Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities

Chapter VI

Wednesday afternoon, a frightened, fetid wharf rat brought a soggy parcel to the Swallowed Anchor's snug. Susan the pink girl brought both rat and parcel to Hoare and Gladden. Mr. Prickett, who now would let no one detach him from his mute lieutenant, looked with wide, delighted eyes at the smelly things. Both objects, wrapped in oatmeal-colored shoddy, oozed and stank of harbor mud. As between the courier and the packet, only one was the object of Hoare's interest. He dismissed the other with a shilling, and the creature poured gratefully away, carrying its stench with it and singing Hoare's praises discordantly.

Hoare drew his sheath knife and cut the cord binding the parcel. A waterlogged red garment slipped to the floor. He smiled at it as if it were cloth of gold.

Hoare brought the coat's collar up to his nose and sniffed. Then he did the same, first with one of the folded-back cuffs, then with the other. He took a huge white kerchief out of his own coattails and wiped it across the inside of the coat collar where it would have rubbed against the wearer's neck, and then across the cuffs. He nodded to himself and handed the coat to the little mid.

"Take it away, Mr. Prickett," he whispered, "and label it 'Coat found in Portsmouth Harbor.' Put today's date on it. Oh, and take this, too, please."

He handed Mr. Prickett the kerchief. "Label it 'kerchief, with matter removed from Marine uniform found in Portsmouth Harbor, this date.' So, Gladden. We can be practically certain this coat was not last worn by one of Vantage's Marines."

"How can you say that?" asked Gladden.

"Work it out, sir. Work it out."

That afternoon Mr. Gladden escorted Hoare to the place where his brother lay in durance.

Fortunately, the durance faced south, and the afternoon sun poured into it through a small barred window set high in the rough stone walls. There was no need to light the tallow candles flanking the pitcher and basin on the deal table.

In looks, the brothers shared only their wavy corn-yellow hair. Where Peter was shorter than Hoare, Arthur Gladden would have looked him in the eye when he rose to greet them, but for his stooped, scholarly posture. Instead of a bright cornflower blue, his eyes looked faded. Where his brother's face was robust and ruddy, Arthur was lantern-jawed and pallid. He wore clean breeches at last, but the odor of his lapse lingered faintly about him. It was reinforced by the reek of the untended chamber pot in one corner.

"What news do you bring, Brother?" Arthur Gladden asked anxiously in a tense tenor, before Peter could even introduce Hoare.

"None good yet, lad, none bad," Peter Gladden said. "But I have enlisted a wizard on your behalf. Let me make you known to Lieutenant Bartholomew Hoare of Admiral Hardcastle's staff, who has agreed to serve you as counsel on Thursday."

"But I thought you were going to stand for me!"

"I am, dear boy, but you know quite well how little I know about all the pettifogging details of court-martial proceedings. Mr. Hoare will back me up with all his experience."

"Hoare. Is that your real name?" asked Arthur Gladden with what sounded like genuine interest.

"Yes," whispered Hoare.

"Oh, you needn't whisper here," said Arthur. "Nobody bothers to listen. In fact, I believe I could walk right out of this place without anybody's stopping me." He paused, as if thinking the idea over, and brightened. "But then they'd catch me, and they'd be sure I was guilty." He sighed.

"Are you guilty?" asked Hoare. "And I do not whisper for secrecy's sake but because I cannot speak in any other way. It is a nuisance, I know, but one has to make the best of it."

"No, sir, I am not guilty. I admit Captain Hay's outburst made me tremble with anger, which is why I spoke up to him. I realize I never should have done that. But he was so angry that he turned purple and laid hands on me, forcibly. That is why I-"

"Fled," said Hoare. "Have you any way of proving what you say, that you grappled with the captain only in order to escape him?"

"No, but I would suppose the Marine guard would speak up for me," Arthur replied.

"Then there was a Marine guard at the cabin door?"

"Of course there was, Mr. Hoare." The prisoner's voice was stiff. "Have you ever known the captain's cabin in any of His Majesty's ships not to be guarded?"

For the first time, Hoare thought, the man sounds like a naval officer.

"Who was he, do you know?" he asked.

"A Marine, just a Marine," Arthur replied. "Truly, I don't think anyone can tell one Lobster from another-except perhaps another Lobster. They're all statues in red coats and heavy boots. Don't you think so?"

