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.'
'I think I have,' Hoare said. 'But one never can tell. 'The spies of France are rife among us,' as they say. But, Mr. Gladden, I am sure you have not called on me to investigate my ability to keep the secret of my 'squadron,' as you kindly call her.' He paused, eyebrows raised in inquiry.
'No, sir, I am here to trouble you on a matter of justice.'
'Of justice, sir?'
'Yes. Although you and I have never met, my surname may be familiar to you. My younger brother, Arthur, served with you at one time.'
'Arthur Gladden?' Hoare said. 'Why, yes. He was unlucky enough to be assigned me in Lymington for some weeks, to help in the horrid Impress Service… ah. Of course. Am I mistaken? Has an officer of that name not just been put ashore at the dockyard, under close arrest?'
'I fear so. He is third lieutenant of Vantage. You may not know of her; she is newly built and just commissioned.'
'Oh, dear. Yes. He is accused of murdering her captain, I believe
… Adam Hay.'
'I fear so,' Gladden said again. 'And, since Frolic happened to be in port, he asked me to be his friend.'
Hoare nodded. 'His advocate and defender, yes. Naturally.'
'But I know nothing about courts-martial, sir,' said Gladden. 'I'm a seaman, not a damned lawyer. I hardly know how to begin.' Gladdens voice rose. 'And he cannot have done such a thing, He is a gentle man as well as a gentleman. He hates killing. Father was never able even to get him to shoot. Frankly, he should have taken orders, but Father would not have it. No, he had to become a sailor, just like Father, and just like me.
'It is right enough for me. I like the life. Always have. But for him… for him, it has been slow death.'
Hoare forbore to remark that, under the circumstances, death for Arthur Gladden might not be so slow after all. To be shot to death in action was a faster matter than dangling and strangling for minutes at some yardarm. The outcome, of course, was the same.
'And what is it you want of me? To undertake your brother's defense in lieu of yourself? As you know, of course, the service doesn't look kindly upon officers who cannot defend themselves before a court-martial. They feel it reflects upon the 'friend' as well as upon the defendant.'
Hoare's whisper began to fade. He paused and took a sip of wine before continuing. Even so, the whisper was now a weary rasping noise, nasty to listen to and hard to make out.
'Besides, Mr. Gladden, I find it very tiring to speak at any length. You may have noticed that after a bit I must… er… set storm canvas, so to speak, if I am to be understood even in a quiet spot like this. No. If that is what you are seeking of me, I fear I am not your man.' Hoare sat back, unconsciously rubbing the scar just above his kerchief.
'But, sir, Admiral Hardcastle tells me you have an uncanny talent for 'untying knotty problems.' Forgive the flight of fancy, but that is precisely what he said.'
'I know. The Admiral's secretaries have been known to refer to me as 'the Whispering Ferret.' Quite gothick, it seems to me, but why trouble myself about it? Those pompous, preening pen-pushing pimps would hardly say it
