"We shall try to get it for you."
Taylor's legs were not to be seen beneath her sailor's wide breeches, Hoare thought, but yes, her stockings were surely blue.
"Shall we go on to review the timers, sir?" Clay asked.
Before Hoare could assent, a knock came on the cabin door. Hoare gave Clay a meaningful look, intended as an instruction to call, "Come!" but it took the other a full second to realize what was being asked of him. When Clay finally spoke the magic word, the sentry Yeovil appeared.
"Mr. 'Ancock here says as how there's a signal from Admiralty House, sir," he said, looking squarely between his two officers.
"Very good," Hoare whispered. "And, Yeovil, if I whistle like this"-he uttered a gentle chirruping noise- "it means for you to come straight in."
While he had the man's attention, he went through several other signals and had him repeat them.
"I want you to teach those signals of mine to your messmates tonight," he said.
"Aye aye, sir," said Yeovil. "An' Mr. 'ancock? He was actin' like the message was urgent."
"My God. I was carried away. Have him bring it, please."
"Hancock's our pigeon fancier," Mr. Clay murmured. "And one of our signalmen, since we have no young gentlemen in our complement."
"Sir, Admiralty House signals for you to report to the Port Admiral forthwith," Hancock said. Hoare found him hard to understand, for he had few teeth remaining, and those rotten. His breath was horrible.
Hoare thanked Hancock but took up his hat and fled the confinement of his new cabin as swiftly as he could, Clay trotting behind him.
"Never let that man into my quarters again, Clay," Hoare said. "Have my gig manned, if you please." Clay thundered the order.
Hoare had saluted his command's nonexistent quarterdeck and was about to swing down into the gig when an exciting thought came to him.
"Tomorrow, Mr. Clay, be so kind as to send two men to the man Guilford at the small boat dock in the Inner Camber. Have them inform Mr. Hackins of the Swallowed Anchor… that I shall now be living aboard Royal Duke regularly. I shall settle my account with him on my return." (Breath.) "They are to pack up the gear in my rooms and bring around my pinnace-er-Neglectful. I shall attach her to Royal Duke as tender."
That had been a three-breath sentence for Hoare-too long for comfort.
"Aye aye, sir," Clay said, and doffed his hat in salute as Hoare dropped over the side into the gig.
That will be enough to make all stare, Hoare said to himself as the gig's crew rowed him awkwardly ashore. Surely Royal Duke would be the first Admiralty yacht to have her own tender. Yet he knew that, even with the continuity provided by Neglectful, he would miss the peaceful, monotonous life he had lived at the Swallowed Anchor. What, he asked himself, was he to do about his ward, the tubular little Jenny Jaggery? He had promised her father, Janus, that he would care for the creature, yet she would hardly belong in Royal Duke. He must take counsel with Eleanor Graves the next time he saw her. Perhaps she, like the dauntless partridge she was, would take the child under her wing into her personal pear tree.
"I didn't expect to see you again so soon, Hoare," the Admiral said. This was, Hoare thought, the very first time Sir George had failed to chide him as a laggard.
"We have another unexplained killing on our hands. Or two, rather. A message has just reached me to the effect that the bodies of Francis Getchell, Captain of Agile, twenty-eight, and his cousin Benjamin, Captain of Argilla, thirty-two, have been found in the Nine Stones Circle near Winterbourne Abbas."
"This is dire news, indeed, sir," Hoare said. He had known both officers, liked one, and admired the other.
"You know Winterbourne Abbas, of course."
"I fear I am not acquainted with the gentleman, sir," Hoare whispered.
"It's a place, Hoare, not a person. Nor, to be candid, did I know of it. Rabbett had to enlighten me; it appears that he used to nibble the farmers' cabbages thereabouts."
Rabbett, Hoare knew, was a minor clerk in the office of the Admiral's secretary, Patterson. Heracles, when Sir George was in a jovial mood, was Hoare himself.
