the man we captured with him?" he asked.

  The turnkey shrugged. "Dunno, sir. Some men of the town watch took un off just a few minutes past."

  Leaving the town hall, Hoare retraced his steps. He arrived at Inconceivable, shoved her off, set sail, and set course for Portsmouth. The wind had backed into the east, and once again he could progress only with tack upon tack. He enlivened the trip by selecting a new name for his vessel from among the inventory in her bilges; she had left Portsmouth as Inconceivable but would return as Insupportable.

  It was then he discovered Inconceivable had been searched from stem to gudgeon. Hoare had installed a small armory in her forepeak. It included a one-pounder swivel or jingal, mountable into either of two sockets, one of which was set into her bows and the other dead aft; a Kentucky rifle; four pistols; a cavalry saber; a rapier; five grenades; several mantraps; a crossbow with twenty quarrels of various types; and powder and shot for the firearms. At considerable expense, Hoare had equipped the latter with the novel percussion caps.

  And now his deadly Kentucky gun was gone.

  Chapter III

  Bartholomew Hoare's father, Joel Hoare, was of Viking stock. Joel brought that good name of his with him when he came south from the Orkneys as an orphan boy, and he had defended it successfully throughout his rise from ship's boy and through the hawsehole to master's mate, thence to post captain.

  Both Hoare sons had defended that good name with fists and feet again and again while still in their nonage. Bartholomew's elder brother, John, had been badly injured in such an affray and still limped about the family property in Shropshire, debarred forever from the sea.

  Even before Captain Hoare had negotiated his younger son a post as midshipman in Centurion, 60, Bartholomew had run a jeering schoolmate through the thigh with a carving knife. Now, more than thirty years later, it was a foolhardy man who mocked that good name of Bartholomew Hoare's; though thus far he had avoided killing a single opponent, he wounded at will with pistol, epee, or saber.

  As befitted the descendant of Vikings, Bartholomew was not only a warrior but also a masterly seaman. While still a midshipman, he had been the sole deck officer in the brig Beetle to survive the great tempest of September '81, when a rogue sea swept her quarterdeck clean. That night he led her surviving crew in club-hauling the brig off the roaring rocks of the Isles of Shoals.

  Not only that; as young Hoare was working Beetle to Halifax under jury rig he had taken a small Yankee privateer by a ruse-her master had drained her crew into his English prizes-and he brought her into Halifax in modest triumph. The privateer had carried specie from one of her captures. Moreover, the navy had bought her up, bringing Hoare the entire quarterdeck's eighth of the proceeds, plus the one-thirty-second share due him as a midshipman-one of the four surviving warrant officers.

  Thus, even before being commissioned lieutenant in 1783, Hoare had gained a solid reputation for competence both in the field of honor and at sea. He had also gained what, for a mere midshipman at the bottom of the navy's ladder of success, was a sizable fortune. That amount, TБ6,127/5/8, paid him by the Halifax prize master, was such a shock to young Hoare that, running counter to the behavior of the typical mid, he invested the entire sum in the Funds and left it at Barclays Bank to accrue in industrious idleness as its owner worked his way up the tedious ladder of promotion.

  But the spent musket ball fired from Eole on the first of June '94 had put paid to his career at sea. Since any deck officer must be able to hail the main masthead in a full gale, Staghound's captain had regretfully put his first lieutenant ashore, silenced for life, with a letter of high commendation, endorsed by Lord Howe himself. Never since that black day had Bartholomew Hoare gone to sea in anyone's vessel but his own, unless as a silent, frustrated passenger.

  By good fortune, Hoare also had influence among the mighty. Captain Joel Hoare, of course, as a member of Parliament, still carried weight with Their Lordships of the Admiralty, and his Uncle Claudius, brother of Bartholomew's late mother, had married Lady Jessica, eldest daughter of Geoffrey, third Baron Wheatley. It had needed both these connections and Lord Howe's precious letter to find the beached, despairing Hoare a place on the permanent staff of the Port Admiral at Portsmouth.

  "And what the hell do Their Lordships expect me to do with a lieutenant who cannot talk?" that officer had asked Hoare as he paced back and forth in front of the stricken lieutenant.

  "Can ye speak French?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Read books of accounts?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Hand, reef, and steer?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Hail the fore topgallant?"

  "No, sir."

  So the Admiral had gone on, firing a question like a broadside every time he passed athwart Hoare's hawse, until Hoare sweated where he stood.

  He had evidently passed muster, for the Admiral had him assigned as a general dogsbody, trotting about at the command of either the Commissioner (who commanded the Portsmouth shipyards) or the Admiral himself, as Port Admiral in command of the Navy vessels at the Yard and at Spithead just outside the harbor's mouth. In practice, Hoare spent most of his time slaving for the port's regulating captain-master of the press-and the local masters of the Navy Board, Ordnance Board, Victualling Board, and Transport Board. He ran errands and took on any project that a voiceless officer could reasonably accept. The life kept him out of the countryside where the Hoare family remained; he had found the stink of bilges and the scurry of rats preferable to the stink of cow shit and the scurry of chickens.

