Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities

"Others of Vantages people tell a somewhat different story. A quartermaster, one Patrick Lynch, had the watch on the quarterdeck. Lynch says that he heard the altercation, even from two decks below, and that in his opinion it culminated with a shout of pain and not of rage. Yet John McHale, master, was within feet of Lynch and says he heard nothing."

" 'Altercation,' Mr. Gladden? 'Culminated'? The man Lynch sounds more like a schoolmaster than a quartermaster. Were those his very words?"

"Er… no, sir. I have not actually spoken with Lynch. That is what I am told he said."

"By whom, sir?" came Hoare's whisper.

Mr. Gladden explained that he had interviewed only his brother and Francis Bennett, Admiral Hardcastle's judge advocate.

"Bennett and I are old friends," Hoare said, "but friendship disappears in the arena of a court-martial."

"Now you see why I welcome your participation," Gladden replied. "I am no barrister."

"Nor am I," Hoare reminded him. "But we shall see. Go on with your story, if you please."

At seven bells, Gladden went on, Andrew Watt, captain's clerk, had entered the cabin with some correspondence that he had been preparing. He found his captain bleeding and breathing his last on his cabin floor. Finding the Marine guard unaccountably missing, Watt had shouted, "Help! Murder!" with all the strength of his little lungs and pelted up the companionway to the quarterdeck to report his news to the officer of the watch. Only then had he fainted.

In his turn, that officer, John McHale, had sent Lynch, the quartermaster, to summon David Courtney, first lieutenant, and left the quarterdeck himself to view the scene of the crime. Here Mr. Courtney had joined him and summoned all the ship's other officers.

Peter Gladden could not tell Hoare exactly how, but word of the altercation between the captain and his third lieutenant came out in no time. Half Vantage's company, it seemed, had been on deck to witness the latter's frenzied flight along her gun deck.

"So they took Arthur's sword," said his brother. "Then they sent a signal ashore and, when the admiral ordered him brought ashore, made it so-fouled breeches and all, poor wight. That is really all I know," Gladden concluded.

"Well, we must jump about cheerly, sir," Hoare said. "We have I cannot guess how many of Vantage's people to question, and-" He interrupted himself, "Has a date been set for the court-martial?"

"Thursday, Mr. Bennett told me."

"Thursday? Here it is Monday already. We must really stir our stumps, then. I must see if I can persuade the Admiral to postpone-" He interrupted himself again, "My God. I must beg you to excuse me, for I am commanded to the reception this evening at the Admiral's and Lady Hardcastle s residence. I must improve on my appearance as best I may. Let us plan to go aboard Vantage tomorrow. Shall we share a wherry out to her, at eight bells of the morning watch?"

"A pleasure, sir. But we shall certainly encounter each other again at the reception, and Mr. Bennett as well."

"Excellent, sir. Let us take him aside, tell him our plans, and enlist his assistance-insofar as his duty permits him to provide it."

Upon this, Hoare saw his guest to the Swallowed Anchor's door. He piped for a bath to be brought to his rooms-using the "Sweepers, man your brooms" call-and withdrew to titivate for the ordeal that gatherings of this kind always inflicted upon his voice and his equanimity.

In his lawyerly black, Mr. Bennett was unmistakable. He stood out, a neat sable blob, among the naval officers' blue and gold and the occasional scarlet brilliance of a Marine. Though no longer a serving officer, he still combined the alertness of a successful deck officer with the stately demeanor of a successful barrister. He looked spruce yet dusty. Peter Gladden was already with him. Both greeted Hoare cordially and joined him in making his duty to his host and hostess.

"So you have got your heads together already, gentlemen," said Admiral Sir George Hardcastle from under huge tufted black eyebrows. His wig might be out-of-date, but on him it looked appropriate. "Good enough, but do not expect good fortune in your endeavors, Mr. Hoare. Afraid your client will…" He grunted and went dumb. Lady Hardcastle removed her sharp elbow from her spouse's ribs and smiled sweetly at the accused man's brother.

"So nice to see you here, Mr. Gladden. And how are your dear mother and Sir Ralph?"

So, thought Hoare. That was how Gladden had got the Admiral to lend him out. Gladden, too, had interest among the mighty. "Sir, could I persuade you-," he began.

Sir George forestalled him. "No, Mr. Hoare. Thursday. Half the captains on the court are under orders to Nelson's fleet-that is no secret-and they are itching to get under way. No."

Gladden excused himself to the other two officers and went in anxious search of Miss Felicia Hardcastle, his Admiral's dumpy, spotty, popular daughter. Hoare and Bennett helped themselves to glasses of the punch being handed by an awkward liveried man with the stamp of "bosun's mate" clear on his red, sweating face, and began to circulate.

Hoare listened. It would have been impossible to make his whisper heard over the din of conversation, and he would have had to resort to his Roman tablets, with all the explanations that would have entailed. The most common gossip he heard concerned the rumor that a privateer had sighted a huge French fleet heading easterly, less than a day after dipping her ensign to Nelson, who was heading westerly.

"He has got himself at cross-purposes again, just as he did before the Nile," said a pale-faced officer. "If only he had as fine a nose for a chase as he does for a battle. A bulldog, not a greyhound, I always say."

"Needs your good nose to show him the way, I suppose," commented a burly bystander, looking pointedly at the pale officer's leading feature. The speaker's own purple face clashing with his scarlet Marine coat, he swayed from side to side as he spoke as if he either were on a Channel crossing or had overindulged in the Admiral's port at table.

"Oh, His Lordship has no need for my help," admitted the pale man. "Besides, the Victualling Board tells me I am essential."

"Ah," the bystander sneered as he turned to seek a more challenging quarry on which to wreak his suppressed rage with the world.

As they wandered the brightly lit, stifling room, Hoare and Bennett could tell where talk had turned to the unhappy event in Vantage. There all eyes became fixed on them.

Bennett was intrigued at Hoare's proposed role in the forthcoming court-martial and assured him that before the end of the evening he would prepare a document authorizing Hoare to question any Vantage man he might require. They were parting for the moment when a heavy hand fell on Bennett's narrow shoulder. It was the burly Marine, still rocking.

"Here, here!" he cried in a voice filled with truculent, intoxicated good-fellowship. "We can't have secrets being whispered about-not here and now! Make me known to your whisperin' friend, Bennett, eh?"

"Ah, Wallace," said Bennett. "Lieutenant George Wallace of Vantage

… Bartholomew Hoare of the Port Admiral's staff." He made to turn away.

"Wltore, eh?" The rocking Marine had found his prey at last. "How much for one time, and how much for all night?" He burst into laughter, only to receive Hoare's standard response to remarks of this kind. The wine tossed into the Marine's face must have stung, for he gasped and spluttered as Hoare whispered, "You may have a free dose, you silly man, tomorrow morning at sunrise."

"You will stand friend for me, Francis?" Hoare asked Bennett as the Marine mopped his face and decided what to do next.

"Of course, Bartholomew," the sea lawyer replied. To Wallace he said in an impatient voice, "Go find a friend, man, if you have one-which I beg leave to doubt-and send him to me here. I want to get this thing over with. We've a busy day tomorrow."