1. A folder bound in red tape, containing at least a dozen pairs of documents. Of each pair, one bore the distinctive appearance of the "Ahab" ciphers already in our possession, while the other, in pencil, heavily crossed out and corrected, bore casual marginal graffiti, mostly erotic in nature.
2. A Bible, in French, between two leaves of which S. had left three papers. The left-hand leaf commenced with 1 Isaiah, v. 4, while the right-hand leaf ended with 2 Isaiah, v. 21.
S. had evidently been interrupted just after translating, and beginning to encipher, a message of his own. He had completed only two lines. Although I deem S. unlikely to be of a character who would keep count of his papers, I did not dare to abstract any of these, lest my judgment be in error. I considered it essential that he remain ignorant of my surreptitious intrusion onto his premises. I used my remaining time-which I could sense was growing short-to make a hasty but complete copy of the original English-language message and the first lines of his French translation. (S., I could not help but observe in passing, may pride himself on his ability to speak French, but his mastery of the written language is negligible.) Even more hastily, I scribbled down the first lines of the enciphered message.
I enclose the copies I made of these three documents. I trust that these fragments will enable Taylor to master the "Ahab-Jehu" code even more completely than she already has.
Before I had finished copying the Captain's scrawls, Mr. Rabbett, who was standing watch outside the window, alerted me to the unwelcome sound of horsemen coming down the High Street from the direction of Plymouth. It being close on dawning, I concluded that the arrivals were Mr. Spurrier and some of his men, so I placed the papers back as I had found them and decamped.
I was fortunate to have done so, for my suspicion was well founded. S. had arrived betimes.
To conclude: S. makes a poor agent in my opinion, being far too careless about the security of his private papers and overinclined to intermix his personal sins with his official ones. (We are fortunate in that respect, at least.)
Despite its apparent strength, the evidence we now have against S. is only circumstantial, and, besides, I have had to leave it where I found it. He may, in fact, be merely a deluded believer in some religion related to Satanism, paganism, or witchcraft and not an agent at all. A way must be found of catching him in flagrante.
The courier from Plymouth should arrive momentarily, so Rabbett must carry it, in all haste, to his mother's house. The courier must snatch it up en passant.
Your humble and ob't sv't,
T Thoday
Master's Mate
Spurrier's plaintext message, which Thoday had copied, was brief.
Ahab:
Now Asa wisheth the priest his servant to sacrifice at the altar of Baal. This will further make the reins of the Philistines to tremble. I shall send unto thee a bird of the air as harbinger.
The greater and the lesser servants of the Captain of the Philistines drink wine in our vineyard and, pray, and are idle.
Levi
"Levi," Hoare concluded, was probably Spurrier himself. Hoare had thought so. Spurrier's efforts to write in the style of the King James Bible might make his translation and encryption tasks easier, Hoare thought, but they sounded puerile. Someone unknown, bearing the code name "Asa," intended to make some sort of sacrifice. As Hoare had also thought, "Asa" was certainly a person of importance. "The altar of Baal" might be the Nine Stones Circle and the Philistines the Royal Navy.
Since "the greater and the lesser servants" almost certainly referred to Thoday and Rabbett, Spurrier might have promoted Hoare to Captain. In this, of course, Hoare hoped Spurrier was a reliable "harbinger," though if so, he was surely premature in his prophecy, since Hoare's swab had yet to dry from its first wetting.
Or the entire cast of characters might be quite different. The whole business was obscure, like so much of the Bible, suggestive, ominous.
One thing was certain: further mischief appeared to be cooking at the Nine Stones Circle, and it behooved Hoare to make ready to foil it.
More seriously still: Spurrier was evidently aware that Hoare and his hounds were on his traces.
Chapter XIII
Mr. Hackins of the Swallowed Anchor had an additional packet of correspondence for Hoare, routine correspondence about Royal Duke's high costs, so the lie he had told his conscience had been unnecessary.
He found Eleanor Graves standing in the inn's sundrenched parlor window, foursquare as always, roundabout and appealing. There was an empty basket on her arm, and she was smiling gently at a jubilant Jenny. Dignified, the kitten Order lay in the child's arms, making the sound of a very small tumbrel. Mrs. Graves's friend, Miss Jane Austen, sat across the room by the fireside, her slightly angular, slightly faded face observant now as always. He acknowledged her presence with a polite bow, which she returned from where she sat.
