Hoare and the headless Captains cbh-2

by Wilder Perkins

  Admiral Abercrombie in London may have been justified in commanding that Royal Duke should never go to sea. Having had the courage to break all precedence in the Service and recruit her crew for its members' qualifications, regardless of age, seamanship, sex, or previous condition of servitude, he must surely have sought to ensure that the yacht, her peculiar people, and her treasury of secrets would remain safe, at least from the perils of the sea. Capture by the French, in particular. It would be a far, far better thing for Sir Hugh to scuttle her first, and himself with her. So, in the safe headquarters haven of Deptford, this constraint might have been acceptable. But now Royal Duke lay off Spithead, surrounded by fighting ships and fighting men. She was no toothless lighter; she was visibly designed to take the sea. She carried sail. Moreover, she carried guns, albeit tiny ones, which made her a fighting ship as well and not a mere handmaiden to wait upon her betters.

  The effect this would have on the credibility of her secret work would be catastrophic. Judging from the jeers of the ships she had crawled past, and nearly into, this morning and the avidity with which their crews had overheard Cumberland's broadcast remarks, Royal Duke's mission of supplying the fleet with believable information about the French might already have failed. Unless Abercrombie let her loose to learn her maritime duty, she and her people would remain the laughingstock of the Navy and any information emanating from her would leave the Naval world a-sneer.

  Hoare's stomach churned. He must speak with Admiral Sir George Hardcastle, since Sir George was his Administrative Commander as long as Royal Duke lay in Portsmouth. Thereafter, he must prepare a report to his true superior, Admiral Sir Hugh Abercrombie, in London. Hoare did not know which he dreaded the more: the Port Admiral's predictable outrage or the task of convincing the unknown Sir Hugh that he must reverse a mistaken command. And with permission or without it, he must somehow find a way to whip into shape an unfamiliar, untrained crew. Still viewing these dismal prospects, Hoare finally began to doze off.

  God, he had forgotten the bloody ciphers. He had been intending to read them, and he had not. Instead, he had stuffed them casually into his uniform coat before he rushed off to last night's disastrous reception. Please, Lord, let them still be there. Wearily, he climbed out of bed, struck a light, lit a candle, recovered the decipherment with a relieved sigh, and ensconced himself in his night robe in Sir Hugh Abercrombie's enormous chair.

  They might be en clair now, but they were still gibberish, written in imitation of James from one Old Testament character to another: Jehu, Ahab, Asa, Levi. Someone named Saul. Someone else named Jael, another named Sisera. Hoare wished he had paid more attention, of Sundays, to the ministering clergyman, back when father had hauled his Hoares off to be sanctified.

  He must do some writing. He sighed again, decided he must make a night of it, and sat down again, this time at his writing table. He pulled out a little-used Bible and a sheet of foolscap and began to scribble.

  By the time the gray of dawn began to light Royal Duke's beautiful broad stern window and the miniature gallery behind it, he had assigned some of the names, somewhat uncertainly, to some of the persons who were-or might be-involved in a possible plot against the Crown. It was all very vague and quite unsatisfactory for a direct-minded sailor.

  "Levi," he was quite sure, was Spurrier. "Jehu," the furious driver according to the handy concordance he had found in Holy Writ at about four bells, was probably the late Lieutenant Kingsley, hanged for the murder of Adam Hay, his Captain in Vantage. "Asa" was certainly a person of importance, the man whom Jenny Jagger's da had described as "Himself' and the Francophone Moreau as "lui"-Sir Thomas Frobisher leaped into his mind. And how about the Duke of Cumberland? How did he happen to turn up in his thinking?

  Oh, dear, he told himself; this was getting him nowhere. He locked the packet of messages in his strongbox with the orders placing him in command of Royal Duke and turned in.

  Chapter VII

  "Sir. Sir."Hoare was awake instantly, although it took him a noticeable time to recall that he was neither in his bedroom in the Swallowed Anchor nor aboard Alecto. Once he remembered he was in Royal Duke, he swung his feet to the deck.

  "I'm awake," he whispered. "What is it? What's the time?"

  "Just past four bells, sir," said the watch. "They're calling for you to come to Admiralty House. There's word Admiral Hardcastle's been shot."