Hoare looked at Peter Gladden as if to say, "I told you so."

"As I said," Arthur went on, "there was a Marine on guard when I reported to Captain Hay's cabin. In fact, he opened the door and announced me, just as they always do. Frankly, I did not notice him as I left, since I was pressed by an urgency."

The morning dawned bright, clear, and busy on the day of Lt. Arthur Gladdens court-martial on charges of having murdered his captain, Adam Hay. Flotillas of watercraft made their way across the sparkling harbor to converge on Defiant, 74, the venue selected by Charles Wright, her captain and president of the court-martial.

Vantage's own vacant cabin would have been the proper place for the court-martial of one of her officers. But both the prominent and the curious were expected; rumor had reached Portsmouth that even royalty might appear. On these grounds and Mr. Bennett's advice, Captain Wright allowed his own life to be disrupted and his own cabin in Defiant to be taken over.

On the table behind which the members of the court were to sit, among the quills, inkwells, and sand, lay Arthur Gladden's sword. It was placed athwartships. If the court arrived at a "guilty" verdict, the blade of the sword would face him on his return to the cabin after the court's deliberations.

"Make way!" called a Marine. As the members filed into the cabin along the way cleared for them, the audience rose almost to a man. One guest, a massive figure in admiral's gold braid and the vivid blue Garter ribbon, remained seated in his comfortable chair squarely in front of the court.

"Does Your Royal Highness wish to be made part of this court?" Captain Wright asked.

Admiral of the White Prince William, Duke of Clarence, shook his head. The head, which bore a jovial expression, was shaped like a pineapple.

"Gad, no, old boy. Came down to get away from court, don't ye know?" The cabin filled with appreciative chuckles. Royal ribaldry, Hoare observed to himself, always amuses.

When the chuckles had died down, Captain Wright read out Admiral Hardcastle's order convening the court-martial, concluding with the words: " '… that, on the twenty-first day of June, eighteen-oh-five, in His Majesty's ship Vantage, Lieutenant Arthur Gladden did assail and murder his captain, Adam Hay.' "

Recognizing Hoare's lanky figure standing beside the prisoner's friend, Captain Wright raised his eyebrows and interrupted himself. "Does the accused really require two 'friends,' sir?" he asked.

"Actually, sir, he does not. The accused officer asked that, as his brother, I stand as friend for him. Both blood and certainty of his innocence required that I agree to do so. However, Mr. Hoare is a far more skilled investigator than I-"

"Mr. Hoare is well-known to me and to others on this court," Captain Wright said impatiently. "But which of you speaks for the accused officer? You or he?"

"I shall do so for the most part, sir, if only because of Mr. Hoare's impediment of speech. And Admiral Hardcastle suggested Mr. Hoare and I collaborate."

"Irregular, but I see nothing wrong with it, nor, of course, with the Admiral's point of view. Do any of you gentlemen?" Captain Wright looked left and right along the table, clearly expecting no contradiction. "Very good," he said. "Now, Mr. Bennett, will you give us your opening remarks? I know you, at least, have no difficulty in speaking up." A soft titter ran through Defiant's cabin.

Bennett now outlined the case against Arthur Gladden: how he had been overheard in disputation with his captain; how Captain Hay had cried out; how Arthur had fled the full length of Vantage; how Mr. Watt had discovered his dying captain; and the last words the clerk had heard. That, except for Watt, who hardly had the strength to have stabbed his captain, Arthur was the last man known to have seen Captain Hay alive.

Mr. Hopkin, the surgeon, made the same statements under oath that he had made to Hoare and Peter Gladden. He was followed by the man Lynch. The quartermaster, too, had no more and no less to say than he had a day or two before.

John McHale sounded more evasive.

"And what did you hear through the skylight, Mr. McHale?" asked Mr. Bennett.

"I resent the implication, sir! I am no eavesdropper, especially not upon my captain!"

"Then you are prepared to state-under oath, remember, Mr. McHale-that, at anchor on a calm night, on deck, at your proper post within feet of the cabin skylight, you heard nothing through it? Not even any raised voices?"

"Under penalty of perjury, Mr. McHale?" interjected the junior member of the court, a commander, from his place at the left end of the table.

Vantage's master gulped.

"In the face of what Lynch said he heard, and he well forward of you, leaning against the quarterdeck rail?"

