Wilder Perkins - Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities

With two experienced, intelligent-looking tars in tow, Hoare was about to work his way back through the town to where Inconceivable lay when it occurred to him to search the harbor first from a spot on the Common Hard, to see if he could catch sight of the fugitives among the waterborne traffic. With a whispered apology, he seized a telescope from an elderly nautical-looking gentleman and set to examining every small craft he could see working its way southward toward the Solent.

"See, Cyril!" came a woman's voice at his side. "Only see how our nation's guardian bends his eagle brow in search of one of His Majesty's enemies on which to swoop!"

Hoare could not help himself. He glanced in the speaker's direction, to see a plainly dressed woman of about his own age, bending to address a child of perhaps six. Seeing that she had caught Hoare's attention, she simpered and moved away, looking over her shoulder widowlike. Hoare returned to his search.

On the low southern horizon, about to disappear behind Gosport, a sleek schooner was just hoisting her flying jib to the soft northerly wind. She was too glossy for a fisherman; her masts were daringly raked. Besides, no mere fisherman troubled with little handkerchiefs like flying jibs. Hoare recognized her as the yacht Morrow had proudly pointed out to him from his own doorstep outside Weymouth-his Marie Claire.

Hoare clapped the pilfered telescope to with a snap and returned it to its nonplussed owner with an unctuous, apologetic smile. He beckoned to his two men and set off again at a run across the dockyard. By the time he reached Inconceivable, Marie Claire would have thirty minutes' lead on him. On a broad reach, the schooner would be at her best. Nonetheless, Hoare thought as he panted along, it was over ninety miles to Weymouth by sea. With the low sea and the favorable breeze, Inconceivable had a fair chance. Morrow-or his yacht, at least- would have his race after all, it seemed. But there was not a moment to be lost.

With the very possibility in mind that he would have other naval men aboard her, Hoare had rigged Inconceivable Navy fashion throughout. In pitch dark, any able seaman could find any of the lines cleated to her tiny pin rail without fumbling. His two men turned to as though they had been aboard her for a month. Within minutes, with the aid of the docker-watchman Guilford, they had all shore lines inboard and had turned her end for end. Inconceivables tall triangular mainsail gave his new crew pause for a moment. But since the whole rig could have been grasped by an eight-year-old-let alone men like these-in no time, Inconceivable was under way, her bow wave beginning to chuckle softly as if she were confident of her race's outcome.

By the time Inconceivable had reached the Solent proper, Marie Claire was well on her way to Cowes. Hoare saw her change course to larboard, ease her sheets, and straighten up slightly. She had a good three miles on Inconceivable. This would be the schooner's best point of sailing, so it would be a long, stern chase, devoid of maneuvers unless-as seemed unlikely-the wind veered westerly.

Hoare eyed his scratch crew unobtrusively. Though one was ruddy and the other black, the two were cut from the same human cloth, tough, horny-handed, pigtailed men in clean frocks. Both had kicked off their heavy buckled shoes immediately on coming aboard, showing big, almost prehensile feet as horny as their hands. As soon as her two simple sails were drawing to Hoare's satisfaction, both had turned to and begun priddying Inconceivable's already-spotless deck. Hoare beckoned them to join him beside the tiller.

"My name's Hoare," he whispered. "Don't trouble to laugh, either of you. I've been known to wipe the laugh off a man, together with the rest of his head." He smiled to show that he was not wholly serious, and the two men relaxed visibly. "We're too small a ship for formality, men, so make yourselves at home. I can't talk in more than a whisper, so you'll want to keep one eye on me and one on Inconceivable here."

He stopped to catch his breath, and went on.

"And one eye on that flash schooner up ahead. I want to take her if I can, sink her if I can't. She's carrying at least three Frenchmen, maybe more. I think they are the ones that have been blowing up so many of His Majesty's ships. At least, I believe so, and the Admiral thinks so, too, so that's all you really need to know. But I want to tell you a bit more. Bear with me if I must stop to wet my whistle once in a while."

With this, Hoare began to expound his suspicions. When he had brought the two up-to-date with his discovery of the listening device, he asked them about themselves.

"Now, tell me who you are, and your ratings."

"I'm Bold, sir," said the black man. "Cox'n of Sir George's barge. Bold's me name, and hold's me nature. Har har har. An' this smart lad Stone here, 'e's just been named stroke oar. We knows who you are. You're the gentleman what found all of Amazon's mids."

"Yes," Stone said. "An' you 'auled me aboard thicky little barky of your yerself, zur, when Vantage blew up t'other day. For which I says 'thanky,' zur."

"Which one of you should I rate as 'sailing master,' for now, and which as 'gunner'?"

"Well, sir, Stone was capting of one of Vantage's carronades."

"Then that's that. Bold, you're master, and Stone, you're gunner. Take turns at her tiller for a bit, and get used to her. I'd have you both take her 'round the compass, but we haven't time now, if we're to catch Marie Claire up there."

When Stone had had his turn, Hoare left Bold at Inconceivable's tiller and took the gunner below. He wanted the craft's odd armory overhauled.

"First, Stone," he said, "draw the charges in all the weapons. Here's a worm. They must have all been wet when she took on water awhile back. Reload the lot from this barrel."

Stone rolled up his sleeves and set to. Hoare returned on deck.

After a bit, Stone's head looked up at him from below. He was carrying the powder keg.

"No good, zur. She be started in the 'ead. Soaked through, she be."

"Clear through?" Hoare's whisper was filled with dismay.

"To the very core, zur. All twanty pounds of 'er. Look 'ere. This lump, she be from the very center of the keg."

"The pistols? The swivel?" Hoare asked piteously. "The crossbow?"

"Dunno about the crossbow, zur. Never seen one of 'em before. But like you said, the powder in the other weppings was all damp."

"The grenades?"

"Can't tell, zur. Un be all sealed up, you know. But the fuses …"

Stone went below, where Hoare heard him rummaging about.

"No good, zur. Fuses be all wet!" he called at last.

Hoare could gladly have beaten his head against Inconceivable's mast. As soon as possible after bringing his waterlogged vessel home the other morning and drying her out, he had replenished her fully. He had replaced hardtack and soft tack. He had made certain that the coal for his galley stove was dry, and likewise the kindling and tinder. He had also been quite confident that his little keg of red large-grain powder and his flask of priming powder were secure. He had failed to make sure. He had not kept his powder dry. Without firearms, how were Inconceivable's three men to take Marie Claire? There could be no question. There were at least as many "Frenchmen" aboard her, and they would be well armed-with pistols, if nothing else.

For a long instant, Hoare contemplated temporarily abandoning the chase and returning to Portsmouth, there to resume it in some more conventional manner. He would certainly not actually abandon it. He looked ahead to the schooner. Even if the fugitives were only Morrow's minions, he wanted at least one of them. If Morrow himself was aboard, all the better.

From the respectful tones one, and only one, of his two midnight boarders had used on that misty night-just about here, Hoare realized-he was certain the other boarder had been Morrow. That put Morrow in his debt. Hoare thought no more about turning back.