Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities

"Me bein' a native of these 'ere parts," he added.

"Why, you'd be Jonathan Stone's boy Jacob!" Agnes exclaimed. "I be Agnes Dillow. Remember me? Yer ma and mine was gossip!"

"Why, so ye be, miss." Stone knuckled his forehead again. Agnes simpered.

"What then?" Hoare asked. This was no time for courtship on the part of either Hoare's man or Hoare himself.

"Well, zur, we 'auls 'er up on Ringstead shingle, safe as can be, an' then we argies summat about 'oo were to come into Weymouth. I sez I should be the one as coom in, but 'e wants to coom tu, 'e does. But when I tells 'im a black man 'ud stand out in Weymouth town like a negg in a coal'ole, 'e agrees to stand watch by yer yatchet for a day. Then, if nor you nor me shows oop, 'e'll 'aul 'er off, make for Portsmouth, an' make a report to the Admiral. So 'ere I be, zur. I 'opes we done right."

"You have indeed, Stone. God bless you. Tell me, can you drive a carriage by any chance?"

"None better, zur. An' thread a four-in-hand through a needle, fine as any Corinthian up in London."

By the time Eleanor Graves returned below, the three men-Hoare, Stone, and Tom-had devised a plan for the first two to elude Sir Thomas's men, whom Stone had reported were already buzzing about Weymouth like so many bees. No one, it seemed, had been ready to believe that Hoare had obligingly drowned. Hoare wondered why until he thought to inspect his raw, bleeding hands. As soon as the crew saw the scarlet evidence of his secret ride in tow of Marie Claire, they would have gotten word ashore to their master, and Moreau would have run to his crony Sir Thomas.

Mrs. Graves completed the charade for them.

"Stone shall be a messenger from my friend Mrs. Haddaway in Dorchester, with an urgent request for me to come to her aid. He shall drive us in the chaise, and a spare horse can follow us on a lead. It will be the animal on which Stone came to Weymouth. You, Mr. Hoare, shall hide beneath me. There is ample space for you under the seat. Outside town, we will divert to Ringstead, leave Mr. Hoare and Stone, and find a local lad to take us on to Dorchester."

"Then ye'd best name yer friend to me again, ma'am," Stone said. "An' gi' me 'er likeness, tu. If I'm to be ridin' postilion, some'un might be askin' me questions."

Mrs. Graves nodded. "Of course. Haddaway. Mrs. Timothy Haddaway. Emily Haddaway. She's a real person, Stone, my age, twice my size all 'round… two children, little Timothy, the babe, and Arethusa."

Outside the town, the unwelcome batrachian voice of the Knight-Baronet brought the chaise to a halt. Hoare-reasonably comfortable, though coiled like an adder beneath the woman he had come to love-held his breath.

"Why, Sir Thomas!" Mrs. Graves cried. "What are you and your men about, pray? It looks like a posse comitatus, sir, indeed it does."

"About that, Eleanor, my dear. Mr. Morrow brings news that your acquaintance Hoare is a wanted man, a fugitive from the King's justice for the forcible drowning of one of Mr. Morrow's Channel Islanders, seen hereabouts just last night. We're out to take him up. Have you seen him, Eleanor?" Sir Thomas's voice was stern.

"Not for this age, Sir Thomas. Not since we encountered each other after poor Simon-"

"Best take my advice, Eleanor. Should you catch sight of him on your way to-"

"Dorchester, Sir Thomas. Emily Haddaway-you know Emily, of course-sent word that her poor little babe Timothy has the croup, and she wants my advice. I'm sure I don't know why," Eleanor Graves gushed.

"You are a wise, wise woman, Eleanor," Sir Thomas said. "After a proper interval of time, I hope I may wish-"

The listening Hoare never had a chance to learn what Sir Thomas wished for Mrs. Graves, for Stone broke in: "Pardon me, ma'am, but we must get under way if we are to make Dorchester by dark."

" 'Under way,' my man? Why, you sound like a seaman and no postboy."

"Seaman I was, zur, before I swallowed the anchor and took service wi' Mr. Haddaway. But, excuse me, zur…"

Hoare was jarred as the chaise started forward on its delayed way to the pinnace. He gloated quietly at the picture of the chaise, with Stone at its helm, leaving Sir Thomas Frobisher at the post.

At Portsmouth, the sighting of Inconceivable, creeping cautiously across Spit Sand with her sliding keel fully retracted, was instantly reported to Sir George Hardcastle. The Admiral showed himself as merciless as ever. Hoare was to betake himself forthwith to the Admiralty offices, where he was to report his progress-if any-to Sir George. Wrinkled and unkempt though they were, the second-best uniform and hat he carried on Inconceivable would have to do, if he was to persuade the Admiral that he was not habitually slow to obey orders. In that, he failed.

"Late again, Hoare. And filthy, too," Sir George said. "I am quite out of patience with you, I declare."

Hoare quickly summarized for his Admiral his glacial chase of Marie Claire, his brief capture by her owner, his escape from Weymouth. Moment by moment, the Admiral's face grew grimmer.

"No more now, sir," he growled at last. You shall bring that man back here, to justice, dead or alive. Lose not a minute."

"May I enlist reinforcements to bring him in, sir?"

"I have sent my secretary Talthybius to you a number of times, young Hercules," Sir George said, "with one task or another. You are given those tasks because I am confident you will carry them out to my satisfaction. I do not expect you to turn to me with whimpers about how you are to execute each task. I have neither the time nor the inclination to hover over you like a mother hen. I have other tasks of my own to perform, which is why I give yours to you in the first place. Take yourself off, sir and do your duty."

The Admiral's verbal lash notwithstanding, Hoare had another lash to inflict on himself before he was ready to obey his instructions-to take Jaggery. With Jaggery in hand, he was sure, he could complete the investigation with which Sir George Hardcastle had charged him.

Jaggery was not at the Bunch of Grapes. Mr. Greenleaf believed he might be at work in Arrowsmith's warehouse. He gave Hoare directions. To reach the warehouse, Hoare had to pass his own quarters on the way.

The warehouse was nothing more than a series of interconnected sheds that reached from Eastney High Street to the shore. Hoare found no one in the first two sheds and squeezed through a narrow passage into the third. He pulled out his boatswain's call and piped "All Hands!" in the hope that Jaggery, if he was there, would respond by instinct.

The man himself appeared in a crooked doorway at the far end of the enclosure. He looked bewildered.

Anything he might have been saying to Hoare was drowned by a thunderclap behind him, a blast that threw Jaggery forward and Hoare backward. A cloud of fire followed the burst. Behind Jaggery, the shed roof collapsed, and the flames began to get a grip on it. Jaggery lay still, face up on the floor, half-buried in debris.

The choking battle reek of burnt powder filled the place. Hoare coughed, wheezed, and wept as he struggled over the fallen beams in the smoke toward the other man.

Jaggery lay supine, facing what had been the ceiling. From his waist down he was hidden under a massive joist that lay almost level with the bricks of the room's floor. He was breathing hard. From the ruins of the shed Hoare could hear the soft roar of flames as the fire tightened its grip.

"Help me up, Yer Honor. Somethin's holdin' me poor weak legs down an' I can't move 'em. Get it orf me, can't yer?"

Hoare freed a lighter beam and began to search for a spot that offered him leverage room. He found one, set the beam's end under the joist, and heaved down on the beam with all his weight. For all his frantic prying, the joist would not budge. Outside, he heard the jangling of a fire bell. The engine's feeble streams and bucket brigade would do as much good here as two old men in a pissing contest.