Mr. McHale paused for a thoughtful moment. "Gentlemen, I retract my earlier evidence. Mr. Gladden is a weak man, gentlemen, but an honest one."

From his seat behind the prisoner Hoare saw Arthur Gladden's ears redden.

McHale continued, "He wouldn't hurt a flea, let alone his captain. Why, he hasn't the gumption of a rabbit. His division of men was already well on the way to becoming a very mob because he couldn't bring himself to control them. I pity him. He doesn't belong in the Navy. I do not wish him to lose his life by my doing, on my evidence. But I have my own wife and children to consider."

"Confine yourself to the facts, Mr. McHale," warned Captain Wright. "What, then, did you overhear?"

"I heard Captain Hay order Mr. Gladden to put his division through an exercise on the morrow."

"What sort of exercise?"

"Fire drill, sir," said McHale, "followed by a simulated battle against a French frigate on either side. Then, if I knew the captain, he'd declare our mainmast shot away at the crosstrees or the like, kill off all the senior officers, and leave Mr. Gladden to get himself out of it. A hard trainer, sir, was Captain Hay, but a good one.

"I then heard Mr. Gladden cry out at length against Captain Hay. He accused the captain of prejudice against him… of being 'unfair,' as he put it. In the middle of Mr. Gladdens outburst, I heard a roar of rage, and a grunt. Then I heard the cabin door close behind Mr. Gladden-"

"How did you know it was Mr. Gladden?" asked Hoare.

Mr. McHale looked surprised. "Why, sir, Mr. Gladden and the captain were the only men in the cabin. And it certainly wasn't the captain that ran out the cabin door."

"And if you believed Mr. Arthur Gladden and his captain to have come to blows, why did you not raise the alarm?"

"I could not be sure of that, sir, not from where I was standing. Besides, there was the Marine guard at the cabin door."

"So you, an experienced sea officer, left it to an unknown Marine private to decide whether or not to raise the alarm. Eh? This will do your career little good, Mr. McHale. That will be all, sir."

Called and sworn, Mr, Watt repeated in essence the story he had told Hoare a few days ago. When the little man arrived at his captain's dying words, the junior member of the court spoke up again. He had been the only one besides Captain Wright to take an active part in the proceedings. Bernard Weatherby was his name, master and commander in Crocus, 20; a man of promise and one to remember, Hoare told himself.

"Frankly, gentlemen, I'm at a loss," Captain Weatherby said. "No one has suggested for a minute Captain Hay was poisoned by one of the lobsters he had been consuming, and Mr. Bennett tells us the captain's steward swears the creatures were alive when he dropped them into the pot of hock. We have no reason to doubt the man's word. Why did the captain talk of 'lobsters' as he was dying, then?"

" 'A babbled of green tomalley,' " someone muttered in the back of the cabin. Someone else tittered.

"Belay that nonsense." Captain Wright's quiet, flat voice brought silence. "Another episode of that kind, and I'll have the perpetrator publicly gagged, even if he's a post captain."

Silence fell.

Mr. Prickett slipped into the cabin and whispered a few words into Hoare's ear. Nodding his thanks, Hoare leaned forward and relayed the whisper to Peter Gladden.

"Having received the court's prior permission, gentlemen," said the latter, "Mr. Hoare asked Sergeant Miller of Defiant's Marine detachment to take as many of his men as required and board Vantage, where he was to replace Vantage's entire Marine detachment for as long as might be required. I also gave Miller certain instructions.

"Sergeant Doyle of Vantage has now mustered his detachment in the waist below the break of Defiant's quarterdeck. Mr. President, may I ask you to adjourn this court to the quarterdeck?"

Captain Wright caught Bennett's eye and nodded. Arthur Gladden, guarded by his two Marines, left the cabin first, to be followed by his brother, Hoare, Bennett, and the members of the court. Next, His Royal Highness clambered up the companionway to gleam in the summer sun. Behind them all limped Lieutenant Wallace in a pair of loose pantaloons. The lieutenant would see himself damned if he would witness any man of his being grilled by some whispering upstart of a duelist without his officer present to protect him in case of need.

Sergeant Doyle had drawn up Vantage's forty-seven Marines in the waist of Defiant, in two facing ranks. Upon catching sight of his officer among the gathering on the quarterdeck above him, the sergeant called his redcoats to attention, and they presented arms with a familiar clank. Wallace hitched himself painfully down the larboard companionway into the waist, and took position between the two ranks. From there he looked up at Captain Wright and raised his hat in salute.