  As well as becoming intimately familiar from below with the bizarre, cobwebbed workings of the so-called Silent Service, he must have been found useful. For, even though Sir Percy soon hoisted his flag in Agamemnon-at sea again at last, leaving the forlorn Hoare behind him on the beach- succeeding Port Admirals had kept him in place, to roll about wherever ordered, aging but gathering little moss. By now, he was forty-three.

  Unlike many beached officers-and all too many seagoing ones as well-Hoare kept himself fit. He frequented the salle d'armes o
f Marc-Antoine de Chatillon de Barsac, French emigre and master of escrime. Here he worked diligently at perfecting his skill with every weapon that might come to hand, including many that would never see the field of honor, being unsuited to the hand of a gentleman. He also developed a strongly accented fluency in French.

  Whenever duty permitted, he wandered England's entire south coast in his odd little yacht. This not only kept his hands and muscles tough from fisting her canvas and heaving on her abrasive hemp but also kept his seamanly skills well honed.

  A year or two ago, he had used the guineas won at a lucky run in the Long Rooms to buy the little sloop. As he had vowed upon his being beached, that prize money he had won in Beetle remained intact against his all-too-certain retirement as a half-pay lieutenant.

  Insupportable had a cabin quite large enough to shelter him and his armory, an occasional guest, a week's supplies, a tiny galley stove, and certain equipment. For while she generally lay in the Inner Camber, just south of Portsmouth dockyard, or traveled about the coast on Hoare's whim, she occasionally carried her master on missions of significance. It was for this reason that Hoare had acquired his just-depleted armory.

  Whatever Insupportable's name might be at a given time, Hoare almost always sailed her alone. He had rigged her oddly, with a leg-o'-mutton mainsail, its foot lashed from tack to clew onto a boom and its head reaching the considerable height of her pole mast, and a clubbed forestaysail. She could outpoint any of the clumsy ship s boats and wherries that plied Portsmouth Harbor and give any craft her length half an hour in the Sunday races.

  To cut her leeway when working to windward, while retaining her ability to take the ground without damage, Hoare had shipped one of the new, controversial lead-weighted sliding keels. It made no difference to him or to her that the long case in which it nested when raised divided his cabin awkwardly, for it formed the base of a table set fore-and-aft between her two cushioned lockers.

  It was near enough four bells of the afternoon watch before Hoare brought his little vessel into the Inner Camber.

  NOW, EASING HIS way into her home harbor, he luffed up to check Insupportable's way, cleated a line, and tossed it ashore to a waiting docker. The man caught it with his one hand and dropped the bight in its end over a handy bollard. The two did the same with a stern line. After adding springs and trimming all dock lines to his own satisfaction, Hoare furled main and forestaysail. He locked the hatch leading below and went ashore by the floating brow, leaving Insupportable to snooze lazily in the long shadows of the June evening.

  She was as safe here as she would be anywhere in England. Guilford the docker-watchman was alert and sober, well paid by a group of amateur sailors to keep pilferers off their darling yachts. Among these gentlemen, Hoare himself was a mere hanger-on, tolerated for his competence and general courtesy rather than for the depth of his pockets or his obscure lineage.

  Guilford knuckled his forehead. "There's a norficer been askin' for ye, sir. 'E'll be waitin' for ye up to the Anchor," he said.

  "The warning's welcome," Hoare whispered. "My little girl could use watering if you have the chance, eh?" He handed the man a shilling.

  "Aye aye, sir," Guilford said.

  Hoare let himself out of the dock enclave through the barred gate set in its wall and crossed the cobbled Shore Street, bearing to starboard a point or two to make the inn where he lodged. The sign over its open half-door displayed a huge ornate fishy creature with rolling eyes, about to engulf an anchor being cast into the sea by the panicked crew of a galleon tempest-toss'd. The sign's whole effect was quite well suited to the Swallowed Anchor Inn that it proclaimed.

  If Hoare's visitor was an officer, he would be in the snug- the private bar to the right of the entrance. So there Hoare went, having adjusted his neckerchief. Upon seeing him, the room's sole occupant rose from his seat and advanced.

  "Mr. Hoare?" A half-head shorter than Hoare, the speaker would outweigh him by a full stone. Life had painted him in primary colors. Beneath his carefully tousled corn-yellow hair were bright blue eyes and lobster-red cheeks. Before someone or something had broken his aquiline nose, his handsome face must have broken many hearts among the fair sex. A bit of a naval fop, perhaps, thought Hoare, but probably a man of his hands withal.

  "Bartholomew Hoare, at your service, sir," Hoare whispered, taking the other's outstretched hand. "And whom do I have the honor…?"

  "Peter Gladden, sir, second in Frolic, 22."

  "You have a fortunate berth, sir. I have heard good things about your brig."

  "She is a fine vessel, to be sure," Mr. Gladden said. "But I am not calling on Frolic's business.

  "Will you take wine, sir?" he added.

