On the other hand, Lynch described overhearing an encounter fraught with melodrama.
“The capting begins to roar at Mr. Gladden the very minute I ’ears the door close be’ind him. He calls him hinsolent for interruptin’ his dinner, an’ lazy an’ all like that—I can’t remember all the words. Some of ’em I ’eard before, but he used some what I never wants to ’ear used again. Orful, they was.
“He says Mr. Gladden ’ad lorst control of his division an’ wasn’t supportin’ his petty orficers like he orta. He starts givin’ Mr. Gladden orders to carry out more hexercises aloft, an’ then he starts off with more bad words. Well, then Mr. Gladden pipes up, a-squealin’-like, an’ starts a—tellin’ off the capting. An’ then I ’ears the capting give a roar, and there’s a thumpin’ and more roarin’, an’ then I ’ears a scream. It was the captain’s death scream, I know for sure, sir. It was orful. It makes me ’air stand on end just to think of it.”
“You’re no Irishman, Lynch,” said Hoare. “You were born to the sound of Bow bells, I think.”
“Seven bells, sir. But me da was a Dubliner, me ma always said. Though I don’t know ’ow she knew, I’m sure.”
“Be that as it may,” Hoare said. “You know Mr. McHale says he heard nothing of the altercation you just described.”
“‘Alter-what,’ sir?”
“Argument. Dispute. Fight, if you will.”
Lynch stood on his pride. “I’ve told you wot I ’eard, sir, and I’ll stand by it. About Mr. Mc’Ale’s ’earin’ I’ve nuffin’ to say.” He was as good as his word and would say no more.
Unlike Lynch, Sergeant Doyle was so clearly Irish-born that Hoare was hard put to understand him. He said yes, there was always a guard at the captain’s cabin door as well as at the spirit locker. He had placed the man there himself at the change of the watch. Doyle begged pardon for being derelict, but the entire draft was new to the ship and strangers to one another as well as to him, so for the life of him he could not name the man on guard during the time in question. The man was taller than average for a Marine; Doyle did remember that. He was not looking forward to hearing Mr. Wallace on the subject.
But Doyle could also more or less confirm the clerk’s statement that there had been no guard at the captain’s door when seven bells had sounded. At least none had been visible when Mr. McHale had summoned him to the cabin. And again he was sorry, but in the confusion he had not conducted the muster that Mr. Wallace had ordered as well as he should have, for he had counted off his men to forty at one time and thirty-nine a moment later. He had reported forty to his officer but would not be prepared to swear to the count. He again reminded his listeners that the Marines, like the rest of Vantage’s crew, were a new draft and still largely strangers to one another.
“Has a uniform coat turned up missing?” asked Hoare.
Doyle looked at him as though he were a wizard. One of his privates had, indeed, complained about a missing uniform coat. Doyle had cursed the man, docked his pay for its replacement, and had the boatswain assign him to duty as captain of the heads until he could present himself in a new coat.
“Keep on searching for the coat,” Hoare said. “Include the bilges and the wings. If you find it, have it brought to me at the Swallowed Anchor by a safe hand. Safe, d’ye hear?”
Hoare now had Mr. Prickett conduct him to the narrow cabin off Vantage’s wardroom where Mr. Wallace lay supine, snoring softly in a miasma of used rum.
“Sir! Sir!” cried Mr. Prickett. “Here’s Mr. Hoare to talk with you about Captain Hay’s murder!”
“Oh, my God,” Wallace said. “Hasn’t honor been satisfied yet?” He tried to sit up in his berth but fell back with a grunt of pain. “Talk away, then, Hoare. I’m at your mercy.”
“Just tell me what happened the night of the murder, if you will.”
Wallace had nothing to add to Sergeant Doyle’s evidence. He had not even been aboard Vantage at the time of the murder, although he had returned aboard within the hour and had directed Doyle to muster the men. To Wallace’s shame, he was even more ignorant than his sergeant of the men in his detachment. All were new.
As Hoare was about to leave, Wallace cleared his throat.
“I owe you an apology, sir.” His whisper was little louder than Hoare’s.