"What d'ye want to do now, sir?" Wright rasped at Peter Gladden. "You may as well know these fancy departures from proper procedure do your client no good at all in the eyes of this court."

Mr. Gladden bowed. "By your leave, sir, I would like him to accompany me down the ranks of these Marines. I want him to identify the man who stood on guard outside Captain Hay's door when he reported to the captain on the evening of the murder."

"Very good, Mr. Gladden. You may accompany your bro- the accused into the waist."

The procession made its way down the starboard gangway-first a Marine guard, then the prisoner, then the second Marine, and finally the prisoner's friend and brother. Arthur Gladden walked slowly and gravely along the first rank of lobsters, stopping now and then to peer into a face. He came to the end of the first rank, turned, and walked the length of the facing rank, until he had examined every Marine in Vantage's detachment. Concluding with Sergeant Doyle himself, Arthur looked up at the officers of the court-martial as they stood at the quarterdeck rail.

"He's not here," said Arthur Gladden.

"What d'ye mean 'he's not here'?" Captain Wright barked.

"The man I saw is not one of this detachment, sir. As I think of it now, the man on guard had a most unusual face. The skin had a peculiar coarse, florid quality; his eyes were larger than normal. And his mouth… Well, sir, his mouth looked almost painted. Like a mask. I can see no Marine here with those features. I am sorry, sir."

"I have an explanation for that, sir," said Peter Gladden. He spoke on his own, without Hoare's prompting. "However, I must ask that what follows be heard in… in…" He turned to Hoare for the proper term.

"Yes. In camera."

"If you expect this court to subject itself to still more harlequinades, Mr. Gladden," said Captain Wright, "you will have to convince a very skeptical group of officers, I assure you. Draw nigh, sir-yes, Mr. Hoare, you, too-and explain yourselves."

Thereupon the officers of the court-martial put their heads together to hear the whispered explanation Hoare and Gladden had prepared for them. Considerable head-shaking and protest followed, especially from the fire-breathing Commander Weatherby. At last Captain Wright rapped sharply on the quarterdeck rail.

"Mr. Hoare, Mr. Gladden," he said with some asperity, "I would be happy to let these proceedings run as long as necessary to arrive at a true bill. By doing so, as you pointed out just now, this board would conform with the letter of Admiralty regulations. However, I, like you, am an officer of the Royal Navy. My first duty, like yours, is to marshal all our naval forces as swiftly as may be to the defense of the realm which we serve.

"If, in order that this ship and the five others commanded by the captains on this court may sail with all possible speed to reinforce Lord Nelson, I must hang Mr. Arthur Gladden out of hand tomorrow. I shall do so, sir, be he innocent or guilty.

He will become a casualty, a single casualty out of all too many. But if he dies to let these ships go free, he may save England.

"So this court grants your request to continue these proceedings in camera for the remainder of the day, reconvening here tomorrow at eight bells of the forenoon watch. However, at noon tomorrow, if needs must and even if I hang for it myself, I will direct this court to declare Mr. Arthur Gladden guilty, adjourn this court-martial, and see him hanged.

"Not a minute later than noon tomorrow, therefore, this vessel and those commanded by my fellow captains on this court will have their anchors up and down in preparation for departure. Do you understand, gentlemen?"

The other captains, Arthur Gladden, and his two friends nodded solemnly.

"Very well. The board will now reconvene below. I ask all unofficial persons to withdraw. Your Royal Highness, will you go or stay?"

"I'll stay, sir," said the duke. "My presence might even save your necks, what what?"

When the observers had left Defiant and the board had returned to his cabin, Captain Wright turned to Peter Gladden. "Proceed, sir," he said.

"When I went ashore from Vantage after questioning some of the witnesses," said Gladden, "Mr. Hoare asked me to make a request on his behalf of a certain beachcombing party of his acquaintance. In turn, that person made the request known to his own people. The result was this." He reached into the portmanteau beside him and withdrew the vile-smelling Royal Marine uniform coat. Its scarlet dye had bled slightly onto its blue facings.

"This coat was fished out of Portsmouth Harbor on Tuesday night last and brought to me and Mr. Hoare. I know every officer in this cabin will recognize it. Upon examining it, Mr. Hoare found certain substances on its collar and cuffs.

