Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities (16 page)

He left the Admiral's place of business, feeling quite as merciless as Sir George himself.

Chapter IX

W
HILE
H
OARE
knew that some of his fellow officers were as happy on horseback as they were on a quarterdeck, he himself despised horses. Unlike those who claimed to find parallels between Noble Steeds of the Field and White-winged Chariots of the Sea, he found the beasts disorderly, disobedient, unpredictable, and happy to shit and fart about wherever they pleased, leaving their nasty doings underfoot to be trodden in. At least, though, his father had seen to it that, like them or not, he learned to handle the silly things without making an utter fool of himself.

So here he was, aboard a perfectly decent bay cob, trotting comfortably along in a light mist toward Wells, like any stupid squire on his way to Sunday matins. He had hired the thing instead of taking the regular
Racer
coach from Portsmouth to Bath and thence doubling back to Wells. He had felt that he would rather go at his own pace than be jammed into a rocking box at the mercy of some drunken, rapacious coachman. However awkward the cob might be, he—Bartholomew Hoare—was in command. He needed only to make it clear to the cob that mutiny would have dire consequences.

The beast pecked at a stone, and he brought its head up, just as if he were helping
Alert
through a gust in the Solent. It made him feel rather pleased with himself. For once, he felt grateful to Captain Joel Hoare for making him spend so many mornings falling from the creatures' yardarms.

The horse slopped through a puddle, then stopped, straddled, and pissed hugely. That was exactly what irritated Hoare; no ship would have taken it in mind to heave to like this of its own volition, in midvoyage.

The horse's behavior gave Hoare's bladder an idea of its own. He dismounted and held the bay's reins while he added his own much smaller stream.

It began to rain again. Pulling an oiled-cotton cover over his second-best hat, he remounted and got the cob under way again. Not for the first time in this passage to Wells, he began to wonder what he had done. He hoped—devoutly, of course—considering his reason for being on it in the first place, that the catechism he planned for the soon-to-be-Reverend Arthur Gladden would bear fruit. After all, by the time he had journeyed to Wells and back, he would have taken four days out of his available time. To compensate, he must needs forgo as many days of relaxation on the water, in
Alert.

The mist darkened as Hoare jogged into Wells. A few heavier drops began to spatter on the cob's forequarters and his own hat. With a few questions of passers-by, he found the Mitre Inn, which his own landlord, Hackins, had recommended. Hoare told the hostler's boy to have his beast made comfortable and readied for the homeward journey tomorrow. He gave no detailed orders, nor did he offer to care for the animal himself, as Hoare senior had told him every proper horseman made it a matter of honor to do. It was not his horse but a hireling, and the boy would know infinitely better what maintenance it needed.

Hoare needed no direction to Wells Cathedral the next morning, for its tower loomed over the old town like a first-rate among a fleet of shallops. Besides, its soft-toned, powerful bells began to toll the hour, all too early in the day. He was happy not only to find that Arthur Gladden was known to the verger-gatekeeper at the door to the cathedral close, but also to catch sight of the man himself. The former lieutenant came pacing thoughtfully toward him along a cloister, well out of the rain, head in a small black book, unaware of his surroundings. The deacon?—ordinand?—was already clad in the uniform of his new service. In his cassock, he looked much more comfortable than he had in naval uniform—holy perhaps, it seemed to Hoare, instead of harried. Certainly the breeches under the cassock would be unsoiled.

Gladden looked up to see who was blocking his way, blinked, and smiled in recognition. He grasped Hoare's hand in a soft, clerical grip.

“Mr. Hoare! I hardly hoped you would be able to take leave from your duties in Portsmouth, but I had prayed you would come, and lo! my prayers have been answered.”

Hoare had never thought to hear anyone actually say, “Lo!” out loud. For the sake of whatever flock Gladden was destined to lead, Hoare hoped that the man would become less godly once he was ordained.

“To tell the truth, Gladden, I am here only to ask you a question or two, if I may.”

“Anything, Mr. Hoare, anything. After all, I owe my life to you. Come, sit beside me on this convenient bench.”

Hoare took the indicated place. “First, though, I fear I bring bad news. Did you know that
Vantage
blew up and sank a few days ago, carrying all but twenty-four of her crew with her?”

