Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities

by Wilder Perkins

  Hoare gradually recovered his energy as the sun broke through, but for the most part, he left Unimaginable to find her own way home with only the most necessary guidance, her captain brooding as she sailed. By the late sunset of late May, she eased into the Inner Camber, still listing slightly and lying heavy in the water. She rolled like a woman about to give birth. Hoare made her fast with the help of Guilford the watchman and betook himself up the strand to the Swallowed Anchor. Here Susan the pink girl took him in hand, binding up his head and putting him to bed with a hot toddy.

  Chapter XII

  “TELL ME more about Kingsley,” Hoare said to Janus Jaggery two mornings later. They were basking in the sunny kitchen garden of the Bunch of Grapes. The bench was out of earshot of Mr. Greenleaf’s other customers, and the garden was ablaze with blossoms whose scent overbore the mild rotten reek of the kitchen’s wastes. Nearby, young Jenny served “tea” to herself and three creatures that her da had just cleverly twisted out of straw to keep her company.

  “Ain’t nothin’ to tell, Mr. ’Oare. ’E was always a cove to try an’ buy ’is way into favor with presents what ’e give to anyone ’e thought might ’elp him to advancement.

  “’E was a bum-sucker, yer worship, and a wild spender. Where did ’e get his blunt, then? ’E was too well-known in the Navy to try the gentry-lay, an’ those bits of ’ardware we traded was as nuffin’. ’E was a bully. An’ that’s what set me off the Navy in the first place, Mr. ’Oare—the bullyin’.”

  “And what else did you do to help him?” Hoare asked.

  “Well,” Jaggery said reluctantly, “sometimes I’d put ’im in the way of a bit of fine goods from t’other side the Channel—a length of silk, like, for one of ’is morts. Then there was the brandy. In ankers. Lots of them. ’E got ’em himself and tended to ’em ’imself, most particular. Wouldn’t ’ave me lay me ’ands on ’em, no, not at first.”

  “And where did you meet to do these bits of nefarious business?”

  “I’ve a friend, Yer Honor, what ’as the night watch at Arrowsmith’s ware’ouse. You know—the ship chandler? ’E let us use it, so long as we never took none of Arrowsmith’s wares. Didn’t take much space no’ow.”

  “Space or no space, Jaggery, that’s cappabar, as well you know—disposing illegally of His Majesty’s property. Get taken up for that, and off they pack you to Botany Bay, before you can whistle. And what will happen to your little Jenny then?”

  Upon Hoare’s words, Jaggery instinctively searched the tiny garden. No Jenny.

  Through the wall behind them came a squeal. Silent as any cat, Hoare got to his feet and, stooped over, threw open the door into the inn kitchen. There was a yell of pain, a crash of crockery, and the clatter of fleeing feet. Hoare went through the door in a rush, almost tripping over Jenny as the child darted back out into the garden.

  “I bit ’im, Da!” Jenny shrieked. “I bit ’im!” In her pale face, the child’s eyes sparked like black fire.

  For a fraction of a second, a dark figure was silhouetted in the doorway beyond, leading into the barroom. Another crash followed, and a shout of rage from Greenleaf. Hoare raced across the barroom and thrust his head out the front door. Down the cobbled lane he saw the fugitive dodging through the throng, running like a started hare toward the water. The object the man carried in one hand caught against an awning pole, and he dropped it, continuing his flight. Hoare caught it up. It was a tapered, flexible tube, like the one Dr. Graves had demonstrated that night in Weymouth.

  It brought certain memories together: Morrow’s interest in it; the enciphered messages in Kingsley’s correspondence and the similar messages whose appearance Mrs. Graves had sketched; Morrow’s birthplace; the oddly familiar accents of the two French-speaking men who had boarded him and beaten him a few nights ago; Janus Jaggery’s admissions just now about Kingsley’s ankers of “brandy.” Put together for the first time, these assorted facts melded into a certainty: the man behind the mystery was Mr. Edward Morrow.

  Hoare stopped in his tracks. At forty-three, he had no hope of catching the eavesdropper himself on foot. Moreover, he sensed a far greater opportunity to forestall the fugitive in his rush to escape and report to his master. If he were to seize opportunity as well as device, there was not a moment to be lost.

  But how? True, the fugitive seemed to be making for the harbor, suggesting that he would make his escape by sea. He could, however, have been laying a false track and would change course for some inshore spot where a horse awaited.

