Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities (11 page)

“If, in order that this ship and the five others commanded by the captains on this court may sail with all possible speed to reinforce Lord Nelson, I must hang Mr. Arthur Gladden out of hand tomorrow. I shall do so, sir, be he innocent or guilty. He will become a casualty, a single casualty out of all too many. But if he dies to let these ships go free, he may save England.

“So this court grants your request to continue these proceedings
in camera
for the remainder of the day, reconvening here tomorrow at eight bells of the forenoon watch. However, at noon tomorrow, if needs must and even if I hang for it myself, I
will
direct this court to declare Mr. Arthur Gladden guilty, adjourn this court-martial, and see him hanged.

“Not a minute later than noon tomorrow, therefore, this vessel and those commanded by my fellow captains on this court will have their anchors up and down in preparation for departure. Do you understand, gentlemen?”

The other captains, Arthur Gladden, and his two friends nodded solemnly.

“Very well. The board will now reconvene below. I ask all unofficial persons to withdraw. Your Royal Highness, will you go or stay?”

“I'll stay, sir,” said the duke. “My presence might even save your necks, what what?”

When the observers had left
Defiant
and the board had returned to his cabin, Captain Wright turned to Peter Gladden. “Proceed, sir,” he said.

“When I went ashore from
Vantage
after questioning some of the witnesses,” said Gladden, “Mr. Hoare asked me to make a request on his behalf of a certain beachcombing party of his acquaintance. In turn, that person made the request known to his own people. The result was this.” He reached into the portmanteau beside him and withdrew the vile-smelling Royal Marine uniform coat. Its scarlet dye had bled slightly onto its blue facings.

“This coat was fished out of Portsmouth Harbor on Tuesday night last and brought to me and Mr. Hoare. I know every officer in this cabin will recognize it. Upon examining it, Mr. Hoare found certain substances on its collar and cuffs. I would like to ask him to tell the court about what he discovered.”

“What I wiped from the collar and cuffs,” whispered Hoare, “was paint, gentlemen, removable paint. I could even smell it over the tidewater smell. Removable paint, or
maquillage,
as the Frogs have it, has a distinctive odor, you know.” Hoare paused to fill his chest for his next sentence.

“The man who had worn that coat was wearing
maquillage.
And I doubt that any member of the ship's Marine contingent would own any of the stuff, let alone know how to use it. No, the man we are looking for has to be an actor—an amateur Thespian, if you will. Now who could that be, I wondered, and
why?
”

Hoare interrupted himself again, as if preparing for battle.

“It is in the interest of obtaining the answers to those questions that I asked you, Mr. President, to adjourn the court until the time you set for it to reconvene—tomorrow, at eight bells of the morning watch.

“Finally, I suggest that you will find this evening's performance of Mr. Sheridan's
The School for Scandal
both interesting and instructive.”

*   *   *

T
HOUGH THE ATTENDANTS
had long since lowered the houselights and lit the footlights, the curtain of Portsmouth's sole theater had yet to rise. The audience, officers and their ladies for the most part but including a sprinkling of townsmen as well, had begun a discontented murmur. Overriding the subdued babble came Prince William's masthead growl from the royal box.

A dainty person in black slipped out from between the curtains. “In this evening's performance, the part of ‘Charles Surface' will be played by Mr. Thomas Billings,” he announced. “The part of ‘Maria' will be played by Miss Oates.” He slipped back out of sight.

There was a collective sigh of feminine disappointment, for “Charles,” the romantic lead, was to have been played by Lieutenant Peregrine Kingsley, second in
Vantage.
As a new widow, Mrs. Hay, of course, could not now tread the boards in the role of “Maria.”

Hoare snapped his fingers. With a nod to his companions to follow him, he eased himself from his place in the back of the theater and left by the main door. He returned by the stage door, where he sought out the person in black. Tonight's impresario, Mr. DeCourcey, looked as if he should be wringing his hands.

“Where's Kingsley?” Hoare asked.

