Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities

Unlike many beached officers-and all too many seagoing ones as well-Hoare kept himself fit. He frequented the salle d'armes of Marc-Antoine de Chatillon de Barsac, French emigre and master of escrime. Here he worked diligently at perfecting his skill with every weapon that might come to hand, including many that would never see the field of honor, being unsuited to the hand of a gentleman. He also developed a strongly accented fluency in French.

Whenever duty permitted, he wandered England's entire south coast in his odd little yacht. This not only kept his hands and muscles tough from fisting her canvas and heaving on her abrasive hemp but also kept his seamanly skills well honed.

A year or two ago, he had used the guineas won at a lucky run in the Long Rooms to buy the little sloop. As he had vowed upon his being beached, that prize money he had won in Beetle remained intact against his all-too-certain retirement as a half-pay lieutenant.

Insupportable had a cabin quite large enough to shelter him and his armory, an occasional guest, a week's supplies, a tiny galley stove, and certain equipment. For while she generally lay in the Inner Camber, just south of Portsmouth dockyard, or traveled about the coast on Hoare's whim, she occasionally carried her master on missions of significance. It was for this reason that Hoare had acquired his just-depleted armory.

Whatever Insupportable's name might be at a given time, Hoare almost always sailed her alone. He had rigged her oddly, with a leg-o'-mutton mainsail, its foot lashed from tack to clew onto a boom and its head reaching the considerable height of her pole mast, and a clubbed forestaysail. She could outpoint any of the clumsy ship s boats and wherries that plied Portsmouth Harbor and give any craft her length half an hour in the Sunday races.

To cut her leeway when working to windward, while retaining her ability to take the ground without damage, Hoare had shipped one of the new, controversial lead-weighted sliding keels. It made no difference to him or to her that the long case in which it nested when raised divided his cabin awkwardly, for it formed the base of a table set fore-and-aft between her two cushioned lockers.

It was near enough four bells of the afternoon watch before Hoare brought his little vessel into the Inner Camber.

NOW, EASING HIS way into her home harbor, he luffed up to check Insupportable's way, cleated a line, and tossed it ashore to a waiting docker. The man caught it with his one hand and dropped the bight in its end over a handy bollard. The two did the same with a stern line. After adding springs and trimming all dock lines to his own satisfaction, Hoare furled main and forestaysail. He locked the hatch leading below and went ashore by the floating brow, leaving Insupportable to snooze lazily in the long shadows of the June evening.

She was as safe here as she would be anywhere in England. Guilford the docker-watchman was alert and sober, well paid by a group of amateur sailors to keep pilferers off their darling yachts. Among these gentlemen, Hoare himself was a mere hanger-on, tolerated for his competence and general courtesy rather than for the depth of his pockets or his obscure lineage.

Guilford knuckled his forehead. "There's a norficer been askin' for ye, sir. 'E'll be waitin' for ye up to the Anchor," he said.

"The warning's welcome," Hoare whispered. "My little girl could use watering if you have the chance, eh?" He handed the man a shilling.

"Aye aye, sir," Guilford said.

Hoare let himself out of the dock enclave through the barred gate set in its wall and crossed the cobbled Shore Street, bearing to starboard a point or two to make the inn where he lodged. The sign over its open half-door displayed a huge ornate fishy creature with rolling eyes, about to engulf an anchor being cast into the sea by the panicked crew of a galleon tempest-toss'd. The sign's whole effect was quite well suited to the Swallowed Anchor Inn that it proclaimed.

If Hoare's visitor was an officer, he would be in the snug- the private bar to the right of the entrance. So there Hoare went, having adjusted his neckerchief. Upon seeing him, the room's sole occupant rose from his seat and advanced.

"Mr. Hoare?" A half-head shorter than Hoare, the speaker would outweigh him by a full stone. Life had painted him in primary colors. Beneath his carefully tousled corn-yellow hair were bright blue eyes and lobster-red cheeks. Before someone or something had broken his aquiline nose, his handsome face must have broken many hearts among the fair sex. A bit of a naval fop, perhaps, thought Hoare, but probably a man of his hands withal.

"Bartholomew Hoare, at your service, sir," Hoare whispered, taking the other's outstretched hand. "And whom do I have the honor…?"

"Peter Gladden, sir, second in Frolic, 22."

"You have a fortunate berth, sir. I have heard good things about your brig."

"She is a fine vessel, to be sure," Mr. Gladden said. "But I am not calling on Frolic's business.

"Will you take wine, sir?" he added.

Hoare smiled and folded his considerable length into the seat across the table as if he were one of those novel American jackknives.

"Happily, Mr. Gladden. But I insist on being host. I live here, after all." Hoare laughed. A young lady of his acquaintance had once described his breathy little laugh as sounding like a kitten trying to blow out a candle.

"The house offers a very nice Canary," he went on. "Can I entice you?"

"Very willingly, sir," Gladden said.

Hoare drew his boatswain's call and blew a soft trill.

"Coming, sir, coming!" came a cheerful soprano voice from the next room. "Just let me finish the sandwiches for you and your guest. You'll be having our Canary, sir?"

Tweet went the call.

"And coffee?"

Hoare looked inquiringly at his guest.

"Later, perhaps," Gladden said.

Tweetle. Hoare stowed the call. "You see, Mr. Gladden," he said, "I have the staff of the Swallowed Anchor well trained. I hope you will forgive me my unkempt appearance," he went on. "I just came across from Weymouth, you see. Aboard small craft I find seaman's trousers handier than breeches."

"I saw you bringing your yacht into the dock," Gladden said. "Odd rig, is it not?"

"Quite unusual," Hoare said. "I saw the Bermuda natives using it in their work boats when Sybil called there in ought-one. It struck me as easy for one man to handle, and efficient as well. So when I bought her last year, I copied the rig as best I could remember."

He stopped for breath and then continued, "I have been quite pleased with her behavior ever since. She points closer to windward than any other craft I know."

Hoare did not add that, since Insupportable had more than supported herself on her winnings last summer, he was now hard put to it to find a match except at impossible odds-on.

A sturdy, pink young woman in a bright blue gown that matched her eyes stepped into the parlor and set a tray on the table between the two officers. It bore sandwiches, glasses, and a decanter of Canary.

"There you are, gentlemen," she said briskly.

"Thank you, Susan." Hoare filled both glasses and raised his. "To Frolic."

"To…," Gladden began in reply, "… but how have you named your yacht?"

"Insupportable," whispered Hoare with a smile of anticipation. He had traveled this road before.

Gladden spluttered and nearly spilled his Canary onto his snowy waistcoat.

Hoare went on with the practiced recital he had given Dr. Graves, Sir Thomas, and so many others before them. He ended as usual by saying, "She just answers her helm, and very well, too, at that."

Gladdens peal of laughter was genuine. "So you are commodore of an entire magical squadron," he said. "Hope you have kept your secret from Boney."