"I'm little acquainted with the inland geography hereabouts," Sir George confessed. "I'm a Staffordshire man myself. It seems Winterbourne Abbas lies west of Dorchester. The Nine Stones Circle, Rabbett tells me, is one of those ancient British temples, a miniature Stonehenge, if you will. You do know of Stonehenge?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I am told the two Captains were en route from London to Plymouth by hired coach to rejoin their ships. A shepherd found their bodies in the Circle, beheaded and robbed. They were both under orders to join Nelson. Since Nelson is already desperate for frigates, this strikes him a hard blow at a bad time. The two vessels will sail, of course, but neither First Lieutenant has enough experience to be put in permanent command. Their Lordships are taking two jobbing Captains off half-pay to replace the dead men. With frigate Captains in such short supply, you can imagine those fellows' caliber. Barrel scrapings, I'll warrant.
"Nobody saw fit to inform me about this until this morning, which is why I did not call it to your attention during your previous visit. However, that is beside the point. What is to the point, sir, is that I am requesting your new command to take it upon itself to investigate these killings, find the perpetrator or perpetrators, and bring him or them to justice. Sir Thomas Frobisher thinks himself King in the region. You know all too well what he thinks of the Navy, and of you in particular. I can hardly rely on him to pursue this outrage with the requisite energy."
Hoare heard Sir George's next words with only half an ear. The Nine Stones Circle was in Dorset. Weymouth was in Dorset. The recent plot to blow up His Majesty's ships had been spawned in Weymouth, by Edouard Moreau. Moreau had been all too hobnob with the frog-shaped Sir Thomas, who, as Sir George had said, considered himself the absolute ruler of southern Dorset. Ever since Sir Thomas had goaded Hoare into an ill-timed jape about bat fanciers in the Midlands who flew their treasures against flies and used the prey to nourish their pet frogs, the Baronet had loathed him.
Sir Thomas was a rare breed, both a Baronet, the title he had inherited from his forebears, and a made knight like Sir George himself. When they had last run athwart each other's hawse, the knight had elected to encroach upon Hoare's destruction of Edouard Moreau and insisted on riding victoriously all the way back to Portsmouth, ahead of the troop of horse marines bearing the renegade's body, leading his own mesne of retainers. In fact, the two knights, Sir Thomas Frobisher and Sir George Hardcastle, had held an oral passage at arms thereafter, in this very office.
The thought had passed through Hoare's mind before that Sir Thomas might be "Himself," as he had heard agents call the mysterious personage believed to lurk behind Moreau and perhaps others. Could this be a new initiative on the part of Himself?
"You are not attending, Mr. Hoare!"
"Sorry, sir. What you were saying made me recollect Sir Thomas Frobisher to mind."
"Him? The man's mad, mad as King George. If he had his way, he'd be King Thomas the First, that's what. 'Crown of Ethelred,' indeed! But, as I was saying, I cannot require you to accept this request. After all, I do not command the movements of Royal Duke. She and now you come directly under Admiralty orders. In principle, I have only the same administrative responsibility for your ship as I assume as Port Admiral the moment the anchor of any of His Majesty's ships is dropped at Spithead.
"No, I can only request this service of you, Heracles. Of course, I am reasonably confident that, if pressed, Sir Hugh Abercrombie would accommodate me. If I took steps to do so, nothing would be lost but time, I assure you.
"Happy to be of service, sir, as always," Hoare whispered.
"Very good. Carry on, then, Heracles."
In another of his classical moods, Sir George had dubbed Hoare "Heracles" by reason of the endless series of tasks that he was required to perform. This meant, as the Admiral had happily added, that he himself mus
t be the hero's eccentric master and monarch, while Patterson, flag secretary, was Talthybius, the herald who brought the missions to lay upon Heracles' back. Clumsy, in Hoare's opinion, but it made Sir George happy, and that was no small task itself.
"Aye aye, sir." Just as his hand was on the doorknob, a thought struck Hoare, and he turned.
"May I borrow Rabbett, sir, if need be?"
"Rabbett? What on earth… oh. Of course. Excellent notion. I'll have Patterson hold him in his hutch for you. Don't let the Whispering Ferret get him."
The Admiral chuckled. He knew, it seemed, that Whispering Ferret was one of the names used by people who bore an antipathy to Hoare. The Admiral, in fact, knew a great deal.
"Now go."
"Here you are, sir." Outside the Admiral's door, Patterson held out a folder of papers. And, in response to Hoare's whispered request, "Yes, of course. I'll hold Rabbett for you, sir, by the ears if I must."