When Mrs. Graves saw Hoare, her smile disappeared. She merely nodded at him before returning her attention to the little girl.
"Look, look, Mr. Hoare! The nice lady brought me a kitten! Please, sir, may I keep 'er-her?"
"I promised you that when you had learned to write all the letters in the alphabet you should have a kitten, and Susan told me you have done so," Hoare said. "But if I remember correctly, it is a boy kitten."
"Yes, I 'ave-have, sir, and now she's teaching me to 'broider them. Soon as I've comforted my kitten, I'll show you, shall I?"
"Do so, Jenny. But you are Order's Captain now, you know, and must make sure he is fed whenever he goes on watch… And you must teach him to be a sober cat and true, and attentive to his duty."
"Oh, I will, sir; I will! Susan, Susan! See what the lady's brought me!" Jenny spun on her toes, pale hair flying, and was about to dart off when Hoare brought her up all standing.
"Manners, Jenny. You must remember to thank Mrs. Graves."
Jenny turned again, made an awkward bob to Eleanor Graves and said, "Thank you, ma'am," quite properly, and sped into the kitchen with her Order in her arms.
Eleanor Graves had not yet spoken to Hoare. Now she did.
"I learn, Captain Hoare," she said, "that I am to wish you happy in your forthcoming marriage to Miss Anne Gladden of Broadmead. I do so, of course." Her voice was not that of one who extended the wish in all sincerity. Did it even sound a little forlorn? He gulped. He had not yet had the chance to explain the charade to Eleanor.
"The news will have come from Miss Austen," he declared.
"Indeed. And confirmed by Sir Thomas Frobisher."
Sir Thomas must have rushed back to Weymouth in all haste, to announce Hoare's perfidy to all the world- especially, and foolishly, to Eleanor Graves. But Hoare had not yet clawed off this lee shore.
"Not so, Eleanor," he said. "What neither of your… eager informants could know, and therefore could not tell you, is that the betrothal is a farrago, a fraud, a piece of make-believe."
Miss Austen's expression did not change, not by a jot. This woman, Hoare thought, is formidable, indeed. But why had she taken him in such distaste, almost from the beginning? She had spoken then of her and Eleanor having "dowded it together" in Bath before Eleanor married her crippled physician of a husband and left Jane to dowd it alone. Could she have feelings for her old friend Eleanor Graves that were of a Sapphic nature? He had heard of such things.
"Oh?" Eleanor Graves asked. "That is hardly what I expected you to say, sir. Are you telling me that you have offered for the poor girl for reasons of your own-reasons that are hardly likely to be gentlemanly, since you openly state your intention to jilt her? A knavish trick indeed, sir. I had thought you more of a gentleman."
"The case is quite different, Eleanor," Hoare whispered. "Will you not be seated while I explain it?"
"Not at present, sir. I prefer to remain standing. But begin, if you wish."
Hoare began. Soon Eleanor Graves took the seat Hoare had offered her. Shortly thereafter, the welcome crinkles reappeared at the corners of her
mouth. At last she burst into a throaty gurgle of laughter. Miss Austen's expression was carefully null.
"My, Bartholomew. You have, indeed, embroiled yourself. But I must say, you have embroiled poor Sir Thomas even more deeply. You have forked him, in fact."
Hoare was not at all sure he had heard the lady correctly. "Ma'am?" he asked.
"Oh. I recall now; you do not play chess, do you? We shall have to remedy that in due course. Well, Bartholomew, the 'fork' is a move in chess-a truly wicked move- to a spot from whence a player can take either of two of his opponent's major pieces without risking more than the loss of his threatening lesser piece. Often a knight will threaten a queen and a castle or even put the other player's king into an ignominious check.
"You have done that to Sir Thomas. With one inspired move, you have deprived the poor knight, at one time, of two possible captures-wives, that is. For when he rushed to tell me how you had snatched little Miss Gladden out from under his nose, he did not think of how I would react to his disclosure that, while vowing undying love for me, he had been hot after another. Well done, Bartholomew, well done!" Her chortle broke into a full-throated, unladylike belly laugh.
