Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the headless Captains

While he had the man's attention, he went through several other signals and had him repeat them.

"I want you to teach those signals of mine to your messmates tonight," he said.

"Aye aye, sir," said Yeovil. "An' Mr. 'ancock? He was actin' like the message was urgent."

"My God. I was carried away. Have him bring it, please."

"Hancock's our pigeon fancier," Mr. Clay murmured. "And one of our signalmen, since we have no young gentlemen in our complement."

"Sir, Admiralty House signals for you to report to the Port Admiral forthwith," Hancock said. Hoare found him hard to understand, for he had few teeth remaining, and those rotten. His breath was horrible.

Hoare thanked Hancock but took up his hat and fled the confinement of his new cabin as swiftly as he could, Clay trotting behind him.

"Never let that man into my quarters again, Clay," Hoare said. "Have my gig manned, if you please." Clay thundered the order.

Hoare had saluted his command's nonexistent quarterdeck and was about to swing down into the gig when an exciting thought came to him.

"Tomorrow, Mr. Clay, be so kind as to send two men to the man Guilford at the small boat dock in the Inner Camber. Have them inform Mr. Hackins of the Swallowed Anchor… that I shall now be living aboard Royal Duke regularly. I shall settle my account with him on my return." (Breath.) "They are to pack up the gear in my rooms and bring around my pinnace-er-Neglectful. I shall attach her to Royal Duke as tender."

That had been a three-breath sentence for Hoare-too long for comfort.

"Aye aye, sir," Clay said, and doffed his hat in salute as Hoare dropped over the side into the gig.

That will be enough to make all stare, Hoare said to himself as the gig's crew rowed him awkwardly ashore. Surely Royal Duke would be the first Admiralty yacht to have her own tender. Yet he knew that, even with the continuity provided by Neglectful, he would miss the peaceful, monotonous life he had lived at the Swallowed Anchor. What, he asked himself, was he to do about his ward, the tubular little Jenny Jaggery? He had promised her father, Janus, that he would care for the creature, yet she would hardly belong in Royal Duke. He must take counsel with Eleanor Graves the next time he saw her. Perhaps she, like the dauntless partridge she was, would take the child under her wing into her personal pear tree.

"I didn't expect to see you again so soon, Hoare," the Admiral said. This was, Hoare thought, the very first time Sir George had failed to chide him as a laggard.

"We have another unexplained killing on our hands. Or two, rather. A message has just reached me to the effect that the bodies of Francis Getchell, Captain of Agile, twenty-eight, and his cousin Benjamin, Captain of Argilla, thirty-two, have been found in the Nine Stones Circle near Winterbourne Abbas."

"This is dire news, indeed, sir," Hoare said. He had known both officers, liked one, and admired the other.

"You know Winterbourne Abbas, of course."

"I fear I am not acquainted with the gentleman, sir," Hoare whispered.

"It's a place, Hoare, not a person. Nor, to be candid, did I know of it. Rabbett had to enlighten me; it appears that he used to nibble the farmers' cabbages thereabouts."

Rabbett, Hoare knew, was a minor clerk in the office of the Admiral's secretary, Patterson. Heracles, when Sir George was in a jovial mood, was Hoare himself.

"I'm little acquainted with the inland geography hereabouts," Sir George confessed. "I'm a Staffordshire man myself. It seems Winterbourne Abbas lies west of Dorchester. The Nine Stones Circle, Rabbett tells me, is one of those ancient British temples, a miniature Stonehenge, if you will. You do know of Stonehenge?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I am told the two Captains were en route from London to Plymouth by hired coach to rejoin their ships. A shepherd found their bodies in the Circle, beheaded and robbed. They were both under orders to join Nelson. Since Nelson is already desperate for frigates, this strikes him a hard blow at a bad time. The two vessels will sail, of course, but neither First Lieutenant has enough experience to be put in permanent command. Their Lordships are taking two jobbing Captains off half-pay to replace the dead men. With frigate Captains in such short supply, you can imagine those fellows' caliber. Barrel scrapings, I'll warrant.

"Nobody saw fit to inform me about this until this morning, which is why I did not call it to your attention during your previous visit. However, that is beside the point. What is to the point, sir, is that I am requesting your new command to take it upon itself to investigate these killings, find the perpetrator or perpetrators, and bring him or them to justice. Sir Thomas Frobisher thinks himself King in the region. You know all too well what he thinks of the Navy, and of you in particular. I can hardly rely on him to pursue this outrage with the requisite energy."

Hoare heard Sir George's next words with only half an ear. The Nine Stones Circle was in Dorset. Weymouth was in Dorset. The recent plot to blow up His Majesty's ships had been spawned in Weymouth, by Edouard Moreau. Moreau had been all too hobnob with the frog-shaped Sir Thomas, who, as Sir George had said, considered himself the absolute ruler of southern Dorset. Ever since Sir Thomas had goaded Hoare into an ill-timed jape about bat fanciers in the Midlands who flew their treasures against flies and used the prey to nourish their pet frogs, the Baronet had loathed him.

Sir Thomas was a rare breed, both a Baronet, the title he had inherited from his forebears, and a made knight like Sir George himself. When they had last run athwart each other's hawse, the knight had elected to encroach upon Hoare's destruction of Edouard Moreau and insisted on riding victoriously all the way back to Portsmouth, ahead of the troop of horse marines bearing the renegade's body, leading his own mesne of retainers. In fact, the two knights, Sir Thomas Frobisher and Sir George Hardcastle, had held an oral passage at arms thereafter, in this very office.

The thought had passed through Hoare's mind before that Sir Thomas might be "Himself," as he had heard agents call the mysterious personage believed to lurk behind Moreau and perhaps others. Could this be a new initiative on the part of Himself?

"You are not attending, Mr. Hoare!"

"Sorry, sir. What you were saying made me recollect Sir Thomas Frobisher to mind."

"Him? The man's mad, mad as King George. If he had his way, he'd be King Thomas the First, that's what. 'Crown of Ethelred,' indeed! But, as I was saying, I cannot require you to accept this request. After all, I do not command the movements of Royal Duke. She and now you come directly under Admiralty orders. In principle, I have only the same administrative responsibility for your ship as I assume as Port Admiral the moment the anchor of any of His Majesty's ships is dropped at Spithead.

"No, I can only request this service of you, Heracles. Of course, I am reasonably confident that, if pressed, Sir Hugh Abercrombie would accommodate me. If I took steps to do so, nothing would be lost but time, I assure you.

"Happy to be of service, sir, as always," Hoare whispered.

"Very good. Carry on, then, Heracles."

In another of his classical moods, Sir George had dubbed Hoare "Heracles" by reason of the endless series of tasks that he was required to perform. This meant, as the Admiral had happily added, that he himself must be the hero's eccentric master and monarch, while Patterson, flag secretary, was Talthybius, the herald who brought the missions to lay upon Heracles' back. Clumsy, in Hoare's opinion, but it made Sir George happy, and that was no small task itself.

"Aye aye, sir." Just as his hand was on the doorknob, a thought struck Hoare, and he turned.