I don't understand you, Saul. What have you against Hoare? I hate the bastard myself, I admit, but what do you gain by capturing him and toying with him the way you say you want to do?"
"I choose to do so, sir. It's as simple as that. He has defeated my people, opposed me. I do not brook opposition. I shall break him…. Break him, do ye hear? Break him, let him remain in place, and make a tool of his shards."
The tracks of hoofs and wheels marked the thin snow cover, black against the moonlit white. That was odd; Hoare had passed neither cart nor carriage on his way home from Royal Duke, and there were more hoofprints than even a chaise and pair could explain. As far as he could tell-for, unlike Thoday, he was no tracker-the hoofprints went in both directions. Had there been visitors at Dirty Mill, come and gone?
Out of the moon-shadow of a spinney, a horseman rushed upon Hoare pell-mell. Hoare's cob shied, swerved, bucked, tossing last week's frozen snow in a hard spray about its hoofs. Hoare was nearly unseated and saved himself only by a strong heave on the reins. He forced his animal about so that it faced the attacker. To his astonishment, the man swung a saber at him; awkwardly wielded, it gleamed silver in the moonlight. His sparse teeth gleamed likewise, in a determined grin.
Why he was being attacked in this fashion, Hoare had neither a notion nor the time to consider. This was no swordsman, he realized as he backed the cob to gain time, nor was he a highwayman. Highwaymen these days commonly stood off and aimed a pair of barkers at their prey; they did not go in for escrime. Had they both been afoot, Hoare would have had no trouble in drawing his own weapon and disarming the silly ass. As it was, though, he had never in his born days played hussar, and he felt uncertain of the outcome. Hastily and awkwardly, he grappled and drew. Before he could parry, he must duck a wild slash, and his hat flew off. Instead of taking off Hoare's head, the attacker's blade cropped the cob's left ear.
The poor beast screamed and reared, and Hoare lost a stirrup. He gripped with his thighs as tightly as he would have gripped the mizzen when a-slide deckward from the crosstrees, and began to jab-jab-jab with his own weapon. For a moment, his unorthodox jabs seemed to disconcert the attacker, but he recovered and thrust forward again with a hoarse croak, his saber raised over his head, ready to divide Bartholomew Hoare as he sat.
Hoare leaned forward and jabbed. In his onset, the other impaled himself on Hoare's point. It took him in the throat. Momentum, if nothing else, carried him on, the point sinking deeper until Hoare felt it grate on bone. The strange horse crashed into the cob, which jarred back with the shock, but the attacking horseman was lifted over his cantle. He slid off the croup, twisting Hoare's sword out of his grip and carrying it with him, and sprawled in the moonlit snow. As Hoare watched, he kicked convulsively twice before going limp.
Hoare dismounted and bent over his victim, panting heavily.
First, he withdrew his sword and wiped it on the dead man's fouled breeches before returning it to its scabbard. Then he searched the body. A purse, a kerchief… ahh. A slip of paper, covered with writing too small for him to read in the moonlight. It would have to wait until he reached Dirty Mill. The stranger's horse bent over the body and whickered softly, as though mourning its master.
Another smell, Hoare could tell now, accompanied the odor of death. It was not excremental, though equally unpleasant, and it was one he had smelled not so long ago. Looking at the corpse a second time, he knew now who it was: Hancock, captain of Royal Duke's own pigeon loft.
With a heave, Hoare hoisted the body across the newly emptied saddle, then hoisted himself back aboard his own cob. He gave a cluck and a nudge with his heels, and the beast moved off toward home and hay, not unwilling, the other animal following in its wake. Rest was not far off.
In the distance, Dirty Mill loomed dark. That should not be. Eleanor and the child would be awaiting his arrival-why had they not lit the house properly? With his knees, Hoare urged the cob on, and it broke readily into a trot. At his unlighted door, Hoare pulled the animal to a stop before it could carry him around to the back, from whence that wonderful hay was calling it.
The front door was open. Within, all was silence.
Hoare gave his chirrup of summons for someone-Tom, he hoped-to come and take the cob off to the stable with its new companion and the corpse. He himself would not tarry, however, but dismounted and left animals and corpse to fend for themselves.