As the gig rowed him back to Royal Duke, Hoare found himself wondering, not for the first time, what it was that made people persist in jesting and japing over others' unusual names. Surely they must realize that the name's owner had long since heard every possible weary play upon it. Moreover, the jester often went in harm's way. Mr. Clay's understated story this noon had demonstrated that. For his own part, even before Captain Joel Hoare had arranged for his son to go into Centurion, 60, as midshipman, young Bartholomew had run a jeering schoolmate through the thigh with a carving knife.
Hoare shrugged. He was used to the weary custom by now and had learned ways of either diverting or damaging those who offended him. So far, he had avoided killing anyone in his affairs of honor.
The nights were drawing in, Hoare noticed as the gig shoved off. It was more than halfway to its destination when he saw that Royal Duke was now accompanied by another, still smaller, more familiar vessel. So Mr. Clay had already complied with Hoare's request and had Neglectful brought over from the little estuary where Hoare had kept her. Very brisk of Mr. Clay. Hoare made a mental note to have a spare rifle put aboard her; his own had been missing since he made that first momentous call in Weymouth. The rifle had, he supposed, been carried off to France in Moreau's schooner Marie Claire after her owner had died in the surf off Portland Bill. It had been a work of art, but since there would be no replacing it this side of the Atlantic, he would have to make do with one of the Marines' standard-issue Baker weapons.
Neglectful's larboard bow, Hoare saw, bore a fresh, raw, newly painted patch.
"I'm pleased to see our new tender, Mr. Clay," he said as he returned the Lieutenant's salute. "But somebody has been mishandling her."
Clay's face reddened in the dusk. "Yes, sir. Joy, sir; boatswain. Timothy Joy."
"Boatswain, is he? And he can't bring a boat alongside without tearing her sides out? He should be disrated."
"Aye, sir. But…"
"But what?" Hoare demanded.
"We haven't a better. He's our quarterstaff instructor. And he's excellent with the brightwork and a superb marlinspike seaman."
"Hmph."
"He's waiting to report to you, sir." Clay nodded toward a wrinkled man who stood beside Royal Duke's mainmast, twisting his hat anxiously in both hands. When Hoare beckoned to him, he came up and knuckled his forehead, looking at his enormous boots, shamefaced.
"Well, Joy, I see you've managed to practically wreck our new tender. How long have you been rated boatswain?"
"Gone these forty years, sir," the wrinkled man said.
"Forty years? And you still can't bring a boat alongside without staving her in?"
"No, sir. 'Twere me eye, sir. I can't judge distances no more, sir." Joy raised his head, and Hoare saw that where his right eye should have been was a red, oozing hollow.
"Very good, Joy. Carry on, now."
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I've a message from the shore."
"Well?" Hoare asked.
"From Miss Jenny, sir. She says like she's learned to write all her letters now, as far as K, and please will you remember about the kitting you promised her?"
At the mention of "Miss Jenny," Hoare's heart forgot his rage at the inept Joy. He had not forgotten the kitten. He thanked Joy and dismissed him once again.
He turned back to Clay.
"If you can find no more suitable man for this ship's boatswain than a one-eyed antique like Joy, Mr. Clay, we shall have to take a very hard look at our readiness for sea."
"Aye aye, sir," was all Clay could say.
"I bring us a new assignment, Mr. Clay," Hoare said. "Come below, if convenient, and I'll tell you about it."
Chapter III
In Hoare's cabin, the silent Whitelaw already awaited them, once again bearing biscuits and port. Hoare did not believe he had yet heard the man speak. Was he, perhaps, even more totally mute than his master?
"Well, Mr. Clay, it is my turn to inform you." So saying, he conveyed to his Lieutenant all he had just learned about the affair in the Nine Stones Circle.
"All too little," he concluded. "I propose to make at least the first investigation myself. But I would like your recommendation of a man-not a woman at this time, if you please-to serve as my deputy or amanuensis. I have never worked with one, and it is clear that I must learn how. In your experience, which of our crew is best suited to handle this mission?"
Clay gave Hoare's question a full fifteen seconds' consideration before saying, "Thoday, sir."
"Of course, today," Hoare said in a displeased voice. "Tomorrow at the latest. There isn't a moment to be lost."
