Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities (7 page)

“Er … no, sir. I have not actually spoken with Lynch. That is what I am told he said.”

“By whom, sir?” came Hoare's whisper.

Mr. Gladden explained that he had interviewed only his brother and Francis Bennett, Admiral Hardcastle's judge advocate.

“Bennett and I are old friends,” Hoare said, “but friendship disappears in the arena of a court-martial.”

“Now you see why I welcome your participation,” Gladden replied. “I am no barrister.”

“Nor am I,” Hoare reminded him. “But we shall see. Go on with your story, if you please.”

At seven bells, Gladden went on, Andrew Watt, captain's clerk, had entered the cabin with some correspondence that he had been preparing. He found his captain bleeding and breathing his last on his cabin floor. Finding the Marine guard unaccountably missing, Watt had shouted, “Help! Murder!” with all the strength of his little lungs and pelted up the companionway to the quarterdeck to report his news to the officer of the watch. Only then had he fainted.

In his turn, that officer, John McHale, had sent Lynch, the quartermaster, to summon David Courtney, first lieutenant, and left the quarterdeck himself to view the scene of the crime. Here Mr. Courtney had joined him and summoned all the ship's other officers.

Peter Gladden could not tell Hoare exactly how, but word of the altercation between the captain and his third lieutenant came out in no time. Half
Vantage
's company, it seemed, had been on deck to witness the latter's frenzied flight along her gun deck.

“So they took Arthur's sword,” said his brother. “Then they sent a signal ashore and, when the admiral ordered him brought ashore, made it so—fouled breeches and all, poor wight. That is really all I know,” Gladden concluded.

“Well, we must jump about cheerly, sir,” Hoare said. “We have I cannot guess how many of
Vantage
's people to question, and—” He interrupted himself, “Has a date been set for the court-martial?”

“Thursday, Mr. Bennett told me.”

“
Thursday?
Here it is Monday already. We must really stir our stumps, then. I must see if I can persuade the Admiral to postpone—” He interrupted himself again, “My God. I must beg you to excuse me, for I am commanded to the reception this evening at the Admiral's and Lady Hardcastle's residence. I must improve on my appearance as best I may. Let us plan to go aboard
Vantage
tomorrow. Shall we share a wherry out to her, at eight bells of the morning watch?”

“A pleasure, sir. But we shall certainly encounter each other again at the reception, and Mr. Bennett as well.”

“Excellent, sir. Let us take him aside, tell him our plans, and enlist his assistance—insofar as his duty permits him to provide it.”

Upon this, Hoare saw his guest to the Swallowed Anchor's door. He piped for a bath to be brought to his rooms—using the “Sweepers, man your brooms” call—and withdrew to titivate for the ordeal that gatherings of this kind always inflicted upon his voice and his equanimity.

Chapter IV

I
N 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.

“
Whore,
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.

*   *   *

H
AVING 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 Hopkin's “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.”

*   *   *

A
FTER 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.