Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities

Chapter IV

In his lawyerly black, Mr. Bennett was unmistakable. He stood out, a neat sable blob, among the naval officers' blue and gold and the occasional scarlet brilliance of a Marine. Though no longer a serving officer, he still combined the alertness of a successful deck officer with the stately demeanor of a successful barrister. He looked spruce yet dusty. Peter Gladden was already with him. Both greeted Hoare cordially and joined him in making his duty to his host and hostess.

"So you have got your heads together already, gentlemen," said Admiral Sir George Hardcastle from under huge tufted black eyebrows. His wig might be out-of-date, but on him it looked appropriate. "Good enough, but do not expect good fortune in your endeavors, Mr. Hoare. Afraid your client will…" He grunted and went dumb. Lady Hardcastle removed her sharp elbow from her spouse's ribs and smiled sweetly at the accused man's brother.

"So nice to see you here, Mr. Gladden. And how are your dear mother and Sir Ralph?"

So, thought Hoare. That was how Gladden had got the Admiral to lend him out. Gladden, too, had interest among the mighty. "Sir, could I persuade you-," he began.

Sir George forestalled him. "No, Mr. Hoare. Thursday. Half the captains on the court are under orders to Nelson's fleet-that is no secret-and they are itching to get under way. No."

Gladden excused himself to the other two officers and went in anxious search of Miss Felicia Hardcastle, his Admiral's dumpy, spotty, popular daughter. Hoare and Bennett helped themselves to glasses of the punch being handed by an awkward liveried man with the stamp of "bosun's mate" clear on his red, sweating face, and began to circulate.

Hoare listened. It would have been impossible to make his whisper heard over the din of conversation, and he would have had to resort to his Roman tablets, with all the explanations that would have entailed. The most common gossip he heard concerned the rumor that a privateer had sighted a huge French fleet heading easterly, less than a day after dipping her ensign to Nelson, who was heading westerly.

"He has got himself at cross-purposes again, just as he did before the Nile," said a pale-faced officer. "If only he had as fine a nose for a chase as he does for a battle. A bulldog, not a greyhound, I always say."

"Needs your good nose to show him the way, I suppose," commented a burly bystander, looking pointedly at the pale officer's leading feature. The speaker's own purple face clashing with his scarlet Marine coat, he swayed from side to side as he spoke as if he either were on a Channel crossing or had overindulged in the Admiral's port at table.

"Oh, His Lordship has no need for my help," admitted the pale man. "Besides, the Victualling Board tells me I am essential."

"Ah," the bystander sneered as he turned to seek a more challenging quarry on which to wreak his suppressed rage with the world.

As they wandered the brightly lit, stifling room, Hoare and Bennett could tell where talk had turned to the unhappy event in Vantage. There all eyes became fixed on them.

Bennett was intrigued at Hoare's proposed role in the forthcoming court-martial and assured him that before the end of the evening he would prepare a document authorizing Hoare to question any Vantage man he might require. They were parting for the moment when a heavy hand fell on Bennett's narrow shoulder. It was the burly Marine, still rocking.

"Here, here!" he cried in a voice filled with truculent, intoxicated good-fellowship. "We can't have secrets being whispered about-not here and now! Make me known to your whisperin' friend, Bennett, eh?"

"Ah, Wallace," said Bennett. "Lieutenant George Wallace of Vantage

… Bartholomew Hoare of the Port Admiral's staff." He made to turn away.

"Wltore, eh?" The rocking Marine had found his prey at last. "How much for one time, and how much for all night?" He burst into laughter, only to receive Hoare's standard response to remarks of this kind. The wine tossed into the Marine's face must have stung, for he gasped and spluttered as Hoare whispered, "You may have a free dose, you silly man, tomorrow morning at sunrise."

"You will stand friend for me, Francis?" Hoare asked Bennett as the Marine mopped his face and decided what to do next.

"Of course, Bartholomew," the sea lawyer replied. To Wallace he said in an impatient voice, "Go find a friend, man, if you have one-which I beg leave to doubt-and send him to me here. I want to get this thing over with. We've a busy day tomorrow."

"We'll see how busy you and your Mr. Whore are after our little meetin'," Wallace said over his shoulder as he began to press through the gathering crowd to find a friend to act for him. He looked a bit steadier but still filled with wrath.

"It's very odd," Hoare said sadly, "but I find nothing attracts attention like a whisper."

"Paradoxical," Bennett replied.

