Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities cbh-1

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Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities cbh-1 Page 18

by Wilder Perkins


  "There be a man at kitchen doooor," she announced. "Sailor man like. 'E be askin' for Mr. 'Oare." Maidenly, she blushed as she spoke the dirty word. " 'Is name be Stone, 'e sez."

  Stone?

  "Will you go and inspect him, Tom?" Hoare whispered. "Ask him what Bold looks like. Then come back and tell me what he says."

  Tom nodded, preceded Agnes from the room. Too late, Hoare saw what he had just done. Whoever the man at the door was, he would know now that Hoare was within. Damn his sleepy mind.

  "'E says Bold be black." In the doorway, Tom looked puzzled.

  "Bring him in then, if you please, Tom. He's on my side, and the mistress's."

  Stone's face lit up when he saw his officer. He knuckled his forehead. The officer in question was quite sure that his own face lit up as well.

  "What fair wind blows you here, Stone?" he asked.

  "Me an' Bold, zur, when we sees you left aboard thicky schooner, we sez to each other, we sez, 'Mr. 'Oare'll be off to Weymouth with 'er, and 'e'll be in shoal waters an' on a lee shore.' So we stops up the sweep-ports what you an' I jes' finished a-carvin' in yer yachtet, an' gets 'er under way again. We didn't want to go a-drivin' into Weymouth 'arbor like we owned the place, not wi' thicky schooner already in port, so we sets a course for Ringstead Bay instead.

  "Me bein' a native of these 'ere parts," he added.

  "Why, you'd be Jonathan Stone's boy Jacob!" Agnes exclaimed. "I be Agnes Dillow. Remember me? Yer ma and mine was gossip!"

  "Why, so ye be, miss." Stone knuckled his forehead again. Agnes simpered.

  "What then?" Hoare asked. This was no time for courtship on the part of either Hoare's man or Hoare himself.

  "Well, zur, we 'auls 'er up on Ringstead shingle, safe as can be, an' then we argies summat about 'oo were to come into Weymouth. I sez I should be the one as coom in, but 'e wants to coom tu, 'e does. But when I tells 'im a black man 'ud stand out in Weymouth town like a negg in a coal'ole, 'e agrees to stand watch by yer yatchet for a day. Then, if nor you nor me shows oop, 'e'll 'aul 'er off, make for Portsmouth, an' make a report to the Admiral. So 'ere I be, zur. I 'opes we done right."

  "You have indeed, Stone. God bless you. Tell me, can you drive a carriage by any chance?"

  "None better, zur. An' thread a four-in-hand through a needle, fine as any Corinthian up in London."

  By the time Eleanor Graves returned below, the three men-Hoare, Stone, and Tom-had devised a plan for the first two to elude Sir Thomas's men, whom Stone had reported were already buzzing about Weymouth like so many bees. No one, it seemed, had been ready to believe that Hoare had obligingly drowned. Hoare wondered why until he thought to inspect his raw, bleeding hands. As soon as the crew saw the scarlet evidence of his secret ride in tow of Marie Claire, they would have gotten word ashore to their master, and Moreau would have run to his crony Sir Thomas.

  Mrs. Graves completed the charade for them.

  "Stone shall be a messenger from my friend Mrs. Haddaway in Dorchester, with an urgent request for me to come to her aid. He shall drive us in the chaise, and a spare horse can follow us on a lead. It will be the animal on which Stone came to Weymouth. You, Mr. Hoare, shall hide beneath me. There is ample space for you under the seat. Outside town, we will divert to Ringstead, leave Mr. Hoare and Stone, and find a local lad to take us on to Dorchester."

  "Then ye'd best name yer friend to me again, ma'am," Stone said. "An' gi' me 'er likeness, tu. If I'm to be ridin' postilion, some'un might be askin' me questions."

  Mrs. Graves nodded. "Of course. Haddaway. Mrs. Timothy Haddaway. Emily Haddaway. She's a real person, Stone, my age, twice my size all 'round… two children, little Timothy, the babe, and Arethusa."

  Outside the town, the unwelcome batrachian voice of the Knight-Baronet brought the chaise to a halt. Hoare-reasonably comfortable, though coiled like an adder beneath the woman he had come to love-held his breath.

  "Why, Sir Thomas!" Mrs. Graves cried. "What are you and your men about, pray? It looks like a posse comitatus, sir, indeed it does."