Inside, there was still no sound, until at last, with his own plaintive chirp, the gray cat Order appeared from nowhere and commenced to wind himself around Hoare's ankles. Hoare's nose detected the faintest scent of burnt powder and, once again, faint but real, the reek of recent death. He groped his way to the shelf on the other side of the hallway, where he knew flint and steel lay ready, groped on until he found them, and lit a candle. For a moment, his eyes were dazzled. When they recovered, he understood why Tom had not answered his call.
"Jesus," he breathed.
The manservant lay prone next to the open green baize door separating offices from family quarters, a dark pool spread below his face, a discharged pistol dropped from one outreached hand. Order chirruped again, impatient for attention. An overturned chair lay beyond.
Putting fingers to his mouth, Hoare produced the piercing whistle of urgent command that, to friend and stranger alike, could only mean "Attention!" or "All hands!" depending on circumstances. Surely someone would hear and come a-running. He listened. Off in the distance, somewhere toward the back of the house, he was sure he heard a faint grunting sound. Leaving Tom's remains behind, he followed his ears toward the sound, along a thin trail of crimson that led him, candle in hand, past the baize door and into the pantry. The grunts were coming from the kitchen.
Except from a faint red glow from the hearth, the kitchen was as dark as the front of the house. By the light of his candle, Hoare saw the maidservant Agnes, hair and clothing awry, slumped against a cabinet, emitting the grunting sounds. She had managed to draw her skirts partway back down her discolored thighs, but a dark stain marred the apron, usually spotless, which she wore about her waist whenever she was within doors. As he watched, the stain widened. He lifted the skirts gently and viewed what lay beneath, then covered them again. He had seen worse in his time, but not much worse.
Ignoring the cat's insistent yowls, Hoare squatted beside Agnes and took her gently by the shoulder.
"Agnes," he whispered. "It's Mr. Hoare. What has happened? Where are your mistress and Jenny?"
"Uh."The girl's eyes opened. "'Urts."
Hoare repeated his question. Now her eyes seemed to gain focus, and fixed on his candle-lit face.
"Too-took," she muttered. "'Urts zo." She clutched her bleeding belly.
"You'll be all right, Agnes. It won't hurt much longer." He knew he spoke truth.
"Who…," he whispered.
"Men," she said. "Too many for Tom." Gathering strength, she added, "Done it to me, they did. Three of 'em done it to me. No, I lie, they was more. Took turns, they did… 'gainst my will, tu. Town folk, they was. All but that pigeon man what smells zo bad.
" 'Urts zo, zur… Make it stop, do… That pigeon man, I think 'e left sumpin' on table."
"You say the mistress was taken?"
"Aye, took, zur. Too many for 'er, too many for Tom. Poor Tom's a-cold. Oh, it 'urts."
Candle in hand, Hoare stepped across to the kitchen table, which he found had been swept clear except for a fresh red stain that told him where Agnes's rape and gutting had taken place, and an envelope placed four-square at its midpoint. It was addressed to Commander Bartholomew Hoare, in a neat clerkly hand. He knew Hancock's semi-educated script from his work in Royal Duke; this writing was not his. He broke the seal and read the contents.
Mr. Hoare:
I have recently learned that you have, quite improperly and in defiance of my wishes, taken into your possession certain portrait drawings by Timothy Pickering, Esq., which he in turn had, equally improperly, retained in his own keeping in the course of his work for us. Since these drawings are the rightful property of myself and my colleagues, I now require that you return them to me forthwith, in their entirety, withholding none of them whatsoever. As you now know, I have taken steps to insure that you do so.
Immediately upon receiving this communication, therefore, you shall bring the aforesaid drawings to 18, Gracechurch Street, presenting yourself by night. You shall, it goes without saying, be unaccompanied; I shall consider the presence of any companion, aide, or follower as exhibiting bad faith on your part, and shall act accordingly, to the certain detriment of your dependents and yourself.
The same stricture applies to your bearing any arms whatsoever; upon arrival at Gracechurch Street, I warn you, you shall be subjected to a close search.
Upon your having delivered the portraits to my satisfaction, I give you my word of honor as a gentleman that your wife and stepdaughter (or ward) will be released to you in more or less the condition in which my people gathered them.
The consequences of your deviating, whether by intent or inadvertence, from these instructions need not, I am certain, be discussed at this time.
I look forward to receiving you and your documents in Gracechurch Street, and to concluding this matter in a way that I find agreeable.
The letter was unsigned.
