All things considered, Hoare thought, Sir George could call him a squirrel, a pig, or an illegitimate mud turtle for that matter, whenever he wanted, as long as the insults accompanied what sounded like praise. Was this the grim flag officer he had come to know and fear?
"I want you to find the cause of these explosions, Mr. Hoare, forthwith," the Admiral said. "I am issuing you orders to that effect.
"Patterson!" he bellowed. "Bring your writing gear!
"Now, Patterson," he said, "take this down. Put it into proper form; make a fair copy for my signature. Log and file the original.
"Until further orders, Mr. Hoare," Sir George continued, "you are to devote your fullest attention to determining and uprooting the cause of these losses.
"In the furtherance of this task, you are authorized to draw any reasonable funds from the authorities at Portsmouth and commandeer such manpower and equipment as may be ready to hand. You may refer to me any member of the service who cavils at providing such aid as you may require.
"Patterson, make sure that Hoare also has a general travel warrant and a supply of forms. That will be all. Wait outside until Patterson here has finished his scribbling."
The orders Patterson handed him at last defined neither "reasonable" nor "ready to hand," but Hoare was of no mind to quibble. Duty would have made him ready to begin rooting without ado; curiosity would have added urgency. Admiral Hardcastle's words just now were a spur for an already willing horse. If Hoare so chose, he could have taken them to mean that if he, at the end of some unstated period of servitude, had-like Heracles-cleaned enough stables and killed enough monsters, the Admiral might find him a berth at sea. Situated as he was, Hoare did so choose. Besides, he wanted to make someone pay for the flayed and mangled men he had pulled out of the sea that morning.
He left the Admiral's place of business, feeling quite as merciless as Sir George himself.
Chapter IX
While Hoare 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.