Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities (25 page)

The warehouse was nothing more than a series of interconnected sheds that reached from Eastney High Street to the shore. Hoare found no one in the first two sheds and squeezed through a narrow passage into the third. He pulled out his boatswain's call and piped “All Hands!” in the hope that Jaggery, if he was there, would respond by instinct.

The man himself appeared in a crooked doorway at the far end of the enclosure. He looked bewildered.

Anything he might have been saying to Hoare was drowned by a thunderclap behind him, a blast that threw Jaggery forward and Hoare backward. A cloud of fire followed the burst. Behind Jaggery, the shed roof collapsed, and the flames began to get a grip on it. Jaggery lay still, face up on the floor, half-buried in debris.

The choking battle reek of burnt powder filled the place. Hoare coughed, wheezed, and wept as he struggled over the fallen beams in the smoke toward the other man.

Jaggery lay supine, facing what had been the ceiling. From his waist down he was hidden under a massive joist that lay almost level with the bricks of the room's floor. He was breathing hard. From the ruins of the shed Hoare could hear the soft roar of flames as the fire tightened its grip.

“Help me up, Yer Honor. Somethin's holdin' me poor weak legs down an' I can't move 'em. Get it orf me, can't yer?”

Hoare freed a lighter beam and began to search for a spot that offered him leverage room. He found one, set the beam's end under the joist, and heaved down on the beam with all his weight. For all his frantic prying, the joist would not budge. Outside, he heard the jangling of a fire bell. The engine's feeble streams and bucket brigade would do as much good here as two old men in a pissing contest.

Another, smaller explosion sounded in the ruins. A flickering of fire reflected itself in Jaggery's wide eyes, and those eyes filled with fear.

“Smartly, man, can't yer? 'Eave!” he gasped. “'Eave!”

He choked and grabbed Hoare's shoulder with his free hand. It was the mangled one, but it could still cling to Hoare like a cargo hook.

Five minutes later, the heat of the fire was scorching Hoare's hair. Jaggery blew a pink bubble. It burst in Hoare's face as he stooped, chest heaving.

Jaggery was breathing hard. “I'm a dead man,” he said. Hoare could not bring himself to deny it. He rested his hand on the other's shoulder.

“Yer a decent cove, Yer Honor,” Jaggery said at last. “I've no … no mind to be roasted alive. Will yer put me down?”

“If you tell me who ‘Himself' is. Morrow's boss.”

“As Gawd is me witness, I dunno, Yer Honor. Morrow, 'e's the only one what knows his name.”

“Why did Kingsley bring one of Morrow's ankers aboard his own ship?” Hoare whispered. “He might as well have shot himself.”

Jaggery shook his head. “Kingsley, Yer Honor? 'E didn't take no anker aboard
Vantage.
I did. Like all the other times, I thought I was slippin' brandy to 'im, for 'im to give to officers that might 'ave interest, to get 'em on 'is side.”

The heat was beating on Hoare's face.

“It was only when Kingsley was dead, and Morrow weren't comin' into town no more, that I dared tap one of them ankers. Wouldn't do no 'arm now, I thought, to have a bit of 'is oh-be-joyful. 'Twasn't as though it belonged to no one anymore, bein' as 'e was dead.

“An' look what I tapped into instead. Oh, well, I guess I was dis- … dis-…”

“Dispensable?”

“Aye. That's the word. Oh, 'urry, sir, 'urry! I can feel the fire on me toes.” By now, Jaggery's voice was as faint as Hoare's own whisper.

Hoare could not believe the man, dying though he was. At least one more layer remained in the Jaggery onion.

“You're lying, Jaggery. Tell me the truth, man, or I'll leave you to burn, all by yourself.”

Jaggery grunted, was silent. Then he sighed. A pink bubble formed at his mouth and broke. “All right. I knew first thing 'e were up to no good, and I found out what was in them ankers first off. Then I thought, well, I never thought that much of the Navy, and there's me Jenny to be kept safe, so I went along with it. That is the truth, Yer Honor, the whole truth, and nothin' but the truth, so help me God.”

At last his words rang true.

“Will ye take care of me Jenny, Yer Honor? She's a good girl, she is, and she'll be a double orphing tomorrer.” His eyes stared intently into Hoare's. “We puts up with Greenleaf at 'is Bunch of Grapes.”