  Hoare felt himself on the horns of a dilemma. Should he pursue by land? He had no idea how long it would take a troop of horsemen to ride from Portsmouth to Weymouth, but it had to be an eighty-mile journey. He doubted that horsemen would be able to change mounts en route, as a solitary postboy or a scheduled coach could do. And they would not want to travel at night, he supposed. It could be two days before they reached their destination. By then, the fugitive—traveling every minute except to change horses—would have long since reached Weymouth and alerted Morrow. If Hoare traveled by land, the race was lost from the start.

  No, his only chance was to go by sea. With today’s northerly wind likely to endure, Inconceivable could make the passage in less than a day, but she would arrive with an inferior force. Given the terms on which he stood with Sir Thomas Frobisher, Hoare could hardly hope to recruit a force in Weymouth or its environs. Yet if his Inconceivable were to make her best speed, she could accommodate no more than two besides himself. Well then, they’ll have to be the best fighting sailors in Portsmouth, Hoare told himself. He hastened to the Admiral’s offices to gather his trivial reinforcements.

  With two experienced, intelligent-looking tars in tow, Hoare was about to work his way back through the town to where Inconceivable lay when it occurred to him to search the harbor first from a spot on the Common Hard, to see if he could catch sight of the fugitives among the waterborne traffic. With a whispered apology, he seized a telescope from an elderly nautical-looking gentleman and set to examining every small craft he could see working its way southward toward the Solent.

  “See, Cyril!” came a woman’s voice at his side. “Only see how our nation’s guardian bends his eagle brow in search of one of His Majesty’s enemies on which to swoop!”

  Hoare could not help himself. He glanced in the speaker’s direction, to see a plainly dressed woman of about his own age, bending to address a child of perhaps six. Seeing that she had caught Hoare’s attention, she simpered and moved away, looking over her shoulder widowlike. Hoare returned to his search.

  On the low southern horizon, about to disappear behind Gosport, a sleek schooner was just hoisting her flying jib to the soft northerly wind. She was too glossy for a fisherman; her masts were daringly raked. Besides, no mere fisherman troubled with little handkerchiefs like flying jibs. Hoare recognized her as the yacht Morrow had proudly pointed out to him from his own doorstep outside Weymouth—his Marie Claire.

  Hoare clapped the pilfered telescope to with a snap and returned it to its nonplussed owner with an unctuous, apologetic smile. He beckoned to his two men and set off again at a run across the dockyard. By the time he reached Inconceivable, Marie Claire would have thirty minutes’ lead on him. On a broad reach, the schooner would be at her best. Nonetheless, Hoare thought as he panted along, it was over ninety miles to Weymouth by sea. With the low sea and the favorable breeze, Inconceivable had a fair chance. Morrow—or his yacht, at least—would have his race after all, it seemed. But there was not a moment to be lost.

  With the very possibility in mind that he would have other naval men aboard her, Hoare had rigged Inconceivable Navy fashion throughout. In pitch dark, any able seaman could find any of the lines cleated to her tiny pin rail without fumbling. His two men turned to as though they had been aboard her for a month. Within minutes, with the aid of the docker-watchman Guilford, they had all shore lines inboard and had turned her end for end. Inconceivable’s tall triangular mainsail gave his
new crew pause for a moment. But since the whole rig could have been grasped by an eight-year-old—let alone men like these—in no time, Inconceivable was under way, her bow wave beginning to chuckle softly as if she were confident of her race’s outcome.

  By the time Inconceivable had reached the Solent proper, Marie Claire was well on her way to Cowes. Hoare saw her change course to larboard, ease her sheets, and straighten up slightly. She had a good three miles on Inconceivable. This would be the schooner’s best point of sailing, so it would be a long, stern chase, devoid of maneuvers unless—as seemed unlikely—the wind veered westerly.

  Hoare eyed his scratch crew unobtrusively. Though one was ruddy and the other black, the two were cut from the same human cloth, tough, horny-handed, pigtailed men in clean frocks. Both had kicked off their heavy buckled shoes immediately on coming aboard, showing big, almost prehensile feet as horny as their hands. As soon as her two simple sails were drawing to Hoare’s satisfaction, both had turned to and begun priddying Inconceivable’s already-spotless deck. Hoare beckoned them to join him beside the tiller.