"Until tomorrow, then," Hoare said. "I must be off. I have preparations to make."

"I shall be at the Swallowed Anchor a half hour before dawn," Bennett said. He turned to acknowledge the other, younger Marine who bustled up to him, bright-eyed and officious, ready to serve as his fellow Johnnie's second.

Having told himself to wake at four bells in the morning watch, Hoare slept peacefully until then. He donned clean black clothing before leaving the inn in the growing dawn.

At the usual place, a narrow field overlooking the town, the party had to wait while two trembling striplings and their entourage conducted their own meeting.

"I had a few words with your adversary's second," Bennett confided as they stood. "He was unaware of your interesting record until I told him of it. He intended to mention it to his principal."

As Hoare nodded, both boys' pistols went off with faint pops. Evidently, their referee had used his common sense and put half-loads into them. One duelist dropped his weapon and grasped his grazed hand with a yelp of pain; the other puked messily onto himself. Then the embattled youths and their entourage left the field arm in arm, leaving behind an inspiriting scent of burnt powder and a depressing scent of vomit.

The party of Hoare's own adversary arrived in a light carriage as the boy duelists departed. They brought with them a case of matched pistols and Vantage's sleepy surgeon. Mr. Bennett agreeing, the surgeon, a Mr. Hopkin, had also agreed to umpire the affair. The Marines' coats were still a mere gray in the faint light. Mr. Wallace's face was equally gray.

Wallace's second approached the two naval officers, hat in hand. A bit of a coxcomb, Hoare thought.

"Gentlemen," the second said stiffly, "my principal wishes me to say he wishes he had never uttered his words of yesterday evening."

"Does he apologize for them?" Bennett inquired sharply.

"Well, er…"

Bennett conferred briefly with his principal, who shook his head and doffed his coat.

"A wish of that kind does not constitute an apology, sir," Hoare said. "With no apology, the encounter must take place."

With no more ado, Mr. Hopkin chose a spot well to windward of the puddle of puke. He opened the case of pistols, loaded both while the seconds watched, and offered the pair to Hoare for his selection. Hoare had been the insulted party, yet the thrown wine had been the direct cause of the challenge, so the choice of weapons was his.

"I see you have both been out before," said Hopkin. Indeed, Hoare and Wallace had already taken position back to back without his instructions. "The parties have agreed to exchange one shot each; the exchange of shots will suffice to satisfy honor.

"I shall count ten paces, after which you gentlemen may turn and fire at will. One… two…"

At Hopkins "ten," Hoare turned and took aim in a single move, to see his white-shirted opponent just raising his pistol. He held fire for a heartbeat, and the two shots sounded as one. Hoare felt the faint breath of Wallace's ball pass his head. The Marine grunted, dropped his weapon, and grasped his arse, across which his precious blood was already spreading. Hopkin rushed forward to examine the wound, then rose to confront Hoare and Bennett.

"A clean shot through the right gluteus maximus," Hopkin reported. "I declare honor satisfied." He bundled his patient ahead of him into the waiting chaise and departed at a brisk trot.

"Thank heaven. I certainly did not wish to shoot the poor Lobster dead," said Hoare as he and Bennett strolled down the slope to the Swallowed Anchor so he could change his clothes. When he boarded his recent opponent's vessel he wanted to be impeccably uniformed.

"At least he angled himself so I missed one cheek," he went on. "He should be able to shit without too much pain."

"It never occurred to you that you might be the one that was shot, then?"

Hoare shrugged.

"I never have been," he said. "I hardly know why."

After a comfortable breakfast, Hoare and Gladden went out to Vantage from the pair-oared wherry they had engaged at the Portsmouth Hard. Had Hoare been the frigate's first himself, he would have had no complaint about her state. Lines were properly flemished down, the guns bowsed up to their ports, topsails given a snug harbor furl.

As Vantage's first, David Courtney commanded her until the Admiralty replaced the late Captain Hay. Mr. Courtney received Bennett's letter and welcomed them cordially enough. Mr. Wallace of the Marines was not about Vantage's deck. He was abed in his tiny cabin, face down, under the surgeon's care.

Mr. Courtney was overburdened with the need to make decisions about stowage, absent boatswain's supplies gone adrift, the disciplining of a distracted new hand, fresh from the plow.

"The foolish lad struck a boatswain's mate," Mr. Courtney said. "Admitted it. 'Strook 'im back, zur,' he told me.