“I'll do it,” Hoare said again. “She'll be brought up a lady.”

“Lady, me arse. She's Wet Meg's get, she is, with no lines spoke between us. Just teach the lass to read an' write, will yer? Ye promise?”

“I promise, Jaggery.”

“Give her a kiss from her ol' da, then.
Uh.
Now, do it. Hope it won't be so hot where I'm goin'. Oh,
Jesus.
” Another pink bubble formed and broke.

Apalled at what he must do, Hoare took out his knife, tested the point against his thumb. Leaning away from Jaggery so the man's blood would strike the advancing fire instead of him, he slipped the point between Jaggery's ribs. Jaggery hissed, jerked like a salmon. Soon, the fire already charring his uniform, Hoare closed Jaggery's eyes and backed out of the wreckage. Time was pressing, but his new obligation pressed more heavily.

*   *   *

J
ENNY
J
AGGERY REMEMBERED
Hoare. When he told her her Da was dead, she stood thoughtful for a minute.

“I'm a norphing, then, for truth,” she said.

“I'm afraid so, child,” Hoare replied.

She went to the pallet where she slept and took a small threadbare purse from under the pillow. “Ain't enough here to pay the rent,” she said, after counting the contents. “So I might as well start doin' it now. 'Ow do yer want to do it to me, Yer Honor? Be easy on me, will yer? I never done it before.”

“You'll not have to ‘do it' for anyone till you're grown-up, Jenny,” Hoare said, “and not then unless you really want to. I promised your Da I'd take care of you, and that I'm going to do. Get your things together now, and we'll be off.”

At first, Mr. Greenleaf appeared reluctant to see Hoare about to vanish with the child, but when Hoare had explained the circumstances and assured him that she would only be moving to the Swallowed Anchor, where he and his good wife could readily reassure themselves of her wellbeing, he released her into Hoare's keeping with a smile and a ha'penny.

Hoare turned his tubular charge and her pitiful bundle of belongings over to the pink girl Susan at the Swallowed Anchor, telling her to feed the child and find her a corner she could call her own. Jenny took Susan's hand readily enough but looked over her shoulder at Hoare.

“Wait,” he whispered. “I forgot. Your Da gave me a packet of kisses for you, and told me to give you one every night when you go to bed.

“Here's for tonight.” He bent over and kissed Jenny's cool, round forehead. It was a new experience, for him at least. “Off you go, child.”

Susan came downstairs after a while. “She's sleepin' peaceful, sir,” she told Hoare. “She didn't even 'ave no dolly, so I give her the one I had when I were her age, an' she cuddled up with it as nice as could be.”

She paused and looked down at Hoare.

“If it ain't presumptive of me to ask, sir,” she said, “what are yer plans for 'er? She seems like a good little mite.”

“To tell the truth, Susan,” he replied, “I haven't thought it through. She's Janus Jaggery's child, you know.”

“Well, Janus Jaggery may have been a bad man, but he weren't a
bad
man, sir, if you catch my meaning. Now, you don't really want to set up to be a da to her, do you? You never struck me as a marryin' man, an' she orter have a mam.” Susan's look grew speculative.

“We'll just have to see, Susan,” Hoare said thoughtfully. “Meanwhile, take good care of her.”

*   *   *

T
HAT DONE
, H
OARE
was ready to see that Edouard Moreau was brought to the King's justice. For this, there was again not a moment to be lost—though, Hoare confessed, he himself had wasted several precious hours in dealing with the Jaggery child.

The arrest of Moreau would be a personal pleasure, but Hoare would be exceeding his brief by thinking to command the expedition it would apparently require. Besides his disaffected French-Canadians, Moreau could well have other English renegades at his disposal as well—Irish irredentists, too, perhaps, ready to avenge Wolfe Tone. Yet, whether he would be exceeding his brief or not, Hoare wanted to be in on the kill, in person. The stink of the vanished
Vantage
was still fresh in his nose.

How was he to go about it? A more tactful officer than himself—one who had kept on good terms with Sir Thomas Frobisher instead of near-hostility—could simply call on the baronet for a force of his watch, march up the long slope from Weymouth town under the eyes of Moreau, cut him out from among some sixteen men, and haul him away. In doing so, this more tactful officer would, of course, have no difficulty in persuading Moreau not to put an end to him with the Kentucky rifle he had stolen, as he had done with at least two victims—Kingsley and Dr. Graves.

