Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities Read Online Free

capable men to unload Inconceivable ’s passengers, leaving the other two gentlemen to entertain each other at the fireside.
    â€œI observe you have suffered an injury to your larynx, Mr. Hoare,” the doctor said. “There must be a story attached to that. Would you enlighten me?”
    As briefly and modestly as he could without seeming secretive, Hoare described how a spent musket ball had crushed his larynx, leaving him unable to speak above the hoarse whisper he was using.
    Hoare went on at Dr. Graves’s request to show the aids he had developed for communicating when his whisper could not be heard. His Roman tablet went unremarked, but then he withdrew from his pocket a silver boatswain’s pipe hanging from a black silk ribbon like a quizzing glass and began to play for the doctor a few of the shrill calls he used when making his wishes known to those persons—servants and other subordinates—whom he had trained. He went on to a seductive whistled rendition of “Come into the Garden, Maud,” which was self-explanatory. He concluded with the earsplitting whistle through his fingers that he had developed as an emergency cry. When this brought Mr. Smith to the door in alarm, the doctor shook his head and laughed softly.
    â€œIngenious,” he said. “Dr. Franklin would have admired your solutions.”
    â€œYou knew Dr. Franklin, sir?”
    â€œYes, indeed. In fact, we corresponded from time to time. His loss to our kingdom when the Americans won their independence was not the least we have suffered through His Majesty’s mulishness. I often wonder if the King’s madness was not already at work in ’76.”
    Hoare could only agree. “I met many rebels during that sad, fratricidal war,” he said, “and came to respect not a few on both sides.”
    He did not add that his sweet French-Canadian bride from Montreal had died in childbirth while he was at sea in ’82, over twenty years ago, leaving an infant daughter in Halifax whom he had never seen. Antoinette’s family, ever resentful of their daughter’s marriage to an anglais, had snatched the babe back up the Saint Lawrence, out of her father’s reach.
    â€œIf you would care to meet another American, sir,” the doctor said, “Mrs. Graves and I have engaged Mr. Edward Morrow to dine this evening. If you do not plan to attempt a return to Portsmouth tonight, we would welcome your presence, too, at our board.”
    Hoare had begun to protest that he was not clothed for dining in company when Sir Thomas returned to the Strangers’ Room, frowning. His men had stuffed one of Mrs. Graves’s assailants into the lockup in the cellars of the town hall, with two drunks and a poacher. The other—apparently the leader—was still senseless. Sir Thomas’s men had untied him and locked him into a separate cell until he awoke or died.
    Sir Thomas refused Dr. Graves’s offer to attend the man. “You would find it difficult to negotiate the narrow stairs down to the lockup,” he said. “Besides, Mr. Olney, the surgeon, is medical examiner for the town, as you know. He would take it quite amiss if he were to feel himself overlooked. I know you will understand, sir.”
    Accepting this small rebuff, the doctor returned to the matter of Hoare’s evening dress. “You and I are much of a size,” he observed. “Mrs. Graves, I am certain,” he said, “would not object to your appearing at her table in a pair of my breeches. I shall send a pair to you at the Dish of Sprats immediately upon my return home.”
    On Dr. Graves’s suggestion, Hoare then instructed one of the Club’s servants to take a room there on his behalf.
    By now Mrs. Graves had changed into dry clothing and rejoined the others. On her husband’s behalf, she refused Hoare’s offer to lift the doctor into the waiting chaise. It was clearly a matter of