Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the headless Captains

It must have long been obvious to Spurrier, Hoare could see now, that Hoare's two aides were on his trail. What, then, since they were lonely intruders into his territory, could have been simpler or more logical than to ensnare them and dispatch them like a brace of hares? By making them his true sacrifice, the one that the death of the cock had merely simulated, Spurrier would be accomplishing three things at once. He would clear his own trail, he would add to the Royal Navy's alarm and despondency, and, if his worship was genuine-a possibility that, after the proceedings just ended, Hoare could not dismiss- make a sacrifice to his deity or deities compared to which that of the big black cock was petty. Again Hoare pressed Leese's shoulder. He must make ready to signal the rest of the hidden landing party.

The leather gags across their mouths kept the two captives from uttering more than half-smothered mumbles. But it was obvious that they could see and they could struggle, which they did as best they could. A blow to the belly doubled Rabbett up.

"Over here," Spurrier ordered. "Stretch him over the stone, now. No, you idiots, face up. There. Now hold him. Yes, just like that."

"Are you sure you want to go through with this, Spurrier?" Selene Prettyman asked in a cool voice.

"Be silent, woman."

Spurrier took a firm hold of the odd, impractical-looking knife once again, raised it into the foggy night air, and looked fixedly at the moon. Then he leaned over Rabbett.

At Hoare's piercing whistle, he froze.

Leese at his heels, Hoare threw himself across the few feet toward the altar. The rest of his party sprang from their hiding places and grappled with the guards. Dropping their prisoner, Rabbett's guards turned to defend themselves.

Spurrier leaped for the gap between two menhirs, the cope flying behind him, the drawknife in his hand. Hoare fell headlong over the clerk, reached out for Spurrier, clutched the fleeing foot, twisted, and began clawing up the other's leg. Spurrier dropped his weapon but gripped Hoare by the hair.

In no time, Hoare had both hands on Spurrier's leg and was almost within reach of his privities. Hoare would grip them as soon as he could and crush them in his fist till Spurrier surrendered.

"Take him from behind, woman!" Spurrier shouted.

Hoare looked over his shoulder. Selene Prettyman, raven hair flying as wild as any maenad's, lunged toward him, the hook of Spurrier's blade in her hand. She flipped it deftly end for end, catching hold of the hilt. Hoare winced and awaited the blow that would finish him. Instead, flinging herself full-length across Hoare's prone body, Selene Prettyman swung the flat of the weapon squarely into Spurrier's upturned face, and the man went sprawling.

In a single series of smooth, practiced-looking motions, Selene Prettyman cut the fastenings of Spurrier's cope, pulled it from his shoulders, and modestly draped it over her own.

"That's better," she said. Her palm was bleeding where it had clutched Spurrier's blade. She ripped a length from the hem of the cope, looked at it, gave an ach! of disgust, wrapped the silk around her hand, and knotted it with the other hand and her even white teeth.

Two of the landing party made to seize her.

"Let the lady go," Hoare said. "She's a friend of the Crown."

"Good for you, Captain Hoare," she said. "This affair has gone quite far enough, I think." She drew the cope more closely about her.

Rabbett had collapsed to the ground but now propped himself against the altar. His eyes, strangely small without their accustomed spectacles, looked up at Hoare in entreaty. Hoare bent down and cut away Rabbett's gag and his bonds. He turned away from the clerk's stuttering thanks to do the same for Thoday.

"Your arrival was timely, sir," Thoday said. "This is evidently the place to which one should take recourse if one wishes to lose one's head."

Leese came up to the group. "Sorry, sir," he said. "Two of the wretches got clear away. I'll 'ave summat to say to my people when we're back aboard, that I will. Eight smart sailormen an' all that preparation, just for four no-good rascals. Not to speak of losin' them antic folk what opened the show. I'll 'ave their 'eads."

Shaking his own head, Leese took the three extinguished torches, lit them from the one Spurrier had rekindled, and jabbed them into the ground. In the light they cast, Leese inspected them with mingled disgust and respect.

"Looks like great big pricks," he said. "Beg pardon, ma'am."

"We got the only man we needed, Leese," Hoare said. "Perhaps it's for the better that the others got away."

"You speak no less than the truth," Selene Prettyman said. Her voice was low but heartfelt.

"Well, sir!" came Abel Dunaway's voice from the dark outside the Stones Circle. "I think my lads 'ave bagged ye some pretty little coneys! Come along, lads, and show the Captain what ye found!"

"Oh, my God," Hoare whispered. They had managed to see Cumberland off unscathed. Had the smuggler, thinking to help, brought him back?

One at a time, hustled along by Dunaway's men, fugitive celebrants began to appear. The smugglers' bag numbered five of the women, three of the men. The captives' ecstasy had worn off; the women clutched themselves from modesty or cold, or both, while the men simply looked hangdog. The two Frobishers, the rest of the men, and the four faun-urchins had evidently eluded the new arrivals.

So, Hoare saw with relief, had Ernest, Duke of Cumberland.

"If your men will take over our bag now, sir," Mr. Dunaway said, "we'll be. off. It's as well your men don't get too good a look at mine."

"Of course, Captain," Hoare replied. "Where the Navy failed, your people succeeded. Well done, and my thanks to you all."

He swept his eyes over as many of Dunaway's men as would meet his glance before they all drifted away into the night. Dunaway waved cheerfully as he disappeared.

"It's just as well, Hoare," said Selene Prettyman, "that the Frobishers got away and took our noble friend with them. They were off before the real mischief started, after all. And while Sir Thomas may be objectionable and more than a little mad, he is still a power in the region and in parliament. He is better disarmed than destroyed.

"And in case of need, both you and I-and your crew, of course-saw his son and daughter taking part in that silly performance. No, with a tale like that hanging over his head, we have no more need to disturb ourselves with Sir Thomas.

"Mr. Spurrier's other master now, whoever he is… that's another thing. We must interrogate the good Captain-intensively, if need be. For that, best we take him to Dorchester."

Hoare felt an unaccountable reluctance, first, to do Selene Prettyman's bidding and, second, to relinquish Spurrier to her.

"To Royal Duke, I think, ma'am," he said.

"Why?"

"Because you were among this evening's celebrants. I do not trust you with our captives."

"You forget, sir, I am 'friend of the Crown.' You yourself have said it, and it's greatly to your credit. It was I who gave you the warning and I who was responsible for his capture, Captain Hoare," she said.

Hoare preferred to divert her from that issue.

"Nonetheless, I must not habituate myself to having a lady preventing the escape of my adversary, leaving him for me to capture," Hoare said.

"What do you mean?"

"Mrs. Graves crippled the skiff in which my last villain was rowing to safety…Just now, you enabled me to catch Spurrier when you tripped him."

Hearing his name, Spurrier sat up and groaned. The side of his head was bleeding slightly where Selene Prettyman had swatted it.

"Ah, yes, Mrs. Graves," Selene Prettyman said. "And how, pray, did she 'cripple' the skiff?"

"She slung a stone. It broke one of its thole pins. He capsized in the surf. I went on from there."