Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities

"I think I have," Hoare said. "But one never can tell. 'The spies of France are rife among us,' as they say. But, Mr. Gladden, I am sure you have not called on me to investigate my ability to keep the secret of my 'squadron,' as you kindly call her." He paused, eyebrows raised in inquiry.

"No, sir, I am here to trouble you on a matter of justice."

"Of justice, sir?"

"Yes. Although you and I have never met, my surname may be familiar to you. My younger brother, Arthur, served with you at one time."

"Arthur Gladden?" Hoare said. "Why, yes. He was unlucky enough to be assigned me in Lymington for some weeks, to help in the horrid Impress Service… ah. Of course. Am I mistaken? Has an officer of that name not just been put ashore at the dockyard, under close arrest?"

"I fear so. He is third lieutenant of Vantage. You may not know of her; she is newly built and just commissioned."

"Oh, dear. Yes. He is accused of murdering her captain, I believe

… Adam Hay."

"I fear so," Gladden said again. "And, since Frolic happened to be in port, he asked me to be his friend."

Hoare nodded. "His advocate and defender, yes. Naturally."

"But I know nothing about courts-martial, sir," said Gladden. "I'm a seaman, not a damned lawyer. I hardly know how to begin." Gladdens voice rose. "And he cannot have done such a thing, He is a gentle man as well as a gentleman. He hates killing. Father was never able even to get him to shoot. Frankly, he should have taken orders, but Father would not have it. No, he had to become a sailor, just like Father, and just like me.

"It is right enough for me. I like the life. Always have. But for him… for him, it has been slow death."

Hoare forbore to remark that, under the circumstances, death for Arthur Gladden might not be so slow after all. To be shot to death in action was a faster matter than dangling and strangling for minutes at some yardarm. The outcome, of course, was the same.

"And what is it you want of me? To undertake your brother's defense in lieu of yourself? As you know, of course, the service doesn't look kindly upon officers who cannot defend themselves before a court-martial. They feel it reflects upon the 'friend' as well as upon the defendant."

Hoare's whisper began to fade. He paused and took a sip of wine before continuing. Even so, the whisper was now a weary rasping noise, nasty to listen to and hard to make out.

"Besides, Mr. Gladden, I find it very tiring to speak at any length. You may have noticed that after a bit I must… er… set storm canvas, so to speak, if I am to be understood even in a quiet spot like this. No. If that is what you are seeking of me, I fear I am not your man." Hoare sat back, unconsciously rubbing the scar just above his kerchief.

"But, sir, Admiral Hardcastle tells me you have an uncanny talent for 'untying knotty problems.' Forgive the flight of fancy, but that is precisely what he said."

"I know. The Admiral's secretaries have been known to refer to me as 'the Whispering Ferret.' Quite gothick, it seems to me, but why trouble myself about it? Those pompous, preening pen-pushing pimps would hardly say it to my face, and I need not worry about what they call me behind my back. I have been out too often." Hoare's whisper began to fade again.

Mr. Gladden would be neither diverted nor discouraged. "Admiral Hardcastle also said he would be greatly obliged if you would take poor Arthur's case in hand."

"Admiral Hardcastle said that, did Admiral Hardcastle?"

Admiral Sir George Hardcastle, KB, was currently Port Admiral at Portsmouth, one of the highest and most lucrative posts to which a naval officer could aspire. Bartholomew Hoare's current ultimate commander, he was known as a grim, merciless man.

"Well, sir, that puts a different face on things, does it not?" Hoare said. "Let me think a bit." He refilled both glasses. "Tell you what," he added. "Suppose you carry on officially for your brother. And I shall stand just behind your ear and… er… whisper instructions into it with my foul rum-laden breath as long as you can stand it."

"I should be overjoyed," Gladden said. "How are we to begin?"

"Begin at the beginning," Hoare replied. "Go on to the end, and then stop."

"Well," began Gladden, "on Tuesday last, as Arthur tells me, Captain Hay summoned him to his cabin 'to give an account of himself.' It seems the captain was displeased with the lack of discipline shown by the men in Arthur's division. All waisters, they are; of course, all the crew are new hands-new to Vantage, that is, and most of them new to the service. Lumpkins who have yet to see their first anchor weighed. Arthur had to get all of these.

"Even the standing officers are new to the ship and to one another. They have a long way to go before they shake down together.

"Do you-did you-know Captain Hay, Mr. Hoare?"

"Know of him, sir."

"Hot-tempered. Greedy. Bullying," Gladden suggested.

"Command sometimes changes a man in disappointing ways, don't you find?" Hoare replied, managing to make his whisper sound noncommittal. "I have also heard," he continued, "that he is-was-a believer in hard, continued practical training, at anchor as well as at sea. And I confess that I agree. After all, the crew of any vessel must be ready to work their ship and fight it, too, night or day, and in all weathers. Should they not have done so as a part of their training in harbor before they face reality at sea and in battle? But I interrupt you."

"In any case," Gladden went on, "Captain Hay made it clear to Arthur that he expected his division to show a marked improvement in discipline and in their performance in the drills to which he had set Vantages entire crew"

"Which were?"

"As you might expect, they included exercises on deck and aloft-setting up and housing topmasts, exercising the great guns, setting and furling sail, and the like. The men were expected to respond intelligently to emergencies. Arthur tells me the captain took special pleasure in 'killing off' key men- quartergunners and the like-and watching the confusion that resulted. The more confusion, the more wrathful was Captain Hay, and the happier.

"But it was apparently his captain's manner toward my brother that caused the explosion between the two. It seems that Captain Hay was extremely partial to what he called 'drunken lobsters'-lobsters stewed in hock instead of seawater as is usual. I understand he claimed that because they died dead drunk and happy, the creatures ate more tender. His steward had made up a brace of them for his dinner.

"Arthur had reported aft the moment the order reached him. That would have been shortly after six bells of the second dogwatch. We know that, for unfortunately, his arrival in the cabin coincided with the lobsters'. Captain Hay insisted on having his dinner served at six bells precisely.

"As soon as Arthur reported, the captain began to recite a virtual litany of my poor brother's manifold sins and wickednesses. He had failed to report cases of insubordination in his division-answering back, for instance. His gunners were by far the slowest to run out their guns and complete dumb-show firing at anchor, his few topmen fumble-footed.

"The captain accused him of having interrupted his feast on purpose, out of perverse insolence. It was this accusation, I gather, that led poor Arthur to protest his captain's abuse… at length. It seems Captain Hay was so enraged at my brother's outburst that he roared with anger, sprang from behind his dining table, and actually grappled with him."

"Dear me," whispered Hoare.

"Here, sir, the stories diverge. Arthur swears to me he broke free by an extreme effort. My brother is not a very strong man. He fled the cabin at a panicked run, not stopping until he had gone the full length of the frigate and reached the heads. Here he was overcome by nausea and a looseness. I am ashamed to say he admits to having fouled his breeches before he could drop them-as indeed I could sense all too well when I visited him in his place of confinement ashore.