"With your permission, sir," Mr. Clay said, "I'll see that the people are at work below. There are some documents-correlations, I think they call them-that should be brought to a close before we bring them to Greenwich."
"By all means, Mr. Clay," was Hoare's reply. "But, while you are about it, you might be considering a different station for Green. I suspect that Quill would make a better cook."
"Perhaps she could be attached to Leese's marines, sir," Clay offered, "as heavy infantry." With that sally, he went below. The monstrous Green had formerly been a terror among the "brutes" that served and serviced the seaman population of Portsmouth; as a member of Hoare's crew, she had wielded a lethal cleaver at the Nine Stones affray last All Hallows' Eve.
It had been a good fifteen years since Hoare had been in these waters. They had a different, grayer color than the sea along the southern coast, a more choppy motion, and-above all-a different smell. Most likely, Hoare thought, it was the effluvium of London. The river served not only as an artery but as a sewer. As that thought passed through his mind, a bulbous, greasy object bobbed past in Royal Duke's leeward bow wave and disappeared in her wake. A dead dog, it would be, a long-dead dog. It was not hard to find an explanation for the name of the Isle of Dogs, which lay not too far ahead.
Hoare realized that he did not look forward at all to this mission. It was taking him out of his comfortable accustomed south-coast waters, and into the malodorous, trap-ridden capital. He would flounder, he felt certain, and fail. To jolt his mind out of this unwonted gloom, he began to compose his report to the Admiralty on last night's skirmish. It made him feel no better.
While Greenwich was a trivial port compared with the great yards at Deptford immediately adjoining, it still warranted a Port Officer of its own. Perhaps, Hoare thought, the honor was due to the town's faded glory as a favorite haunt of England's monarchs and their wives and concubines. Whatever the reason, the Port Officer existed, and it was to him that Royal Duke made her number and received berthing orders. She was to anchor close into shore, off the Crane Stairs.
The place was all but vacant now, deserted only a few days ago by the hordes that had assembled for the obsequies of the late Lord Nelson. His body had been landed here, had lain in state in the Painted Chamber, and then been carried, the center of a vast black-clad cortege, by barge up to London. Vacant the town might be, it remained littered with all that a great crowd can leave behind it-mislaid umbrellas, odd papers, empty bottles by the score. And little would remain in the line of sustenance, whether liquid or solid.
"So I missed him again." It was Titus Thoday, titular gunner, beside him. Hoare knew it would be all but hopeless to demand more than the most superficial respect from this dignified, proud, gentlemanly, clever, meticulous man. He was a superb… detective, would that be the word?… but, as a sailor, he was a king's bad bargain.
Just as the news of Nelson's death had reached Weymouth, Hoare and Thoday had been fellow passengers in the chaise bearing them and their prisoner Walter Spurrier into the town.
"I shall never forget this moment," Thoday had said then, in a voice pregnant with feeling. "The morning of November the sixth, 1805. This is the place, and the time, where I was when I learned of Nelson's death."
"I fear we have both missed him again, Thoday," Hoare now replied, and turned to ship's business. He must go ashore and make his number to the Port Officer in person.
That gentleman was occupied, as Port Officers tended to be at all times.
"He will not be long, sir," said the clerk. "Captain Hornblower is with him, and he will be wishing to speed the parting guest.
"The two gentlemen do not see eye to eye in the matter of the honors due Captain Hornblower's new midshipman, sir," he went on in a confidential whisper, little louder than Hoare's own ghost of a voice. When Hoare did not prick up his ears at his breath of gossip, he subsided into sullen silence.
Hoare had met Hornblower almost exactly two years before, during the brief, uneasy peace of Amiens with the French. In fact, it had been Hornblower from whom he had acquired Nemesis. They had both been lieutenants then, but Hoare had at least been employed; he had then been, as he had remained until kind Fate brought him his present command, a general dogsbody to Sir George Hardcastle. Hornblower, on the other hand, had then been without a ship, and as long as the peace endured had hardly the slightest prospects of obtaining one. Moreover, due to a spitefully meticulous Navy Board, he had been penniless. It was that situation that had forced the pinnace's change of master. Their paths had not crossed since, though-the navy being a band of brothers after all, Hoare had been aware of the other's career. Now the one was a post captain, albeit a very junior one, while Hoare would never make post. Well, that was the way the world wagged; Hornblower was a gallant officer with, as Hoare had heard, an unfortunate doting wife and no money in the family. No one deserved post rank more than he. Save Hoare himself, of course.