"As you know, gentlemen," Courtney continued, "this could mean death for him. That would not do at all at this early stage of our life together as shipmates-not at all. I must catch Gower, the petty officer in the case, and persuade him to put it about that the blow was accidental."

"Of course, sir," Hoare whispered.

Upon learning his visitors' mission Mr. Courtney, with a routine apology, handed his visitors on to Peregrine Kingsley, second in the frigate. He instructed that officer to escort them to the late captain's cabin and see that any members of the ship's company they wished to question were brought there.

The two stopped on the quarterdeck long enough to quiz Mr. Kingsley He had nothing good to say about his late captain. Arthur Gladden had been by no means the only officer to suffer from Adam Hay's intemperate tongue. A few days before, Kingsley himself had withstood a half-hour diatribe on his slipshod work aboard and his whoremasterly work ashore. But unlike Arthur Gladden, Kingsley had kept tongue and temper in hand and had escaped undamaged except in his pride.

"He could say what he pleased about me performance as one of his officers," said Kingsley, "but he had no business criticizin' me as a man of parts. Me parts are me own business, damn him," he said. He sounded, Hoare thought, a trifle smug.

Hoare already knew this swarthy, saturnine officer by reputation. He had hired a little sailing shallop that he kept in the same slip where Hoare kept Insupportable. Kingsley was known to be a "man of parts" indeed, a ready and randy man with busy privates. He apparently cared nothing for a female's age or her looks as long as she was usable. Many hearts would weep for Peregrine Kingsley when Vantage sailed. There was a rumor that one heart in particular, one that should have been devoted to its owner's husband, was heavily smitten. However, the woman's name had not reached Hoare.

Mr. Kingsley had witnessed Arthur Gladden's flight from the cabin and had been one of the fascinated crowd that invaded it when word of the murder spread. That was all he knew, he said. Now, would the gentlemen mind if he deputized an intelligent midshipman to act as messenger for them? Things were a trifle busy aboard Vantage, as they may have noticed, and he had ten green gun crews to whip into shape.

The cabin reeked of stale shellfish and old tobacco smoke. Andrew Watt, captain's clerk, was already there, leafing anxiously through the papers littering his late master's table.

"A file is missing," he said accusingly as the visitors entered.

"What sort of file?" Hoare asked.

"The file of Captain Hay's personal correspondence. There were several letters in it: one from Mrs. Hay ashore, several from tradesmen, and one which I could place in no category. The writing appeared to be that of a woman-self-taught, perhaps."

"You are a student of handwriting, Mr. Watt?" Hoare whispered.

"Any man of my trade must attune himself to various scripts, sir," the clerk said. "But I confess I have made a somewhat deeper study of the writing art than most of my associates.

"Interesting," murmured Hoare soundlessly.

Mr. Watt's eyes dropped to his hands.

"Yes?" Hoare whispered.

"I did not read them, of course, except that… The one from Captain Hay's wife. I assure you that under ordinary circumstances I would not have dreamed of reading it. I may not be a gentleman, but I try to behave as if I were. It was the enclosure with her letter which caused me to depart from propriety. Frankly, gentlemen, I am no longer ashamed that I did so."

"Why?"

"In my service to Captain Hay, Mr. Hoare, I have occasionally dealt with highly confidential matters-matters so confidential, in fact, that they were recorded in ciphers. Captain Hay entrusted their decipherment to me. The enclosure with Mrs. Hay's letter to her husband was such a ciphered message. I could tell at a glance that it was not enciphered in any way familiar to me. Its presence, and that alone, led me to read Mrs. Hay's letter.

"It was no more than a note. As far as I recall, it read in part as follows:

"'I found this in his uniform pocket last night. I know the sort of thing it is, and I do not believe he should be in possession of such a thing. But perhaps you gave it to him in connection with Vantage.'"

"There was more, but nothing of a nature that would bear on this unhappy affair."

"What do you make of that letter?" Hoare asked.

Obviously distressed, Mr. Watt shrugged. "I really do not know what to make of it, sir," he said. "If we knew who 'he' was… but the letter gives us no clue."

As a matter of fact, Hoare said to himself, the letter from wife to husband seemed to imply that "he"-whoever he was-was Mrs. Hay's lover, and known by the captain to be such. Here was an unwanted complication, and a doubly cryptic one at that.

"And the letter from the 'uneducated woman,' Mr. Watt?"

