"Who are you, sir?" Hoare whispered. The man looked at him from under his beetling brows in a startled way; perhaps he had never been called sir before in all his days.
"Iggleden, sir. Foretopman." An appropriate rating; the man might have been a gibbon. He bared enormous yellow teeth in a grin and brought his right hand to his low, hairy forehead in salute. The movement was an impressive one.
"Second-story man, sir, as well," said Mr. Clay. Iggleden must have overheard, for he grinned still more widely and bobbed his head.
What had this little Lieutenant said? Hoare withheld comment and continued his inspection.
The appearance of the remaining hands on Royal Duke's spotless deck was equally unexpected. Hoare found himself viewing a row of men who, while they looked fit enough in their varied jumpers and petticoat breeches, must hardly ever have faced wind and weather. Except for a blackamoor and one manifest Oriental, their intelligent faces were noticeably paler than that of the typical tar, and three of them actually wore spectacles. In the navy, this was unheard of. The Oriental might be a Japanese, or he might be a Chinese; Hoare had never been able to tell one nation from the other, let alone identifying individuals.
Hoare now found himself staring into the green eyes of a woman, an unmistakable, full-bosomed woman, and a fine-looking woman at that, as he could not help observing. Her eyes were level with his own, which made her nearly a six-foot woman. She wore a seaman's roundabout jacket and loose trousers, not as if she had dressed up in costume for a masquerade or a prank, but because they were simply what any seaman or seawoman would wear.
"And who have we here, may I ask?"
Like Iggleden before her, but more gracefully, she knuckled her forehead.
"Taylor, sir, Sarah Taylor. Master's Mate."
"And your duties?"
"Cryptographer, sir. And geometer, when needed."
"What?"
"A superb navigator, sir," Clay murmured. "Theoretically, that is."
Those cautionary words reminded Hoare of Sir George's admonition: Hoare must keep close to his desk and never go to sea.
A neat turn of phrase, Hoare thought. Perhaps he should keep a little commonplace book for clevernesses of the kind and pass it on to his biographer when he died famous.
In addition to Taylor, two other hands were female. The Royal Dukes were, as Sir George had told him, indeed, "manned in quite an unusual manner." So that was why the Admiral had all but bitten his tongue to keep from laughing out loud.
"You must explain all this to me later," Hoare told his Lieutenant, handing him the commission still clutched in his hand. "First, however, I must read myself in. At least, I shall begin to do so; you will be so kind as to read the balance on my behalf when my voice gives out."
"Aye aye, sir," Mr. Clay said in an undertone. Then, in his normal, enviable full-bodied voice: "Off hats. Fall in aft." The Royal Dukes broke ranks and gathered around their vessel's mainmast.
Hoare began. "By the Commissioners for executing the office of Lord High Admiral of Great Britain and Ireland, et cetera, and of all His Majesty's plantations, et cetera. To Bartholomew Hoare, Esquire, hereby appointed Master and Commander of His Majesty's ship Royal Duke…
Clay took the paper that Hoare handed him and continued.
" 'By virtue of the power and authority to us given, we do hereby constitute and appoint you Commander of His Majesty's ship Royal Duke, willing and requiring you forthwith to go on board and take upon you the charge of Master and Commander in her accordingly, strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said ship to behave themselves, jointly and severally, in their respective employments with all due respect and obedience unto you, their said Captain, and you likewise to observe and execute the General Printed Instructions and such orders and directions as you shall from time to time receive from us or any other of your superior officers, for His Majesty's service. Hereof nor you nor any of you fail as you will answer the contrary at your peril. And for so doing this shall be your warrant…' "
After twenty-two endless years, Hoare thought as he listened to the dignified ritual, he was in formal command of one of His Majesty's ships, with a firm grip on another rung of the ladder, and within reach of his Post-Captaincy.
Mr. Clay concluded his reading of Hoare's commission, folded it, and returned it to his Commander. "And now, men, three hearty cheers for Captain Hoare! Hip-hip…"
"Huzzay!"
"Hip-hip…"
"Huzzay!"
"Hip-hip…"
"Huzzaaaay!"
