Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities Read Online Free Page B

produce when you try to speak. May I do so?”
    Hoare could not endure the prurient prying with which some people approached his handicap, but Dr. Graves was his host and obviously a man of talent as well as years, and he felt obliged to agree. He said so.
    â€œGood,” Graves replied. He wheeled himself nimbly over to a mahogany stand at the far end of the room, selected two devices, and wheeled back.
    â€œNow, sir. Perhaps you would be so kind as to loosen your kerchief and bend down? Or, on second thought, since Mrs. Graves has conveniently vacated her tuffet, you could take her place on it.”
    Hoare obediently cast off his neck cloth and sat on Mrs. Graves’s tuffet. It was still warm from her posterior.
    â€œVery good,” Dr. Graves said. One of his two devices was an eighteen-inch tapered cylinder of polished leather with a flare at the smaller end. Mildly flexible, like a tanned bull’s pizzle, it might almost have been one of the speaking trumpets used by serving officers of better voice than his own.
    While his wife and Mr. Morrow watched, the doctor applied one end of the cylinder to the scarred spot over Hoare’s distorted voice box and said, “Breathe, please.”
    Hoare breathed.
    â€œSay, ‘God save the King.’”
    â€œGod save the King,” Hoare whispered.
    â€œNow, sing it.”
    â€œBut I can’t sing,” Hoare protested.
    â€œPretend that you can, sir.”
    Hoare tried. He produced a squawking sound that resembled the call of a corncrake, blushed, and shook his head.
    â€œVery good,” Dr. Graves said. He sat back in his wheeled chair. “Now I would like to presume on your kindness for another experiment,” he added. He set the tube down and fitted the other device onto his own forehead by a soft leather strap, which Mrs. Graves tightened around his head. This object was a mirror. To Hoare, it resembled the mirrored inner surface of a slice from a hollow sphere, a concave mirror with a round hole in its center.
    â€œOpen your mouth, if you please, and lean forward. Very good.”
    Dr. Graves drew the device down over his head further, adjusting it so that Hoare could see an eye peering at him through the hole.
    â€œNow sing. Do not trouble yourself with the words; just attempt to sing, ‘Aaaah,’ with your mouth open.”
    Hoare uttered another macabre squawk, and the doctor sat back in his chair.
    â€œSo … so. Very good,” he said as Hoare coughed and coughed. “Or rather, not very good, I fear. You may replace your cravat, sir.”
    â€œWould you now tell me, sir, what this is all about?” asked Hoare as he complied.
    â€œWell, sir, it was partly an inexcusable curiosity on my part and partly a hope that I might be able to help you recover at least part of your speaking voice. Enough, perhaps, for you to shout commands at sea. You see, I have a special interest in abnormalities of the singing and speaking voices.”
    Hoare drew a hopeful breath. It was the loss of his voice that had put him on the beach in the first place, for no deck officer can issue audible commands in a whisper. Its recovery could mean his return to sea, perhaps even to the post rank his affliction denied him. It was his dearest wish.
    â€œWell, sir? Your verdict?”
    â€œThe vocal cords are, I fear, displaced in your case, in a manner that none of today’s surgeons have the skill to repair. I had thought perhaps Monsieur Dupuytren … but no, probably not even he. Besides, Dupuytren is French and would hardly wish to offend his Emperor by releasing a talented officer to battle against his own Navy. Moreover, the cords are badly atrophied. I am surprised that you do not have difficulty in swallowing. I am sorry.”
    â€œThank you just the same, sir,” Hoare whispered.
    â€œIt would have been a small return for your having saved Mrs. Graves’ life today,” the doctor said.