Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the matter of treason

"I must say, Hoare, Mr. Prickett took me most unjustly to task on the matter, I being less than a day on the post when he mounted his assault upon me. Really, I felt myself in all but physical danger. Well, sir, what have you to say?"

The stunned Hoare could do no more than stammer.

"I shall assume that those peculiar noises you are making indicate acceptance. Very good. Go, have your man shift that swab, and invite me to help you wet it."

"I confess, sir," Hoare whispered to Prickett pere, "that I knew nothing of the Act of Parliament of 1768 that you called to Sir George's attention… with such happy results for myself."

"Neither did Sir George, Captain Hoare," Mr. Prickett said calmly. "Nor had I, before I thought of it, as I did on the spot. I wished, if you will allow me a cant term, to 'bounce' him out of a torpid inactivity which was doing justice to neither of you. It served its purpose, did it not?"

"Indeed, it did." Ten years gone, Hoare had given up all hope of being made post. Now, if he survived long enough, he would die an admiral.

"I noted, however," Mr. Prickett said, "that Cratchit twigged. I was not surprised. Cratchit knows by heart every statute bearing upon the Admiralty in the remotest degree, from the days of Mr. Pepys to the present. I would warn you against him, were it not that he appears well disposed toward anyone who will protect him against Lestrade. He thinks the latter lives only to suck his blood and devour his vitals."

"I shall take care to stand guard over Mr. Cratchit, then," Hoare whispered.

"Well, then, let us bury the Act of 1768," Mr. Prickett said, "before it begins to stink. And I must be home betimes, for young Harry leaves for his new ship tomorrow. Good evening, sir."

In Greenwich and its environs, for those festivities whose sponsors lacked access to a private ballroom, the Green Man tavern atop Blackheath Hill most often was the recourse. To this place, in April's first soft evening breeze, gathered the friends, naval and otherwise, who wished to celebrate a double occasion: the shifting of Bartholomew Hoare's swab from the left to the right shoulder, and the betrothal of Mr. Harvey Clay and Miss Anne Gladden.

Hoare's silent servant Whitelaw had shifted the epaulet himself several weeks ago, immediately upon Hoare's receiving official word unofficially from Mr. Pricket pere that his elevation had taken place. It had been a swab of high quality to begin with; Hoare had determined upon one which would be none of your cheap pinchbeck substitutes for proper bullion but of good English workmanship, a swab suited to the standing of a new commander with reasonably deep pockets of his own and a wife who was also reasonably well off.

And, since the swab was a mere few months old and had all too seldom encountered sea air, it had retained its pristine glow. Indeed, Hoare thought abstractedly as he caught sight of his reflection in one of the windows of the Green Man's ballroom, the swab's glow had brightened upon Whitelaw's shifting it to the uniform's starboard shoulder, as though it shared in its owner's astonished pride. Post captain at last! it crowed to all the world, and all the world paid heed.

Admired by all the world, that is, save the connections of the others being honored this evening, persons of considerable standing for whom Hoare's swab was as the leaves of autumn. They had eyes for the betrothed alone. Tonight, the diminutive Harvey Clay towered above his Anne; the couple was perfectly matched.

"At this range," Eleanor had murmured to her husband that afternoon while they watched the younger pair stroll ahead of them along the path in Greenwich Park, "it merely looks as though the flowers and the trees were half again their usual size."

All evening, Hoare had had but one dance with his own Eleanor. Within minutes of the first less-than-stately air, the younger gentlemen among the guests had commenced flocking to her side, beseeching the next jig or reel or hornpipe… the next waltz in particular.

Just now, to be sure, she rested at her husband's side in a dark brown taffeta, heavy black hair in slight disarray, her cheeks flushed, brown eyes aglow, giving off a faint odor of womanly sweat. She looked square, forthright, homely and-to Hoare- utterly adorable.

"It seems you are in good odor among the gentlemen tonight, my love," said Hoare, and immediately was appalled at himself. But the gaffe passed over Eleanor's head.

"I know. Evidently, I spin well. My low balance of power… no, that's the wrong term…"

"Center of gravity, perhaps?" Hoare whispered.

"… is perfectly designed, or placed, to make me a solid partner in the brisker dances. That waltz with Mr. Gladden, Bartholomew! Did you see us? And he a clergyman! Really!"

But Prothero of Impetuous was at Eleanor Hoare's other side, claiming the favor, and away they went, leaving Hoare without companion. Spying Miss Austen making her way toward his daughter, he took alarm and set course among the wheeling couples to Jenny's rescue.

"And how does Order do?" Miss Austen asked Jenny. From her tone, she was genuinely interested in learning the answer.

"He does very well, ma'am. My new mama says he keeps me in order, though I vow I don't understand what she means."

At Jenny's designation of his wife, Hoare found himself inexplicably touched.

"And I'm writing a story about him!" the child continued.

Miss Austen's eyes widened, and she squatted down on the floor, so-Hoare supposed-as to see Jenny eye to eye. "Writing stories is a wonderful experience, isn't it? I write them myself, you know. May I give you a piece of advice about your writing?"

Jenny nodded.

"Put your eyes into it, and your heart, and your soul. Will you do that for me?"

Jenny nodded.

Just then, young Harry Prickett's form hove into sight. He had accompanied his new captain to the ball, on account, it seemed, of his close acquaintance with Hoare himself. Since he looked somewhat at loose ends, and since Hoare knew all too well what a seven-year-old boy at loose ends can accomplish, he went over to him. Miss Austen excused herself to Jenny and followed. A short inconsequential chat ensued.

"But Mr. Prickett," Miss Austen said at last, "I am being neglectful. Have you been introduced to Miss Jenny Hoare?"

That very young gentleman looked ready to burst into bawdy laughter, but before he could do so, thereby running the risk of being called out by his host, remembered where he was and simply said, "No, ma'am!"

"Then permit me to do so, sir. Pray come with me. Excuse me, Captain Hoare." Reaching down, she permitted Mr. Prickett the younger to take her arm. Amused, Hoare watched her steer him easily across the ballroom to where Jenny stood amid a bevy of other unescorted females.

"Miss Jenny?" Miss Austen's clear voice carried easily from the other side of the room, and Hoare listened intently.

"Ma'am?" Jenny gave her bob.

"Permit me to present the son of a very old friend of myself and your parents: Mr. Harry Prickett, of HMS…" She awaited the prompt; it was at hand.

"Impetuous, ma'am, thirty-eight," came the treble voice. "Captain Prothero."

"Thank you. Of Impetuous."

The lad made his leg, the lass her curtsey, and they rose to eye each other, each waiting to see what would happen next.