Moreover, the man behind Moreau—Fortier's and Jaggery's “Himself,” lurking in the shadows of the case—might still be in the offing with reinforcements for the defense of his man Moreau. Then again, maybe not.

The Marine division headquartered in Portsmouth, Hoare remembered as he went, included—as well as nearly fifty companies of infantry and batteries of artillery—a troop of hybrid creatures. Half soldier, half sailor, half cavalrymen, they were called “Horse Marines.” These military chimeras served as outlying guards on the landward side of Portsmouth. On their rounds, they kept an eye peeled for seamen and fellow Marines seeking to disappear into the countryside. They were a despised laughingstock—military bastards—about whom ribald jigs had been circulating for years.

Hoare had met two of their officers, including their captain, not so long ago and taken their part in a dispute with certain regular hussars. It was to their corner of the Marine barracks that he went. He hoped their captain—a John Jinks, if he remembered correctly—would be at hand and that he would respond to Hoare's appeal for armed support.

Captain Jinks was both present and complaisant. “It'll give the lazy rascals a jaunt,” he said. Within minutes, Hoare was jouncing out of town on a borrowed charger beside Captain Jinks, his troop of Horse Marines jingling behind him.

*   *   *

A
DAY AND
a half later, the troop trotted through a mizzle of chilly rain and crested the Purbeck Downs beside Morrow's quarry. There a dozen men or more, variously armed, blocked the narrow paved roadway into Weymouth, up and down which Hoare had plodded before, to be insulted and rebuffed by Morrow and Sir Thomas Frobisher. At their head, Sir Thomas himself sat a handsome eighteen-hand horse—an Irish hunter, Hoare hazarded to himself. Another horseman flanked Sir Thomas.

“Halt right there, you troop of sleazy imitation soldiers,” Sir Thomas Frobisher said. “How dare you trespass on Frobisher land without my say-so?”

“I don't know that I care for the way you describe my Marines, sir,” Captain Jinks retorted. “In any case, we bring a warrant for the arrest of one Edouard Moreau, alias Edward Morrow, on charges of treason, et cetera, et cetera. Stand aside, please.”

“Show your warrant, sir,” Sir Thomas said. His bandy, froggy legs barely reached below his mount's barrel.

Captain Jinks turned to Hoare, as did Sir Thomas, who looked at Hoare with extreme distaste.

“You again, fellow,” he said, his voice oozing contempt. “I told you I'd have you horsewhipped if I laid eyes on you again on my manor.”

“I think not, sir,” Hoare whispered. “Here is the warrant. I think you will find it quite in order.” He held the document up.

“Well, fellow? Give it to me,” Sir Thomas ordered.

“I think not, sir,” Hoare repeated. “You may advance as far as you must in order to read it.”

“Never mind,” Sir Thomas said. “I did not sign it, and I am the law of this land. You can go to hell, and take your fornicatin' document with you.”

“The warrant is signed and sealed by the Marquess of Blandford, sir, as you can plainly see. As I need not tell you, he is Lord Lieutenant of this county.” Hoare hoped that Sir Thomas would stop arguing and decide either to resist this troop of mounted Marines or to obey his Lord Lieutenant. He felt himself running out of whisper.

Sir Thomas muttered a few words to his fellow horseman, who spurred his animal at a furious, foolhardy pace down the hill toward the town. With no good will, he gestured to his other followers to clear the road. He himself sat his horse, fuming, while the red-coated troop filed past him like a martial hunt passing in review before their Master of Fox Hounds. At the tail of the last trooper, Hoare doffed his hat and bowed silently in his saddle to the baronet. He was crotch-weary and glad to be ending his eighty-mile journey. It had rained all the way.

Moreau was not at the offices of his quarry. At the door of the house at the top of the zigzag road that led down to the town, Moreau's manservant shook his head.

“You'll not find the master here,” he said. “'E's gorn.”

“We'll see about that,” Captain Jinks replied grimly. “Sergeant MacNab!”

“Sah?”

“Take four men. Station one at each door of the house. Search the house for our man. You'll remember the description given you last night by Mr. Hoare.”

“Sah!”

One of the troopers failed to suppress a guffaw. Sergeant MacNab turned on him.