At the last cheer, all hats flew into the air, one of them flung overboard by its exuberant owner.
"Thank you, men," Hoare whispered tritely, "and women." Then, with a glance at his Lieutenant, he gave the signal for him to relay his next words at an audible level. When Mr. Clay obliged, one or two hands looked mystified by the process. "As you can hear, I never speak above a whisper, so I shall usually relay my orders through Mr. Clay. I do have certain signals, however…"
He broke off, withdrew his boatswain's pipe, and blew "All Hands."
"You know that one, I see," Hoare whispered, Clay echoing his whisper out loud for the crew at large. Hoare pocketed the pipe. "But you do not know this one…"
Putting two fingers of one hand to his mouth, he emitted a piercing, rising whistle. Clay jumped, and so did a good half the crew. There was also a fluttering noise dead aft, behind Hoare's back. He forbore to turn in search of the noise's origin.
"That," he continued, "was my summons to Mr. Clay. I have many more such signals, which I wish you to learn in time. You will find me firm but fair. Do your duty, and you will have nothing to fear.
"Dismiss the hands, Mr. Clay."
Hoare took the next few minutes to walk the flush deck of his new command, guided by his new Lieutenant. She was a conventional Navy brig in half-scale. If he remembered Beetle correctly, she was perhaps less cluttered than her sisters. Beetle had been Hoare's very first ship; she had made his fortune for him before he was nineteen. It was all very well that Royal Duke's eight brass four-pounders, bowsed tight against her low bulwarks, gleamed to perfection in the October sun. All the same, they looked like toys and would have little more striking power than so many firecrackers. Her broadside would be a fearsome sixteen pounds, equal to no more than the blow of a single one of a frigate's main guns. Hardly fit to stand in the line of battle, Hoare repeated to himself.
Two strange high wooden cases squatted in her stern sheets. They would surely carry away at the first sign of a breeze. Whatever they were, he must have them stowed elsewhere-if, that is, Royal Duke was going to sea, a supposition that was already beginning to stir in Hoare's mind. For now, though, he suppressed issuing an order to have the obtrusive cases pitched overboard, since upon closer inspection he saw that the cases were neatly divided into pigeonholes. That, he realized, was exactly what the boxes held-holes, pigeons, for the use of. In fact, a few were occupied by murmuring birds. One occupant and then another took wing, circled, and returned; the fluttering that had taken place at his whistle a few moments ago explained itself.
Belowdecks, Hoare found Royal Duke's architecture bewildering. Forward of the guarded doorway to the cabin suite that was to be his own new home, a clean sweep reached into her forepeak. It was low but surprisingly spacious. Unlike every other vessel's he could remember, her 'tween-decks was well lit; thick glass prisms were let into the overhead at frequent intervals, and several skylights admitted the cool October sunshine. Its overhead itself was high enough to accommodate Hoare's height without his needing to stoop. Long hanging tables, interrupted only by the brig's masts and flanked by hanging chairs and benches, stretched along her center line.
But it was the arrangement of compartments stretching the full length of the space, on both sides, that was most unusual. Between their louvered doors-there were no fewer than eight to a side-the brig's builder had set ranks of cabinets and bookshelves.
Several of th
e crew had already reseated themselves at their tables and were at work over various papers, while others looked over their shipmates' shoulders and still others had congregated into groups. One of these had gathered round a messmate who seemed to be doing magic tricks for them. Any ship's officer who was attentive to his duty would have sent these people about theirs, Hoare thought, and was about to chide Clay but then realized that perhaps they were about their business.
The woman Taylor-"Master's Mate," as she had named herself-had donned spectacles to resume a task that apparently involved the use of mathematical tables and an abacus. Double the length of her neighbors' queues, her own thick sandy pigtail reached the bench on which she sat. A Mate, indeed, Hoare thought.
All in all, the 'tween-decks space of HMS Royal Duke reminded Hoare less of a man-o'-war than a counting-house or some other kind of lay monastery that, like those of the early Irish Christians, accommodated both sexes in mutual, uncomfortable celibacy. If his command was intended to be a countinghouse, what was he doing here, he who had never in his life more than walked through one? His heart sank.
