"Your sword, sir! Would you be forgetting your sword?"
She bent, shaking her head and frowning prettily, fastened the useless thing deftly about Hoare's waist, and let the gentlemen go.
"I have other news, sir," said Gladden, keeping up with Hoare's near-trot through the streets of Portsmouth. "My brother is to take holy orders next month."
"Hardly surprising, do you think?" Hoare asked.
"Not in the least." Gladden had already begun to puff. An officer's confined life at sea did not make for a fit body, Hoare reminded himself, however finely it might hone his judgment.
"He wants you to attend his ordination," the smaller man went on. "Apparently, he credits you with having kept him from being strung up for the day at Vantages yardarm, like a Bounty mutineer or a jammed signal."
"Where and when are the hands to be laid upon him?"
"The twenty-first of July, I think he said. Since Bath and Wells have agreed to direct the thing, I imagine it will be in his cathedral at Wells."
Interest or no interest, Hoare thought, Arthur Gladden might never have made more than an incompetent sea officer, but he could well be a decent cleric. Furthermore, his family moved in exalted circles indeed if the occupant of one of England's oldest sees consented to preside at the ex-lieutenant's priesting.
"I shan't be present," Gladden went on. "Frolics under orders."
"Oh?" Hoare whispered. His belly churned with envy.
"And so, by the way, is Vantage, as soon as her new captain has picked his second and third officers."
"Are the pickings his to make, then?" Hoare asked. "Who is he?" Perhaps-just perhaps-the man would be an old friend who would stretch common sense for friendship's sake and take him on as second, or even third.
"Kent," Gladden said. "John Kent. Weatherby's predecessor in Crocus just made post. They say he's decided to make his appointments by interview instead of interest. He's sitting on the candidates today, with Sir George."
The procedure was odd, but perfectly proper. Hoare had never heard of a Captain Kent. "A bit of a jump for him, isn't it?"
"Yes. He was slated for Eager, 28, but Their Lordships at the Admiralty had to give her to Plummer. Then Kent's uncle, Featherstonehaugh, put up such a row in the House that they gave him Vantage instead to keep him quiet."
He pronounced the name of Kent's uncle as "Fanshawe," the way he should. With his courtier's ear and his own family's interest, Hoare thought, it would not be long before Gladden himself climbed another rung or two up that tarry, slippery ladder toward post rank.
"A Plummer for Kent, eh?" he whispered. Hoare surprised himself at the words. He could not remember the last time he had uttered an impromptu joke. Perhaps it was a sign affairs were about to look up for him.
Gladden raised his eyebrows at his companion and laughed. "Very good, sir! Next thing you'll be saying is that the news of my departure gladdens your heart, eh?"
"It does no such thing, my dear fellow. We shorebound bodies will miss you, you know."
"Thank you, Hoare. I hope another, softer heart will miss me, too."
So that was the way the wind blew. Mr. Gladdens pursuit of his Admiral's dumpy, spotty, popular daughter was a serious matter. If he landed her, their joint interest would have him commanding a 74 within two years. Perhaps, then… Hoare smiled bleakly.
Once the Marine guard had saluted them into Sir George's offices, Hoare took Gladden's arm gently and turned to face him.
"You've done the task the Admiral sent you on, Peter, and I'm here for my chastisement. Now go; seek out Miss Felicia, and good luck to you-both with your damsel and with your new ship."
"Thank you, Bartholomew. You've been a good friend to the Gladdens. I shall not forget." Mr. Gladden's towhead disappeared down the street. Hoare smiled after him. He had not forgotten what it was like to be twenty-four, well-connected, and full-voiced.
Chapter VII
After naming himself to the rabbit-faced clerk outside Sir George's inner door, Hoare sought out an out-of-the-way corner in which he could lean without being bothered while he awaited the Admiral's pleasure and, himself unobserved, could observe his fellow officers. He suspected he would have a long, long wait.
Except for a few who, like himself, were present on other business, the gathering outside Sir George's sanctum consisted of eleven hopeful lieutenants, candidates pursuing the two choice spots in the virgin Vantage. Each bore his precious, irreplaceable letters of testimonial, some visibly a decade or more old. Each had dressed in his finest and stood as trim as he could; each glared at any rival who came eye to eye. Among them Hoare counted three weary old trots, older than he by ten years or more, and two downy-cheeked youngsters with rows of shiny new buttons on their uniform lapels and cuffs. The other six were run-of-the-mill serving officers, somewhat scarred but, unlike himself, still serviceable at sea. Of the eleven, three were already flushed with drink.
One of these procured a chamber pot from a nearby cabinet and walked toward Hoare's corner, unbuttoning himself as he came.
"Kindly find another pissing place, sir," Hoare said in his harshest whisper. "I do not care to be splashed."
The other started and paused as if deciding whether to take umbrage. Upon taking stock of Hoare's dire aspect, he mumbled an apology and went off in search of a less controversial corner.
Only three candidates for Vantage remained when the rabbit-clerk answered a bellowed summons from within, entered the Admiral's sanctum, and returned, looking flustered.
"Lieutenant… ah… Hoare? Has Mr… a gentleman by that name presented himself?"
Hoare overlooked the expected titters and wove his way through the thinning crowd to the rabbit. "I gave you my name over two hours ago," he said.
"Oh, dear. And now Sir George is most displeased. Oh, dear." The rabbit's ears seemed to droop. It hastened to open the door and squeak out Hoare's name.
It might have been early July, but Sir George was frosty. He was wearing his own hair, almost as frosty as the half-wig he had sported at his reception. As was natural, the three others in the room had caught their Admiral's chill. They were a post captain with the single epaulet carried to starboard that signified less than three years' seniority, a languid elegant in a uniform coat like Hoare's own, and a slim, pallid civilian. These must be Captain Kent of Vantage and Sir George's flag lieutenant and his secretary, respectively. Hoare felt himself under four pairs of icy eyes.
"If you will excuse me for a moment, gentlemen…," Sir George began, and then, as his companions began to rise, added, "No, no. Please, simply bear with me for a trice, while I deal with this officer.
"Now, sir, you have damned well taken your time in obeying orders. You have kept me waiting, not only for one morning, but for two entire days. This is hardly the behavior of a dedicated officer of the Navy. What do you mean by it, sir?"
"I was afloat until this morning, sir," Hoare whispered, "on personal leave, to recover my voice."
"You evidently require additional leave, then," the captain began, and drew to himself some of the Admiral's chill.
"Mr. Hoare's affairs are none of yours, sir," said Sir George.
The captain reddened and subsided.
"And this morning's delay?"
"I presented myself in your anteroom more than two hours ago, sir, within an hour of tieing up."
"Hmmph. Then we'll set your dilatory behavior to one side for the time being. Now, as to the purpose for which I requested your immediate presence two days ago…" Sir George's qualified absolution notwithstanding, he was not going to forget whatever inconvenience Hoare's absence had caused him.