Hoare took a last precious moment to slip up to the bedroom he and Eleanor shared. Usually tidy, it was littered now with their personal goods; in the midst of the clutter lay a long serpentine object of tough cotton cloth-his wife's savior sling. He sought out a shawl and brought it back downstairs, where he laid it across Agnes and tucked it in.
"I must leave you, Agnes," he whispered. "Rest now. I'll send help as soon as I find it." He bent, brushed the straggling hair from the girl's forehead, and kissed her there. It was cold.
Outside Dirty Mill's door, the two horses stood, still steaming lightly in the frosty air. Hoare stopped long enough to examine his choices. He must return to Royal Duke, for no longer than needful to retrieve the drawings that the unknown message writer was demanding. Thence, whether by land or river, he must move at utmost speed. In all truth now, not a moment was to be lost. He checked the position of the moon and, from it, verified his estimate of the tide. It was as he feared; it would be on the ebb. He must ride. The dead Barnaby's horse looked the fresher, perhaps… No, it was a stranger horse, while he and the cob at least knew each other's ways. He would take the cob. He led Barnaby's horse around to the stable and dumped in a manger the hay that the cob ought to be enjoying. Then he ran back to the cob, mounted, spurred the startled beast, and was off. Behind him, Dirty Mill and its inhabitants lay in the dark, its front door still swinging gently in the frosty, light night breeze.
Sweeping aside the startled anchor watch at Royal Duke's entry port, Hoare put fingers to mouth and sounded his whistle of alarm once more. Unlike the fruitless blast he had uttered at his own doorstep, the response to this second shriek was as it should always be. From belowdecks came a humming as of a hive of enormous disturbed bees. First to come on deck was Mr. Clay, nightgowned, nightcapped, and barefoot to the icy planks, buckling his serviceable sword about his waist as he came. He was followed by Leese and two of his men, also carrying their swords, as they, like the riflemen they copied in all things, termed their long bayonets. Others followed.
As had become instinctive with him by now, Clay stepped up to his captain's side to assume his duty as stentor.
"My wife and child have been taken," Hoare began. "Kidnapped."
The hum of bees rose to an enraged pitch.
"Hancock, our pigeon man, was one of them. He's dead. Here's a letter my people's takers left behind. I'll have Mr. Clay give you its gist while I prepare to follow them. Alone, as you will learn."
He ducked below to his cabin forward of the orphaned pigeons. As soon as he had a chance he would slaughter them all and hang them around Hancock's neck like Mr. Coleridge's albatross. But first, he must get together the likenesses with which he must ransom his family, and bring his people home. He had lost his first family; he would never let this second one out of his sight again. They had become unutterably precious.
"After hearing what you told us about Hancock, sir"-Clay told Hoare when he reappeared, the roll of drawings slung across one shoulder like a scabbard in lieu of the sword he must leave behind tonight-"I took it upon myself to take a muster of all hands, since they were already on deck. Besides Hancock, and of course Thoday and little Collis, the cook Green is missing, sir. Run, I suspect."
From one of the many Londoners in his crew, Hoare now took directions to Gracechurch Street, absorbing them as best he could, given his present mental state. He remembered, at least, that he should cross the river by the Westminster Bridge. He shook off the man's pleas to let him guide him there. "Can't risk it, Eddison," he whispered, "but thank you."
After issuing a few last-minute instructions, in which he stressed again his absolute veto of any attempt upon the part of the Royal Dukes to follow him up to London in the hope of being helpful, Hoare wrapped the Pickering drawings into a long cylinder, strapped it to his shoulder, and mounted. As he set off in the cold moonlight, he heard Mr. Clay's astonishing roar of a voice from Royal Duke behind: "Now Godspeed, sir, and good luck! Bring us back your women!"
Mr. Clay's farewell was followed by three quiet, grim cheers. Well, Hoare thought, at least he had not made enemies of them all.
He must not force the cob's pace. The night air was icy, the snow could hide all sorts of traps in the London road, and he was conning the animal's nose into the moonlight. So, though his heart kept urging him to gallop, gallop, gallop to the rescue, he held the beast to a sober trot. Under close-reefed topsails, so to speak, with a leadsman in its chains. He had the time now to think about what had happened, and what lay ahead of him.
The pigeon man and the cook. For sure, the cook had run. Besides being a Portsmouth "brute" by trade as well as build, she was an evil witch as a cook, and she had not been well-liked, so it could be no surprise that she had left the ship. Perhaps she had been in league with Hancock, who was dead and could not tell his tale.
