"Oho!" Popham said. "Was Dunaway outward bound, d'you think, or homeward?"
"Homeward would be my guess, though I cannot be sure. I never thought to ask. He and his man, or his passenger, would still have been clean-shaven, wouldn't they, if they were fresh from home?"
"I'd imagine so. In that case, old Dunaway is getting into deeper waters than he should, wouldn't you say? Perhaps your waters rather than mine?"
"It might be," Hoare said.
"I wouldn't take it amiss if someone were to pass him a friendly warning, if so," Popham observed.
"I'll do so gladly, since I want to chat with him in this other matter. If you'll give me his whereabouts," Hoare said.
"Well, I hear he's been flitting up and down the coast between Plymouth and Dymchurch, looking for a vessel to replace his lost Fancy. When he settles, it's usually within hail of the White Hart along the shore there, under the castle. Weaver's woman there brews the finest ale in Dorset. It would be a kindness, Captain, for you to speak with him. After all, his regular trade is all in the day's work, so to speak. So long as he don't overreach himself, there's no one the loser. Except King George, of course."
"I said as much to the man's face," Hoare said.
The two King's officers laughed, touched glasses and tossed them off, and bade each other farewell. Hoare went ashore to find Dunaway's lair.
• • •
Weaver at the White Hart denied all knowledge of anyone named Dunaway until he learned that Hoare had been the man responsible for saving the latter's life and that of his passenger. He then revealed that while Jamie had long since gone, Dunaway might be only down the road a piece, over to Easton, where he had heard a suitable vessel might be found. He should return any moment now. Meanwhile, would the officer care for a spot of the needful?
Hoare's stomach rumbled, reminding him that he had had nothing to eat since breakfast in Dorchester.
"You brew your own ale, Mr. Weaver, I think."
"Indeed. My old woman's ale is what brings Mr. Dunaway to our doorstep, and many another besides, if I do say so."
"A mug of her ale, then, and a platter of eggs, if you please."
The proprietor and his potboy were a bit greasy for Hoare's taste, but the White Hart's ale was as rich as had been promised and vanished quickly. Just as the last scrap of Hoare's egg followed it, Dunaway appeared in the doorway. Shaven now and clad in a neat blue coat, he looked just as prosperous as if he had not lost his ship. Hoare rose to greet him.
"You'll 'a' come for the clothing you lent me," Dunaway said.
"Not so, Mr. Dunaway," Hoare whispered. "I have quite a different purpose in mind. Two purposes, in fact: a warning and a question. Ale first. You look dry."
"Drier than I were when last we met," Dunaway said.
"And prosperous as well, if I may say so, for a Captain who has just lost his ship," Hoare said.
"My only real loss, sir, was the boy Jethro Slee," said Dunaway, taking up his mug. "Your good health, Captain, and thankee once again.
"Jethro were my partner's only boy, and he took the loss mortal hard. 'Twere my fault, me most grievous fault. I were a fule not to 'a' taken another 'and aboard, if not two.
"No, for the rest of it, I were mortal sad to lose me little Fancy lugger, for she'd been mine these ten years past, and me da's before me. But for a truth she was old and tired, and I'd insured 'er well. For more than 'er worth, fact is."
"Insured? At Lloyd's, Mr. Dunaway?" Hoare asked incredulously. "Do the names at Lloyd's offer coverage to smugglers, then?… If so, how about highwaymen? Or pirates? Or slavers, or wreckers, eh?"
"Now, Captain, be easy," Dunaway said reprovingly. "That 'wrecker' bit be nothin' more than a tale put about. No one on these shores beguiles the ships ashore. They's enough of'em come ashore of a winter, without our help. Salvage, yes. Who's to say a poor man can't pick up what 'e may along the beach once 'e's wore out a-savin' of life, like you done for me, sir?"
"Beg pardon, Mr. Dunaway," Hoare said, and meant it.
"Nor 'ave them fine London gentlemen at Lloyd's aught to do with affairs down 'ere. 'Tis Sir Thomas Frobisher insures us… fishermen. Aye, and makes a tidy shillin' from the business, mostly.
"I'll say this for 'im: when I showed up on his doorstep the very day you set us ashore, 'e took the news like a game chicken. 'E went straight to his strongbox and counted out the notes an' the guineas then and there, an' 'anded 'em over without so much as blinking them goggle eyes of his. So I'll be at sea again within the week, mark my word."
Hoare was of no mind to reveal his astonishment at this news.
"I hope so," he said, "and may your new craft be as long-lived as your Fancy lugger was." He sighed. He felt oddly reluctant to broach the matter of Jamie and the pigeons with Dunaway.
"Now for the warning, Mr, Dunaway," he said at last. "As I said the other day, sir, I have no wish to pry into the details of your trade. But I must tell you I saw a flock of birds leave your lugger
… just before I took you and your passenger aboard. Having seen… a similar flock elsewhere recently, I am quite certain that the birds were pigeons. Carrier pigeons, Mr. Dunaway, I would guess, being brought over from France.
"I have my doubts about your man Jamie and his bona fides. The jabber he talked to me was supposed to be London cant, but it was nothing but gibberish. I think he was no Englishman, Mr. Dunaway."
Hoare paused. Dunaway reddened and looked pensively out the window beside them. At length, he returned his gaze to Hoare.
"If 'twere not for the debt I owe you, sir, I'd as lief lie, to be square with you. But I'll not, for my life has been in your 'ands. An' the thing will never come to pass again, any gate.
"French 'e was, indeed, part of a package give me by a lass in Arromanches. Nay, I lie; she were no lass, but a comfortable armful. Besotted, I were, an' ready to do aught she asked of me. So, when she asked me to bring over that lad Jamie an' his coteful of pigeons, I thought nowt of it but took him aboard.
" 'Tweren't till we was well into mid-Channel that I found Master 'Jamie' was no more an Englishman than he was a blackamoor. Frenchman, more like, for all his London cant, or mebbe one of them Irish followers of Wolfe Tone. An' no sailor any gate, as me an' poor Jethro learned to his cost. So I resolved to 'ave nowt to do with him an' his pigeons, more'n land 'im wherever I could, as soon as I could.
"Well, sir, as it coom out, 'twas you as landed 'im an' not me. I never saw 'im again, nor wanted to.
"I'd not do it again, Mr. Hoare. I'm a loyal Englishman, I am, and I'll have no trook wi' treason. God save King George! Poor loony that he is. That's what I say. That's me word, and me word's me bond."
To put an end to the topic, Dunaway hailed the White Hart's greasy potboy and ordered another round. Thinking on the smuggler's straightforward tale, Hoare felt compelled to believe it. In his judgment, there were honest criminals and dishonest ones, and he had known his share of both. For certain, Abel Dunaway was one of the former.
"I'll drink to your decision, Mr. Dunaway," he whispered, and kept his word.
Refreshed, Dunaway cocked an inquiring eye at Hoare.
"And the question you had for me?" he asked.
"About the Nine Stones Circle, Mr. Dunaway. Captain Popham of the excise cutter Walpole…"
Dunaway chuckled.
"The ol' rascal'll 'a' told you we be friends for donkey's years, 'e and I. 'E's won some; I've won some. More than 'e might know of, I'll warrant."
Hoare burst into one of his rare fits of silent laughter. He had once overheard a Portsmouth popinjay remark about Hoare's laugh that it "sounded like one hand clapping." The concept, especially coming from such a source, had left Hoare bemused for some days.
"He used almost the same words about you, if you'd like to know," Hoare said. "In any case, Popham tells me you know the Nine Stones Circle better than most."