  His Admiral? Shot? Hoare whistled for Whitelaw. He would not wait to shave or be shaved. He threw on his uniform and in minutes was across the brow and ashore, ahead of the messenger, going at a near trot over the cobbles, through the sparsely lit sleeping port, to Admiralty House.

  Admiralty House was lit as if for a second performance of last night's reception, its entrance full of comings and goings.

  Hoare arrived panting. Outside the door, despite the lateness of the hour, a mixed crowd had gathered in the feeble lamplight. He had no breath to waste on apologies but simply elbowed his way through the hubbub and upstairs until he reached the Admiral's anteroom. This was crowded, murmurous. At the little desk normally occupied by the clerk Rabbett sat Patterson, the Admiral's secretary, fending off as best he could the questions and demands being fired at him by all and sundry. Beside Patterson stood the swarthy lantern-jawed figure of Oliver Leese, Royal Duke's own Marine sergeant. Behind Leese stood another of her Marines. In their incorrect but practical Rifleman's green, the two were as different from the red-coated sentry at the Admiral's office door as Franciscans were from a cardinal. To one side of that sentry lay another, dumped in a heap like a pile of dirty clothes; whether this man was alive or dead, Hoare must wait to discover.

  "Please, gentlemen, please!" Patterson cried as Hoare entered the anteroom. "I'm sure Captain Hoare-or somebody-will have news for us all momentarily! If you'll just… If… Oh, dear."

  On sighting Hoare, Patterson interrupted himself long enough to turn and tell the redcoat at the door behind him to let the Commander past, then returned to his litany. The lobster came to attention, then opened the door for Hoare to enter.

  The office might have been struck by a hurricane. A sea of papers lay strewn upon the floor and upon every other flat surface. In two places they were charred, where candles had fallen on them. Every chair, it seemed, had been overturned, half the pictures flung from the wall, the wall itself blood-boltered.

  Hoare expected to find Sir George prone on a pallet, pallid, bleeding, dying, or dead. Bleeding he was, indeed, for a flabby medical person in a scratch wig was bent over his outstretched arm, relieving into a basin still more of the blood the Admiral must have already lost.

  But, though pallid enough, the patient himself was quite alive, slumped behind his desk and roaring faintly. His uniform coat, heavy with bullion, had been cut away, and his fine lawn shirt as well. His white silk breeches, blood-spattered, were torn at the knees, as well as the skin beneath them. A bandage, already encarnadined, had been bound about the Admiral's white-furred chest and shoulder and another about his head. His mouth was swollen and bloody.

  A second smaller, ragged mouth gaped in the muscle of his neck, but Hoare saw with relief that it had not reached through to the great blood vessels. If it had, of course, Hoare would have been reporting to a corpse. The knuckles of both Sir George's hands were bruised. Obviously, the Admiral had not been shot but assaulted, and he had gone down fighting.

  So, too, had Francis Delancey, Flag Lieutenant. Delancey crouched over himself on a chair in a corner of the room, holding a reddened handkerchief against his nose and bleeding onto one of his Admiral's upholstered mahogany side chairs. Like his Admiral's, his knuckles bore signs of action.

  The Admiral pointed to the full bleeding basin. "That will be enough, man! Avast, d'ye hear? Look lively there!" He mumbled a bit but was quite understandable.

  "Now finish tying me up and be off with you! Report to Mrs… to Lady Hardcastle. Now!"

  The medical man pursed his lips disapprovingly but secured one pad ove
r the cut he had made and put another over the little extra mouth in the Admiral's neck. He picked up his fleam, inserted its keen blade into its little sheath, and was about to leave the room, basin of blood and all, when the Admiral forestalled him with another weak roar.

  "Where d'ye think you're going with my blood, you thieving ghoul? Up to your Satanic tricks are ye, you slippery son of a bitch, you scoundrel, you squirming bum worm?"

  Astounded, the surgeon gaped at him.

  "Throw it out, man. Throw it out, where I can see you do it. Dispose of it. No, no," he added as the surgeon went to the window, "you worse than thoughtless thing, you; you'll dose someone with it. Into the grate with it."

  Obviously stunned by his patient's commands, the surgeon tossed both blood and container into the fire, where it gave off the hiss of the Great Serpent and a vile sulfurous stink. Then he vanished, muttering about damned superstitious sailors-merciless Bedlamites-"call the savage out…

  Only the slam of the Admiral's door shut off the surgeon's lament.

