On the day of decision a fortnight past, Hoare had put Royal Duke's people on watches, as if she were at sea. On deck, two gangs were hard at work, both officially from the watch below. Under Bold's command, one of them was easing one of Royal Duke's two longboats into her chocks. Bold's blue-black face stood out among his pupils' pale, unweathered ones like a cinder in a snowdrift.
"Handsomely, there, handsomely. Belay. You there, Lorimer. What did ye forget when they hoisted ye out of the water?"
A scrawny man, Lorimer could no more have handled an oar or served a gun than he could have taken Royal Duke to sea single-handed, yet at thirty he spurned the role of powder monkey. "A job for women or little boys," Hoare had heard him call it. Bold had noted those two longboats. Given the yacht's shortage of able seamen and oarsmen, he wanted to try a novel way of manning a boat and so had snapped Lorimer up and named him coxswain of the "red," larboard longboat.
Perched in the gently swaying longboat, the clerk-coxswain looked about him in dismay, then down at his feet.
"The plug!" he cried, and gave the thing a yank before Bold could stop him. The icy water in the longboat's bilges poured onto the crew at the hoisting tackles below, to the sound of bitter curses. Lorimer hurled the offending plug into the empty bilges, retrieved it, and shoved it home solidly once more.
"The 'green' boat's gone from 'stow' to 'stow' in three minutes already," Bold said, "and all squared away. Before I'm through with ye, ye'll both go into the water and come back aboard in half that. Hoist away again, lads."
The red boat's crew spit on their blistered hands and took a new purchase on their tackles.
A weird hooting call drew Hoare's attention to activity in the upper rigging of Royal Duke's main topmast. It reminded Hoare of the howler monkeys he had once heard in the jungles of Guiana.
"Nay, nay, ye farmer!" Iggleden called. "If ye crosses yer 'ands that way in any kind of a blow, the sharks'll bite 'em off when ye falls off alongside. Or ye'll mash the Captain beneath ye. Better the sharks. Now, out to the yardarm again, and use yer 'ands the way I shown ye!"
Hoare nodded in agreement and went below again to finish today's paperwork.
Before eight bells sounded the beginning of the first dog watch, he went topside again to watch Clay watch Stone's efforts to teach his volunteer gun crews the rudiments of hauling a four-pounder inboard for loading. Despite the hands' obvious willingness to learn, it was a slow, slow business, and Clay as well as Stone champed visibly with frustration. It helped no one to have Clay and Hoare, too, watching. He summoned Clay to his side with a chirp of his boatswain's pipe.
"If we are ever to make this ship seaworthy, Mr. Clay," he said, "we must get those pigeonholes belowdecks. Where do you suggest we stow the creatures?"
Clay looked quizzical. He appeared to weigh, not the question his Captain had just posed, but that Captain's most likely reaction to what he was about to say.
"Simply to put them under hatches would serve no purpose, sir," he said. "How would the birds get about? And I do not like to imagine the state in which our open 'tween-decks space would find itself before long. Pigeon shit all over the papers. No, sir, that would never do. I have already consulted Hancock on the subject."
Clay paused and gave Hoare what seemed like a final appraising look, then took the plunge.
"We concluded that the best solution is to erect a bulkhead a few feet forrard of your stern gallery, sir, and open up the gallery for access by the pigeons. As long as we are at anchor or making to windward, the birds can then approach by flying into the wind-a matter of importance to them, according to Hancock."
Clay paused again, as if preparing to withstand the explosion he anticipated from Hoare. The explosion came.
" What?" Hoare gasped. "Turn my very own new gallery into private quarters for a batch of filthy birds? And half my own quarters?"
As he had expected, he found the ceremony aboard Niobe lightly attended, for changes in command were so frequent in the Royal Navy as to arouse more yawns than cheers among those not directly involved. The new Lieutenant in command returned Hoare's salute to the quarterdeck with a patronizing flourish and left him to fend for himself. Hoare did not hesitate to advance across the deck to where a small flotilla of lady guests stood, managing their hats and skirts with varying degrees of skill.
Selene Prettyman was one of the more adept of these. She allowed no more sight of her person than she saw fit to grant. She was warmly dressed against the stiff autumn breeze, with a pelisse of finest wool, tinted a blue-gray that brought attention to her sapphire eyes. In reply to the leg Hoare made to her, she merely nodded.
