Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the matter of treason

"Shh, now," Bubble breathed into Hoare's ear. "They might justa took 'idin' inside. There be a bolt-'ole below 'er, an' that barstid Ogle mought knowa." Hoare drew a belaying pin from his waistband and followed the leader under a projection of the bier, into utter, Stygian gloom. Within, he heard scrabbling sounds, and hoped it was only Bubble, exploring the inner fastnesses.

"They still be a'ead of us, ye know, sir," were Bubble's next words. "If yer game fer it, we can cotch up on 'em, most of the ways, any'ow, if we jes' eeeases oursel's through 'ere…"

Hoare returned the belaying pin to its place and let Squeak take him in tow again, along passage after turning passage, until, having long since lost all sense of direction, his sense of time followed it in going adrift. Twice, they emerged into comparative light, once in what appeared to be a long-abandoned bedchamber of state, and again onto a long loggia. It was still snowing, and Hoare found the dim gray light all but dazzling.

It was just as the three were about to duck into still another passageway-this one a good five feet high and cased in rusticated stone-that Squeak stumbled and fell, clutching an ankle in silent pain. Bubble, who had just opened the way for their entrance, turned, bent over the ankle, and held a muttered conversation with its owner. When he stood erect again, his concern was visible even through his wild growth of hair.

"That's it for us, sir. Squeak can't walk, not t'rough these narrer ways."

Hoare's heart dropped. Was he to be left here, then-where, he had no idea-not only blocked from recovering his Jenny, but even blocked from seeking his own selfish escape?

"Look, sir. If ye 'ave a steady 'ead an' a good memory, I think I can tell yer the rest of the way to w'ere yer friend an' that barstid Ogle are laid up, most likely. This gate, mebbe ye'll even get there a'ead of 'em.

"Are ye game for it?"

When Hoare, having no choice, chose with a terse nod, Bubble commenced to subject him to a memory drill that far outdid the torment he had experienced as a mid, of learning where every line in a three-masted vessel was made fast, and under which circumstances. In the earlier drills, the boatswain had embedded each line into Hoare's person for emphasis; Bubble simply thumped him with the club of his heavy right arm every time he missed a turning.

At last he declared himself satisfied. With a final shove, he propelled Hoare into the passage.

"Scrag that barstid Ogle for me!" he called in his hoarse voice as Hoare, taking a deep breath as if preparing to dive deep, plunged into the last labyrinth.

There was light at the end of the tunnel, a dull reddish light, partly obscured, once and then again, by what Hoare was certain from its motion could only be a stooped human figure. If he was right, it could only be an enemy-Goldthwait, or that barstid Ogle. Hoare remembered the last time he had been faced with the challenge of creeping up on an enemy to do him in; it had involved the hapless upstairs watch in Gracechurch Street. This situation differed, though, for his target was not so thoughtful as to be leaning over a rail, ready to be tipped overboard. Hoare debated, pulled off his soggy shoes, drew the clasp knife he had last drawn to release his Eleanor from bondage, unclasped it- softly, softly-tucked it between his teeth like a pirate in a melodrama, crawled up behind the target, leapt, drew, and sliced firmly across the other man's throat. He collapsed against Hoare with a hiss of escaping life blood, and a burst of foulness accompanied his death. It was not Goldthwait, so it must be Ogle.

Beyond, the tunnel widened into a small dim grotto lit only by a glow of charcoal, easily large enough to accommodate several men. A pile of rags occupied one corner, a pile that might have hidden Squeak. Some ten feet off, an arched door opened at the grotto's farther end. Between Hoare and the doorway, John Goldthwait was just turning-in response, perhaps, to some small sound of Hoare's. He was in the act of drawing a small, serviceable pistol. Hoare squatted, sprang, and in springing, remembered that his precious clasp knife lay behind him, abandoned in Ogle's blood. Hoare prepared to die.

As Hoare was still in mid-air, Goldthwait yelped with pain, kicked up one leg as if beginning some macabre pas seul, and fired the pistol into the grotto's ceiling. Hoare fell upon him amid a sprinkle of stone from above, and grappled.

Goldthwait might be doughty, but he was smaller than Hoare, and he was quickly the underdog. Somehow, besides, Hoare found himself gripping a long shard of porcelain; it was just long enough, he discovered, to grip and thrust under and up into Goldthwait's vitals.

Beneath him, Goldthwait went limp. His mouth opened, and a thin trail of blood trickled across his cheek.

"Maman?" he whispered, and again, "maman? Me voici, dans le jardin… Tu m'as laisse tout soul!

"Maman? Maman? Que j'ai peur… Ma…" His jaw dropped with a sigh, and his head fell to one side.

Utterly weary, Hoare rose, but could no more than crouch beside John Goldthwait. Absently, he reached out for the serviceable pistol. Why not? After all, it was his property.

Into his vacant stare swam a small, blood-smeared face, the face of Jennifer Hoare, formerly Jenny Jaggery, "orphing" of Portsmouth town.

"Oh, my dear child…" His whisper was broken.

"Da!" Jenny cried triumphantly into Hoare's chest. He looked down at her jubilant face.

"It worked!"

"What worked, child?" he asked.

"Why, the crumbs, of course, silly! The crumbs I kep a-droppin' as them coves drug me along through Lunnon an' down the tunnels!" In her brief return to the underworld, Jenny had let her gentility lapse, Hoare could not help noticing. Ah well, she had kept her life, and her spirit. The gentility would be back; perhaps the cat Order had it in his possession.

"Yes, my dear, your stratagem worked," he lied, and set her down with an extra squeeze.

"But how did you bloody your face?" he asked.

"Why, I bit 'im, that's what! 'E din't understand 'ow young 'uns can wiggle about an' around, an' get loose o' most every-thin', so w'en I begun to get peckishlike, I wiggled loose and filled up on their vittles. 'Orful, they was, too!"

Saved by my womenfolk again, Hoare told himself ruefully. First, there had been Eleanor and her upsetting of Moreau's stolen skiff; now it was Jennie and her sharp little teeth. He took the child in another hug, took her by the hand, and led her out of bondage through the low farther door. He knew his way now, and he always would. Bubble and Squeak had embedded it in his innermost soul.

Hoare was secretly overjoyed when he and his Jenny appeared in Dirty Mill's lowest wine cellar just as Whitelaw was turning the last few bottles of Hoare's second-best port. After accepting Hoare's hand and holding the child to his chest for a revealing second, the silent servant led him up from the cellars of Dirty Mill, and thence into the astonished arms of Eleanor Hoare.

To my knowledge, our previous candidate for the post held until recently by the late lamented Admiral Abercrombie, who was so summarily dismissed from consideration, has Sir Thomas Frobisher's interest at heart, ha ha ha, and-as is well known to all at this table, Frobisher has… oh."

At his own gaffe, the First Lord fell silent. For that very night, Sir Thomas Frobisher's knighthood was about to be stripped from him. The man himself, his baronetcy still inalienable and in effect, would be on his way by ship, to Hell or Halifax.

Seeing that he had already carried the day, Mr. Prickett leaped to pursue his beaten foe. "In my professional capacity, I must add, my lords, a reminder to this Board of the Act of Parliament of 1768, the Commissions Act, in which it is explicitly stated that the rank of commander is a temporary one, to be held only… Er.