  Hoare smiled and folded his considerable length into the seat across the table as if he were one of those novel American jackknives.

  "Happily, Mr. Gladden. But I insist on being host. I live here, after all." Hoare laughed. A young lady of his acquaintance had once described his breathy little laugh as sounding like a kitten trying to blow out a candle.

  "The house offers a very nice Canary," he went on. "Can I entice you?"

  "Very willingly, sir," Gladden said.

  Hoare drew his boatswain's call and blew a soft trill.

  "Coming, sir, coming!" came a cheerful soprano voice from the next room. "Just let me finish the sandwiches for you and your guest. You'll be having our Canary, sir?"

  Tweet went the call.

  "And coffee?"

  Hoare looked inquiringly at his guest.

  "Later, perhaps," Gladden said.

  Tweetle. Hoare stowed the call. "You see, Mr. Gladden," he said, "I have the staff of the Swallowed Anchor well trained. I hope you will forgive me my unkempt appearance," he went on. "I just came across from Weymouth, you see. Aboard small craft I find seaman's trousers handier than breeches."

  "I saw you bringing your yacht into the dock," Gladden said. "Odd rig, is it not?"

  "Quite unusual," Hoare said. "I saw the Bermuda natives using it in their work boats when Sybil called there in ought-one. It struck me as easy for one man to handle, and efficient as well. So when I bought her last year, I copied the rig as best I could remember."

  He stopped for breath and then continued, "I have been quite pleased with her behavior ever since. She points closer to windward than any other craft I know."

  Hoare did not add that, since Insupportable had more than supported herself on her winnings last summer, he was now hard put to it to find a match except at impossible odds-on.

  A sturdy, pink young woman in a bright blue gown that matched her eyes stepped into the parlor and set a tray on the table between the two officers. It bore sandwiches, glasses, and a decanter of Canary.

  "There you are, gentlemen," she said briskly.

  "Thank you, Susan." Hoare filled both glasses and raised his. "To Frolic."

  "To…," Gladden began in reply, "… but how have you named your yacht?"

  "Insupportable," whispered Hoare with a smile of anticipation. He had traveled this road before.

  Gladden spluttered and nearly spilled his Canary onto his snowy waistcoat.

  Hoare went on with the practiced recital he had given Dr. Graves, Sir Thomas, and so many others before them. He ended as usual by saying, "She just answers her helm, and very well, too, at that."

  Gladdens peal of laughter was genuine. "So you are commodore of an entire magical squadron," he said. "Hope you have kept your secret from Boney."

  "I think I have," Hoare said. "But one never can tell. 'The spies of France are rife among us,' as they say. But, Mr. Gladden, I am sure you have not called on me to investigate my ability to keep the secret of my 'squadron,' as you kindly call her." He paused, eyebrows raised in inquiry.

  "No, sir, I am here to trouble you on a matter of justice."

  "Of justice, sir?"

  "Yes. Although you and I have never met, my surname may be familiar to you. My younger brother, Arthur, served with you at one time.
"

  "Arthur Gladden?" Hoare said. "Why, yes. He was unlucky enough to be assigned me in Lymington for some weeks, to help in the horrid Impress Service… ah. Of course. Am I mistaken? Has an officer of that name not just been put ashore at the dockyard, under close arrest?"

  "I fear so. He is third lieutenant of Vantage. You may not know of her; she is newly built and just commissioned."

  "Oh, dear. Yes. He is accused of murdering her captain, I believe

  … Adam Hay."

  "I fear so," Gladden said again. "And, since Frolic happened to be in port, he asked me to be his friend."

  Hoare nodded. "His advocate and defender, yes. Naturally."

  "But I know nothing about courts-martial, sir," said Gladden. "I'm a seaman, not a damned lawyer. I hardly know how to begin." Gladdens voice rose. "And he cannot have done such a thing, He is a gentle man as well as a gentleman. He hates killing. Father was never able even to get him to shoot. Frankly, he should have taken orders, but Father would not have it. No, he had to become a sailor, just like Father, and just like me.

  "It is right enough for me. I like the life. Always have. But for him… for him, it has been slow death."

  Hoare forbore to remark that, under the circumstances, death for Arthur Gladden might not be so slow after all. To be shot to death in action was a faster matter than dangling and strangling for minutes at some yardarm. The outcome, of course, was the same.

  "And what is it you want of me? To undertake your brother's defense in lieu of yourself? As you know, of course, the service doesn't look kindly upon officers who cannot defend themselves before a court-martial. They feel it reflects upon the 'friend' as well as upon the defendant."

  Hoare's whisper began to fade. He paused and took a sip of wine before continuing. Even so, the whisper was now a weary rasping noise, nasty to listen to and hard to make out.

  "Besides, Mr. Gladden, I find it very tiring to speak at any length. You may have noticed that after a bit I must… er… set storm canvas, so to speak, if I am to be understood even in a quiet spot like this. No. If that is what you are seeking of me, I fear I am not your man." Hoare sat back, unconsciously rubbing the scar just above his kerchief.