Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the matter of treason

The startled Hoare could hardly believe the implication of what he had just heard. A month or two before, when he had read himself in-or rather, had Mr. Clay read him in-on the yacht's quarterdeck, Sir George himself had warned him that by Admiralty order, he was never, never to take her to sea, lest she be snapped up by some wandering Frenchman and give up all the secrets she bore. It had only been by the strongest persuasion that, before the Nine Stones affair culminated, he had persuaded Sir George to stretch the point and let her loose-but only within sight and sound of tidewater. Whether their lordships in Whitehall had taken official note of this warranted disobedience he did not know and had no wish to know.

"In convoy, then, sir?" That was how Royal Duke had been brought 'round to Portsmouth: not only in convoy, in fact, but in the hands of a borrowed crew. Most of her own people had then known less about seamanship than they did of the binomial theorem, or of burglary.

"Or not," Sir George said. "It makes no difference. Get her there, and without further ado."

Relenting, he added, "Whatever mission they have awaiting you, it must be one of high urgency. In the hands of the wrong people, those papers must be no less than infernal machines. Now, Hoare, if you have no more asinine remarks to make, I have much to do and little time in which to do it. Have that drop you just refused, and be off with you."

They had their parting drop. "Good. Now, be off. Good luck-you'll need it."

Then, with, "And convey my respectful duty to Sir Hugh," Sir George returned to his mound of papers.

"You're in luck, Captain Hoare," declared Hammersmith, when Hoare paused at his desk outside the admiral's sanctum to watch a clerk sand the last of the documents Hoare was to carry with him.

"Why?"

"Berrier at the Golden Cross sets the finest table in London. He don't usually receive anyone below commodore, or vice minister. Or baronet."

"A cut beyond my pocket, then," Hoare whispered. He had managed to preserve as capital the windfall of prize money he had gotten in September of '81. Nonetheless, he had just undertaken matrimony, and he had seen too many naval families fall into debt and disgrace. He had no intention of following that path. He judged that his bride was a woman of some property, but he felt unaccountably ill at ease at the notion of living off a woman. It would make him feel like a ponce.

"Perhaps," he now asked Hammersmith, "you could suggest a less exalted lodging?" He understood that the flag secretary was a London man.

"Oh, you needn't worry as to that," the other said with a smile. Was the smile just a trifle superior? "You're under Admiralty orders, so the Admiralty foots the bill. Hence the voucher he had Patterson attach to your papers. If I know anything about Berrier, he'll tremble to serve anyone who even mentions old Abercrombie's name. If you think the gentleman you just left is a merciless man, just you wait till you come up against Sir Hugh."

Perhaps Hammersmith's smile was not so much superior as knowing-knowing, like the expressions of Eleanor's servants the other morning. That recollection reminded him. As soon as he was back aboard Royal Duke and had gotten her underway, he would have Hancock send word to Eleanor in Weymouth about the Golden Cross Inn. He was sure he remembered that the yacht's foul-smelling pigeon handler still had a Weymouth bird.

He bade a polite farewell to the man in any case.

"Sir! Sir!"

At the familiar voice, Hoare stopped and turned. As he had thought, it belonged to Lemuel Rabbett, the Admiralty clerk who had come so near to having his head lopped off at the Nine Stones Circle while in Hoare's service. Hoare was genuinely delighted to see the little man; he had grown significantly in confidence if not in stature during their association, and Hoare had found that one always loves the one he has helped at no cost to himself. Liking the thought, he tucked it into the little commonplace book he kept in a corner of his mind.

"Why, Rabbett!" he whispered. "So you are back in the… saddle?"

"Back in the hutch, rather, sir," Rabbett replied. "May I make so bold as to wish you happy?" He reached out a tentative hand, and Hoare gripped it firmly.

"Thank you, Rabbett. I hope the same for you, in due course."

"Sir… sir, I knew you would be calling on Sir George today, so I brought with me a little memento for yourself and your good lady" Shyly, Rabbett reached into his fob pocket and produced a small object, which he offered in the palm of his hand.

"From my mother and myself," he said.

Hoare must take it, or else hurt the other's feelings. He looked down to inspect it closely. About the size of his thumb to the first joint, it was a carving in mellow ivory in the shape of a crouching rabbit. Its long ears fused near their tips, forming a hole through which a loop of plum-colored braided silk was inserted.

Hoare thought he had seen a similar object in the collection of a former captain who had spent some time attempting to break into the reclusive islands of Japan. He could not remember what they were called-something that had to do with fishing, if he remembered. It was a thing of beauty.

"But this is precious, Rabbett," he whispered. "You must not give it away."

"My mother and I wish you and Mrs. Hoare to have it, sir," the clerk said in a firm voice. "While I may not be fit to go to sea with you, you will at least have one rabbit with you. Please, sir."

"Then thank you, Rabbett, with all my heart." Again, Hoare turned to leave.

"One more thing, sir. In October, when Mr. Thoday and I were serving you, you asked me if, when I returned to this office, I would investigate the source of some leaks of secret information. You said they had to occur somewhere between Royal Duke, this office, and Whitehall."

"I remember," Hoare said.

"Well sir, I have made my investigation. I can assure you- and I know whereof I speak, sir-that the leaks have not emanated from here. Of that, you may have my absolute, confident assurance."

"Which I accept, Rabbett. Thank you again, and thrive until we meet once more."

He escaped at last. The tide was on the turn; if he stepped lively, Royal Duke could just catch the up-Channel flood. Rabbett's replica was welcome; his news was not. If the clerk was correct-and Hoare respected his competence in the field-the leaks had to be coming from the Admiralty, or from his own command. Neither was a palatable dish. It was a good thing, perhaps, that he was taking Royal Duke to London.

Squelching through the night on the oblong disks that kept him from sinking to his knees in the foul Thames ooze, the mudlark made his way toward the promising mound at the edge of tidewater. If he knew his corpses, this was a corpse. And a fresh one, too, likely. For once, he might be in luck. But he'd best make haste, for the tide had turned already.

Yes, by God and his father, he was right for once. A dead 'un it was. Fully clothed, too; too fresh to stink, yet with the death-shit already washed away. A hot bath and bottle of Blue Ruin there'd be, at the end of this night, and a willing dollymop to share 'em both. He rolled the corpse over and began to rifle its pockets. That there was a charred hole in the placket of the breeches drawn tightly over its belly troubled him not at all.

And, omygawd, a pogue! A loaded wallet!

Off upstream, from under the bridge, the mudlark heard the same sloshing sound he himself had made in getting out to the bloater. More than one. He wasn't going to chance it, not he. He'd leave 'em the joy of turning out the bloater and taking his clothes, brass buttons, hole in the breeches an' all. It 'ud hold 'em up from chasing him through the mud, back to solid ground.