"May I show you your quarters, sir?" came Clay's voice at his side.
"If you would be so kind, Mr. Clay."
The other went to the glossy teak door set high in the after bulkhead of Royal Duke's great main compartment and signaled the Marine sentry to open it for his commander. The man wore the same uniform as his mates. On this second sight, Hoare found it oddly familiar.
"What's your name?" he asked.
The marine looked about him to see whom his Captain might be addressing. "Me, zur?" he replied at last.
"Yes. You."
"Yeovil, if you please, zur. Gideon Yeovil, of Harrow-barrow. That's north of Plymouth…"
"Very good, Yeovil. And… isn't that a rifle you're carrying?"
"Yes, zur. We Johnnies in Royal Duke, zur, we'm all Riflemen."
That explained the green uniform. It was the same as the one some unknown genius had designed during the late American war, for the first Riflemen in the Army. Hoare had seen it in Halifax then, but hardly ever since. As sharpshooters, Riflemen were better off unseen, and the lobster coat had drawn fire as a whore did sailors. Hoare wondered if the same principle might not save lives among the soldiery in general but set the idea aside as absurd. After all, he supposed, Lobsters were meant to stand there and be shot at. But not his lobsters, by God. Now that he had his very own live, unboiled green lobsters, he would guard their lives just as they guarded his.
Hoare stepped into a blaze of sunlight pouring through the cabin windows. Struck not only by the sun, he stood stupefied. Though he must still stoop, this was luxury.
The book-lined space might be lower than the Captain's quarters in a fifty-gun, two-decker fourth-rate ship of the line and half the breadth, but it was little shorter. It was laid out in a similar fashion. A wide, heavy table stood before a comfortable chair just forward of the glazed window opening onto Royal Duke's gallery, his gallery. Other chairs stood about the black-and-white diaper-patterned canvas laid on the deck underfoot. Suspended from one overhead beam was an enormous construction whose purpose eluded him. It was evidently still another chair-but a chair for what? It could have held a young elephant.
"What on earth is this?" Hoare whispered.
"Sir Hugh's special chair, sir," Mr. Clay replied. "Admiral Abercrombie was wont to visit Captain Oglethorpe quite frequently when we lay in Greenwich."
"Sir Hugh Abercrombie must be a very big man."
"A very great man," Clay said in a neutral voice. Personal size, Hoare realized, might be as sensitive a topic for this wee man as commercial sex or whispering was for himself. He would have to be very mindful of this.
He was about to ask Mr. Clay to assemble the officers when he remembered that in addition to the two of them, if his memory was correct, Royal Duke counted only King's warrant officers in her complement, plus, of course, the seamen and a boy or two. He decided, instead, to query Clay about their mission.
"Take a seat, won't you, Mr. Clay?" Clay complied. Hoare noted in passing that the poor man's toes did not reach the deck when he sat.
"Did Captain Oglethorpe leave a servant when he died?"
"Oh, yes, sir. Whitelaw by name."
At the sound of his name, Whitelaw himself entered, bringing with him a tray of delicacies: a decanter of what looked like a tawny port, glasses, and a plate of biscuits. He was portly, but portly in the way of a wild boar: heavy, solid, and probably extremely strong. He placed the refreshments on the table and withdrew without a word.
"Tell me about yourself, Mr. Clay," Hoare whispered when he had poured each of them a glass.
The little Lieutenant was quite willing to speak of himself When he first went to sea, he told Hoare, he was no smaller than other midshipmen of the same age.
"I simply failed to grow," he explained, apparently feeling no more embarrassment about his stature than Hoare did about his silence.
Hoare needed little time to learn that his Lieutenant was mentally quick. Though small, he looked physically fit-nimble, in fact. He had, he said without affectation, been out twice and obtained satisfaction each time.
"I chose swords both times," he said. "My adversaries were so surprised at being up against such an unexpectedly long reach on the part of such a miniature opponent that, on each occasion, I drew first blood with no ado."