"I would like to ask him to tell the court about what he discovered."

"What I wiped from the collar and cuffs," whispered Hoare, "was paint, gentlemen, removable paint. I could even smell it over the tidewater smell. Removable paint, or maquillage, as the Frogs have it, has a distinctive odor, you know." Hoare paused to fill his chest for his next sentence.

"The man who had worn that coat was wearing maquillage. And I doubt that any member of the ship's Marine contingent would own any of the stuff, let alone know how to use it. No, the man we are looking for has to be an actor-an amateur Thespian, if you will. Now who could that be, I wondered, and why?"

Hoare interrupted himself again, as if preparing for battle.

"It is in the interest of obtaining the answers to those questions that I asked you, Mr. President, to adjourn the court until the time you set for it to reconvene-tomorrow, at eight bells of the morning watch.

"Finally, I suggest that you will find this evening's performance of Mr. Sheridan's› The School for Scandal both interesting and instructive."

Though the attendants had long since lowered the houselights and lit the footlights, the curtain of Portsmouth's sole theater had yet to rise. The audience, officers and their ladies for the most part but including a sprinkling of townsmen as well, had begun a discontented murmur. Overriding the subdued babble came Prince William's masthead growl from the royal box.

A dainty person in black slipped out from between the curtains. "In this evening's performance, the part of'Charles Surface' will be played by Mr. Thomas Billings," he announced. "The part of'Maria' will be played by Miss Oates." He slipped back out of sight.

There was a collective sigh of feminine disappointment, for "Charles," the romantic lead, was to have been played by Lieutenant Peregrine Kingsley, second in Vantage. As a new widow, Mrs. Hay, of course, could not now tread the boards in the role of "Maria."

Hoare snapped his fingers. With a nod to his companions to follow him, he eased himself from his place in the back of the theater and left by the main door. He returned by the stage door, where he sought out the person in black. Tonight's impresario, Mr. DeCourcey, looked as if he should be wringing his hands.

"Where's Kingsley?" Hoare asked.

DeCourcey rolled his eyes and shrugged as eloquently as Mr. Morrow of Weymouth. "Who knows?" he said. "Here the man was, as good a juvenile as you could ask for in Drury Lane itself, superb in the part, and he has gone missing."

"He's bit!" whispered Hoare with a wicked grin. He clapped the distracted DeCourcey on the shoulder so hard as to dislodge the quizzing glass from his left eye. Hoare put his head out the stage door and blew on his silver boatswain's call.

There was a tumult and a shouting in the evening streets of Portsmouth. Some men mounted to take up their mission; others climbed into waiting chaises; still others-these mostly the hard men of the press gang-began their search through the late dusk of June for the missing Kingsley.

Hoare withdrew to his post of command in the Navy Tavern, just off the Hard, to await the outcome. To him, among others, came Mr. Peter Gladden and Mr. Francis Bennett and most of the members of the court-martial, including Captains Wright and Weatherby. Mr. Prickett was already in place, his mouth smeared with somebody's jam.

"Well, Mr. Hoare!" Weatherby cried. "Your trap seems to have been well designed. My congratulations!"

"Premature, Captain, but I thank you nonetheless," whispered Hoare, with more than a trifle of envy. He knew very well indeed that, since he would never make post, the only way he could hoist his swab-his epaulette-and earn the courtesy title of "Captain" was to be made commander.

"How did you do it, sir?" Wright asked.

"I'm afraid it was mostly guesswork, sir," Hoare replied modestly. "Guesswork and speculation."

He and the rest of the company rose at the unannounced entry of H.R.H. Duke of Clarence.

"Be seated, gentlemen, please," said Prince William. "D'ye know, if I were ever to succeed to the Throne, I do believe I'd do away with all this risin' for royalty. I've seen too many promisin' naval officers brain 'emselves on the overhead when risin' to give the Loyal Toast."

"Hear him; hear him!" one of the juniors was heard to say.

"Go on with your tale, Mr. Hoare, eh?" Royalty said.

"It was clear from the start, sir, that Mr. Arthur Gladden is no man to kill his fellowman. Captain Hay's killer had to be someone else. The captain's servant? Mr. Watt, his clerk? What motive could they have had? Only the Marine guard could have told us, and he was mysteriously missing.