"It appeared to be a threatening letter, sir. She appeared to want money for revealing something to the captain, or perhaps for not revealing it to someone else. I do not know which was the case, if either."

"Well, then, Mr. Watt…" Hoare sighed. "Tell Mr. Gladden and me, in your own words, about the events of Friday night."

"I came aft at seven bells, gentlemen, to deliver some dispatches which I had decoded for the captain. There was no guard at the cabin door, so I knocked twice and entered."

"No guard, Mr. Watt? Was it not Captain Hay's standing order to have guards at his door and the spirits locker?"

"Yes, sir. But the Marine contingent was new-joined and may have been a bit confused, I think."

"Unheard of," Gladden said. "Never, never does one leave those posts unmanned."

"Very good, Mr. Watt," Hoare whispered. "Carry on with your story, if you please."

"I stepped directly into a sticky, slippery mess." Mr. Watt's voice trembled. "I found Captain Hay just outside the quarter-gallery. He was lying on his face in a trail of blood, as though he had been struck down near his cabin door. The blood flowed from a wound under his right shoulder blade.

"I knelt down beside him, sir, to see if there was anything I could do. I heard him say something about 'the lobsters,' and then he choked. And…"

The clerk gulped but recovered himself.

"He coughed up his life's blood, sir, right across my knees, and.. gave up the ghost then and there."

" 'The lobsters'?" Hoare whispered. "Are you sure that's what you heard Captain Hay say?"

"That is what I understood him to say, sir. Of course, he was not speaking clearly, and I… I was a bit upset. I ran out the cabin door, shouting for help, and reported to Mr. McHale on the quarterdeck.

"Then, sir, I am ashamed to say I swooned and knew no more until I came to my senses as a result of being trampled by members of the crew. I am a peaceful man, sir, and the sight of blood disturbs me greatly. And it has ruined my second-best pair of breeches, which I can ill afford."

"All things considered, Mr. Watt," said Hoare, "you acquitted yourself creditably You did your duty when it had to be done, and no captain could ask for more."

He dismissed Mr. Watt now, with a request to find the midshipman who was supposed to be serving as messenger boy. Watt had no trouble finding him, for he opened the cabin door into the ear of a towheaded imp in a round jacket. Taking the child by the injured ear, Watt hauled him into the cabin, stood him up, and introduced him to the two officers as Mr. Prickett.

"You are to follow these gentlemen's orders, you young monster, and on the run. D'ye understand, then?" He shook the ear as if shaking his words into it to make sure they were absorbed.

"Yes, Mr. Watt, yes! Don't whang me so!" Mr. Prickett bleated, and began to snivel. He could not have been in uniform long, for when he wiped his nose on his sleeve it caught on the row of buttons placed there precisely to prevent his doing so. He began to weep in very earnest. He looked to be about eight.

"Be kind to him, sirs," said Mr. Watt fondly. "He is very new, and very small."

Wondering about the relationship between Mr. Watt and Mr. Prickett, Hoare again dismissed the clerk. Hoare was sensitive to anything smelling of sodomy.

"Do you know Mr. Watt well, then?" he asked the child.

Mr. Prickett cheered up immediately. "Oh, yes, sir! He was Papa's clerk before he decided to go to sea, and he prayed the captain to take me into Vantage! He has six daughters! Papa's a solicitor! Vantage is my first ship, sir, you know! I was first aboard, sir! After Mr. Courtney and the captain, that is! I came aboard with Mr. Watt! Isn't she a smacker?"

Hoare assumed the "smacker" the child was referring to was Vantage. He wondered if the six daughters were the reason why a "peaceful man," as the clerk had described himself, had decided to join the Navy.

"Indeed. Now, Mr. Prickett," Hoare said, "have you been aboard long enough to know Mr. Hopkin, the surgeon? If so, is he aboard?"

"Yes, sir! He was just telling us men of the gun-room mess about Mr. Wallace's Awful Wound and how it bled!"

"Well, please be so good as to find him, present my compliments, and ask him to favor us with his company in the cabin."

Hoare had Mr. Prickett repeat his orders and found that, while he was apparently unable to speak without exclaiming, he had a good memory, so he sent the lad on his errand.

"Well met again, gentlemen," said Mr. Hopkin upon entering. Like the other officers, he had to stoop to clear Vantage's five-foot overhead, so all three seated themselves. "I wish I could say this occasion is a more pleasant one."