Since one of his maternal uncles was an Admiral and an Earl-. "My stature may be negligible, sir, but my standing is not." Mr. Clay's interest had sufficed to overcome any reservations the examining board might have had about his lack of stature, so he eventually found himself a Lieutenant. But since his commissioning, Mr. Clay had never seen action. Most of his service had been in auxiliary vessels or, naturally enough, in cutters, brigs, and others of the smallest men-o'-war.
He had been seconded to Royal Duke a year ago. He knew her crew and her mission from main truck to keelson, for the late Captain Oglethorpe, as he faded out of life, had lately relied more heavily upon him every day. In these last months, Mr. Clay said frankly, he had commanded the yacht in all but name.
"And to tell you the truth, sir," he said, "I am happy to be relieved of full responsibility for both the vessel and her business. A person with my limited experience in the world of statecraft has no business meddling in the sorts of affair that come aboard us here."
Of these affairs, there were four important ones at present, Clay explained. The first was the dissection and improvement, for similar use against the French, of the clockwork timers whose provenance Hoare himself had just run down in the course of a previous Herculean labor for Admiral Hardcastle. The second was the plugging of an information leak that had appeared among the clerical staff in Portsmouth. The third was an inquiry into a sharp reduction in morale and hence in productivity among certain mateys in the Navy Yard. The fourth involved breaking the cipher that Hoare had encountered during his inquiry last spring. Clay had sensibly delegated the day-today pursuit of each mission to a different individual.
"If I may, sir," he said, "I propose that we summon each in turn to tell us about his task. Or hers in one case, for Taylor is responsible for the cipher."
"Very good," Hoare said. "Let us begin with Taylor, then. Will you pass the word for her?"
Taylor still wore her spectacles but had pushed them to the top of her head. Hoare thought they made her look like a highly premature grandmother.
"Be seated, if you please, Taylor," Hoare whispered. Clay's face took on a surprised look, as if he was none too sure that Royal Duke's Captain was wise to address a hand with "please," let alone inviting her to be seated in his presence.
"Tell me," Hoare asked, "what progress have you made in deciphering the set of messages… that originated with the affair of the infernal machines last spring?"
"Almost none, sir," she admitted. For her impressive size her voice was quiet, her accent ladylike. A gentlewoman in reduced circumstances, perhaps?
"I am convinced that the key to them is a passage in some text carried by both sender and recipient. The Bible is the most common key, as you must know, being the most widely distributed text. But I have tried both the King James and Douai versions without success."
Not only ladylike: prim. A bluestocking, then, disguised as a sailor.
"But why are you using English translations of the Bible when the messages are almost certainly in French?" Hoare asked.
"In French, sir?"
"Yes. You knew that, surely. In the covering letter I enclosed with the messages, I informed the Admiralty that at least two of the men using the cipher spoke French and that one left a French Bible next to his worksheets."
"That information never reached me, sir," came the quiet voice.
"I can corroborate that, sir," Clay said. "I received the material and inspected it before handing it on to Taylor. There was no covering letter, just the messages."
So, Hoare thought, someone had slipped up, either at the Admiralty or in Portsmouth. Was it by carelessness, he wondered, or intention? Could this have to do with the information leakage problem? Whichever and whoever it was, the omission had kept Royal Duke's cryptographer from deciphering the messages. The delay might have serious consequences, for while the writer himself might have been put out of the way, his unknown master remained at liberty. Furthermore, the prospect of still more French agents lying doggo in his working network was disconcerting.
"Is there a French Bible aboard?" Hoare asked.
"I'm sure there is, sir," Taylor said. "If you'll give me leave, I'll ask McVitty to find it and begin forthwith."
"Do so, Taylor. But who is McVitty?"
"Our librarian, sir," Clay interjected. "The short, square woman with spectacles."
"Good heavens," Hoare said. "Thank you, Mr. Clay. Carry on, Taylor. And look first in Kings."
"Aye aye, sir. I remember-Jehu and Ahab. Second Kings, chapter nine, verse twenty. Thank you, sir.
"But, sir, I must point out that there are surely as many editions of the Bible in French as there are of our own King James version. Would it be possible to obtain the particular volume to which you just referred?"
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