Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the matter of treason

Of the four chain shot, one must have gone astray, but the other three had done their duty, and more. One had struck the fore lugsail yard near where it met its mast, and left the sail drooping, useless. A second had struck the forestay, leaving the already weakened foremast unstayed forward, and the lugger herself without a rag drawing forward of her undamaged mainsail. The third ball must have struck in the neighborhood of her steering position, for Hoare could see a mass of heaving confusion about her wheel and could imagine cries of pain and rage. Her colors-the Tricolor, thank God-still flew.

It had been an absolute freak of luck, Hoare knew. Even at so close a range-point-blank musket shot and no more-he would have been overjoyed to see even two shots from his landlubber-manned popgun crews even hit the enemy. Well…

"Rule Britannia, and take no prisoners!" he felt impelled to shout. Being unable to shout, he successfully suppressed the impulse, thanking himself fleetingly for his muteness. Such a command would have doomed Royal Duke's gentle little crew, their ship, and its cargo of secrets.

As it was, Hoare could have asked for no better. Wheel or no wheel, nothing could have prevented the Frenchman, with no foresail to keep her off the wind, from losing way and falling into the wind, where she hung. There she lay, helpless against a second, raking broadside, as Royal Duke continued on course.

"We have her!" Mr. Clay roared, pounding his little fist on Royal Duke's rail.

"Steady as you go! Reload!" Mr. Clay roared into the reddened darkness. The four gun crews commenced to scuttle about the darkened deck, preparing to reload.

"Cease fire, Mr. Clay!" Hoare ordered. "Secure from quarters, and resume our original course!"

"Sir! I protest!"

"Do as I've ordered, sir!" Hoare croaked, as forcefully as his scarred throat would allow. "Do not dismiss the watch below. I'll explain when we have stood down."

Grumbling audibly, the gun crews secured their popguns, closed the ports on both sides of the brig, and returned the rounds of chain shot to their waiting-grooves.

"A word in your ear, Mr. Clay." Hoare bent to that ear so he could be heard, and conducted his seething officer to the slight lee offered by Royal Duke's coach-house coaming.

"Think, sir. What would have been the outcome if our people were to give battle against more than thrice our number of enraged, experienced, greedy privateersman? Why, we would have been overwhelmed within minutes, and our survivors under hatches."

"I had not…"

"I know, Mr. Clay. You were carried away by the rage of battle. I understand, and I honor you for it. No one, no one, could doubt your courage. But there's more, sir-a truly compelling reason why I turned away when I did. You… will remember at least as well as I the Admiralty's original stricture against our going to sea at all under our own control, and their lordships' reasons for the prohibition… With that in mind, how, pray, would you explain even a victory when you gave your report to our masters? 'You,' I say, for… I assure you that honor would not permit me to survive long enough to give it myself." Hoare meant this with all his heart. His demeanor must have showed it, for his little lieutenant hung his head.

"I did not think, sir. I… as you say, I was carried away by the heat of battle."

"Now, Mr. Clay," Hoare went on, "I must do my best to persuade our people that my refusal to do battle was not mere poltroonery… but was in the best interest of the service. And I must ask you, once again, to act as my mouthpiece… whatever your true feelings may be." With that, he had Mr. Clay summon the Royal Dukes to the purely imaginary break of the quarterdeck.

A child could have sensed the feelings that radiated from them as they stood there in the dark of the night-shame, scorn, thwarted greed. Given a lead, there would be shot rolling about the deck, the private signal that was so often the precursor of mutiny. These people had wanted to conquer, kill, and loot. The urge to violence was all the greater, perhaps, for the memory of the contemptuous laughter from the observing men-o'-war in Portsmouth harbor, when they made their first feeble, laughable attempt to handle Royal Duke. "The Dustbins" had been the least insulting of the watchers' mocking appellations. Now, their own commander had thwarted them. During the next few minutes, Hoare must explain himself convincingly, or his command was dead and rotting.

So, without rodomontade, he set out, with Clay's big voice at his side booming out his words, to tell his people why he had turned tail in the face of the enemy instead of leading them into what they had been sure was certain, easy victory. First, though, he praised them for the calmness and order with which they had mustered in the dark and delivered the first broadside Royal Duke had ever delivered in anger. Then he asked them, as he had Clay, what outcome they, a mere thirty-odd, could have expected from battle against a hundred enemies-enemies who were not cowed but enraged.

"I ask you this," he said, "now that the thing is over and you've had a chance to cool down."

"We coulda taken 'em," came a voice; there were mutters of agreement.

"They'd'a made mincemeat of us, ye lubbers." Hoare recognized Bold's deep voice.

"Aye." That was Slopey, the brig's Oriental; Hoare had yet to determine if he was Chinese or Japanese. They all looked alike to him.

Now he reminded them of the vast treasure of vital knowledge they themselves had created and bore with them, and confessed to his own madness at having put their creation at risk. In all truth, now that the encounter was past, the thought of his recklessness appalled Hoare, and he said as much.

His offer to hear questions resulted in a few of them. Most had to do with what he thought of the crew's behavior, especially that of the individual questioners. He repeated his praise. One remark he found tough to handle.

"Ogle, sir, private of marines."

"Yes, Ogle?"

"I jest wanted to tell ye, sir. Sergeant posted me in the foretop with me rifle. I missed fire, sir."

"Shame on ye, Ogle," Leese said.

"But, sir, I brung up a musket fer Danny Quill, an 'e shot the Frog's captain, he did. Saw it wif me own eyes, I did."

Hoare knew quite well that Ogle could have seen nothing of the kind. But he believed he had, and it was a creditable thing for him to believe. The Royal Dukes were learning to pull together.

"Well done," he said through Clay's voice. "Well done, the both of you."

Three bells sounded now. He felt justified in dismissing the men with his thanks, and the feeling that his motives were better understood and his courage no longer questioned. For now.

"Thank you, Mr. Clay," he said. His lieutenant might have spoken his words in truth, or he might not. They had sounded convincing enough. Suddenly he recalled that Clay had stood watch for a good eighteen hours without relief, fought the skirmish just passed, and been rebuked by his commanding officer. The man had had enough, Hoare felt. He relieved the other and sent him below. He gave the deck to Taylor but remained on deck himself lest she run into danger.

The events of the past hour had shown him that, while Mr. Clay was undoubtedly a gallant officer, a fine seaman, and-he believed-well-disposed toward him, he wanted the cool judgment that the commander of this little craft, with its peculiar mission, must possess. Before they went into action again… Here, Hoare stopped himself with a wry internal laugh. Royal Duke must never again go into action.

"Permission to speak, sir?" It was Taylor.

"Permission granted, Taylor."

"Before we go too far on our course, sir," she said, "the tide is just turning. Could we not take two hours-no more, sir- return in our tracks, and see if we might not recover our tender? She has been a valuable asset to the ship, and it would be almost criminal to leave her behind before we have exercised due diligence in searching for her."