Hoare's eloquence-for ten years of normal speech still remained to him-had persuaded her. He had even been willing to be married in the small Roman church that served the French colony. But the fact that he could not convert and still keep his precious commission had caused an estrangement to arise between his bride's people and himself. This must have weighed, he always thought, in their decision to return to the wilds of Quebec. They took with them the daughter Antoinette had died in bearing him. All of this-the birth, Antoinette's death, the family's return to Canada, had taken place while Hoare was at sea in Beetle, helping to wind up the fratricidal American war. He had never seen their child-Leticie, the name the sour-faced cure had shown him in the baptismal register upon his return to Halifax. He had never even learned whether or not she bore her father's family name, and he was of two minds on the subject. He did not wish her to be nameless; yet on the other hand, if the girl should grow up to move in Anglophone circles, his own name would carry invidious connotations.
He was irrational on the topic, he knew, but Hoare blamed Antoinette's death on the good fortune he had experienced in play with her brother, which had resulted in his challenge. He had therefore sworn solemnly that never again would he touch a card. He had kept his pledged word.
But Eleanor was still speaking, more or less into his ear.
"Besides, Bartholomew," she said, "there is another reason for my descent upon you. There were strangers in Great Dunmow, watchful strangers, watching me. I did not trust them.
Now, if you compare it with Little Dunmow, Great Dunmow may be a metropolis, but it holds no more than a hundred folk, young and old, and, were something untoward to take place, I would find myself without protection. So I up and came down to Greenwich."
"Leaving our household behind, madam?" Hoare whispered. "That makes little sense."
"No, my dear. I brought the entire household along-Tom, Agnes, Jenny, Order the cat, Uncle Tom Cobbley, and all. It required the hiring of a wain."
"I should imagine so," he said. "If we are to continue junketing about England like so many gypsies, we must betake ourselves to a wainwright and have a vehicle built to our order, from the keel up."
"And you shall give it a new name for every voyage, the way you did Devastation, or whatever your pinnace was last named, before you decided to settle on a consistent name for her."
"Nemesis." Hoare's voice was absent. "But tell me more about these strangers."
"I have little more to tell you," she answered. "In a metropolis like Great Dunmow, strangers stand out, especially when they loiter about without any visible reason for doing so. They were townsmen, it seemed, shifty, and not overly strict about leaving the possessions of others alone. As I said, I did not like them or the oh-so-subtle watch they kept on me, so I came here."
"And where did you leave your wainful of family?"
"Oh, as to that, dear Jane's cousin Augustine-imagine, Bartholomew, the foolishness of his father, John Austen, naming one of his sons Augustine-has gone off with his people to Jamaica on some business of his wife's family, and his house was to let. It is the other side of Blackheath, not more than half an hour's drive from the quay opposite Royal Duke. Very suitable it is, too. You shall see it and take proper command there as soon as the Service permits.
"And-oh! I quite forgot. I am sorry. Bartholomew, Tracy said I was to give you the news that his patient died. The man. He never recovered consciousness; 'a depressed fracture of the cranium,' he said. So there goes one of your sources of information. I would not care to be your prisoner, sir; they do tend to die off while in your custody."
"Damn." As Hoare drew on his breeches, he remembered, not for the first time, that his predecessor in Eleanor's affections had been an eminent physician and surgeon-much of his knowledge had rubbed off on his wife, as Hoare's own interests were evidently doing as well.
How Eleanor had guessed, Hoare did not know, but he had indeed been sure that, with skilled interrogation by Thoday and himself, he could have persuaded the leader of the river pirates to disclose the identity of the man Floppin' Poll had named as "Sol." Now only the mort herself remained as a source.
Floppin' Poll was of no help at all. Recovered from her disabling chill, she had recovered her spirits as well, and would not be coerced into more than describing the man "Sol."
Moreover, her description was null. Sol could have been a masked Chinaman or a black Fijian, for all she knew. He was utterly featureless. Besides, as Hoare and Thoday agreed when they stepped aside out of the young woman's hearing, she was hardly the most intelligent or observant creature alive.
"To tell the truth, sir, she's of no use to us as she sits," Thoday said. "I suggest that we have her followed and watched. More than likely, Sol will want to learn the outcome of the little adventure he arranged for us, and will find her to interrogate her. A competent watcher should be able to detect his approach, leave the woman, and follow him."
"An excellent idea, Thoday. Have you a recommendation among your shipmates? A 'competent watcher'?"
Hoare added hastily, "Other than yourself, of course."
Slightly chagrined, Thoday thought for a moment, then nodded.
"Collis, sir. Small, nimble, used to be a sweep, still looks like a lad. Second-story man, candidate for rating as topman, Bold tells me. Unremarkable."
"I don't remember him, certainly," Hoare said. "If that's a measure, he certainly is unremarkable." Though he took pride in having learned his crew by name despite his brief time in actual company with them, Hoare knew himself fallible in his memory of individuals.
"Let's have a look at him."
Summoned, Collis showed why Hoare could not recall him. He looked indeterminate, like an aged urchin, prematurely wizened. An ex-jockey, perhaps. Hoare gave him his instructions and some pocket money, showed him Floppin' Poll as she sat unwitting, sent him off to Royal Duke's slop chest to be clad in appropriate rags, and saw him into the wherry to sit beside his prey.
The tide was flowing. Hoare's two ferryman, whom the Royal Dukes had filled with tots saved from their own precious rum ration, clambered somewhat unsteadily into their prize. The captured pair-oar still carried both sweeps while one of their own craft's sculls had floated down toward Gravesend and the sea. They objected to carrying Floppin' Poll as the only surviving architect of their perceived misfortunes, but subsided when Hoare summoned Mr. Clay, who bellowed them into submission. Matthew, as stroke oar and commander, pocketed their fare and a little over. Hoare watched over his own taffrail as the two rowed off upstream in the pair-oar, with their passengers in the stern sheets, towing the double scull close behind them. Like an old married couple, they bickered as they pulled.
What next? Hoare asked himself. He stood at a loss for an answer.
Chapter VIII
The Master's boot thudded again into the ribs of the man who lay prone before him. The victim no longer had the strength to howl; he merely grunted with the force of the blow, and rolled over. Kick, kick-this time, into the man's unprotected face. The master lifted him by the front of his coat, hurled him against the wall and punched him in the pit of the stomach before letting him drop again. The man gagged and choked.
"Damn you, you inept nincompoop. I told you to damage him, not kill him. And you let him kill Darby. And where's Jukes? Answer me that."
"I–I-"
"Shut up. I ought to kill you myself. You ought to know by now: I keep my enemies, and put them to use. Now give me the shiv."
"I left it be'ind, boss," the man mumbled, "like you tole me-"