  "Have to watch those slimy bastards, Hoare," the Admiral said on catching sight of him. "They'll take a man's blood and then misuse it in the most ungodly ways, you know. Drink it, and probably worse."

  "I am sorry to see you in such a state, sir," Hoare said. Only less than the surgeon was he astonished by Sir George's outburst. Had the event just past affected him in brain as well as in body?

  "Well…" The Admiral had gotten rid of his temper now. "As you can see, some crew of murderous swabs tried to dispose of me, and of poor Delancey, too, while they were about it, which was more than he deserves. They'll have to try harder next time, what what… Damn, I seem to have caught that damned Duke's habit.

  "Your damned green marines dealt with 'em at last; I'll give 'em credit for that. You know what you're to do, Hoare; get the bastards, and get 'em now. There's not a moment to be lost.

  "First, get me brandy. That nincompoop surgeon took my decanter away. Delancey!"

  Delancey sat up and began to struggle to his feet, but Hoare gestured to him to remain where he was.

  "Mr. Delancey is unable to respond just now, sir," Hoare whispered. "No brandy. Port, to rebuild your blood, and to calm you down. Here."

  "Damn you, man, I'm perfectly calm!"

  "Port, sir. Here."

  "Didn't you hear me the first time, Hoare, you dilatory dog? Brandy! And then be off about your duty!"

  "I am about my duty now, sir," Hoare whispered. "Tell me, for a start, what happened."

  At this, Sir George's rage dissipated like a summer tempest. As he recounted the affray, he became what he truly was: a white-haired man of sedentary habits who had just missed death by violence and who, while brave, was long unused to standing into harm's way.

  "I worked late over these papers," he began. He pointed to some documents; the top layer was lightly spotted with crimson stains as if sealing wax had been spilled over it.

  "I'd sent Delancey, here, off to his quarters. He's still young and needs his rest more than I do. Besides, I was dealing with some matters that are none of his business. Apparently, he chose to disobey my orders and stayed out in the anteroom… Delancey?"

  "Sir?" Again Delancey began to struggle erect.

  "Thankee, Mr. Delancey… thankee. But never again disobey an order of your Admiral, d'ye understand?"

  "Sir."

  "I'm cold, Hoare. Bring my cape. There it is, in the hanging locker over there. Yes. Drape it over my shoulders. Uh! Handsomely, man! There; that's better. Now, a chamber pot, if you please. I don't choose to leave my chair just now.

  "Ahhhh. Here."

  He returned the pot to Hoare.

  "Well, as I was saying… What was I saying?"

  "You were working on some secret papers, sir," Hoare reminded him. "Are they still here?"

  Supporting himself on both bruised arms, Sir George leaned forward to examine his desk. "How can I tell? Papers all over the place. Someone must… must…"

  Sir George's upper body collapsed on the paper-strewn desk. Fresh scarlet began to spread out from the darkening stain on the bandage around his neck. Coming feebly to his feet, Delancey bent over his Admiral, while Hoare put his fingers to his mouth and uttered the piercing whistle that never failed to bring anyone in earshot. They came with a stretcher, this time, and took their Admiral away. Delancey followed, staggering slightly and still holding the kerchief to his nose. Hoare saw now that both the Lieutenant's eyes were blackened and his breeches torn. He, too, had put up a stubborn fight. Popinjay he might be, Hoare thought, but no poltroon.

  Before following the cortege out of the sanctum, Hoare leaned over his Admiral's desk to see what he could see. At once, his eyes fixed on a small document covered with gibberish, five letters to the "word," in tidy lines identical to those on the papers that had featured so prominently in his last adventure. He pocketed it. He took a last look around the room, snuffed the candles behind him, took the key from inside the door, locked the door behind him, sighed, and quietly departed to take up this new burden.

  Back in the anteroom, Hoare turned first to the Marine sentry.

  "You will admit no one to this room, do you understand? No one, unless I order you to do so, whether in person or in writing. You can read, can't you?"

  "No, sir."

  "Sergeant Leese!" Hoare croaked, but when he realized that his loudest whisper would not override the tumult of voices in the room, he again gave his piercing "all hands" whistle for attention. At his beckoned summons, Sergeant Leese wove his way through the stilled crowd and came to attention before his Commander. He brought his ranker with him.