"I am not used, sir, to gentlemen who do not see fit to respond to my invitations. Can you offer me any reason why I should excuse you?"
"Pressure of duty, ma'am," Hoare hastened to whisper. "I shall not bore you with the petty details… They would be of interest only to another sailor, if to anyone at all."
"Then perhaps you would care to carry me ashore after this little ceremony. It promises to be so interesting."
Hoare thought Selene Prettyman's comment insincere, but not her request. Coming as it did from a Colonel's wife in the entourage of royalty, it was tantamount to a command.
"Delighted, ma'am," he said. He was prevented from a longer reply by the chirping call of "All Hands." To himself, he resolved to teach more of his hands the boatswain's pipe. His plans for Royal Duke did not include the senile Joy, and, of course, for Hoare himself as the brig's Commander to pipe his visitors aboard would hardly be the thing.
The ceremony took no more time than was necessary for Delancey to rattle through his orders, reading faster and faster as he went. And Delancey seemed almost eager to see the backs of his guests. He did, however, arrest the departure of Hoare and Selene Prettyman long enough to say, "Pity, Captain, that we shall have no chance to sail in company."
Hoare had no difficulty gauging the sincerity of that remark, at least. They both knew perfectly well that should the two ever meet at sea, the senior officer and therefore the one who ordered while the other obeyed would not be Francis Bennett but Bartholomew Hoare.
With that, a brainstorm struck him.
"Perhaps that can be arranged, Captain," he whispered. "I expect to put to sea myself within a fortnight. To give my people an airing, you know," he added, on seeing Delancey's stare of disbelief.
"An airing," the other said.
"Yes. And do you not sail for the Groyne about then?"
"Yes."
"Give us twenty-four hours' grace before you weigh anchor," Hoare said, "and Royal Duke will await you somewhere between the Needles and Portland Bill."
"Done, by God," Delancey said. "For a new hat?"
"Agreed. For a new hat," Hoare replied. He held out his arm to assist Selene Prettyman into Royal Duke's gig.
"The cheer for Mr. Delancey demonstrated more uncertainty than goodwill, I thought," Mrs. Prettyman said.
"Delancey would be an unknown quantity for Niobe's people," Hoare whispered. The Hard was to leeward, so he knew she would be able to hear him easily enough.
"But why did you address him as 'Captain' when he is a mere Lieutenant?" she asked.
"A custom of the Service. When an officer is in command of a vessel, as Delancey now is in Niobe, we address him as 'Captain.' "
"I vow I shall never understand you sailormen. Prettyman's a soldier, thank God."
Hoare coxed his own gig. He told his crew to stand by until he returned, unless eight bells struck earlier, in which case they could rejoin their ship for dinner. He offered his arm to Selene Prettyman, the cobbles of the Hard being somewhat uneven.
The walk to Mrs. Prettyman's lodgings at the Three Suns took them past the Blue Posts, suitable for Midshipmen and Junior Lieutenants, and the Crown, where older Lieutenants and miscellaneous officers of the Army most commonly roosted. As Hoare and his companion passed the Crown, two flushed cavalry officers emerged, laughing loudly over their shoulders to companions withi
n. One of them collided with Hoare, who recognized him as having been ejected from one of the Assemblies. Hoare had been one of the ejectors. The man had been troublesome then; he was troublesome now.
"Damn you, fellow, mind where you're goin'!" he exclaimed, and grasped Hoare by his free left arm. He looked at Hoare and at Selene Prettyman.
"By God, Dupree, look what we have here. Two whores a-prowlin'! And in the daylight, too! Bags I the blue-eyed 'un!"
"Take your friend away, sir," Hoare said to the second redcoat. "I'll overlook his remarks. He's drunk."
"Come along, Pargeter. He's right." The friend took Pargeter by the arm.
Pargeter, like Hoare, shook himself free. "Not too drunk to know whores when I see 'em," he said.
A small crowd had collected, so Hoare had no choice. Knowing what was about to happen, Selene Prettyman released his right arm, and he knocked the man down.
He swiftly ran through his own list of friends who might be ready to serve as his own second. At first, he thought of Mr. Clay, but his Lieutenant was still a stranger. Bennett had served as his second once before, and he would again, Hoare was sure.