At this instant, Captain Hornblower himself emerged from the Port Officer's office, and stood in the doorway just long enough to bid a courteous, cold farewell to the person within. When, turning, he caught sight of Hoare, his eyes lit up.
"Hoare, by God!" he grinned. "Well met!"
"Recovered from your cold, I see, sir," Hoare replied. The day the pinnace had changed hands-another wintry day, as it happened-the other officer's nose had been streaming.
"But not until recently, I see," he added, since he saw that Hornblower's nostrils were still red.
"A new cold, Hoare, upon my honor."
The two men drew to one side.
"I must pay my respects to the gentleman within, sir," Hoare whispered, "but would you tarry long enough to break bread with me? I should not be but a moment."
"I am genuinely sorry, sir," Hornblower replied, looking as though he meant it, "but I have a prior duty to Mrs. Hornblower, who has just been brought to bed of a son."
"My felicitations, most sincerely, sir."
"But tell me, how do you and the pinnace suit? What did you name her?"
"She goes by Nemesis now. We suit very well. We have had some interesting cruises together. She lies astern of Royal Duke; in fact, if you peer out the window there, you may see her for yourself."
Hornblower peered, approved her new, unorthodox rig, told Hoare that he and his family were to be found at the George in Deptford, where they would… when the loud clearing of an official throat at the door summoned Hoare back to the formal world and they parted.
Chapter IV
"Floater, Ennery," bow oar said. "'Back water, will ye, an' I'll 'aul 'im aboard. Ukkh. Slimy, 'e is. Three days dead, is my guess."
" 'Ole in 'is belly, too," said Ennery. " 'Ead shaved for a wig, 'eavylike. Might be the man the Redbreasts want."
"Wot color eyes?" bow oar asked. "Bow Street said they was blue, I fink."
"You know better nor that, mate. You ain't no Johnny Raw. " 'E ain't got no more eyes. Crabs got 'em. Come on; let's about an' take 'im 'ome to muwer. I don't care fer 'is cumpny no longer than needful."
Immediately upon paying off the wherryman he had hired at Greenwich to carry him up to London Bridge, Hoare rediscovered the dizzying effect the city had on a stranger, or at least on him. There were so many people in the crowded streets, of so many colors and callings, and of no color or calling at all; such stinks of rotten vegetables, of stale beer, of heavy perfume from some passerby of better station, and-rolling out of every alley-such a fetor of mingled human wastes; such a din, of raised voices, protesting beasts, hawkers crying their wares; such a disorganized stew of buildings old and new, stately and graceless. Confused and disoriented, he hailed the first hackney he saw and ordered the driver to take him to the Admiralty in Whitehall.
His senses overloaded, Hoare was even more confused when the hackney drew up before the gate of the Admiralty in the gathering darkness. Like a fool, he paid the driver off, and the hackney had trundled off before he discovered that the gate was locked. The marine sentry
told him with some satisfaction that, with winter drawing in, the Admiralty was closed to all outsiders at five. Since three bells of the first dogwatch had just struck, he could not be admitted today, let alone be allowed to leave his portmanteau at the gate.
" 'Oo knows, sir?" the sentry asked. "Yer portmantoe could 'ave an infernal machine in it, like one of them machines the Frogs are usin' to blow up the Portsmouth fleet." Hoare forbore to tell the sentry that those particular French atrocities would not recur.
Hoare was forced to violate naval etiquette for officers and lug his portmanteau with him around to the back of the darkened building as Sir George Hardcastle had instructed him, feeling his way as he went and stepping into sundry unsavory leavings. His knocks at the privy gate went unanswered. It was too late tonight, then, to make himself known to Admiral Sir Hugh Abercrombie. He returned to Whitehall.