"That was when I reasoned that the Marine himself was the most likely culprit. He had the means-his bayonet-and the opportunity. He could enter the captain's cabin at any time on the pretext of announcing a visitor or bringing a message. Sergeant Doyle admits he was as yet unacquainted with his men."

Hoare paused to take a long draft of a mild lemonade.

"Yes? Yes?" A small, lean man with a weary face leaned forward impatiently, and Hoare continued.

"This would have made it easy for a Marine, or another man posing as a Marine, to insinuate himself into the post of guardian at the sacred portal. No one would really see him as he stood at his post. As poor Arthur Gladden said to me, 'I don't think anyone can tell one Lobster from another-except perhaps another Lobster. They're all statues in red coats and heavy boots.'

"The only thing missing now was motive. Why would a Marine, a stranger to his captain like all the rest of the ship's company, want to kill the man?

"Then Watt mentioned a missing file. He appears to be a meticulous man and braver than he credits himself for being, and I could not see him as being mistaken in a matter of his profession. Someone had taken the file, then. Why not the captain's murderer? The Marine-or, rather, the pretended Marine?"

He took another draft of lemonade.

"It was then that I launched a search for a Marine uniform coat. I reasoned the murderer would throw it overboard- weighted, perhaps, though I prayed not-rather than hiding it somewhere in the bilges of the ship. Sooner or later some prying member of the crew would find it.

"Now I had a stroke of luck. As I was musing about the killer's description-if not a Marine himself, he had to be able to impersonate one convincingly, and he had, of course, to be a naval man-I happened to see the playbill posted outside my lodgings. And there I saw the name of Vantage's second, Peregrine Kingsley, in the part of 'Charles Surface,' the dashing young blade. There was my man, I was certain."

Hoare's voice now gave out entirely He fell back upon breathing his words into Mr. Prickett's ear so the midshipman could relay them to the audience, a clear, proud treble stentor.

"This might have explained Mr. Watt's missing file as well. Conceivably, Kingsley could have got wind that someone had sent his captain something so incriminating that he felt he had to filch it, even killing Captain Hay if need be, while doing so.

"He easily abstracted from the Marine detachment the coat which was later found in the harbor. Before donning it, he disguised his face with maquillage, leaving unavoidable traces of the stuff on the coat as he did so, and slipped into ranks when Sergeant Doyle mounted the guard. Again, it was easy for him to include himself.

"If I was right, the altercation between Arthur Gladden and his captain gave Kingsley his chance to create a red herring in the form of the hapless young officer. After Arthur fled, Kingsley entered the cabin on some pretext and bayoneted the captain. He switched his bayonet and the one the captain had in his possession, dropped the bloody uniform coat over the side, and disappeared into the anonymity of nighttime aboard a newly manned vessel."

"But all this is speculation, Mr. Hoare," Captain Wright said.

"Precisely so, sir. That is why I had to lay a trap for Kingsley by means of a piece of theater of our own. We continued the court-martial, but in camera so that Kingsley was excluded. Thus it appeared to him to be the court's secret that it was now in search of a naval person with acting experience.

"But even secret proceedings will out, as we all know, all too well. I made sure they would, by instructing young Mr. Prickett here to be a trifle loose-mouthed."

Mr. Prickett grew pink, either with embarrassment or with pride.

"Sure enough, the word spread, as the word will, and Kingsley was deceived into believing the law was on his trail. He panicked, as we all know, and fled. That's all, gentlemen."

The room broke into applause and cries of, "Hear him; hear him!"

"Present him, Weatherby."

From where Hoare stood, across the room and surrounded by admirers, he could hear His Royal Highness's quarterdeck command. He saw Weatherby working his way through the crowd.

"This way, if you please, Mr. Hoare. You know the drill, I suppose?"

"Go to one knee and kiss his ring, isn't it, sir?"

"Gad, no. He's a prince, not the pope, and he's incognito besides. Just hat under the arm-like that, yes-and bow in salute. A bit deeper than usual wouldn't do any harm."

Clarence's circle of courtier-officers opened to admit Captain Weatherby and his prize. Hoare made what he hoped was the proper bow. His Royal Highness put out an affable hand.

