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 of 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.
London, Hoare decided the next morning, offered even tougher navigational challenges than pine-clad, rockbound Penobscot Bay or the blockaded, cannon-girt shallows around Brest. On making his way from the Golden Cross, he took himself into and out of three blind alleys in the warren surrounding Whitehall before he finally tracked down the privy entrance to the Admiralty to which Sir George Hardcastle had directed him. It was a wearisome passage, and he feared he had found his way only by fool luck.
Once found, however, the privy entrance was easily breached. Having presented his orders to an ancient, he waited while the man shuffled off to return with an eager-looking mouse of a man. The mouse took out a list and read down it until he found Hoare's name as one expected by Admiral Sir Hugh Abercrombie, KB. He then guided him down a series of stately corridors and through a web of unimpressive byways to the lair of the spider himself. The lair was lofty, spacious, well heated by a pair of glowing fireplaces, and overlooked the Horse Guards Parade; Hoare was reinforced in his expectation that the admiral was high in the councils of the mighty.
Sir Hugh was occupied with a ferret-shaped, sinuous man. The escorting mouse took one look at the ferret and fled into some bolt-hole of his own.
"You'll be Hoare," Sir Hugh rumbled from out of a pasty, puddinglike head. "Take a pew. I'll be finished with Lestrade here momentarily."
After exchanging a few more words in an undertone, Lestrade withdrew. Sir Hugh could now turn his attention to Hoare. He did not rise, for the simple act of coming to his feet would obviously have been hard for him. Now, Hoare understood why it had been necessary to devise that reinforced hanging chair in the late Captain Oglethorpe's cabin-now Hoare's own-aboard Royal Duke; Sir Hugh was vast.
"Stand up straight," the admiral said. Hat under arm, Hoare came to attention and stood to be inspected, staring at the invisible horizon.
"You have a report for me. Hand it over."
After receiving the papers over which Hoare had labored two nights ago, Sir Hugh steepled his hands and for several minutes examined his visitor in silence, his cold gray eyes nearly hidden in the pudding of his face. Finally, he spoke.
"So. Take a seat, sir. I have read the memoranda you drafted for Hardcastle. You're his deus ex machina, then. His Hercules. The man he uses to drag his chestnuts out of the fire. Good record at sea, respectable navy family, no voice. Pity about that.
You look as though you were otherwise fit for command. But the fleet's loss is the service's gain. Perhaps.
"Let me read these reports, however, so as not to try your voice with unnecessary questions. Be seated, if you please."
Sir Hugh drew a long churchwarden pipe from a rack behind him, packed it carefully, and lit it. When the pipe was drawing to his satisfaction, he began to read, puffing thoughtfully at the pipe as he read and giving off thick clouds of smoke. Within a minute, the room was befogged; within three minutes, his reading ended.