What now? With his means of making his needs known to strangers so limited by his lack of a voice, how was he to make his way from here to the Golden Cross Inn? He felt like a booby, and he did not like the sensation at all. Keeping the portmanteau between his legs lest it disappear into the early gloaming, he drew the boatswain's call from his bosom and blew a short trill upon it. In response, what he had hoped for happened. An alert, nautical-looking oldster came up to him and knuckled his forehead.
"Evans, sir. Late captain's cox'n in Grampus he said. "At your service, sir."
Hoare beckoned the man closer, and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. Evans must have been expecting to hear some unspeakable request, for he looked nonplussed when Hoare merely whispered, "Golden Cross Inn, my man," and pointed to his portmanteau.
But he shrugged and said, "Foller me, then, sir." Shouldering the portmanteau, he led the way out the Admiralty gate and into the thronged street.
"Ye'll not have been in London for a bit, sir," he volunteered over his shoulder. Then, not hearing Hoare's reply, he apparently realized this officer must have some speech impediment, for he slowed and took station to Hoare's left.
"No, I haven't," said Hoare. "Must be fifteen years."
"The place has changed mightily since then, sir. There's lots more of us. Stretchin' out, too, and new buildin's goin' up all the time."
"Why aren't you at sea, Evans?" Hoare asked.
"Captain Dawson, 'e bought me out of the service when 'e come into his estate, an' I went into service with him as his waterman, me 'avin' been his cox'n, like I said.
"I brought him and his lady into town downriver this mornin', an' he give me leaf to see what I could pick up in the way of a shillin'. Or two," he added hopefully. "So I heard yer bosun's call back there, and 'ere we are, sir."
And here they were, indeed, Hoare saw, for just ahead, a hanging sign bearing a St. Andrew's cross, gilt on a red field, proclaimed their destination.
Gules, a saltire or, Hoare thought. An ancient and honorable coat of arms, indeed. Perhaps the inn, or at least the site, had once been the townhouse of some Plantagenet grandee.
The grandee, if there ever had been one, was gone, but his grandeur remained behind. The inn had a somewhat gloomy air of obsolete elegance. A manservant idling outside the door, a tablecloth around his waist in lieu of an apron, looked at him sneeringly. Hoare knew it was nothing but pretentiousness on the man's part, and he was damned if he would show cowed in front of any Frog, emigre or not.
"Mind yer manners, Pierre," Evans said. "Off with you, an' tell Mister Berrier 'e's a guest."
Pierre dropped his sneer, replaced it with a smirk, and vanished behind the high door.
"You're known here, it seems," Hoare whispered.
"Oh, yes, sir. This is where Captain Dawson and 'is lady puts up when they come in to town. In fact, here's the captain now. If you'll excuse me, sir?" On seeing Evans, a man paused on his way up the wide, dark stairs.
"I thought I'd given you liberty, Evans," he said.
"You did, sir," said Evans. "An' I found this officer wantin' to put up at this very inn, so I brought him along."
Evans quickly pocketed the hoped-for two shillings and knuckled his forehead again to the two gentlemen before disappearing in his turn, leaving Captain Dawson and Hoare to stare at each other. Hoare saw a pale-complexioned yet fit-looking man possibly fifteen years his senior, shorter than he by half a head, in a well-cut tailed coat of navy blue whose buttons, though brass, were plain.
"Don't think we've met, sir," said Dawson finally. "Waitin' for me wife. Name's Dawson-David Dawson."
Hoare introduced himself; the inn's hallway being silent, he had no need to fall back on one of his printed introductory explanations.
"Not Joel Hoare's boy?"
Hoare nodded assent.
"Served under him in Vindicator until he retired in eighty-four. Heard he'd died. Sorry to hear it."
Hoare remembered now. "Why, sir, were you not the gallant officer who lead Vindicator's boarding party when she took Bourgogne in eighty-two?"
"The same, sir, although I cannot accept your kind description. Just did me duty, ye know."
"Nonsense, sir. I am honored."
Dawson in his turn looked at Hoare in sudden recognition.
"And aren't you the chap who found Amazon's mids and cleared Grable's name?"