"Have your man's friend call on Mr. Francis Bennett at Admiralty House, if he wishes to pursue this matter," he whispered to the redcoat still on his feet. Now he recognized the cherry-colored facings. They were officers of Walter Spurrier's regiment, the Fourteenth Hussars.
Mrs. Prettyman took his arm again, and they continued on their way. Nothing was said between them about the encounter; to mention it until the matter had been resolved would not be at all the thing.
The Three Suns, with its eponymous hanging sign- the three coins of the Medici, borrowed without permission of that family-bore the reputation of housing only Britain's highest and their very good friends, when those friends were not such as to be announced to the world. Hoare's only previous visits there had been when he had Admiralty business with these personages. But after suppressing a raised eyebrow upon sighting him, the porter flung the door open with a flourish. He greeted Selene Prettyman properly and added, "Good morning, Captain 'Oare. And a fine, brisk morning it is, Captain 'Oare."
"Good morning, Pollard."
Pollard's eyes and ears were always open wide, and his mouth as well-at least for those who paid him to open them and for those, like Hoare, of whom he walked in dread. To Pollard and his cronies, Hoare was the Whispering Ferret.
Selene Prettyman led the way upstairs to the front suite. The place was already familiar to Hoare, who had been entertained there on two earlier occasions by two very different women.
Mrs. Prettyman excused herself for a moment, leaving him in the anteroom. In a few minutes, an ugly little maidservant appeared. After relieving him of his outer garments, she ushered him into the inn's second-best withdrawing room, the selfsame chamber in which Katerina Hay had received him. Earlier that year. His present hostess's gray-blue wool gown, like her pelisse, brought out the color of her eyes, while its fashionable high waist, set just under her admirable bosom, proclaimed it to just the right degree. Yet somehow the ensemble gave her a peculiarly sexless, countinghouse quality, as though she should be wearing demilune spectacles. She was not.
A tea service was already laid out behind her, the ugly little maidservant hovering alongside it. As he advanced into the salon, Hoare was struck by a paradoxical similarity between this hostess and the last one to receive him in this room. The resemblance was paradoxical since this woman was slim, ivory of skin, and raven-haired, while the other had been a rosy, opulent strawberry blonde. Both, however, were nearly his own height; both were blue-eyed. And, Hoare felt, the virtue of both might be negotiable. The previous occupant had required no recompense. In Selene Prettyman's case, however, the price would surely be beyond his means.
Selene Prettyman took her place on a chaise longue- the selfsame chaise longue where Katerina Hay had once entertained him so instructively.
"Pray be seated, sir." She patted the space beside her. "Tea for Captain Hoare and myself, Angelique." Angelique obediently offered tea, then biscuits and small sandwiches, and returned to her post behind her mistress.
"I have matters of state to discuss with you, Captain," Selene Prettyman went on without ado. In some surprise, Hoare glanced over his hostess's shoulder at Angelique.
"Angelique enjoys my fullest confidence," she said. "In fact, she is also in the fullest confidence-in the pay, I should say rather-of both H. R. H. the Duke of Cumberland and Colonel Prettyman. If I did not permit her to remain in the room, she would convey to either or both of her other employers the most interesting and destructive fables that you can imagine, about our encounter today. It is part of the understanding we have with each other. Since she has a vivid and highly improper imagination, she would almost certainly tell each of them a different one. She is a modern-day Scheherazade.
"But she would die before she shared secrets with one of Bonaparte's agents. More to the point, the two or three of them who have tried to suborn her are now underground with their necks broken.
"Est-ce que j'ai raison, Angelique?" she asked over her shoulder.
Seeing that both Hoare and her mistress were looking at her, the maid gave a little bob but replied, "Pas tout a fait, madame. Souvenez-vous qu'il y reste Monsieur Charbonnier."
"Of course. We-Mr. Goldthwait and I-decided it was best to keep Charbonnier alive and well, by feeding him tidbits to report to Joseph Fouche of the Surete. As you would expect, Captain, the true ones are trivial, while the others are false. In return, M. Charbonnier feeds Angelique with gold and… other favors. N'est-ce pas, Angelique?"
"Oui, madame."
"That way, I am not out of pocket. Now to business. I know that you find speech uncomfortable, so I shall not take offense if you use gestures instead."
