''E was a bum-sucker, yer worship, and a wild spender. Where did 'e get his blunt, then? 'E was too well- known in the Navy to try the gentry-lay, an' those bits of 'ardware we traded was as nuffin'. 'E was a bully. An' that's what set me off the Navy in the first place, Mr. 'Oare-the bullyin'.'
'And what else did you do to help him?' Hoare asked.
'Well,' Jaggery said reluctantly, 'sometimes I'd put 'im in the way of a bit of fine goods from t'other side the Channel- a length of silk, like, for one of 'is morts. Then there was the brandy. In ankers. Lots of them. 'E got 'em himself and tended to 'em 'imself, most particular. Wouldn't 'ave me lay me 'ands on 'em, no, not at first.'
'And where did you meet to do these bits of nefarious business?'
'I've a friend, Yer Honor, what 'as the night watch at Arrowsmith's ware'ouse. You know-the ship chandler? 'E let us use it, so long as we never took none of Arrowsmith's wares. Didn't take much space no'ow.'
'Space or no space, Jaggery, that's cappabar, as well you know-disposing illegally of His Majesty's property. Get taken up for that, and off they pack you to Botany Bay, before you can whistle. And what will happen to your little Jenny then?'
Upon Hoare's words, Jaggery instinctively searched the tiny garden. No Jenny.
Through the wall behind them came a squeal. Silent as any cat, Hoare got to his feet and, stooped over, threw open the door into the inn kitchen. There was a yell of pain, a crash of crockery, and the clatter of fleeing feet. Hoare went through the door in a rush, almost tripping over Jenny as the child darted back out into the garden.
'I bit 'im, Da!' Jenny shrieked. 'I bit 'im!' In her pale face, the child's eyes sparked like black fire.
For a fraction of a second, a dark figure was silhouetted in the doorway beyond, leading into the barroom. Another crash followed, and a shout of rage from Greenleaf. Hoare raced across the barroom and thrust his head out the front door. Down the cobbled lane he saw the fugitive dodging through the throng, running like a started hare toward the water. The object the man carried in one hand caught against an awning pole, and he dropped it, continuing his flight. Hoare caught it up. It was a tapered, flexible tube, like the one Dr. Graves had demonstrated that night in Weymouth.
It brought certain memories together: Morrow's interest in it; the enciphered messages in Kingsley's correspondence and the similar messages whose appearance Mrs. Graves had sketched; Morrow's birthplace; the oddly familiar accents of the two French-speaking men who had boarded him and beaten him a few nights ago; Janus Jaggery's admissions just now about Kingsley's ankers of 'brandy.' Put together for the first time, these assorted facts melded into a certainty: the man behind the mystery was Mr. Edward Morrow.
Hoare stopped in his tracks. At forty-three, he had no hope of catching the eavesdropper himself on foot. Moreover, he sensed a far greater opportunity to forestall the fugitive in his rush to escape and report to his master. If he were to seize opportunity as well as device, there was not a moment to be lost.
But how? True, the fugitive seemed to be making for the harbor, suggesting that he would make his escape by sea. He could, however, have been laying a false track and would change course for some inshore spot where a horse awaited.
Hoare felt himself on the horns of a dilemma. Should he pursue by land? He had no idea how long it would take a troop of horsemen to ride from Portsmouth to Weymouth, but it had to be an eighty-mile journey. He doubted that horsemen would be able to change mounts en route, as a solitary postboy or a scheduled coach could do. And they would not want to travel at night, he supposed. It could be two days before they reached their destination. By then, the fugitive- traveling every minute except to change horses-would have long since reached Weymouth and alerted Morrow. If Hoare traveled by land, the race was lost from the start.
No, his only chance was to go by sea. With today's northerly wind likely to endure, Inconceivable could make the passage in less than a day, but she would arrive with an inferior force. Given the terms on which he stood with Sir Thomas Frobisher, Hoare could hardly hope to recruit a force in Weymouth or its environs. Yet if his Inconceivable were to make her best speed, she could accommodate no more than two besides himself. Well then, they'll have to be the best fighting sailors in Portsmouth, Hoare told himself. He hastened to the Admiral's offices to gather his trivial reinforcements.
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.'