"Well done, Mr… er… Hoare, by Jove. Clever chap, what what? Amazin'. Should you ever be in need of a friendly word, sir, you may call on me. Short of a ship, of course… can't have an officer on the quarterdeck who can't make his orders heard, eh what?"

All too true, Hoare thought for the thousandth time, as the nodding circle of sycophants regathered itself around their duke. The small, lean, weary-looking man drew him aside, named himself as John Goldthwait, and asked that he call the next time he was near 11 Chancery Lane in London.

"Present him." With those two magic words from royalty, Hoare's credit account with the hypothetical Bank of Advancement had doubled. His interest had grown by a cubit tonight. But, even so, it could never give him back his voice, put him aboard a fighting ship, and return him to the ladder of promotion.

The court-martial reconvened on the morning of 1 July, another sparkling day, to acquit Arthur Gladden of the charges against him. When Peter bent to buckle his sword belt about his brother's waist, Arthur seized the weapon and flung it out the open window of Defiant's cabin, scabbard and all.

"Bugger your bloody sword, and bugger the Navy, too!" he shouted. "I resign your bloody service, and be damned to you!"

He pushed his brother and Hoare aside, stormed out through the paralyzed crowd, summoned a wherry, and was off before anyone of the court or the ship's company could summon the wit to stop him. They let him go.

Hoare took his place in the line of officers and dignitaries waiting for passage ashore but caught a lift from the friendly Commander Weatherby. He went straight out to Insupportable and took her out into the light morning breeze.

As the sun was setting two days later, Hoare sat at Insupportable's cabin table, looking down at several trail boards and wondering what he would rename the pinnace today. They had just tied up after forty-eight hours of personal leave, granted by his master of the moment so he could recoup his exhausted whisper.

"Ahoy, the pinnace!" came a hail from the pier overhead. Hoare stuck his head out the companionway.

Peter Gladden was looking down at him. "Glad you're back, Mr. Hoare," he said. "I've been waiting for you since yesterday. I've news."

Hoare climbed out of the cuddy to greet the other officer. "Come aboard," he said. Hoare thought Gladden looked ready to burst.

"Kingsley's dead," Gladden reported as soon as he stood on Insupportable's narrow clean deck.

"What?"

"Kingsley's dead. Taken and killed."

"Come below and tell me about it."

Over a mug of neat rum at Insupportable's table, her alternate names brushed to one side, Gladden recounted the details.

As Gladden told Hoare, Kingsley had apparently laid no plan for strategic withdrawal in the event of need, so had simply followed his high-bridged nose into the hills behind Southampton Water. He might have been intending to hide in Sherwood Forest, adopting the carefree life of that green-wood's most famous inhabitant. One of the press took him at a poor inn in Bishops Waltham during the night. He had disguised himself as a drover and, as his Maid Marian, was accompanied by Maud, Mrs. Hay's former abigail. He had in his possession the clerk Watt's missing file and several other pieces of interesting private correspondence. One part of it showed that Kingsley had long been rogering both mistress and maid-although not, apparently, on the same occasions. This, of course, would only make matters worse for them all in the public opinion.

Kingsley's other correspondence, Gladden went on, included several peculiar messages. Admiral Sir George Hardcastle desired Hoare to present himself forthwith, to examine these documents and render his opinion about them. It was to give him this order that for two days Gladden had been lying in wait for him at the Swallowed Anchor.

Meanwhile, until a new court-martial could be convened, Kingsley had been placed under close arrest in the selfsame Spartan quarters formerly occupied by his junior in Vantage, Mr. Gladdens brother.

"Well, sir," Gladden said, "this very morning, the sergeant of Marines was changing the guard outside Kingsley's door when he saw the sentry was standing in a puddle of blood. He says his first thought was that it was the sentry's blood and that Kingsley must have attacked him somehow, but the sentry was at his post, just as surprised as his sergeant. He hadn't noticed the blood, it seems. When the two Lobsters opened the cell door, there was the prisoner, stone cold on the floor, with a bullet hole in his head. I hear it went through the back of his head and blew the front of his face clear across the room."

"There was a naughty soul," Hoare whispered, "who had a little hole, right in the middle of his forehead… Excuse me. I couldn't help it.

"So that's finished," he added-he thought-to himself, but he had apparently articulated the words, for Gladden raised his eyebrows.

"What do you mean? What's finished?"

"Why… why," Hoare said, "the case of the captain and the Lobsters. What else?"