"Not quite so, ma'am," Hoare whispered. "In quiet surroundings such as these, I can generally make myself understood quite well."
"All the better," the lady said. "Now: You have never met Mr. Goldthwait, I believe, Captain."
"On the contrary, ma'am, I have, but only once-here in Portsmouth last summer, in the company of the Duke of Clarence."
"Of course. Tell me, did you find his excessive weight disturbing?"
"When I saw him, Mr. Goldthwait was underweight, if anything," Hoare said. "Perhaps, ma'am, you are thinking of Sir Hugh Abercrombie. Or else your claim to know Mr. Goldthwait is, er, exaggerated."
"Not at all, Captain Hoare. I merely wished to learn whether you were telling the truth and whether Mr. Goldthwait was doing so. I learned that both of you were, which is not always the case with Mr. Goldthwait. With him, the truth is only one of many cards in his hand, to be played or discarded as he judges best for his purposes. Do not play cards with Mr. Goldthwait, sir. But I wander.
"What I wish to convey, Captain Hoare, is that you may not know you are dealing these days with several unusual persons. Each of them, or all of them, may be what they seem, or more, or less, or all three. In that, they are much like Angelique here."
"Merci, madame," the maid said in a subdued voice.
Selene Prettyman did not reply to Angelique in words but nodded to her. At the nod, the maid ducked into the adjoining room. Her mistress continued to address Hoare.
"I speak, sir, of Sir Thomas Frobisher, of his children Martin and Lydia and his minion Walter Spurrier, indeed, I sometimes fear, of Mr. Goldthwait himself-even, perhaps, of his Royal Highness Ernest, Duke of Cumberland. It is far from certain that these persons and their cronies of either sex are friends of the Crown."
"How am I to know, ma'am, that you yourself are a 'friend of the Crown'?"
Angelique reentered, carrying a folded document that she handed to Mrs. Prettyman.
"I would have been disappointed in you, Captain Hoare, had you made any other reply. This may reassure you, sir. You recognize the seal?"
"Let me look at it more closely, if you please," Hoare said.
The document told "all persons having inter
est" that the bearer was, indeed, Selene Prettyman and that her instructions to persons under Naval discipline were to be obeyed as if they emanated from the Admiralty Board itself. It bore three signatures and the Admiralty seal.
"It looks very much like the Admiralty seal," he said at last.
"And the signatures?"
Hoare knew two of them. One, that of John Barrow, Second Secretary to the Admiralty Board, also appeared below the orders that Mr. Clay had read out for Hoare on the deck of Royal Duke, thus placing him in command of the yacht. The second was Sir Hugh Abercrombie's. Both could be gifted forgeries-as, of course, the Admiralty seal could be-but Hoare thought it unlikely. The paper bore the Admiralty watermark. Besides, what was he to do: question every piece of paper that came his way, and every statement? At the end of that corridor lay madness. A mad King was bad enough, but a mad Naval officer in the wrong place could put the entire nation in jeopardy.
The third signature on the document, in the same bold hand as the note by which she had summoned him, was Selene Prettyman's own. He stepped to the little boule desk, moistened a pen, and handed it to the lady. Briskly she signed. The signatures were the same.
So much for his glowing suspicions of Selene Prettyman; they must be doused. She must be as safe as the other signers, or as Britannia herself.
"I'll keep this paper, if I may," he said.
She smiled at him.
"Of course, you may not. Don't be silly," she answered, holding out her hand for it. "How else can I assure myself that I am, indeed, Selene Prettyman, nee Claiborne, and not some impostor?"
"And a friend of the Crown?"
"And a friend of the Crown. In any case, I have been engaged to ascertain whether the Duke is such a friend and, if he is not, what he is up to. That, of course, necessitates almost constant attendance upon his person."
"How have you managed that, if I may ask?" Hoare whispered.
"To be blunt, Captain Hoare, I must share his bed from time to time; it gives one no pleasure, by the by. That is why Colonel Prettyman is 'indisposed' at present. You will agree, I think, that having a cuckolded husband drifting about in the background is no small inconvenience to the consummation of adultery. So the poor man stays in London when I leave town and attends to his regiment of militia-in Cumberland, of all places-when I return. He really has very little to do."
Hoare and the headless Captains cbh-2 Page 13