“No apology is necessary, Mr. Wallace,” Hoare replied. “Honor has already been satisfied.”
“I was drunk last night, I confess,” Wallace went on. “I was doubly at fault, first for miscalling you and then for mocking your lack of a voice. I did not know, then, the circumstances under which you lost it. I shall not forget your lesson. Indeed, I’ll remember it in my gettings up and my lyings down, or whatever the phrase is … unh!”
Hoare could not forbear his silent laugh, but Wallace was not finished.
“Will you shake hands, sir?”
“Of course.”
* * *
AT LAST, HOARE could shove off in the late Captain Hay’s borrowed gig, under sail. Mr. Prickett was bouncing like a ball in its bows despite the orders of the senior mid at the tiller to bloody keep still in the boat. He had successfully implored his acting captain to let him remain seconded to Mr. Hoare’s inquiry.
Hoare directed the midshipman-coxwain at his side to land them, not at Portsmouth Hard, but at the Inner Camber, where he found Peter Gladden again awaiting him in the snug of the Swallowed Anchor. He dismissed Mr. Prickett to the inn’s kitchen to be stuffed like a goose under the eye of the pink girl Susan.
Gladden had caught the first mudlark he had seen, gave him Hoare’s message to deliver to Jom York, and then called upon his brother in his place of confinement. It was a dark little room in the cellars of Commissioner’s House.
“This affair has been death on breeches as well as on post captains,” he said to Hoare. “It has ruined the ones your target Wallace was wearing when you shot him, Mr. Watt’s when Captain Hay bled all over them, my poor brother’s … and for that matter,” he added, “I hardly suppose Captain Hay’s own unmentionables are any the better for their experience the other night.
“But you were going to tell me about Jom York.”
“Jom York is the king of the beachcombers of Southampton Water,” said Hoare. Hoare himself, he explained, spent his spare time, whether ashore or aboard Insupportable, in snooping. He had snooped into the Weymouth Town Hall, with those perplexing results. He snooped into coves, often when not wanted, as once when he had interrupted a clutch of petty smugglers unloading a cargo of casks. It was this that had earned him the trust of at least one gang and had resulted in his being given the interesting anker and then having it taken from him by person or persons unknown. It had been in another cove, of course, that he had encountered that singularly interesting, deadly partridge, Eleanor Graves.
He watched surgeons at their grisly work and listened to them. He interrogated butchers, masters-at-arms, tradesmen, cordwainers, mudlarks—anyone, in short, who had enlightenment to offer him.
Only country folk were immune to Hoare’s curiosity. He had no use for farmers. He lumped all herders with beekeepers as men who had dangerous creatures in their power. But even in the countryside he made exceptions for poachers, tinkers, and gypsies.
During one of his snooping expeditions, he explained, he had encountered Jom York, king of the beachcombers, in a slimy little shebeen. Later, Hoare made a friend of the man when he slipped one of his royal henchmen out from the grip of the press. Jom York kept every longshoreman and mudlark, as well as his beachcombers, well under his eye and his large, horny thumb. He extracted his dues of information from all, and from their receivers and fences as well.
It was a long tale, made longer by Hoare’s need to use his exhausting emergency whisper toward the end.
“He smells horrible, but he has his uses,” Hoare concluded. By now, the two were dissecting a grilled turbot.
“But what about the Marine uniform?”
“As you observed this morning, it is u
nheard of for a captain to allow his cabin door to go unguarded. The captains right here at Spithead in ’97 learned that to their cost, as did Bligh of the Bounty.”
“And Hermione’s beast of a captain, as well,” added Gladden.
“Exactly. And from what we have learned of Captain Hay, he was no man to skimp on proper routine. So I believe that, as Sergeant Doyle avows, a Marine guard was posted and that the murderer either enticed him away from his post or did away with him in some way. Or—more likely—the murderer was the Lobster himself.
“And Vantage’s sergeant of Marines admits the head count he took that night may have been off by one or even two. And he reports a missing uniform.”