“My God.” Gladden turned white to the lips. “Only twenty-four saved? Who? How?”

“She blew up somehow, within half an hour of setting sail. I saw it all, from my yacht.”

Gladden bowed his head—in prayer, Hoare supposed, in light of his calling. The astonished Hoare saw a pair of tears drop onto the cassock, where they rested and twinkled in the sunlight before sinking into the fine black wool.

At last, Gladden looked up. He reached into a pocket of the cassock and drew out a handkerchief, with which he blew his nose thunderously.

“Forgive me, sir,” he said. “I have always been prone to tears in moments of stress. And, while I cannot claim to have found any bosom friends among my fellow Vantages, they were my shipmates, after all, as well as fellow Christians. Mr. Wallace, the Marine?”

“Lost.”

“Mr. McHale? Mr. Courtney? Hopkin? The child Prickett?”

“Lost … all lost.”

“I do not ask about Mr. Kingsley. I have heard of his capture and death. May God have mercy on his soul.” Hoare saw Gladden actually shake himself, like a wet dog. “But you had questions to ask me?” he said.

“Yes. About Kingsley, in fact. You are the only surviving member of
Vantage
's afterguard, and the only one who can give me an impression of him.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything that comes to mind.”

“It is not easy to speak of him, Mr. Hoare,” Gladden said. “
De mortuis,
you know. I knew him before we were both seconded into
Vantage.
He had the experience to be a good officer, I believe, although he spent little time on his duties. How he managed to obtain his captain's approval of as much leave from
Vantage
as he took I could never understand. After all, she was fitting out. Perhaps Mrs. Hay persuaded her husband?

“For he was an arrant womanizer, as you know. But he also busied himself as much with the commanders and post captains of the vessels at Spithead as he did with their sweethearts and wives. It was almost as if he had appointed himself an ambassador of good will from the Port Admiral to new arrivals, for within hours after one of His Majesty's ships had made her number, there would be Mr. Kingsley in his hired shallop, bearing gifts.

“I often wondered why. Perhaps … he had little interest, to be sure, and knew what its lack could do to his career. There were those in
Vantage
's wardroom who sneered at his encroaching ways, his fawning upon every post captain he could reach. His private life was licentious, his public life dissolute, his behavior in society obsequious, his treatment of inferiors overbearing. May God forgive me, I did not like him.

“That is all I can tell you, Mr. Hoare. We were a new ship, and for the most part her officers were still practically strangers to one another. Kingsley was sinfully deluded. That is all I know.”

“Did you know of Mrs. Hay's liaison with Kingsley?”

The mouth of the priest-to-be primmed. “I did not
know,
exactly, but I confess I found their behavior somewhat suggestive. In fact, I … but no, surely not.”

“What?” Hoare pressed.

“I wondered if Captain Hay knew something was going on between them.

“I am sorry,” Gladden concluded, “that you found it necessary to come so far for my small crumbs of intelligence, but I hope it means that you will attend tomorrow's service? There will be a small reception following the ceremony.” He looked up at Hoare, almost shyly.

“With the greatest of pleasure, sir,” Hoare whispered. From Gladden's cool but understanding analysis of his late shipmate's character he, Hoare thought, might have the makings of a priest, after all.

*   *   *

T
HE CEREMONY OF
ordination was new to Hoare—no churchgoer as a rule—and he observed it with interest. The bishop was, as Hoare thought the late Mr. Kingsley might have put it, the lead player, but he was supported by a choir and no fewer than four other clergymen. When all five laid hands on Gladden's bowed head and then upon the heads of the two other ordinands, Hoare had to suppress a smile. Gladden's head, he thought, was more crowded with hands than the gun deck of an 84 on her first night in port, after the hands' women had boarded. On this occasion, at least, no women were involved, so there were none of those rhythmical grunts and squeals from the hands and their guests in the double-shotted hammocks.