"I am of a similar mind, sir," replied Gladden for them both. "But so it is in war."

"I hope your patient is none the worse for his misadventure of this morning?" Hoare asked. "With your permission, I would like to interview him."

"I would not mind, sir, not in the least, provided he is sober enough to talk. I find that the drunker a man is, the faster the work proceeds. The ball passed through only one of Mr. Wallace's buttocks, missing the anus entirely. It cut no important vessels on its way and carried into the wound only a few fragments of his breeches. I probed them out easily, he having had the sense to wear buckskins for the encounter. Leather extracts much easier than fabric, you know.

"To tell the truth, the man's probably better for a bit of bloodletting-a plethoric nature, you understand. And, of course, he now has not one arsehole but two, in case he should mislay the one he was born with."

Mr. Hopkin had no apparent interest in ending his case history. Hoare ended it for him with a terse request that the surgeon address himself to the matter of his late captain's death.

"It was a simple wound, sir. Triangular in cross section, from a blade thrust into the victim's back on the right side. It slipped between the ribs and slanted to the left and forward as it entered. It nicked the aorta and pierced the left lung. The damaged aorta burst, perhaps as the victim collapsed on the deck, and he exsanguinated through the wound and from his mouth."

"Was Captain Hay's death immediate, or could he have spoken before he died?"

Hopkin looked at Hoare pityingly. "Since he crawled nearly twenty feet, sir, I would expect him to be able to speak a few words. It takes a pig a minute or more to bleed to death, and I'm sure you've heard their dying prayers."

Gladden paled.

"Now as to the wound," Hoare whispered. "You say it was triangular in cross section?"

"Yes," the doctor replied. "Or Kshaped., Narrow at the base, long on the edges. It was obviously inflicted by the Marine bayonet that lay on the deck halfway between the captain's table and the door. There it is, on the table, under those papers, where I put it.

"The man using the weapon worked it about in the wound before withdrawing it, as though he wanted to be sure to accomplish his fell purpose."

"Not my poor faint-hearted brother," said Peter Gladden. He rose and begged leave to excuse himself and go ashore. "I want to take Arthur a clean pair of his breeches, at least," he added.

"Of course," said Hoare. "Perhaps you would undertake a task for me when you get to shore?"

"Anything." Рђб

"Have the watch and the Portsmouth beachcombers keep their eyes peeled for a discarded Marine uniform coat. It might have come ashore on any of the last few tides, since we are coming up on the spring tides. Either on the Portsmouth or the Gosport side of the harbor mouth."

"A Marine uniform?"

After a pause, Hoare went on. "Lobsters. Captain Hay was dining on lobsters Friday evening, was he not?"

"That's what we are told."

"And the clerk said he overheard the captain say something about 'lobsters' as he died. But no one has even suggested the man was poisoned by tainted lobsters, have they?"

"Not that I know of," said Bennett.

"Then he would have been referring to the other kind of lobster."

"Eh?"

"The other kind of Lobster. Marines," Hoare whispered. "Yes. Find Jom York. He will dig the uniform out if it is there to be dug."

"A Marine uniform. Jom York," Gladden repeated in a bemused voice, rising to leave. "Aye aye, sir. Perhaps you will tell me about Jom York sometime?" he asked.

"Let us meet at the Anchor," Hoare said, "and I shall do so then. We must also question your brother, for there is not a minute to be lost. Thursday is almost upon us."

Upon Gladden's departure but before dismissing Mr. Hopkin, Hoare asked him if he had any notion of why Captain Hay would keep a Marine bayonet in his cabin.

"It's common knowledge, sir," Mr. Hopkin said. "He was in hopes of introducing into the Marine service a hilted sword bayonet of his own design, similar to the 'swords' carried by Riflemen. He kept two bayonets here: a regulation socketed one and one with a grip of his own design. Here."

Without asking Hoare's leave, Hopkin ruffled through the papers on the captain's table and uncovered two bayonets.

They were as described, Hoare saw Taking them from the surgeon, he inspected them closely.

"This one is clean, Mr. Hopkin, but the regulation one still has dried blood on it. Are you quite sure you did not wipe off the sword bayonet after removing it-as a matter of professional habit?"

Hopkin laughed with ill-concealed contempt. His breath was foul in Hoare's face. "Why should I do a thing like that, sir? Every properly apprenticed naval surgeon knows better than to clean off his instruments. Cleaning removes the protective film of blood. 'Wipe it off,' indeed!"