Channel Islanders were another matter. Most of them were bilingual. They were scattered all over the Channel coast of England, earning their living as gardeners and as seamen of various types. More than one officer of the Navy-Sir James Saumarez, for instance-was a Channel Islander. Yes, his assailants could easily be Channel Islanders.
Hoare gradually recovered his energy as the sun broke through, but for the most part, he left Unimaginable to find her own way home with only the most necessary guidance, her captain brooding as she sailed. By the late sunset of late May, she eased into the Inner Camber, still listing slightly and lying heavy in the water. She rolled like a woman about to give birth. Hoare made her fast with the help of Guilford the watchman and betook himself up the strand to the Swallowed Anchor. Here Susan the pink girl took him in hand, binding up his head and putting him to bed with a hot toddy.
Chapter XII
Tell me more about Kingsley," Hoare said to Janus Jaggery two mornings later. They were basking in the sunny kitchen garden of the Bunch of Grapes. The bench was out of earshot of Mr. Greenleaf's other customers, and the garden was ablaze with blossoms whose scent overbore the mild rotten reek of the kitchen s wastes. Nearby, young Jenny served "tea" to herself and three creatures that her da had just cleverly twisted out of straw to keep her company.
"Ain't nothin' to tell, Mr. 'Oare. 'E was always a cove to try an' buy 'is way into favor with presents what 'e give to anyone 'e thought might 'elp him to advancement.
"'E was a bum-sucker, yer worship, and a wild spender. Where did 'e get his blunt, then? 'E was too well-known in the Navy to try the gentry-lay, an' those bits of 'ardware we traded was as nuffin'. 'E was a bully. An' that's what set me off the Navy in the first place, Mr. 'Oare-the bullyin'."
"And what else did you do to help him?" Hoare asked.
"Well," Jaggery said reluctantly, "sometimes I'd put 'im in the way of a bit of fine goods from t'other side the Channel- a length of silk, like, for one of 'is morts. Then there was the brandy. In ankers. Lots of them. 'E got 'em himself and tended to 'em 'imself, most particular. Wouldn't 'ave me lay me 'ands on 'em, no, not at first."
"And where did you meet to do these bits of nefarious business?"
"I've a friend, Yer Honor, what 'as the night watch at Arrowsmith's ware'ouse. You know-the ship chandler? 'E let us use it, so long as we never took none of Arrowsmith's wares. Didn't take much space no'ow."
"Space or no space, Jaggery, that's cappabar, as well you know-disposing illegally of His Majesty's property. Get taken up for that, and off they pack you to Botany Bay, before you can whistle. And what will happen to your little Jenny then?"
Upon Hoare's words, Jaggery instinctively searched the tiny garden. No Jenny.
Through the wall behind them came a squeal. Silent as any cat, Hoare got to his feet and, stooped over, threw open the door into the inn kitchen. There was a yell of pain, a crash of crockery, and the clatter of fleeing feet. Hoare went through the door in a rush, almost tripping over Jenny as the child darted back out into the garden.
"I bit 'im, Da!" Jenny shrieked. "I bit 'im!" In her pale face, the child's eyes sparked like black fire.
For a fraction of a second, a dark figure was silhouetted in the doorway beyond, leading into the barroom. Another crash followed, and a shout of rage from Greenleaf. Hoare raced across the barroom and thrust his head out the front door. Down the cobbled lane he saw the fugitive dodging through the throng, running like a started hare toward the water. The object the man carried in one hand caught against an awning pole, and he dropped it, continuing his flight. Hoare caught it up. It was a tapered, flexible tube, like the one Dr. Graves had demonstrated that night in Weymouth.
It brought certain memories together: Morrow's interest in it; the enciphered messages in Kingsley's correspondence and the similar messages whose appearance Mrs. Graves had sketched; Morrow's birthplace; the oddly familiar accents of the two French-speaking men who had boarded him and beaten him a few nights ago; Janus Jaggery's admissions just now about Kingsley's ankers of "brandy." Put together for the first time, these assorted facts melded into a certainty: the man behind the mystery was Mr. Edward Morrow.
Hoare stopped in his tracks. At forty-three, he had no hope of catching the eavesdropper himself on foot. Moreover, he sensed a far greater opportunity to forestall the fugitive in his rush to escape and report to his master. If he were to seize opportunity as well as device, there was not a moment to be lost.
But how? True, the fugitive seemed to be making for the harbor, suggesting that he would make his escape by sea. He could, however, have been laying a false track and would change course for some inshore spot where a horse awaited.
Hoare felt himself on the horns of a dilemma. Should he pursue by land? He had no idea how long it would take a troop of horsemen to ride from Portsmouth to Weymouth, but it had to be an eighty-mile journey. He doubted that horsemen would be able to change mounts en route, as a solitary postboy or a scheduled coach could do. And they would not want to travel at night, he supposed. It could be two days before they reached their destination. By then, the fugitive- traveling every minute except to change horses-would have long since reached Weymouth and alerted Morrow. If Hoare traveled by land, the race was lost from the start.
No, his only chance was to go by sea. With today's northerly wind likely to endure, Inconceivable could make the passage in less than a day, but she would arrive with an inferior force. Given the terms on which he stood with Sir Thomas Frobisher, Hoare could hardly hope to recruit a force in Weymouth or its environs. Yet if his Inconceivable were to make her best speed, she could accommodate no more than two besides himself. Well then, they'll have to be the best fighting sailors in Portsmouth, Hoare told himself. He hastened to the Admiral's offices to gather his trivial reinforcements.
With two experienced, intelligent-looking tars in tow, Hoare was about to work his way back through the town to where Inconceivable lay when it occurred to him to search the harbor first from a spot on the Common Hard, to see if he could catch sight of the fugitives among the waterborne traffic. With a whispered apology, he seized a telescope from an elderly nautical-looking gentleman and set to examining every small craft he could see working its way southward toward the Solent.
"See, Cyril!" came a woman's voice at his side. "Only see how our nation's guardian bends his eagle brow in search of one of His Majesty's enemies on which to swoop!"
Hoare could not help himself. He glanced in the speaker's direction, to see a plainly dressed woman of about his own age, bending to address a child of perhaps six. Seeing that she had caught Hoare's attention, she simpered and moved away, looking over her shoulder widowlike. Hoare returned to his search.
On the low southern horizon, about to disappear behind Gosport, a sleek schooner was just hoisting her flying jib to the soft northerly wind. She was too glossy for a fisherman; her masts were daringly raked. Besides, no mere fisherman troubled with little handkerchiefs like flying jibs. Hoare recognized her as the yacht Morrow had proudly pointed out to him from his own doorstep outside Weymouth-his Marie Claire.
Hoare clapped the pilfered telescope to with a snap and returned it to its nonplussed owner with an unctuous, apologetic smile. He beckoned to his two men and set off again at a run across the dockyard. By the time he reached Inconceivable, Marie Claire would have thirty minutes' lead on him. On a broad reach, the schooner would be at her best. Nonetheless, Hoare thought as he panted along, it was over ninety miles to Weymouth by sea. With the low sea and the favorable breeze, Inconceivable had a fair chance. Morrow-or his yacht, at least- would have his race after all, it seemed. But there was not a moment to be lost.