Chapter VI
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, a frightened, fetid wharf rat brought a soggy parcel to the Swallowed Anchor’s snug. Susan the pink girl brought both rat and parcel to Hoare and Gladden. Mr. Prickett, who now would let no one detach him from his mute lieutenant, looked with wide, delighted eyes at the smelly things. Both objects, wrapped in oatmeal-colored shoddy, oozed and stank of harbor mud. As between the courier and the packet, only one was the object of Hoare’s interest. He dismissed the other with a shilling, and the creature poured gratefully away, carrying its stench with it and singing Hoare’s praises discordantly.
Hoare drew his sheath knife and cut the cord binding the parcel. A waterlogged red garment slipped to the floor. He smiled at it as if it were cloth of gold.
Hoare brought the coat’s collar up to his nose and sniffed. Then he did the same, first with one of the folded-back cuffs, then with the other. He took a huge white kerchief out of his own coattails and wiped it across the inside of the coat collar where it would have rubbed against the wearer’s neck, and then across the cuffs. He nodded to himself and handed the coat to the little mid.
“Take it away, Mr. Prickett,” he whispered, “and label it ‘Coat found in Portsmouth Harbor.’ Put today’s date on it. Oh, and take this, too, please.”
He handed Mr. Prickett the kerchief. “Label it ‘kerchief, with matter removed from Marine uniform found in Portsmouth Harbor, this date.’ So, Gladden. We can be practically certain this coat was not last worn by one of Vantage’s Marines.”
“How can you say that?” asked Gladden.
“Work it out, sir. Work it out.”
* * *
THAT AFTERNOON MR. Gladden escorted Hoare to the place where his brother lay in durance.
Fortunately, the durance faced south, and the afternoon sun poured into it through a small barred window set high in the rough stone walls. There was no need to light the tallow candles flanking the pitcher and basin on the deal table.
In looks, the brothers shared only their wavy corn-yellow hair. Where Peter was shorter than Hoare, Arthur Gladden would have looked him in the eye when he rose to greet them, but for his stooped, scholarly posture. Instead of a bright cornflower blue, his eyes looked faded. Where his brother’s face was robust and ruddy, Arthur was lantern-jawed and pallid. He wore clean breeches at last, but the odor of his lapse lingered faintly about him. It was reinforced by the reek of the untended chamber pot in one corner.
“What news do you bring, Brother?” Arthur Gladden asked anxiously in a tense tenor, before Peter could even introduce Hoare.
“None good yet, lad, none bad,” Peter Gladden said. “But I have enlisted a wizard on your behalf. Let me make you known to Lieutenant Bartholomew Hoare of Admiral Hardcastle’s staff, who has agreed to serve you as counsel on Thursday.”
“But I thought you were going to stand for me!”
“I am, dear boy, but you know quite well how little I know about all the pettifogging details of court-martial proceedings. Mr. Hoare will back me up with all his experience.”
“Hoare. Is that your real name?” asked Arthur Gladden with what sounded like genuine interest.
“Yes,” whispered Hoare.
“Oh, you needn’t whisper here,” said Arthur. “Nobody bothers to listen. In fact, I believe I could walk right out of this place without anybody’s stopping me.” He paused, as if thinking the idea over, and brightened. “But then they’d catch me, and they’d be sure I was guilty.” He sighed.
“Are you guilty?” asked Hoare. “And I do not whisper for secrecy’s sake but because I cannot speak in any other way. It is a nuisance, I know, but one has to make the best of it.”
“No, sir, I am not guilty. I admit Captain Hay’s outburst made me tremble with anger, which is why I spoke up to him. I realize I never should have done that. But he was so angry that he turned purple and laid hands on me, forcibly. That is why I—”
“Fled,” said Hoare. “Have you any way of proving what you say, that you grappled with the captain only in order to escape him?”
“No, but I would suppose the Marine guard would speak up for me,” Arthur replied.
“Then there was a Marine guard at the cabin door?”
“Of course there was, Mr. Hoare.” The prisoner’s voice was stiff. “Have you ever known the captain’s cabin in any of His Majesty’s ships not to be guarded?”
For the first time, Hoare thought, the man sounds like a naval officer.
“Who was he, do you know?” he asked.