Hoare had found himself a modest place toward the rear of the cathedral, where its peculiar reversed arch separated him from the proceedings at the altar, so the prayers, psalms, hymns, and other goings-on up forward came only faintly to his ears. But he had ample opportunity to inspect the entire godly crew as it passed him in stately double line ahead, singing a measured recessional hymn and accompanied by the profound rumble of the cathedral organ. Tears came to Hoare's eyes. Organ music and a choir, with the trebles in descant, always did that to him. Perhaps that was why he was no longer churchly.

It seemed to him that the newly Reverend Arthur Gladden's face showed a special exaltation, raised as it was above a brand-new strip of embroidered silk freshly draped over his shoulders. What was the thing called? A crope? A style? For the life of him, Hoare could not remember. He was certain of one thing: When it came to pomp and circumstance, even the Navy could learn a lot from the Church. Of course, he reminded himself, the Church had been at it quite a few years longer than the Navy.

He said as much to the former third in
Vantage
when he made his way up the line of well-wishers in the cathedral close to congratulate him. Gladden smiled vaguely, then turned to the older couple beside him.

“Papa? Mamma? May I introduce my Savior?”

Lady Gladden's eyes opened wide. Had her son just capitalized the word?

“I mean, of course, Mr. Bartholomew Hoare, the man who saved our name from disgrace and me from death.”

Hoare made his leg and bowed over Lady Gladden's proffered hand. “The Navy's loss is the Church's gain, I am sure,” he whispered. The simper she returned would have made a honeybee gag.

Sir Ralph Gladden was a wealthy, idle half-pay captain waiting his way comfortably up the ladder to Admiral of the Yellow, a strapping prizewinning specimen of the squire breed, flaxen-haired like his sons. He took Hoare's hand in both his own and gripped it hard.

He cleared his throat, as if embarrassed. “Let me introduce you to my daughter,” he said. “Anne, may I present Mr. Bartholomew Hoare of the Navy?”

Forever afterward Hoare thanked his gods—whoever they were—for not looking about him in search of the young lady. He could never have forgiven himself for the insult. Happily, he looked down instead, to see a bonneted face looking back up at him out of amused periwinkle-blue eyes. The young person should still have been in pantalettes. Certainly she was too young to be out—but no; the figure, in pale blue lutestring, had breasts. She was a well-formed young woman, not a child. But she was wee.

Hoare bowed over the upstretched, gloved hand. “I am charmed, Miss Gladden.”

“Both my brothers have told me of your service to the Gladden family, sir,” she said. “We are grateful to you today, as well as proud of Arthur.”

Sir Ralph took up the thanks of his daughter. They went on and on. They were heartfelt, perhaps, but Hoare found them onerous and begged to be excused as soon as the knight stopped for breath.

Released at last, Hoare had found the ham and the syllabub when a soft masculine voice spoke into his ear.

“So, sir. Our neophyte priest believes a
whore
was his savior? Or—heresy of heresies—that his savior was a whore? I could not help but overhear the words of the hero in our recent little liturgical drama.”

It was the Graveses' acquaintance from Weymouth, Mr. Edward Morrow, as swarthy and sardonic as before.

“Forgive my coarseness, Mr. Hoare, as well as the highly improper play on your name,” Morrow said. “I am doubly guilty and must make my confession to one of the exalted ladies of Bath. But I was so pleased to see you that I let my tongue run away from me. Will
you,
instead, grant me absolution, sir?”

The smile that accompanied the Canadian's words seemed oddly forced, which made the man himself all the more mysterious.

Looking beyond Mr. Morrow, Hoare saw Dr. Graves in his wheeled chair, deep in conversation with his wife and the forgettable Miss Austen. At the sight of Mrs. Graves, his heart leapt unaccountably.

“Well-met, Mr. Hoare,” Dr. Graves said. “What brought you to Wells, of all places?”

Hoare explained he was there by invitation from the Gladdens. “And you?” he asked.

“Two purposes,” the doctor said. “First, we are actually visiting Bath and not Wells. Miss Austen was kind enough to reciprocate our earlier invitation to her. It has been over a year since we came to Bath, and we were commencing to feel a trifle dull in Weymouth.

“Then, too, I had reports of a Dr. Ellison's having considerable success with problems of palsy such as my own and wished to consult him. It appears, however, that my lower half has atrophied too far for his regimen to take effect.”