DeCourcey rolled his eyes and shrugged as eloquently as Mr. Morrow of Weymouth. “Who knows?” he said. “Here the man was, as good a juvenile as you could ask for in Drury Lane itself, superb in the part, and he has gone missing.”

“He's bit!” whispered Hoare with a wicked grin. He clapped the distracted DeCourcey on the shoulder so hard as to dislodge the quizzing glass from his left eye. Hoare put his head out the stage door and blew on his silver boatswain's call.

There was a tumult and a shouting in the evening streets of Portsmouth. Some men mounted to take up their mission; others climbed into waiting chaises; still others—these mostly the hard men of the press gang—began their search through the late dusk of June for the missing Kingsley.

Hoare withdrew to his post of command in the Navy Tavern, just off the Hard, to await the outcome. To him, among others, came Mr. Peter Gladden and Mr. Francis Bennett and most of the members of the court-martial, including Captains Wright and Weatherby. Mr. Prickett was already in place, his mouth smeared with somebody's jam.

“Well, Mr. Hoare!” Weatherby cried. “Your trap seems to have been well designed. My congratulations!”

“Premature, Captain, but I thank you nonetheless,” whispered Hoare, with more than a trifle of envy. He knew very well indeed that, since he would never make post, the only way he could hoist his swab—his epaulette—and earn the courtesy title of “Captain” was to be made commander.

“How did you do it, sir?” Wright asked.

“I'm afraid it was mostly guesswork, sir,” Hoare replied modestly. “Guesswork and speculation.”

He and the rest of the company rose at the unannounced entry of H.R.H. Duke of Clarence.

“Be seated, gentlemen, please,” said Prince William. “D'ye know, if I were ever to succeed to the Throne, I do believe I'd do away with all this risin' for royalty. I've seen too many promisin' naval officers brain 'emselves on the overhead when risin' to give the Loyal Toast.”

“Hear him; hear him!” one of the juniors was heard to say.

“Go on with your tale, Mr. Hoare, eh?” Royalty said.

“It was clear from the start, sir, that Mr. Arthur Gladden is no man to kill his fellowman. Captain Hay's killer had to be someone else. The captain's servant? Mr. Watt, his clerk? What motive could they have had? Only the Marine guard could have told us, and he was mysteriously missing.

“That was when I reasoned that the Marine himself was the most likely culprit. He had the means—his bayonet—and the opportunity. He could enter the captain's cabin at any time on the pretext of announcing a visitor or bringing a message. Sergeant Doyle admits he was as yet unacquainted with his men.”

Hoare paused to take a long draft of a mild lemonade.

“Yes? Yes?” A small, lean man with a weary face leaned forward impatiently, and Hoare continued.

“This would have made it easy for a Marine, or another man posing as a Marine, to insinuate himself into the post of guardian at the sacred portal. No one would really see him as he stood at his post. As poor Arthur Gladden said to me, ‘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.'

“The only thing missing now was motive. Why would a Marine, a stranger to his captain like all the rest of the ship's company, want to kill the man?

“Then Watt mentioned a missing file. He appears to be a meticulous man and braver than he credits himself for being, and I could not see him as being mistaken in a matter of his profession. Someone had taken the file, then. Why not the captain's murderer? The Marine—or, rather, the pretended Marine?”

He took another draft of lemonade.

“It was then that I launched a search for a Marine uniform coat. I reasoned the murderer would throw it overboard—weighted, perhaps, though I prayed not—rather than hiding it somewhere in the bilges of the ship. Sooner or later some prying member of the crew would find it.

“Now I had a stroke of luck. As I was musing about the killer's description—if not a Marine himself, he had to be able to impersonate one convincingly, and he had, of course, to be a naval man—I happened to see the playbill posted outside my lodgings. And there I saw the name of
Vantage
's second, Peregrine Kingsley, in the part of ‘Charles Surface,' the dashing young blade. There was my man, I was certain.”

Hoare's voice now gave out entirely. He fell back upon breathing his words into Mr. Prickett's ear so the midshipman could relay them to the audience, a clear, proud treble stentor.

