no pothouse o' that name in Southampton, and I've been inside of 'em all.”
Studying his red-veined features, I could well believe the truth of this. I turned to Jenny. “Are you certain that was the name?”
She looked at me helplessly, then nodded. “It's not a common one, like the George, that a body could mistake.”
“No. But a George we might have been certain of finding.” I sighed. “Let us proceed up the street. Perhaps we shall encounter a person better able to assist us than Mr. Martin.”
The fellow attempted to bow, and went sprawling on all fours. I winced at the impact of his poor stump against the paving-stones, but he seemed quite insensible to pain. From his position at our feet, he looked upwards and grinned—a gap-toothed, rather hideous smile that was nonetheless endearing. “Yer boy wouldn't be havin' a joke with yer now, would he?”
“Young Ned is capable of anything,” Jenny told him with resignation. “I almost wish he'd been sent to sea. It might be the making of him—same as yerself, Mr. Martin.”
“I only ask, because o' the name,” he explained.
“The name?”
“The Bosun's Mate. Everyone in Orchard Lane calls old Jeb Hawkins that, on account of it being his station fer thirty year or more. You sure it wasn't a person yer boy meant, and not a public house?”
JEB HAWKINS LIVED IN A TIDY END OF CHARLOTTE Street, with a neat front yard and a kitchen garden set out to one side. He kept a dog, which howled as we approached, and a few guinea fowl. He had evidently been up with the sun, and had been working about his place some few hours. We took courage and introduced ourselves; and rather than setting the dog upon us, he bade us welcome. He was just about to take his morning ration of grog, and would be happy if we might join him.
I should judge the Bosun's Mate to be roughly the age of sixty. A person of his prolonged exposure to the elements can never exhibit an unmarked frame; he was bent from hard labour, and his eyes were creased from gazing perpetually up into the shrouds. It is the boatswain's province on board ship to mind the sails and rigging, and report their condition daily to the first lieutenant; he is in charge, moreover, of all deck activity: the weighing and dropping of anchors, the taking of soundings, and the piping aboard of officers. The silver boatswain's whistle is a badge of honour among the able seamen, the highest distinction they may hope to attain. Frank has often said that a good bosun is worth his weight in Bombay bullion, and much of mutiny may be avoided in a ship that boasts the same.
“Mr. Hawkins,” I began, as Jenny and I perched upon two rattan chairs he had set out on the grass by a small table, “I am uncertain whether we disturb you to any purpose. A young woman—a stranger to us—said that we might find her through the Bosun's Mate. I understand that is how you are sometimes called.”
His thick white eyebrows lifted. “Are ye a naval lady, ma'am?”
“My brother is a post captain.”
“And his name?”
“Francis Austen,” I replied.
Mr. Hawkins nodded. “I've heard tell of yon. A grand, fighting cap'n, so they say, with none of your namby-pamby cut-and-run. Here's to the lad and his barky ship.” He raised his tankard, and took a long draught, I glanced sidelong at Jenny; we appeared to be no forwarder.
“Are you at all acquainted with Nell Rivers?” I persisted gently.
The tankard crashed down with a thud. Eyes flashing, Jeb Hawkins thrust back his chair. “I’ll not have ye meddling saints getting on the pore girl's back with all yer blather! She's not going to a Reform House, you hear? Not without Jeb Hawkins has something to say about it. Pore Nell's had enough to do, keeping body and soul together, and her the mother of three little 'uns, with no man about the place, without ye mealy-mouthed pisspots and all your bloody hymns! Be off!”
From the look on his face, he had been a bosun to fear indeed. Men must have quailed before the threat of his tongue, not to mention his lash; even in old age he could strike terror into a heart stouter than mine. Jenny was already on her feet, as though she meant to flee. But I reached out my hand in supplication.
“I am no missionary of God,” I said quiedy. “I come