As to Hancock himself: even in as unconventional a ship's company as the Royal Dukes, there was no traditional role in a ship's company for a captain of the pigeons. Such a rating had never existed before. Besides, there was the matter of stink-the stink of his feathered, cooing charges, and worse, the stink of the man himself. Hancock had become a pariah.
The fact might well have eaten into his soul, as Hoare knew from experience could happen to any Jonah: shunned, neglected, imposed upon, often beaten up. As Hoare must now confess, to his own belated chagrin, Hancock might well have taken Hoare himself into a deep hatred, for he himself had not even tried to conceal his disgust whenever the man's stench reached his nose. Certainly, Hoare recollected with a shudder, the pigeon-master's man's grin, as he rode onto him only an hour or so ago, had been a welcoming one-of a sort. Hancock had been seeking the life of an enemy.
Besides, through his work, Hancock had been in close, frequent touch with persons off ship, and with the ciphering and deciphering task directed by Sarah Taylor. (Hoare hoped, in passing, that Taylor herself had not been tainted. Surely not.) In the eyes of whomever might be trying to penetrate the operations of Royal Duke, the pigeon man would have been a logical target for seduction.
By now, Hoare estimated by the sinking moon in his eyes, it would be past four bells in the middle watch-two o'clock in the morning. The London road was a street now, lined with solid buildings of a mercantile nature, clear of snow but not of clutter, and he all but alone in it. When he had rounded a jog in the street, Westminster Bridge hove into sight. He would be another half hour to Gracechurch Street, provided he did not lose himself. He had best add on still another half hour in which to untangle his way.
At the bridge's near end, he spied lantern-light, and in it two huddled men. The watch, he supposed. He came to a decision. He could not stand the idea of wandering a-horseback through the London labyrinth, lost and despondent, Gracechurch Street ever receding. He would take a pilot aboard, and throw himself on the mercy of his family's captors.
The offer of a golden half-crown was more than enough to make the younger of the two watchmen snatch at the prospect of bringing this night-bound gaby in uniform to his destination.
"Swift, safe an' sahnd, sir," he promised, "an' will exercise the 'oss while I wytes, to boot."
Hoare got the man's name from his partner-he was Job Threadneedle, as in the street where the limner Pickering lived-and hauled him onto the cob to ride pillion. The beast must be weary. But necessity knew no mercy, and besides, it was due for a rest of unknown duration.
They crossed the bridge together to the music of a travel narrative from Hoare's pilot, who had a story about every corner they passed, told in a nasal drone that sometimes Hoare failed altogether to understand. When Threadneedle spoke, he breathed, and the stench of his breath reminded Hoare of Hancock. By now, the pigeon man's body should be under the scrutiny of the team Mr. Clay had ordered sent down to Dirty Mill. When his passenger began to give his directions in rhyming cant, Hoare shut him off with a harsh whispered snarl to speak English.
" 'Ere we be, sir, syfe an' sahnd, jest lyke I promised yer we'd be," Threadneedle said into Hoare's ear at last, with a final putrid puff. By Hoare's estimate, only twenty minutes had elapsed since he had brought his vile-smelling pilot aboard.
"Well done, man," Hoare whispered. He slid off the cob, and Threadneedle slid onto the warm saddle.
"Wait till they admit me," Hoare went on. "Then take the animal to the nearest inn, stable it and have it tended to, and make yourself at home there. If you're still sober when I join you, there's another sovereign in it for you."
"Walk-er!" To a mere watchman, two whole golden boys would be a fortune.
"Where will you put up?" Hoare asked.
After scratching his head, Threadneedle decided.
"Bow and Forest, sir," he said, and pointed with the itching head. "No more'n a 'undred yards dahn Grycechurch, that wye. Coachin' inn, it is; tykes in all kines, so long as they got the blunt, any time o' night."
Incredibly, Hoare realized he knew where the Bow was. It was the London terminus of the coach line to Cambridge, and the Hoares would have been using it overnights on their passages to and from Great Dunmow.
"Very good, Threadneedle. By the bye, tell them you are in my employ… Commander Hoare, of the navy."
"Commander 'Oare, of the nyvy," the pilot repeated. "An'… an' good luck, sir. Don't you worry, sir, Hi'll be waitin' you. 'Opes to see you there, syfe an' sahnd."