  “My name’s Hoare,” he whispered. “Don’t trouble to laugh, either of you. I’ve been known to wipe the laugh off a man, together with the rest of his head.” He smiled to show that he was not wholly serious, and the two men relaxed visibly. “We’re too small a ship for formality, men, so make yourselves at home. I can’t talk in more than a whisper, so you’ll want to keep one eye on me and one on Inconceivable here.”

  He stopped to catch his breath, and went on.

  “And one eye on that flash schooner up ahead. I want to take her if I can, sink her if I can’t. She’s carrying at least three Frenchmen, maybe more. I think they are the ones that have been blowing up so many of His Majesty’s ships. At least, I believe so, and the Admiral thinks so, too, so that’s all you really need to know. But I want to tell you a bit more. Bear with me if I must stop to wet my whistle once in a while.”

  With this, Hoare began to expound his suspicions. When he had brought the two up-to-date with his discovery of the listening device, he asked them about themselves.

  “Now, tell me who you are, and your ratings.”

  “I’m Bold, sir,” said the black man. “Cox’n of Sir George’s barge. Bold’s me name, and bold’s me nature. Har har har. An’ this smart lad Stone here, ’e’s just been named stroke oar. We knows who you are. You’re the gentleman what found all of Amazon’s mids.”

  “Yes,” Stone said. “An’ you ’auled me aboard thicky little barky of your yerself, zur, when Vantage blew up t’other day. For which I says ‘thanky,’ zur.”

  “Which one of you should I rate as ‘sailing master,’ for now, and which as ‘gunner’?”

  “Well, sir, Stone was capting of one of Vantage’s carronades.”

  “Then that’s that. Bold, you’re master, and Stone, you’re gunner. Take turns at her tiller for a bit, and get used to her. I’d have you both take her ’round the compass, but we haven’t time now, if we’re to catch Marie Claire up there.”

  When Stone had had his turn, Hoare left Bold at Inconceivable’s tiller and took the gunner below. He wanted the craft’s odd armory overhauled.

  “First, Stone,” he said, “draw the charges in all the weapons. Here’s a worm. They must have all been wet when she took on water awhile back. Reload the lot from this barrel.”

  Stone rolled up his sleeves and set to. Hoare returned on deck.

  After a bit, Stone’s head looked up at him from below. He was carrying the powder keg.

  “No good, zur. She be started in the ’ead. Soaked through, she be.”

  “Clear through?” Hoare’s whisper was filled with dismay.

  “To the very core, zur. All twanty pounds of ’er. Look ’ere. This lump, she be from the very center of the keg.”

  “The pistols? The swivel?” Hoare asked piteously. “The crossbow?”

  “Dunno about the crossbow, zur. Never seen one of ’em before. But like you said, the powder in the other weppings was all damp.”

  “The grenades?”

  “Can’t tell, zur. Un be all sealed up, you know. But the fuses…”

  Stone went below, where Hoare heard him rummaging about.

  “No good, zur. Fuses be all wet!” he called at last.

  Hoare could gladly have beaten his head against Inconceivable’s mast. As soon as possible after bringing his waterlogged vessel home the other morning and drying her out, he had replenished her fully. He had replaced hardtack and soft tack. He had made certain that the coal for his galley stove was dry, and likewise the kindling and tinder. He had also been quite confident that his little keg of red large-grain powder and his flask of priming powder were secure. He had failed to make sure. He had not kept his powder dry. Without firearms, how were Inconceivable’s three men to take Marie Claire? There could be no question. There were at least as many “Frenchmen” aboard her, and they would be well armed—with pistols, if nothing else.

  For a long instant, Hoare contemplated temporarily abandoning the chase and returning to Portsmouth, there to resume it in some more conventional manner. He would certainly not actually abandon it. He looked ahead to the schooner. Even if the fugitives were only Morrow’s minions, he wanted at least one of them. If Morrow himself was aboard, all the better.

  From the respectful tones one, and only one, of his two midnight boarders had used on that misty night—just about here, Hoare realized—he was certain the other boarder had been Morrow. That put Morrow in his debt. Hoare thought no more about turning back.

  He had seen how Marie Claire gave the Cowes headland a wide berth, so as to clear the nasty heap of submerged rocks just offshore of it. Marie Claire’s sails gleamed ivory in the sun of late morning, until she disappeared behind the minor cape on which Cowes lay. She had not dodged south into the Newport estuary. The odds were, then, that she would make a straight run for Weymouth.