  "About that, Eleanor, my dear. Mr. Morrow brings news that your acquaintance Hoare is a wanted man, a fugitive from the King's justice for the forcible drowning of one of Mr. Morrow's Channel Islanders, seen hereabouts just last night. We're out to take him up. Have you seen him, Eleanor?" Sir Thomas's voice was stern.

  "Not for this age, Sir Thomas. Not since we encountered each other after poor Simon-"

  "Best take my advice, Eleanor. Should you catch sight of him on your way to-"

  "Dorchester, Sir Thomas. Emily Haddaway-you know Emily, of course-sent word that her poor little babe Timothy has the croup, and she wants my advice. I'm sure I don't know why," Eleanor Graves gushed.

  "You are a wise, wise woman, Eleanor," Sir Thomas said. "After a proper interval of time, I hope I may wish-"

  The listening Hoare never had a chance to learn what Sir Thomas wished for Mrs. Graves, for Stone broke in: "Pardon me, ma'am, but we must get under way if we are to make Dorchester by dark."

  " 'Under way,' my man? Why, you sound like a seaman and no postboy."

  "Seaman I was, zur, before I swallowed the anchor and took service wi' Mr. Haddaway. But, excuse me, zur…"

  Hoare was jarred as the chaise started forward on its delayed way to the pinnace. He gloated quietly at the picture of the chaise, with Stone at its helm, leaving Sir Thomas Frobisher at the post.

  At Portsmouth, the sighting of Inconceivable, creeping cautiously across Spit Sand with her sliding keel fully retracted, was instantly reported to Sir George Hardcastle. The Admiral showed himself as merciless as ever. Hoare was to betake himself forthwith to the Admiralty offices, where he was to report his progress-if any-to Sir George. Wrinkled and unkempt though they were, the second-best uniform and hat he carried on Inconceivable would have to do, if he was to persuade the Admiral that he was not habitually slow to obey orders. In that, he failed.

  "Late again, Hoare. And filthy, too," Sir George said. "I am quite out of patience with you, I declare."

  Hoare quickly summarized for his Admiral his glacial chase of Marie Claire, his brief capture by her owner, his escape from Weymouth. Moment by moment, the Admiral's face grew grimmer.

  "No more now, sir," he growled at last. You shall bring that man back here, to justice, dead or alive. Lose not a minute."

  "May I enlist reinforcements to bring him in, sir?"

  "I have sent my secretary Talthybius to you a number of times, young Hercules," Sir George said, "with one task or another. You are given those tasks because I am confident you will carry them out to my satisfaction. I do not expect you to turn to me with whimpers about how you are to execute each task. I have neither the time nor the inclination to hover over you like a mother hen. I have other tasks of my own to perform, which is why I give yours to you in the first place. Take yourself off, sir and do your duty."

  The Admiral's verbal lash notwithstanding, Hoare had another lash to inflict on himself before he was ready to obey his instructions-to take Jaggery. With Jaggery in hand, he was sure, he could complete the investigation with which Sir George Hardcastle had charged him.

  Jaggery was not at the Bunch of Grapes. Mr. Greenleaf believed he might be at work in Arrowsmith's warehouse. He gave Hoare directions. To reach the warehouse, Hoare had to pass his own quarters on the way.

  The warehouse was nothing more than a series of interconnected sheds that reached from Eastney High Street to the shore. Hoare found no one in the first two sheds and squeezed through a narrow passage into the third. He pulled out his boatswain's call and piped "All Hands!" in the hope that Jaggery, if he was there, would respond by instinct.

  The man himself appeared in a crooked doorway at the far end of the enclosure. He looked bewildered.

  Anything he might have been saying to Hoare was drowned by a thunderclap behind him, a blast that threw Jaggery forward and Hoare backward. A cloud of fire followed the burst. Behind Jaggery, the shed roof collapsed, and the fla
mes began to get a grip on it. Jaggery lay still, face up on the floor, half-buried in debris.

  The choking battle reek of burnt powder filled the place. Hoare coughed, wheezed, and wept as he struggled over the fallen beams in the smoke toward the other man.

  Jaggery lay supine, facing what had been the ceiling. From his waist down he was hidden under a massive joist that lay almost level with the bricks of the room's floor. He was breathing hard. From the ruins of the shed Hoare could hear the soft roar of flames as the fire tightened its grip.

  "Help me up, Yer Honor. Somethin's holdin' me poor weak legs down an' I can't move 'em. Get it orf me, can't yer?"

  Hoare freed a lighter beam and began to search for a spot that offered him leverage room. He found one, set the beam's end under the joist, and heaved down on the beam with all his weight. For all his frantic prying, the joist would not budge. Outside, he heard the jangling of a fire bell. The engine's feeble streams and bucket brigade would do as much good here as two old men in a pissing contest.