"Thoday is his name, sir. Accent on the ultimate. His father was one of Sir John Fielding's best men-the 'blind beak,' you know-and Titus Thoday takes after him. Experienced, cold, sharp. Rated Gunner's Mate, nominally."
"Very good. Let's have a look at him."
Hoare chirruped, and Whitelaw reappeared.
"Get me Titus Thoday, Whitelaw," Hoare said. But first…"
Hoare demonstrated to Whitelaw a few simple signals besides the chirrup that he had found useful in dealing with persons waiting on him-the trills on his boatswain's pipe he had developed with pink Susan Hackins at the Swallowed Anchor, for example. He was already confident that the silent man would need no rehearsal. In fact, the brief experience told him that Whitelaw might well foresee his master's requirements before he knew them himself.
"Now, get me Thoday," he concluded.
"Aye aye, sir." These were the first words the man had uttered. That settled one question: Whitelaw was not mute, but merely taciturn-a rare but welcome characteristic for a Captain's servant, Hoare thought.
Had Hoare been anyone but his Commander, the demeanor of the person who appeared within moments would have been quite intimidating. Thoday stooped to clear his head in what Hoare considered a condescending way, even though Royal Duke's low overhead made the stoop necessary. Thoday's nose was a beak, his eyes an icy pale gray, his thin lips habitually compressed. He accepted as merely his due Hoare's invitation to be seated and listened in silence until Hoare finished his story for the second time in half an hour.
"I shall accompany you ashore tomorrow morning, sir, when you depart," Thoday then said. Neither Hoare nor Clay had said a word about Hoare's coming journey, nor did Thoday seem to doubt that his Commander would accommodate him without boggling.
"We shall require an assistant with local knowledge," he continued.
"Lemuel Rabbett is one of Admiral Hardcastle's clerks," Hoare said tersely. "He is a native of the area, and he has been told to make himself available. I hope you'll find that satisfactory," he added with mild sarcasm.
"I shall find out quickly enough." Thoday's voice was hard, but it bore a faint hint of approval. "We can pick him up in the morning, as we leave town."
Thoday rose to his feet.
"And now, gentlemen, I have my preparations to make-as, no doubt, have you."
"A bit above himself, isn't he?" Hoare asked as the cabin door closed behind the Gunner's Mate.
<
br /> "You will find, sir, that most of my, your crew have little innate respect for rank," Clay said. "They are something like the Americans in that respect. But, fortunately, our people at least know what correct behavior is and generally choose to adopt it when strangers are present, so no self-esteem is lost on either side.
"I am given to understand that Thoday is an excellent gunner as well, although he has had no chance to demonstrate his prowess with our poor little popguns." So Mr. Clay was a secret fire-eater, thought Hoare.
Aloud, he whispered, "We shall have to correct that as soon as I return, shan't we?"
They had ordered an Admiralty chaise to be ready to leave at the turn of the watch, so Hoare would not even have time to shave. Whitelaw picked up the portmanteau he had yet to unpack for his Commander and, lugging it, led the way from Royal Duke's cabin into the misty evening.
At the boarding port, Whitelaw handed the bag to Thoday, who accepted it without blinking an eye. Mr. Clay doffed his hat in salute.
"Since you have issued no orders to the contrary, sir, may I presume that I should continue with the projects assigned us before Royal Duke left London?"
"Exactly. But I would like you to add some drill with her-er-great guns."
"Even without her gunner, sir?"
"Especially without her gunner, Mr. Clay."
"Aye aye, sir." Hoare thought to see an ironic smile on Thoday's thin lips. Was there an undercurrent of something here? he wondered.
"Give way, all," said the coxswain.
Before the chaise departed Portsmouth in the chill of late evening, Lemuel Rabbett had to undergo Thoday's inquisition. The little clerk showed himself as full of local knowledge about the Nine Stones Circle, and the copses and heathy moors in which it was set, as any harbor pilot must necessarily be about his local waters. Not so long ago, he explained, the area had been largely enclosed and left fallow to support the growing flocks of several local landowners. As the party already knew, it was one of the shepherds whose dog had sniffed out the bodies of Captains Francis and Benjamin Getchell. In his boyhood, Rabbett had roamed the area, studying the birds and his namesake coneys, and he knew most of the lonely men, as well as their dogs.
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