  So Morrow, or whoever was conning Hoare’s chase, knew the local waters. He himself would hoist Inconceivable’s sliding keel halfway and shave the rocks, accepting the additional leeway this would give her in exchange for the cable-length he would gain. The tide was just past full.

  The rocks now behind her, Marie Claire hove into sight again, making for the Needles, heeling slightly less than before and slicing scornfully through the light offshore chop. She had set her gaff topsails. Little good that will do her, Hoare thought; Inconceivable’s plain mainsail overtopped the schooner’s main topmast by a good two feet.

  Morrow might be a traitor, but nonetheless he had chosen his yacht with an expert eye. With every rag set and gleaming golden in the afternoon sun, throwing an occasional rainbow of spray across her long bowsprit, Marie Claire was beautiful. And since the wind held steady, it promised to be a straight run to Durlston Head—clear in the distance—thence to St. Alban’s Head and Weymouth Bay. There was little likelihood that, even if Morrow were not in command, the crew of “Frenchmen” would commit any blunders that would bring Marie Claire within reach of Inconceivable’s jaws. And in any case, to Hoare’s shame, those jaws were all but toothless.

  “I think we’re over’aulin’ the chase, sir,” Bold said behind him. “I can see her crew—some of ’em, anyhow.”

  In the glass Hoare thought to see four figures. He handed it to Bold for confirmation.

  “Looks like four of ’em to me, sir,” Bold said. “And we’re ’aulin’ up on ’em good and pretty, like I said. Thicky crazy rig of yourn.…”

  “Just the same,” Hoare said, “it may well be dark before we come up on her. And there are only three of us. Shall we see if it’s true that one true British tar can whip any three Frogs?”

  “Har har har,” Bold said.

  His comrade was more forthcoming. “Lost ’most all my shipmates in Vantage,” Stone said. “If it’s true, that idee of yourn, I wouldn’t mind payin’ the bugger off for that.”

  “Well, then,” Hoare said, “here’s what we’ll do.”<
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  * * *

  MARIE CLAIRE HAD passed the Needles and had been briefly silhouetted by the setting sun when Hoare and his crew learned that they had come up within pistol shot of her. The ball thumped harmlessly against Inconceivable’s mast, just above her toy pin rail, dropped to the deck, and rolled into the scuppers. Hoare suggested that his men take shelter behind Inconceivable’s narrow cabin trunk.

  “They won’t ’ave that much ammunition, zur, will they?” Stone asked. “Mebbe if we annoys ’em enough, they’ll shoot it all off afore we gets within killin’ range.” So saying, he rose to his feet, flourished his hat, and delivered a terrible yell. There was another shot from the chase. Stone’s hat flew from his hand, and he joined his companions behind the cabin trunk.

  “Har har har,” Bold said beside him.

  * * *

  HOARE FELT UNFAIRLY treated, whether by himself or by the fates. Foot by foot, in slow motion, Inconceivable was drawing up on Marie Claire—and his teeth were drawn. The chase became silhouetted in the westering sun. Her stern was ample enough that four Frenchmen lining her taffrail, side by side, could deliver a steady, slow harassing fusillade. A fifth man stood boldly at her wheel. The enemy must have long since guessed that since she had yet to open fire, Inconceivable had no means of doing so.

  The tapping of pistol bullets on her hull and the pop they made when tearing through her canvas was a constant thing. As the gap between the two vessels narrowed, the taps grew sharper. Hoare and his crew stayed crouched in the shelter of Inconceivable’s cabin trunk.

  Slowly, slowly, the sun reached for the horizon beyond Marie Claire. Slowly, it began to drown itself. A last rare green flash, and it was gone. At the water’s surface, the wind all but died except for an infinitesimal cat’s-paw every now and then. The two craft lay all but idle on the gently heaving water, commencing to box the compass as they lost steerage way. Splat, as a ball struck the water beside Bold and threw up a trivial spray. Rap, as another stuck the front of Inconceivable’s cabin trunk. Tang. That would have been her anchor. By now, Hoare thought, Eleanor Graves and her sling could have brought down every man in Marie Claire. But Hoare had no sling, and if he had, he would not know how to use it.