  "Sir!"

  Hoare had just repeated his special orders when a brisk, square, sandy-haired Captain pushed through the outer door and, to a repeated, "Make way there; make way!" strode up to him. He bore an epaulet on either shoulder, signifying more than three years' seniority.

  "Who are you, sir?" he demanded. Hoare named himself.

  "Oh. Sir George's pet ferret. Might have known you'd be about. I'm Trelawney, commanding Devon, 64-senior officer present, I understand. Sir George Hardcastle's duties devolve upon me until he can resume them, I fear. Pity. We just completed repairs and could have weighed anchor for Gibraltar tomorrow."

  Hoare glanced at Patterson, the flag Secretary, for confirmation. Patterson looked relieved, as well he might.

  "That's correct, Captain Hoare," he said.

  "Correct, man? Of course, it's correct," Captain Trelawney snapped. "Said it, didn't I? Now, Hoare, tell me what this is all about."

  "First, sir, I respectfully submit that there are many persons in the room who have no particular reason to be here…"

  "Yes. Out, all of you, all but you, Patterson…"

  Hoare whispered in Trelawney's ear.

  "And you Marines."

  When the anteroom had emptied, Trelawney turned to Hoare.

  "Well, Captain Hoare?"

  Hoare still felt a flutter of joy when a superior officer addressed him as "Captain." He now told Trelawney all he knew, omitting only his removal of the paper that rested in his bosom.

  "But to tell you the truth, sir, I have yet to learn the details of the affair. From what I could see below… it was a running battle, beginning at the entrance to Admiralty House and continuing as Sir George and Mr. Delancey withdrew, into the building, up the stairs, and into this office."

  "A fighting withdrawal, then, into the citadel." Captain Trelawney's voice was filled with approval. "Meeting resistance before him and assaulted from behind, the enemy broke up in disorder. I would have expected no less of Sir George. He's a hard and a merciless man, as you know."

  "But Sergeant Leese here can tell us more, sir. As I said, Admiral Hardcastle mentioned that the Sergeant and his men drove off the attackers."

  "Well, Sergeant?"

  Leese assumed the parade rest position, hands clasped behind his back like a small boy reciting before the class, and began.

  "I bee
n patrollin' the port nightly since we come into Portsmouth, sir, with two of my men, so's to keep a weather eye out for trouble between our shipmates and hands from other ships what don't admire our seamanship in Royal Duke.

  "We'd rounded the corner and was comin' up on Admiralty House 'ere-about three bells, it would 'a' been- when I saw the Jolly at the door was missin' an' 'eard what you might call a disturbance on the upper deck. An', well, me an' me lads was in there at the double, an' up the gangway before you could say, 'Jack Robinson.' When we got into thisyer room, I saw they was a gang of men- coulda been the Press but for where it was and but for most of 'em 'avin' knives instead of clubs. They was attackin' two officers. The officers was down but fightin', an' the gang was a-takin' turns a-givin' 'em the boot. They was some five or six 'ard coves a-workin' over the officers, sir, an' one more of 'em a-standin' back like 'e was a-givin' the orders.

  "We run up to break up the fightin', an' I seen one of the officers was Admiral Hardcastle. Couldn't miss 'im, 'ardly. So the three of us pitches in, drops two of the gang, and the others run off. I left one of me lads up 'ere an' give chase. Took three of 'em. That's all, sir."

  "So you and your two men drove off a gang of six attackers, all bearing knives?" Trelawney asked.

  "Well, sir, the two officers 'ad been a-puttin' up quite a fight, and the others, they didn't all 'ave knives. Some of 'em just 'ad clubs."

  "Even so… You have a formidable crew, it seems, Captain Hoare, even if they're no seamen."

  "Not seamen yet, sir, perhaps, but they will be before long," Hoare whispered. "Leese, where's your other man?"

  "Baker, sir? Left 'im below, sir, a-guardin' the prisoners. 'E'd got cut up a bit 'imself, and I wouldn't have 'im a-messin' up the floors 'ere in Admiralty House even worse than they be now."

  "We might see what the prisoners look like, sir," Hoare whispered inquiringly to Trelawney.

  "Damn, sir, don't whisper-beg pardon, Captain." Captain Trelawney must have recollected Hoare's muteness and, unlike many, had the courtesy to apologize for any discourtesy.