of that sort of madness. Besides all those miraculous Jesuses, I know of a round dozen King Charleses, divided equally between father and son. As I remember now, he is an uncommon good political man, well able, as you observe, to get his own way.
'If I may leap to the conclusion to which I believe you are about to come, you suspect of Sir Thomas Frobisher what I have commenced to suspect of John Goldthwait-that he has entered into a conspiracy with the French.'
'Exactly, sir. If Bonaparte should overlook an opportunity to put a spoke in Britain's wheel by fomenting an insurrection against the Crown, it would hardly be the first time. And… if the possibility did not occur to him, there is always Fouche.'
'Ah, yes. That son of a bitch, that ugly little bum-worm…'
For some minutes, Admiral Abercrombie continued to string out maledictions about his opposite number on the far side of the Channel, as if he were signal midshipman in a flagship, running up orders to the Fleet. Interrupting himself only with agitated puffs at his pipe, he came to anchor only when he swallowed smoke the wrong way, gagged, and in a whisper no stronger than Hoare's, ordered the latter to pound his back. Hoare obeyed.
'I do not like Goldthwait, Hoare,' the admiral gasped at last. 'I never have. But you are quite right. Nothing gets past that… never mind. So we have two suspects, of which Frobisher is one and Goldthwait himself the other.'
'Against neither of whom, sir, do we have proof sufficient to take action,' Hoare whispered.
'We, sir-no, you, sir-must find that proof. Or satisfy us both that each of us has let his imagination run riot. I was becoming anxious enough with only Goldthwait on my hands; now you have doubled my anxiety. Go forth, young man, before I suffer an apoplexy. Do your duty; there is not a moment to be lost. You may count on my support-within reason. As you go out, pray send Lestrade in. Good day.'
Chapter VII
I want you to put together a crew of reliable men to row a watch boat across the Thames at night, say half a mile above the brig.'
' 'Watch boat,' sir? I don't twig. 'Picket boat,' d'you mean?'
'Damn you, don't pick at me, or I'll pick your nose off and make that mort of yours eat it while you watch, together with its filthy contents.'
The listener blew his nose nervously.
'Place yourself where you can keep an eye on any boat that approaches Royal Duke from upstream, day or night. You can be fishing, or lobstering, or whatever you think of. Diving for treasure, if you want. When you clap eyes on an officer passenger, you're to intercept him, apprehend him, drown him, d'ye understand?'
'Aye, yer honor.'
'When you have him, strip him, weight his body, drop it over the side, and bring every speck of his possessions to me. Every speck, understand?'
'Aye, yer honor. But what if'e's in a navy boat manned wi' fightin' men? My boys may be wild boys, but they ain't so wild they'll go up against trained soldiers or matlows, no way, unless the odds is two to one or better.'
'If that's what you see, then forget it; we'll try something else. But don't think you can fight shy with me, not if you want to keep your head on its shoulders. I'll know, oh yes, I'll know.
'Now, you and your moll, drink up and get out.'
Titus Thoday appeared able to navigate the warren of London streets through the suffocating blanket of cold smoky fog, with ease. Hoare suspected that one could bring him anywhere into the city, blindfold, and, within minutes, he would have oriented himself and gone about his business. Now, carrying the Pickering portrait gallery under one arm, rolled up like a rather large umbrella or a small set of regimental colors, he conducted Hoare to the steps below Westminster Bridge. There he negotiated on their behalf with a double-scull wherry to take them down to Greenwich. The wherrymen grumbled, but when the price rose high enough, helped them aboard their little craft and set off downstream on the ebb.
The party approached the riptide under London Bridge without difficulty, despite the fog. Not unskilled in small craft himself, Hoare admired the oarsmen's mastery of this rushing flume. Yet even so, he tensed as they swept under the bridge to the muffled roar of invisible yellow-white waters; less than six hours from now, he knew, those waters would be reversed, and anyone wishing to travel downstream would have to begin below London Bridge, or wait.
Once through the bridge, Hoare leaned back beside Thoday and relaxed with a sigh. The sounds and the smells were the familiar ones of water, though of freshwater instead of salt. The difference was enormous, of course. He was on the water again, and not cramped into filthy alleys by the towering press of buildings. It was his turn to be at home, and Thoday's to be at sea. Fog or no fog, he could sense that Greenwich lay not far ahead, to starboard. Yes, he mused, there was nothing-absolutely nothing-half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. Simply messing, he thought dreamily, messing about in boats. He liked the phrase, and tucked it sleepily into his mental commonplace book. Messing… messing…
A shout from bow oar brought him back to reality with a heavy crunch. They had rammed, or been rammed by, another craft. Whoever the strangers were and whoever was at fault, they meant the wherry no good, for they neither shouted in outraged reply nor screamed in panic, but swarmed aboard the double scull out of the fog in a confusing rush. The bow oar was quickly overwhelmed, and Hoare, as he drew his sword, heard him splash into the Thames and go gurgling off. Thames boatmen, like blue water sailors, seldom swam. Beside him, Hoare sensed that Thoday had drawn the blade of his sword cane.
Stroke oar was more alert than his mate, more courageous, or simply did not want to lose his livelihood and his craft, for he grappled with the first of the boarders. The wherry tilted alarmingly. Thoday lost his balance and began to topple over the side. Hoare heard the slim cane-sword clatter into the wherry's bilges. He grabbed his shipmate under one arm and pulled him back aboard, out of danger, as a second boarder scrambled aft with a rush past stroke oar and his struggling attacker, followed by a third. It was two against two in the dark, then.
Hoare's own particular foe clawed for his eyes, but a knee in the bollocks stopped him with an agonized gasp, and the clawing stopped. Hoare thrust the heel of his free hand under the man's jaw and pushed, hard. Over he went, backwards. Hoare could now turn to Thoday's aid. As far as he could tell, the man on top was a boarder, for he smelt vile. Thoday, he realized fleetingly, was a cleanly man, as well as lacking his adversary's weight.
Hoare had his target. Without finesse, he hacked his sword into the boarder's back. With a shriek, the man collapsed upon Thoday. Hoare freed his sword and turned to the struggling pair amidships to see if he could tell friend from enemy. If so, he could bear a hand. What with their thrashing, he could not, and stood helpless.
But still another boarder was coming aft, balancing himself carefully as he came, as though he, too, knew something about messing about in boats. But, perhaps, not quite enough. Hoare thrust down with one foot, then with the other, setting the double scull a-rocking steeply-so steeply, in fact, that a wash of Thames water came over the larboard coaming. Then he reversed the motion. Back in Canada, up the Saguenay, he had seen French lumberjacks match skills that way on a log. The one who stayed out of the river was the winner. The young Hoare had at least tried this 'burling' against a Canadian friend, and had gotten well soaked every time, but he had at least tried it. This opponent had not. Hoare saw him flail his arms wildly, saw him fail to regain his balance, saw him teeter and fall. He fell flat, with a clumsy splash that soaked Hoare's face and shoulders.
He could see the other craft now, the one that had carried the boarders. Swinging in the tide, it was drawing alongside them. It was a pair-oar, propelled by sweeps and not by sculls, somewhat longer and beamier than their own craft, and it held a single passenger in its stern sheets. He was near enough to grip, and Hoare gripped him. He pulled him into the double scull, where he threw him into the bilges and sat upon him, panting heavily.
So sitting, he could give his full attention to untangling stroke oar and his opponent who were still battling in the bilges. Appearing from aft, Thoday gripped one figure's hair. Hoare dropped his sword and followed suit with the other.
'This one's ours,' Thoday grunted, and struck Hoare's man behind the ear with a heavy object. There was
