Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the missing Mids

"You may go, Barkis," he told the anxious-looking, pouchy man at his side. The man, liberally sprinkled with snuff, had the earmarks of a purser, and Captain Davison appeared to have been raking him over the coals for some dereliction. For all Hoare knew, every purser afloat was derelict in one way or another-skimping on the slops, adulterating supplies, general petty cheating if no more. When this one had slunk off, Davison extended his hand.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Hoare. Forgive the informality, do. Sorry it can't be a more pleasant occasion."

Davison was Hoare's height, which meant that both men had to stoop to clear Hebe's low overhead. The two were about of an age. The captain's brown eyes looked keenly into Hoare's faded gray ones.

His uniform coat hung from a hook fixed to a nearby bulkhead. Hoare noted that it bore an epaulet on each shoulder, signifying that its wearer had more than three years' seniority as post captain. With his entire being Hoare envied him. He, Bartholomew Hoare, would never carry the weight of even a single epaulet, on either shoulder.

"Take a chair, won't you?" Davison gestured toward a corner on the starboard side of the great stern window; through the sparkling panes Hoare could see his own Devastation lying at the end of her dock line, well clear of Hebe's stern so that neither vessel could damage the other. The hand at the landing stage was well trained, then; high marks for Edwardes, her first.

Davison called to his servant for port and biscuits. While they were awaiting them, Davison inquired about Hoare's little craft.

"How have you named her?"

"Well, sir, she's Devastation-today, that is."

"Today?" Davison's eyebrows lifted in inquiry.

"Yes. You see, after I purchased her I received so many suggestions for names from friends whom I did not wish to offend that I decided I would make her something of a movable feast…" (here Hoare had to pause to take breath) "… like Easter in the church calendar, you know. So I adopted them all. I keep a variety of trail boards below in her bilges, their inscriptions facedown, where they can serve double duty as floorboards. I change them as the mood strikes me, or when we set forth on a new adventure together. I've only owned her for six weeks, and Devastation is the third name she's carried."

Captain Davison roared with laughter.

"First good laugh I've had since my mids disappeared," he said. "Your good health, sir, and may you and your ship have good luck."

"I seldom trust in luck, sir," Hoare whispered, "so I've been arming her in readiness for whatever hazard may come her way."

"Indeed? Tell me about it."

"Well, sir, if you look sharply at her bows, you'll see a pair of odd-looking sockets."

Davison rose and peered out his cabin window at the little vessel. Devastation looked smug, Hoare thought, as if she knew she was being inspected by an expert.

"Yes. I see them," Davison said. "What are they for?"

"The sockets are for mounting a one-pounder swivel or jingal, sir, from a hulk that was being broken up. It had been part of miscellaneous ballast, it seems… and from its looks it was cast somewhere in the Levant. It might have been fired at Lepanto. But I found it to be sound, so I furbished it up, procured a garland of shot for it, and stowed the whole thing in her bilges."

"Beneath her spare names, I imagine," Davison said. "What else?"

"At last count, sir, she also carried five grenades, a cavalry saber, a Kentucky rifle that is my pride and joy… and a crossbow with a sheaf of quarrels."

"A dangerous craft indeed, Mr. Hoare. I shall make sure not to run athwart your hawse.

"Now. You'll want to know about the event that caused me to request your services of Sir George."

Hoare nodded.

"Do you want to question me, sir," Davison asked, "or shall I recount the history?"

"The latter, if you please, sir. It's easier on my voice… or rather, on my lack of one. I'll interrupt you at need, if I may."

"Very good," Davison said. "Well, then:

"You know, I'm sure, that Hebe is under orders for the East Indies. I'd much rather we joined Nelson, of course, but their lordships in London chose otherwise. Out of kindness to my three elder midshipmen, I granted them twenty-four hours' shore leave, beginning four nights ago. They're a decent group of lads-no bashfulness, no bullyin', no buggery-and in Edwardes' opinion they deserved a last fling ashore. I agreed.

"Besides, all of 'em have interest at the admiralty. Young Harcourt's the Duke of Cheshire's grandson. Young Dacres is a nephew of Dacres of Guerriere; Buchanan-well, his people have owned half of Scotland since James III. Why, even little Steptoe's mother is in-waiting to Queen Charlotte. Only decent-looking woman at court in my opinion. So you can see it's in my own interest to keep the lads as happy and as healthy as the Service permits while we train 'em up to be good officers and good sailors. They are shapin' well if I do say so. Or at least they were.

"In any case, off they went in a body, merry as grigs, leavin' little Steptoe behind lookin' ready to weep his heart out at bein' kept aboard. Millar, cox of the liberty boat, saw 'em troop off into the town, on their way to drink, dissipation, and worse, I suppose. That was the last any one of us has seen of 'em."

"Did anyone make inquiries, sir?" Hoare inquired. "Were they seen by others?"

"Yes to your first question, Hoare, no to your second." Captain Davison's desk might be a hurrah's-nest, Hoare observed, but his mind was shipshape enough.

"I put Mr. Galloway ashore-he commands our marines-with his sergeant and half his men, ordered to inquire at all the drinking spots and other gathering places. They drew a complete blank. No one had seen any stray midshipmen, none at all."

In Hoare's opinion Captain Davison's choice of sleuth-hounds was a poor one. Since the marines' duties included those of a kind of seagoing police, the maritime world tended to look on them with a mixture of contempt and fear. The innkeeper or whore ready to answer a lobster's questions would be hard to find. However, Hoare kept that opinion behind his teeth.

"My story's not quite ended, Mr. Hoare," Davison said. "The night before last, after securin' the liberty boat for the night, Millar asked permission to see me. This is what he handed me."

He rose from his place beside Hoare and crossed the cabin to his cluttered desk. After leafing through the piles of papers and muttering, he returned triumphantly with a paper that he handed his guest.

The paper was severely crumpled and caked with dried mud. This made for hard reading, so Hoare laid it flat on the little table between their two elegant chairs and smoothed out the creases. Even then he found it hard to decipher the penciled handwriting and must hold it up to the fading light. A passing shower had hidden the afternoon sun.

Sir:

We have your three Mids in our keping. At this writting they are in good helth and spirits but how long they shall continue in this state, depends on the maner of your redem-ing them. In the folowing fashon:

For the Duke's lad, TБ1000 in gold. For young Buchanan, TБ750 in gold. For the Dacers boy only TБ500 in honnor of his galant Uncel. For the entire Lot, TБ2000 sterling in Gold. Warranted Unharmed.

You will set the sum afloat in a unmaned skiff off Bembrige, on the next ebb tide after your receipt of further instructions from us. When we have the Gold in our posesin we will Reese those Mids you have Paid For.

If not you an their grieving Parents can say a long Goodby to thiere Pride and Joys.

Yours faithfully,

Robin Hood

For now, Hoare decided, he would withhold his opinion of this demand note. It had some odd properties, and he wanted to think about them. If only he had a handwriting specialist on hand. Not for the first time, in fact, he wished he had access to a team of experts in forensic matters-lay as well as criminal. He could pen them up somewhere, in a ship perhaps, where they would be on call at all times.