Miss Austen, who did not laugh, had a sudden headache, begged to be excused, and withdrew.
"But you would not have accepted Sir Thomas in any case, would you?" Hoare asked anxiously.
"Sir Thomas? At this point, I should play the flirt, if only in revenge for the shock you gave me," she said. "But-no, Bartholomew, no. I would not. I am no Princess, so I need kiss me no frogs. Besides, my heart is bestowed elsewhere.
"Now, Miss Austen and I have calls to make and a visit to pay to Madame LaFarge, the mantua maker in the High Street. So go, and examine Miss Jenny's prowess with her pen. Come, Jane!" she called upstairs, merciless as Admiral Sir George Hardcastle.
Once Jenny Jaggery had proudly displayed her sampler and her calligraphy to Hoare, returned into her mouth the tongue that had helped her perform, and obtained Hoare's confirmation that she was properly and permanently entitled to the kitten, Order, she demanded to accompany him to Royal Duke's gig.
"Can you find your own way back to the inn?" Hoare asked.
"Oh, yes, sir." Jenny's voice was earnest. "Susan lets me go everywhere with her. She even lets me carry her market basket sometimes."
"Good. Come along, then. You may carry my packet."
Having bade farewell to Order and told him to keep a sharp lookout for the Frogs, Jenny took Hoare's packet of correspondence in her little paw. She put her other hand in his and stepped off at his side, swinging their linked hands and skipping occasionally to keep up with her guardian as he strode.
"The fat lady who gave me my kitten. She's nice. Is she your doxy, then?" Jenny looked up at him with wide black eyes. They widened still farther when she felt Hoare's reaction. He stopped in the middle of Weymouth's esplanade and glared down at her in a way he had never thought to use upon her before.
"Fat lady? Doxy? Are you speaking of Mrs. Eleanor Graves, you young vixen?"
"Me famble, sir!" Jenny squeaked, slipping back into the cant she had heard her father use. "Yer 'urtin' me dab!"
Realizing he was crushing the hand he had been holding so gently before she spoke, Hoare brought himself under control. He crouched down so as to look the child in the eyes. They were full of tears.
"I'm s-sorry, sir! Did I say summat what made ye parky? I'll never do it again, sir, truly. But she is fat, sir; ain't she?" Jenny asked timidly.
"The more for us to love, lass, if so. But I would be far more pleased if you were to speak of her as 'well endowed.' "
"Well endowed then, sir. But… what about t'other?"
"The other, Jenny?"
"Wot I called her."
"Oh. No, Mrs. Graves isn't my doxy. I hope she will do me the honor of becoming my wife."
"Ooh," Jenny said.
Looking down at the little person beside him, Hoare realized she was a person, indeed, a cheerful, determined person who deserved far more attention-love, in fact- than a toy or a pet casually picked up in some foreign port like a monkey. "Cause me to remember thy loving kindness in the morning," he said, dredging the words from some part of his unconscious.
"And… if we are both good," he added, "your stepmother. And Order, the kitten's, as well. Now, come along. We mustn't keep Royal Duke waiting, must we? There isn't a moment to lose."
"Ooh," Jenny said again. In her astonishment, all her new, precarious, proper pronunciation fled once more. "I never really 'ad, had, a muwer, mother, before. Orta be nice."
On deck in the light October mizzle, Hoare placed himself where, without interfering, he could observe the attempts of Royal Duke's starboard gun crews to complete the mock reloading of their pieces. While they were still agonizingly maladroit, the men no longer tripped each other up as a matter of course. Nonetheless, if the Royal Dukes did not soon better their current four minutes between broadsides, Mr. Clay and Stone would join in an apoplexy. Two minutes would rate as only fair for a broadside of eighteen-pounders, so one minute should have sufficed for Royal Duke's popguns.
Stone, the borrowed gunner, was at least visibly suppressing the stream of oaths with which he would have accompanied his teaching had he been dealing with experienced hands. Instead, Hoare was glad to see, Stone had the judgment to know that these people, inept though they might still be, had come to their task more than willing already. They needed no tongue-lashing to do their best.