  Another, smaller explosion sounded in the ruins. A flickering of fire reflected itself in Jaggery's wide eyes, and those eyes filled with fear.

  "Smartly, man, can't yer? 'Eave!" he gasped. " 'Eave!"

  He choked and grabbed Hoare's shoulder with his free hand. It was the mangled one, but it could still cling to Hoare like a cargo hook.

  Five minutes later, the heat of the fire was scorching Hoare's hair. Jaggery blew a pink bubble. It burst in Hoare's face as he stooped, chest heaving.

  Jaggery was breathing hard. "I'm a dead man," he said. Hoare could not bring himself to deny it. He rested his hand on the other's shoulder.

  "Yer a decent cove, Yer Honor,"Jaggery said at last. "I've no… no mind to be roasted alive. Will yer put me down?"

  "If you tell me who 'Himself is. Morrow's boss."

  "As Gawd is me witness, I dunno, Yer Honor. Morrow, 'e's the only one what knows his name."

  "Why did Kingsley bring one of Morrow's ankers aboard his own ship?" Hoare whispered. "He might as well have shot himself."

  Jaggery shook his head. "Kingsley, Yer Honor? 'E didn't take no anker aboard Vantage. I did. Like all the other times, I thought I was slippin' brandy to 'im, for 'im to give to officers that might 'ave interest, to get 'em on 'is side."

  The heat was beating on Hoare's face.

  "It was only when Kingsley was dead, and Morrow weren't comin' into town no more, that I dared tap one of them ankers. Wouldn't do no 'arm now, I thought, to have a bit of 'is oh-be-joyful. 'Twasn't as though it belonged to no one anymore, bein' as 'e was dead.

  "An' look what I tapped into instead. Oh, well, I guess I was dis-

  … dis-…"

  "Dispensable?"

  "Aye. That's the word. Oh, 'urry, sir, 'urry! I can feel the fire on me toes." By now, Jaggery's voice was as faint as Hoare's own whisper.

  Hoare could not believe the man, dying though he was. At least one more layer remained in the Jaggery onion.

  "You're lying, Jaggery. Tell me the truth, man, or I'll leave you to burn, all by yourself."

  Jaggery grunted, was silent. Then he sighed. A pink bubble formed at his mouth and broke. "All right. I knew first thing 'e were up to no good, and I found out what was in them ankers first off. Then I thought, well, I never thought that much of the Navy, and there's me Jenny to be kept safe, so I went along with it. That is the truth, Yer Honor, the whole truth, and nothin' but the truth, so help me God."

  At last his words rang true.

  "Will ye take care of me Jenny, Yer Honor? She's a good girl, she is, and she'll be a double orphing tomorrer." His eyes stared intently into Hoare's. "We puts up with Greenleaf at 'is Bunch of Grapes."

  "I'll do it," Hoare said again. "She'll be brought up a lady."

  "Lady, me arse. She's Wet Meg's get, she is, with no lines spoke between us. Just teach the lass to read an' write, will yer? Ye promise?"

  "I promise, Jaggery."

  "Give her a kiss from her ol' da, then. Uh. Now, do it. Hope it won't be so hot where I'm goin'. Oh, Jesus." Another pink bubble formed and broke.

  Apalled at what he must do, Hoare took out his knife, tested the point against his thumb. Leaning away from Jaggery so the man's blood would strike the advancing fire instead of him, he slipped the point between Jaggery's ribs. Jaggery hissed, jerked like a salmon. Soon, the fire already charring his uniform, Hoare closed Jaggery's eyes and backed out of the wreckage. Time was pressing, but his new obligation pressed more heavily.

  Jenny Jaggery remembered Hoare. When he told her her Da was dead, she stood thoughtful for a minute.

  "I'm a norphing, then, for truth," she said.

  "I'm afraid so, child," Hoare replied.

  She went to the pallet where she slept and took a small threadbare purse from under the pillow. "Ain't enough here to pay the rent," she said, after counting the contents. "So I might as well start doin' it now. 'Ow do yer want to do it to me, Yer Honor? Be easy on me, will yer? I never done it before."

  "You'll not have to 'do it' for anyone till you're grown-up, Jenny," Hoare said, "and not then unless you really want to. I promised your Da I'd take care of you, and that I'm going to do. Get your things together now, and we'll be off."

