Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the Ffrog Prince

At Admiralty House, the flag secretary, Patterson, informed him that the comte had, indeed, presented the precious document.

"It's right here," he said. He handed it over for Hoare to peruse. "Sir George is closeted with Captain Pottle again. Will that man take no for an answer? Never on your life, sir."

Except for being in French, the letter of appointment, crudely printed except for spaces where names were added in manuscript, was virtually identical to the form employed by the admiralty. A tidy signature and an ornate seal appeared at the foot of the paper.

"Made the translation myself for the poor duke last month," Patterson said with modest pride.

It had grown late. Hoare betook himself to his own quiet quarters at The Swallowed Anchor in the eastern part of the town.

The sky was was still an arctic blue the next morning when Hoare emerged into the street. Facing south, he was buffeted by a biting northerly breeze; he must needs hold onto his hat.

Hoare first returned to The Three Suns, where he asked the porter a question. Pollard demurred but upon being fixed with Hoare's glittering eye told him that no, the countess and that 'orrible maid had remained in her rooms from the time the late dook departed until she went out to view his corpse yesterday. Strike him blue if he wasn't telling God's truth.

As Hoare turned away, a worn notice struck his eye. Partially obscured by a recent playbill and partially obscuring an ancient recruiting poster, it read:

TO BE SOLD, UPON ATTRACTIVE TERMS

A RECENTLY OVERHAULED SMALL BARGE

CONVERTED FOR PLEASURE SAILING

BY A NAVAL GENTLEMAN

INQUIRE AT 14, HIGHBURY STREET, IN CARE OF MASON.

Ever since being forever barred from going to sea again as a naval officer, Hoare had itched at least to sail saltwater again. Upon the signing of peace, he had received a gratifying dividend on some of his shares in John Company. He had now questioned everyone he could think of, and he was at a loss. Perhaps a change in viewpoint would help. He shrugged and made his way to Highbury Street.

His smart rap on the door to Number 14 was answered by a squat woman with a commanding look. To Hoare she bore the insignia of "landlady" as clearly as if the word had been tattooed across her red forehead. "About the yacht, advertised for sale," he whispered.

She looked him up and down. "Wait here," she said, and closed the door in Hoare's face. He did not catch the name she roared up the stairs within.

In a moment a blaring sneeze sounded from behind the door, and a fellow lieutenant emerged, wiping his streaming nose. He was about Hoare's own size and frame but appeared ten years or so younger. Like Cassius, Hoare thought, this officer wore a lean and hungry look; a mark on his unornamented left shoulder suggested that at one time he had held commander's rank. The eyes above the inflamed nose looked anxious. "You called about the yacht, sir?"

"Yes, sir," Hoare whispered. "Hoare, Bartholomew Hoare."

"Hornblower, sir. Horatio Hornblower."

"Not Hornblower of Retribution?"

"The same, sir," said the other.

"Oh dear," Hoare said. Hornblower's ill luck was well known. He had been made commander and brought to England the sloop Retribution-Gaditana, as she had been at the time of her capture in Samana Bay. But then the commissioners had not confirmed his appointment because it had been made after peace had been signed. Now the wretch was being compelled to return, bit by precious bit, the pay he had drawn during his brief tenure in the rank.

"Would your cold prevent you from showing me your craft?"

"Not at all, sir. Happy. This way."

Hornblower did not return for an outer garment but raised the collar of his uniform coat to protect his ears, hunched his shoulders, and thrust his hands into his pockets. He sneezed.

It came out as the two betook themselves to the berth of the vessel in question that during his happy few weeks as master and commander in Retribution Hornblower had indulged himself by squandering his prize money on a small naval barge and refitting it as a yacht in which he could carry himself and a companion on short cruises about the Solent. Now, of course, keeping her was out of the question. He must put his beloved up for sale and live upon the proceeds somehow until he had paid off the rapacious clerks of the Admiralty Office.

Hoare lost his heart to Thunderer at once. She lay snug at a small floating pier below the Hard, to which the more knowledgeable captains chose to direct their coxswains. Like a lass well aware of her beauty, she glowed. She was under thirty feet in length, a seven ton craft at the most. Either of the two tall officers could reach halfway to her miniature crosstrees. Forward of her mast lay a cuddy. Sadly yet proudly Hornblower unlocked it.

"Please," he said to Hoare with a flourish. He blew his nose.

The cuddy was icy but snug. Its overhead was just high enough for them to crouch upon lockers set on either side of a table whose base extended the full length of the cuddy.

"The enclosure of one of Mr. Gunter's patent sliding keels," Hornblower explained. "I installed it so I could explore shallow waters as well as work to windward moderately well."

Hoare nodded. "I see."

"Would you like to take her out?" Hornblower's eyes were all but pleading. He blew his nose.

"If it would not trouble you."

"Not at all," Hornblower said. "I have no duties to occupy my time."

His voice carried a trace of bitterness, Hoare thought, and not without reason. It was bad enough that their Lordships of the Admiralty had seen fit to throw their seamen on the beach to starve; that they would do the same for their trained, loyal officers passed all belief.

Between them the two had Thunderer's jib and loose-footed gaff mainsail set in minutes. They cast off smartly and let her run free through the light chop of the inner harbor. With the wind astern, the cold was less painful. Nevertheless, Hornblower chose to slip below and put on an oilcloth jacket. Above it his wet blue nose protruded.

"You'll notice she gripes a bit," he observed. "I prefer that to a lee helm."

"It's a matter of choice," Hoare said.

By now they were out of the ruck of little oared harbor craft and running into the Solent. Hornblower blew his nose. "It was kind of you, Mr. Hoare, not to remark on my cold and the sound I must make in clearing my nose," he said. "Another man might well have remarked on the appropriateness of the noise and my name."

Hoare gave his silent laugh, a sound that a bluestocking lady had once compared to the sound of one hand clapping. "Given the possibilities of unseemly plays on my own name and voice," he whispered over the breeze, "I would be mad to open that subject.

"Do you often take her out single-handed?" he asked after they had dropped the peculiar sliding keel and put her close-hauled on the larboard tack.

"Very seldom," Hornblower said. "As I found during my brief sojourn among the elect, solitude is the fate of every ship's master and commander. But even though Thunderer is quite small enough to handle alone, I like companionship. Like nuns and noblemen I do not go about alone."

Hoare was about to respond with some light remark but halted, hang-jawed.

"What. Did. You. Say?" he whispered. Perplexed, the other repeated his statement.

"Why-like nuns and noblemen I do not go about alone."

"My God," Hoare said. "Look here; d'ye know where Eole lies?"

"Just off Spit Head itself." Hornblower pointed aft, over Thunderer's quarter. "You can see her there, between Hercules and Lively."

"Will you do me the great favor of taking me out to her?"

"Of course, Mr. Hoare. Anything for a fellow officer," Hornblower said as he eased the main sheet. "But why? Be so kind as to house the sliding keel, sir," he added. He let Thunderer fall off, laid her course directly for Eole, and blew his nose. "The lanyard there, by the hatch."