Hoare nodded.
"A magnificent undertaking, sir," said Dawson. "You saved one of His Majesty's most valuable officers from being put ashore in disgrace.
"I'd ask you to take wine with me, but here's me wife. We must be off.
"Late as usual, eh, Alice? We'll be late at Lady Doverdale's, and it'll be your fault."
Dawson made the introduction to his stately wife, and then without consulting Mrs. Dawson, he invited Hoare to dine with them there tomorrow evening.
"Berrier here sets a fine table. A bit Frenchified for my taste, but well worth settin' down to."
"That's right, ain't it, Berrier?" he added as the man himself bustled out from the rear of the inn, wigged, soft, and oily, washing his hands, ready to please.
"Indeed, Captain Dawson," Mr. Berrier said. "I trust you will enjoy your soiree with the Doverdales." The Dawsons swept from the inn.
"Now, let me see, Captain Hoare," Mr. Berrier said in a cultivated Frenchified accent after a swift appraising look at Hoare's spare form, "I believe the Blue Room might suit. It finds itself at the back of the building, away from the noisy street, and you will 'ave it to yourself.
"Now, if you will 'ave ze kindness to bear with me while we attend to certain trifles, I shall take the liberty of showing you ze more public facilities we offer."
Hoare was intrigued to discover that Berrier hewed to the formalities of registration, which had become universal on the continent-taking names, birthdates, and the like. Since that was neither English custom nor English law, he was puzzled at what might be done with these details. He forbore to inquire of mine host, but followed him meekly into a snug parlor to the right of the entry and thence across the hall where a number of waiters, including the man with the sneer, loitered about like whores, awaiting the first diners of the evening. At two of the white-covered tables, the chairs had been tipped forward; Hoare asked Berrier the reason.
The latter used the occasion to commence a tale of how, besides catering to resident guests, the dining salon of the Golden Cross was a popular gathering place for the better sort.
"Zat table zere, mon capitaine, 'as been rrresairved for Lord Allerdyce for 'imself, General Boyce and 'is ozzer guests.
"I fear it will become somewhat boisterous later this evening, mon capitaine, so Monsieur may wish to dine early. If so, we are at your sairveese."
Hoare followed a boy up a broad stairway and then up a second, narrower and steeper one, arriving at last at the Blue Room. The boy, Sam, unlocked the door and took a candle from a row of sconces in the corridor. Then, with a muttered apology, he preceded Hoare into the room, where he used the candle to light several others.
Small the room might be-it could have been the chamber of one o
f the grandee's children-it was cozy and the bed inviting.
"Will ye be wantin' the fire lit, Captain, sir?" the boy asked, and upon seeing Hoare's nod, stooped and set fire to the coals in the grate. When the door closed softly behind him, Hoare pulled off his shoes, warmed himself for a moment before the fire, then washed the dust of the road from hands and face and, pulling his shoes back on, returned below. Here he satisfied himself with an excellent though solitary dinner.
It was one of the best meals he had ever consumed. The dinner was in the French style: two removes, an amplitude of crisp vegetables, even a platter of frogs' legs, reeking with garlic, at which the officers at a neighboring table scoffed almost insultingly until they met Hoare's flat, basilisk stare.
He was weary, wearier than he could believe possible. Could he be sickening of something? Nonetheless, he let the hovering waiter persuade him to a glass of port and a slice of Blue Vinny cheese.
"Sir."
"Excuse me, sir."
Someone was shaking Hoare by the shoulder, gently but firmly Was it time to relieve Mr. Clay on deck, so soon? He opened his eyes, to look into the tolerant face of the Golden Cross's attentive waiter.
"Oh. What's the time?" Hoare whispered.
"Gone eleven, sir. Shouldn't you be abed now?" He would be far from the first gentleman the waiter had seen fall asleep over his port. There was the rustle of dignitaries in the doorway. Clearly, the dining room staff wanted him out of the way, and Hoare was happy to oblige.
He shook his head to clear it, thanked the man, and climbed the two flights of stairs to the Blue Room. There he blew out the one guttering candle that remained and fell asleep on the counterpane without even removing his shoes.
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