Meanwhile, Mr. Clay was exercising another gun crew.
"Hand me your handspike for a minute, Burkitt," he said. "Now, watch the way I use it to move the piece."
With the handspike, Clay shifted the aim of the piece, from as far aft as the port allowed to a point well forward of the beam.
"Now try doing it my way," he said, handing the implement back to the burly Burkitt. "It took me two hands. With your size, you should even be able to do it with one hand and handle the outhaul with the other."
Burkitt did so. "I'll be swiggled," he said.
Coming alongside, a waterman hailed Royal Duke's quarterdeck. He had to reach up to grasp the brig's rail with only one hand while extending an envelope with the other.
"For Captain 'Oare," he said to the ship at large. "There'll be a shillin' for me, messenger sez."
The man snatched the envelope out of reach as Hoare reached for it.
"Not till I sees the color of yer money, mister. No shillin', no letter."
Hoare dug into his pocket for the ransom. It was outrageous, but, after all, the man had rowed out to the yacht just to deliver one letter, a trip that was no shorter than it would have been had he been bringing Hoare himself aboard.
"Thanky, guv'nor," the wherry man said, and shoved off. Hoare examined the letter where he stood. The seal's sapphire blue wax marked its sender for him instantly; of his acquaintance, only Selene Prettyman had the audacity to use such a color. He broke the seal without further thought, however, and tore open the envelope.
The communication within was brief, but it brought all Hoare's senses to the alert.
Plymouth, 23 October
Mr. Hoare:
I return from Dorchester, where H. R. H. and his cronies-including your humble servant-have been rehearsing a Black Mass or similar pagan rite of an orgiastic nature. The ceremony itself, I am told, is to take place on the night of 31 October, at that Nine Stones Circle, which is of such interest to you. I am to play a major part in it, such as Hecate, Baubo, or some other equally naughty deity.
I have taken the liberty of informing Sir George to that effect. You will know what to do about it, if anything.
Yr. obedient, etc.
SP
Now, perhaps, Hoare's training of the seamen and Marines in Royal Duke would bear fruit. He ducked below into his shrunken cabin, lit now only by the skylight, to write ashore on a slip of tissue for permission from Admiralty House for a cruise to the westward. Then he wrote a second message, this one to Rabbet
t and Thoday in Dorchester. A faint acrid scent of pigeon guano seeped from behind the ugly new bulkhead that blocked the brig's beautiful little stern window from view.
His messages written, Hoare summoned Hancock, the pigeon man, to send them off. Now, by God, was the time to put his plans for Royal Duke into effect. If only Niobe, too, were about to weigh anchor! He hoisted signal to Admiralty House: "Preparing for sea," and directed the same signal to the attention of Niobe. He vowed one of the ship's pigeons to Aeolus as a thank-you offering for the mild northerly breeze. Perhaps, given the gentle seas that would result, enough of Royal Duke's people would be able to keep their bellies in order to handle the brig. Hoare was lucky that his Marines were back aboard, for while they had pigeons with them that could bring him their news, he could send nothing by that means. The birds would be unable to find a moving destination like his live green Lobsters.
The Admiral must have been in good spirits, for it was less than ten minutes before Royal Duke's number rose to the signal mast at Admiralty House, followed by the expected: "Why have you not weighed anchor?"
Hoare whistled for Mr. Clay.
"Sir?" Clay could read the signal as well as Hancock or Hoare. He was already at Hoare's side, breathing fire.
Hoare, too, stood straighter as his Lieutenant brought Royal Duke to life at last. It all came back to him.
"Set sail, Mr. Clay. Set her course for Weymouth."
Mr. Clay nearly goggled at his Commander. Then he grinned and turned.
"All hands to unmoor!" he cried in a voice that would have roused a sleeping seventy-four. "This is no drill!"
More calmly, as the astonished Royal Dukes set about obeying in earnest, he added, "Let fall the topsails!"
In so small a vessel, topsails were commonly set before unmooring. Led aloft by the hooting Iggleden, the assigned topmen swarmed out onto the two topsail yards. His heart in his mouth lest one of his Jack Newcomes lose his footing and drop, Hoare craned his neck to watch them. The snowy virgin topsails dropped, flapping gently in the light air.
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