“This might have explained Mr. Watt's missing file as well. Conceivably, Kingsley could have got wind that someone had sent his captain something so incriminating that he felt he had to filch it, even killing Captain Hay if need be, while doing so.

“He easily abstracted from the Marine detachment the coat which was later found in the harbor. Before donning it, he disguised his face with
maquillage,
leaving unavoidable traces of the stuff on the coat as he did so, and slipped into ranks when Sergeant Doyle mounted the guard. Again, it was easy for him to include himself.

“If I was right, the altercation between Arthur Gladden and his captain gave Kingsley his chance to create a red herring in the form of the hapless young officer. After Arthur fled, Kingsley entered the cabin on some pretext and bayoneted the captain. He switched his bayonet and the one the captain had in his possession, dropped the bloody uniform coat over the side, and disappeared into the anonymity of nighttime aboard a newly manned vessel.”

“But all this is speculation, Mr. Hoare,” Captain Wright said.

“Precisely so, sir. That is why I had to lay a trap for Kingsley by means of a piece of theater of our own. We continued the court-martial, but
in camera
so that Kingsley was excluded. Thus it appeared to him to be the court's secret that it was now in search of a naval person with acting experience.

“But even secret proceedings will out, as we all know, all too well. I made sure they would, by instructing young Mr. Prickett here to be a trifle loose-mouthed.”

Mr. Prickett grew pink, either with embarrassment or with pride.

“Sure enough, the word spread, as the word will, and Kingsley was deceived into believing the law was on his trail. He panicked, as we all know, and fled. That's all, gentlemen.”

The room broke into applause and cries of, “Hear him; hear him!”

“Present him, Weatherby.”

From where Hoare stood, across the room and surrounded by admirers, he could hear His Royal Highness's quarterdeck command. He saw Weatherby working his way through the crowd.

“This way, if you please, Mr. Hoare. You know the drill, I suppose?”

“Go to one knee and kiss his ring, isn't it, sir?”

“Gad, no. He's a prince, not the pope, and he's incognito besides. Just hat under the arm—like that, yes—and bow in salute. A bit deeper than usual wouldn't do any harm.”

Clarence's circle of courtier-officers opened to admit Captain Weatherby and his prize. Hoare made what he hoped was the proper bow. His Royal Highness put out an affable hand.

“Well done, Mr.… er … Hoare, by Jove. Clever chap, what what? Amazin'. Should you ever be in need of a friendly word, sir, you may call on me. Short of a ship, of course … can't have an officer on the quarterdeck who can't make his orders heard, eh what?”

All too true, Hoare thought for the thousandth time, as the nodding circle of sycophants regathered itself around their duke. The small, lean, weary-looking man drew him aside, named himself as John Goldthwait, and asked that he call the next time he was near 11 Chancery Lane in London.

“Present him.” With those two magic words from royalty, Hoare's credit account with the hypothetical Bank of Advancement had doubled. His interest had grown by a cubit tonight. But, even so, it could never give him back his voice, put him aboard a fighting ship, and return him to the ladder of promotion.

*   *   *

T
HE COURT-MARTIAL RECONVENED
on the morning of 1 July, another sparkling day, to acquit Arthur Gladden of the charges against him. When Peter bent to buckle his sword belt about his brother's waist, Arthur seized the weapon and flung it out the open window of
Defiant
's cabin, scabbard and all.

“Bugger your bloody sword, and bugger the Navy, too!” he shouted. “I resign your bloody service, and be damned to you!”

He pushed his brother and Hoare aside, stormed out through the paralyzed crowd, summoned a wherry, and was off before anyone of the court or the ship's company could summon the wit to stop him. They let him go.

Hoare took his place in the line of officers and dignitaries waiting for passage ashore but caught a lift from the friendly Commander Weatherby. He went straight out to
Insupportable
and took her out into the light morning breeze.

*   *   *

A
S THE SUN
was setting two days later, Hoare sat at
Insupportable
's cabin table, looking down at several trail boards and wondering what he would rename the pinnace today. They had just tied up after forty-eight hours of personal leave, granted by his master of the moment so he could recoup his exhausted whisper.