Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the headless Captains

"May I borrow Rabbett, sir, if need be?"

"Rabbett? What on earth… oh. Of course. Excellent notion. I'll have Patterson hold him in his hutch for you. Don't let the Whispering Ferret get him."

The Admiral chuckled. He knew, it seemed, that Whispering Ferret was one of the names used by people who bore an antipathy to Hoare. The Admiral, in fact, knew a great deal.

"Now go."

"Here you are, sir." Outside the Admiral's door, Patterson held out a folder of papers. And, in response to Hoare's whispered request, "Yes, of course. I'll hold Rabbett for you, sir, by the ears if I must."

As the gig rowed him back to Royal Duke, Hoare found himself wondering, not for the first time, what it was that made people persist in jesting and japing over others' unusual names. Surely they must realize that the name's owner had long since heard every possible weary play upon it. Moreover, the jester often went in harm's way. Mr. Clay's understated story this noon had demonstrated that. For his own part, even before Captain Joel Hoare had arranged for his son to go into Centurion, 60, as midshipman, young Bartholomew had run a jeering schoolmate through the thigh with a carving knife.

Hoare shrugged. He was used to the weary custom by now and had learned ways of either diverting or damaging those who offended him. So far, he had avoided killing anyone in his affairs of honor.

The nights were drawing in, Hoare noticed as the gig shoved off. It was more than halfway to its destination when he saw that Royal Duke was now accompanied by another, still smaller, more familiar vessel. So Mr. Clay had already complied with Hoare's request and had Neglectful brought over from the little estuary where Hoare had kept her. Very brisk of Mr. Clay. Hoare made a mental note to have a spare rifle put aboard her; his own had been missing since he made that first momentous call in Weymouth. The rifle had, he supposed, been carried off to France in Moreau's schooner Marie Claire after her owner had died in the surf off Portland Bill. It had been a work of art, but since there would be no replacing it this side of the Atlantic, he would have to make do with one of the Marines' standard-issue Baker weapons.

Neglectful's larboard bow, Hoare saw, bore a fresh, raw, newly painted patch.

"I'm pleased to see our new tender, Mr. Clay," he said as he returned the Lieutenant's salute. "But somebody has been mishandling her."

Clay's face reddened in the dusk. "Yes, sir. Joy, sir; boatswain. Timothy Joy."

"Boatswain, is he? And he can't bring a boat alongside without tearing her sides out? He should be disrated."

"Aye, sir. But…"

"But what?" Hoare demanded.

"We haven't a better. He's our quarterstaff instructor. And he's excellent with the brightwork and a superb marlinspike seaman."

"Hmph."

"He's waiting to report to you, sir." Clay nodded toward a wrinkled man who stood beside Royal Duke's mainmast, twisting his hat anxiously in both hands. When Hoare beckoned to him, he came up and knuckled his forehead, looking at his enormous boots, shamefaced.

"Well, Joy, I see you've managed to practically wreck our new tender. How long have you been rated boatswain?"

"Gone these forty years, sir," the wrinkled man said.

"Forty years? And you still can't bring a boat alongside without staving her in?"

"No, sir. 'Twere me eye, sir. I can't judge distances no more, sir." Joy raised his head, and Hoare saw that where his right eye should have been was a red, oozing hollow.

"Very good, Joy. Carry on, now."

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I've a message from the shore."

"Well?" Hoare asked.

"From Miss Jenny, sir. She says like she's learned to write all her letters now, as far as K, and please will you remember about the kitting you promised her?"

At the mention of "Miss Jenny," Hoare's heart forgot his rage at the inept Joy. He had not forgotten the kitten. He thanked Joy and dismissed him once again.

He turned back to Clay.

"If you can find no more suitable man for this ship's boatswain than a one-eyed antique like Joy, Mr. Clay, we shall have to take a very hard look at our readiness for sea."

"Aye aye, sir," was all Clay could say.

"I bring us a new assignment, Mr. Clay," Hoare said. "Come below, if convenient, and I'll tell you about it."

In Hoare's cabin, the silent Whitelaw already awaited them, once again bearing biscuits and port. Hoare did not believe he had yet heard the man speak. Was he, perhaps, even more totally mute than his master?

"Well, Mr. Clay, it is my turn to inform you." So saying, he conveyed to his Lieutenant all he had just learned about the affair in the Nine Stones Circle.

"All too little," he concluded. "I propose to make at least the first investigation myself. But I would like your recommendation of a man-not a woman at this time, if you please-to serve as my deputy or amanuensis. I have never worked with one, and it is clear that I must learn how. In your experience, which of our crew is best suited to handle this mission?"

Clay gave Hoare's question a full fifteen seconds' consideration before saying, "Thoday, sir."

"Of course, today," Hoare said in a displeased voice. "Tomorrow at the latest. There isn't a moment to be lost."

"Thoday is his name, sir. Accent on the ultimate. His father was one of Sir John Fielding's best men-the 'blind beak,' you know-and Titus Thoday takes after him. Experienced, cold, sharp. Rated Gunner's Mate, nominally."

"Very good. Let's have a look at him."

Hoare chirruped, and Whitelaw reappeared.

"Get me Titus Thoday, Whitelaw," Hoare said. But first…"

Hoare demonstrated to Whitelaw a few simple signals besides the chirrup that he had found useful in dealing with persons waiting on him-the trills on his boatswain's pipe he had developed with pink Susan Hackins at the Swallowed Anchor, for example. He was already confident that the silent man would need no rehearsal. In fact, the brief experience told him that Whitelaw might well foresee his master's requirements before he knew them himself.

"Now, get me Thoday," he concluded.

"Aye aye, sir." These were the first words the man had uttered. That settled one question: Whitelaw was not mute, but merely taciturn-a rare but welcome characteristic for a Captain's servant, Hoare thought.

Had Hoare been anyone but his Commander, the demeanor of the person who appeared within moments would have been quite intimidating. Thoday stooped to clear his head in what Hoare considered a condescending way, even though Royal Duke's low overhead made the stoop necessary. Thoday's nose was a beak, his eyes an icy pale gray, his thin lips habitually compressed. He accepted as merely his due Hoare's invitation to be seated and listened in silence until Hoare finished his story for the second time in half an hour.

"I shall accompany you ashore tomorrow morning, sir, when you depart," Thoday then said. Neither Hoare nor Clay had said a word about Hoare's coming journey, nor did Thoday seem to doubt that his Commander would accommodate him without boggling.

"We shall require an assistant with local knowledge," he continued.

"Lemuel Rabbett is one of Admiral Hardcastle's clerks," Hoare said tersely. "He is a native of the area, and he has been told to make himself available. I hope you'll find that satisfactory," he added with mild sarcasm.

"I shall find out quickly enough." Thoday's voice was hard, but it bore a faint hint of approval. "We can pick him up in the morning, as we leave town."

Thoday rose to his feet.

"And now, gentlemen, I have my preparations to make-as, no doubt, have you."

"A bit above himself, isn't he?" Hoare asked as the cabin door closed behind the Gunner's Mate.

"You will find, sir, that most of my, your crew have little innate respect for rank," Clay said. "They are something like the Americans in that respect. But, fortunately, our people at least know what correct behavior is and generally choose to adopt it when strangers are present, so no self-esteem is lost on either side.