  At first, Mr. Greenleaf appeared reluctant to see Hoare about to vanish with the child, but when Hoare had explained the circumstances and assured him that she would only be moving to the Swallowed Anchor, where he and his good wife could readily reassure themselves of her well-being, he released her into Hoare's keeping with a smile and a ha'penny.

  Hoare turned his tubular charge and her pitiful bundle of belongings over to the pink girl Susan at the Swallowed Anchor, telling her to feed the child and find her a corner she could call her own. Jenny took Susan's hand readily enough but looked over her shoulder at Hoare.

  "Wait," he whispered. "I forgot. Your Da gave me a packet of kisses for you, and told me to give you one every night when you go to bed.

  "Here's for tonight." He bent over and kissed Jenny's cool, round forehead. It was a new experience, for him at least. "Off you go, child."

  Susan came downstairs after a while. "She's sleepin' peaceful, sir," she told Hoare. "She didn't even 'ave no dolly, so I give her the one I had when I were her age, an' she cuddled up with it as nice as could be."

  She paused and looked down at Hoare.

  "If it ain't presumptive of me to ask, sir," she said, "what are yer plans for 'er? She seems like a good little mite."

  "To tell the truth, Susan," he replied, "I haven't thought it through. She's Janus Jaggery's child, you know."

  "Well, Janus Jaggery may have been a bad man, but he weren't a bad man, sir, if you catch my meaning. Now, you don't really want to set up to be a da to her, do you? You never struck me as a marryin' man, an' she orter have a mam." Susan's look grew speculative.

  "We'll just have to see, Susan," Hoare said thoughtfully. "Meanwhile, take good care of her."

  That done, Hoare was ready to see that Edouard Moreau was brought to the King's justice. For this, there was again not a moment to be lost-though, Hoare confessed, he himself had wasted several precious hours in dealing with the Jaggery child.

  The arrest of Moreau would be a personal pleasure, but Hoare would be exceeding his brief by thinking to command the expedition it would apparently require. Besides his disaffected French-Canadians, Moreau could well have other English renegades at his disposal as well-Irish irredentists, too, perhaps, ready to avenge Wolfe Tone. Yet, whether he would be exceeding his brief or not, Hoare wanted to be in on the kill, in person. The stink of the vanished Vantage was still fresh in his nose.

  How was he to go about it? A more tactful officer than himself-one who had kept on good terms with Sir Thomas Frobisher instead of near-hostility-could simply call on the baronet for a force of his watch, march up the long slope from Weymouth town under the eyes of Moreau, cut him out from among some sixteen men, and haul him away. In doing so, this more tactful officer wou
ld, of course, have no difficulty in persuading Moreau not to put an end to him with the Kentucky rifle he had stolen, as he had done with at least two victims-Kingsley and Dr. Graves.

  Moreover, the man behind Moreau-Fortier s and Jaggery's "Himself," lurking in the shadows of the case-might still be in the offing with reinforcements for the defense of his man Moreau. Then again, maybe not.

  The Marine division headquartered in Portsmouth, Hoare remembered as he went, included-as well as nearly fifty companies of infantry and batteries of artillery-a troop of hybrid creatures. Half soldier, half sailor, half cavalrymen, they were called "Horse Marines." These military chimeras served as outlying guards on the landward side of Portsmouth. On their rounds, they kept an eye peeled for seamen and fellow Marines seeking to disappear into the countryside. They were a despised laughingstock-military bastards-about whom ribald jigs had been circulating for years.

  Hoare had met two of their officers, including their captain, not so long ago and taken their part in a dispute with certain regular hussars. It was to their corner of the Marine barracks that he went. He hoped their captain-a John Jinks, if he remembered correctly-would be at hand and that he would respond to Hoare's appeal for armed support.

  Captain Jinks was both present and complaisant. "It'll give the lazy rascals a jaunt," he said. Within minutes, Hoare was jouncing out of town on a borrowed charger beside Captain Jinks, his troop of Horse Marines jingling behind him.

  A day and a half later, the troop trotted through a mizzle of chilly rain and crested the Purbeck Downs beside Morrow's quarry. There a dozen men or more, variously armed, blocked the narrow paved roadway into Weymouth, up and down which Hoare had plodded before, to be insulted and rebuffed by Morrow and Sir Thomas Frobisher. At their head, Sir Thomas himself sat a handsome eighteen-hand horse-an Irish hunter, Hoare hazarded to himself. Another horseman flanked Sir Thomas.

  "Halt right there, you troop of sleazy imitation soldiers," Sir Thomas Frobisher said. "How dare you trespass on Frobisher land without my say-so?"

 

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