He knew very well that he was prevaricating to the other. What he had meant was that he now had no chance of eliciting from Kingsley the true motive for his stabbing of Captain Hay. Adultery was not uncommon in these circles. As long as it was not open, it seldom resulted in violence. Why, then, had Kingsley decided that he must silence his cuckolded captain?

"Be that as it may," said Gladden. "The Admiral sent me to find you and to ask you to be so good-"

"And this was two days ago? Shit," said Hoare. "Bear a hand, then, will you?"

Between them the two officers snugged Insupportable down in no time. Then they dashed ashore to the Swallowed Anchor so Hoare could shift into a respectable shore-going rig. They were on the way out the inn door when the pink girl Susan caught Hoare by the sleeve.

"Your sword, sir! Would you be forgetting your sword?"

She bent, shaking her head and frowning prettily, fastened the useless thing deftly about Hoare's waist, and let the gentlemen go.

"I have other news, sir," said Gladden, keeping up with Hoare's near-trot through the streets of Portsmouth. "My brother is to take holy orders next month."

"Hardly surprising, do you think?" Hoare asked.

"Not in the least." Gladden had already begun to puff. An officer's confined life at sea did not make for a fit body, Hoare reminded himself, however finely it might hone his judgment.

"He wants you to attend his ordination," the smaller man went on. "Apparently, he credits you with having kept him from being strung up for the day at Vantages yardarm, like a Bounty mutineer or a jammed signal."

"Where and when are the hands to be laid upon him?"

"The twenty-first of July, I think he said. Since Bath and Wells have agreed to direct the thing, I imagine it will be in his cathedral at Wells."

Interest or no interest, Hoare thought, Arthur Gladden might never have made more than an incompetent sea officer, but he could well be a decent cleric. Furthermore, his family moved in exalted circles indeed if the occupant of one of England's oldest sees consented to preside at the ex-lieutenant's priesting.

"I shan't be present," Gladden went on. "Frolics under orders."

"Oh?" Hoare whispered. His belly churned with envy.

"And so, by the way, is Vantage, as soon as her new captain has picked his second and third officers."

"Are the pickings his to make, then?" Hoare asked. "Who is he?" Perhaps-just perhaps-the man would be an old friend who would stretch common sense for friendship's sake and take him on as second, or even third.

"Kent," Gladden said. "John Kent. Weatherby's predecessor in Crocus just made post. They say he's decided to make his appointments by interview instead of interest. He's sitting on the candidates today, with Sir George."

The procedure was odd, but perfectly proper. Hoare had never heard of a Captain Kent. "A bit of a jump for him, isn't it?"

"Yes. He was slated for Eager, 28, but Their Lordships at the Admiralty had to give her to Plummer. Then Kent's uncle, Featherstonehaugh, put up such a row in the House that they gave him Vantage instead to keep him quiet."

He pronounced the name of Kent's uncle as "Fanshawe," the way he should. With his courtier's ear and his own family's interest, Hoare thought, it would not be long before Gladden himself climbed another rung or two up that tarry, slippery ladder toward post rank.

"A Plummer for Kent, eh?" he whispered. Hoare surprised himself at the words. He could not remember the last time he had uttered an impromptu joke. Perhaps it was a sign affairs were about to look up for him.

Gladden raised his eyebrows at his companion and laughed. "Very good, sir! Next thing you'll be saying is that the news of my departure gladdens your heart, eh?"

"It does no such thing, my dear fellow. We shorebound bodies will miss you, you know."

"Thank you, Hoare. I hope another, softer heart will miss me, too."

So that was the way the wind blew. Mr. Gladdens pursuit of his Admiral's dumpy, spotty, popular daughter was a serious matter. If he landed her, their joint interest would have him commanding a 74 within two years. Perhaps, then… Hoare smiled bleakly.

Once the Marine guard had saluted them into Sir George's offices, Hoare took Gladden's arm gently and turned to face him.

"You've done the task the Admiral sent you on, Peter, and I'm here for my chastisement. Now go; seek out Miss Felicia, and good luck to you-both with your damsel and with your new ship."

"Thank you, Bartholomew. You've been a good friend to the Gladdens. I shall not forget." Mr. Gladden's towhead disappeared down the street. Hoare smiled after him. He had not forgotten what it was like to be twenty-four, well-connected, and full-voiced.