“A Marine, just a Marine,” Arthur replied. “Truly, I don’t think anyone can tell one Lobster from another—except perhaps another Lobster. They’re all statues in red coats and heavy boots. Don’t you think so?”
Hoare looked at Peter Gladden as if to say, “I told you so.”
“As I said,” Arthur went on, “there was a Marine on guard when I reported to Captain Hay’s cabin. In fact, he opened the door and announced me, just as they always do. Frankly, I did not notice him as I left, since I was pressed by an urgency.”
* * *
THE MORNING DAWNED bright, clear, and busy on the day of Lt. Arthur Gladden’s court-martial on charges of having murdered his captain, Adam Hay. Flotillas of watercraft made their way across the sparkling harbor to converge on Defiant, 74, the venue selected by Charles Wright, her captain and president of the court-martial.
Vantage’s own vacant cabin would have been the proper place for the court-martial of one of her officers. But both the prominent and the curious were expected; rumor had reached Portsmouth that even royalty might appear. On these grounds and Mr. Bennett’s advice, Captain Wright allowed his own life to be disrupted and his own cabin in Defiant to be taken over.
On the table behind which the members of the court were to sit, among the quills, inkwells, and sand, lay Arthur Gladden’s sword. It was placed athwartships. If the court arrived at a “guilty” verdict, the blade of the sword would face him on his return to the cabin after the court’s deliberations.
“Make way!” called a Marine. As the members filed into the cabin along the way cleared for them, the audience rose almost to a man. One guest, a massive figure in admiral’s gold braid and the vivid blue Garter ribbon, remained seated in his comfortable chair squarely in front of the court.
“Does Your Royal Highness wish to be made part of this court?” Captain Wright asked.
Admiral of the White Prince William, Duke of Clarence, shook his head. The head, which bore a jovial expression, was shaped like a pineapple.
“Gad, no, old boy. Came down to get away from court, don’t ye know?” The cabin filled with appreciative chuckles. Royal ribaldry, Hoare observed to himself, always amuses.
When the chuckles had died down, Captain Wright read out Admiral Hardcastle’s order convening the court-martial, concluding with the words: “‘… that, on the twenty-first day of June, eighteen-oh-five, in His Majesty’s ship Vantage, Lieutenant Arthur Gladden did assail and murder his captain, Adam Hay.’”
Recognizing Hoare’s lanky figure standing beside the prisoner’s friend, Captain Wright raised his eyebrows and interrupted himself. “Does the accused really require two ‘friends,’ sir?” he asked.
“Actually, sir, he does not. The accused officer asked that, as his brother,
I stand as friend for him. Both blood and certainty of his innocence required that I agree to do so. However, Mr. Hoare is a far more skilled investigator than I—”
“Mr. Hoare is well-known to me and to others on this court,” Captain Wright said impatiently. “But which of you speaks for the accused officer? You or he?”
“I shall do so for the most part, sir, if only because of Mr. Hoare’s impediment of speech. And Admiral Hardcastle suggested Mr. Hoare and I collaborate.”
“Irregular, but I see nothing wrong with it, nor, of course, with the Admiral’s point of view. Do any of you gentlemen?” Captain Wright looked left and right along the table, clearly expecting no contradiction. “Very good,” he said. “Now, Mr. Bennett, will you give us your opening remarks? I know you, at least, have no difficulty in speaking up.” A soft titter ran through Defiant’s cabin.
Bennett now outlined the case against Arthur Gladden: how he had been overheard in disputation with his captain; how Captain Hay had cried out; how Arthur had fled the full length of Vantage; how Mr. Watt had discovered his dying captain; and the last words the clerk had heard. That, except for Watt, who hardly had the strength to have stabbed his captain, Arthur was the last man known to have seen Captain Hay alive.
Mr. Hopkin, the surgeon, made the same statements under oath that he had made to Hoare and Peter Gladden. He was followed by the man Lynch. The quartermaster, too, had no more and no less to say than he had a day or two before.
John McHale sounded more evasive.
“And what did you hear through the skylight, Mr. McHale?” asked Mr. Bennett.
“I resent the implication, sir! I am no eavesdropper, especially not upon my captain!”
Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities Page 7
