warship's larboard side, not to be confused with Sally Port, a spot on Portsmouth's fortifications where naval boats and men embarked for ships anchored at Spithead.—Editor's note.
Chapter 21
The Frenchman's Story
28 February 1807,
cont.
~
IT WAS AS WELL FOR US THAT THE DRUNKEN BUCKS deserted us when they did, for the wild activity in the water alerted the men of the longboat party, who set about rescuing the unfortunate rogues much against their will. Other boats presently appearing—from the Star of Bengal, the Matchless, the Parole, and other vessels moored in Southampton Water—Martin Whitsun's men were soon surrounded by benevolence, and hauled out of the sea to be plied with grog and warm clothing. Their terror and shame should soon tell the tale despite their better interests, and the sailors' welcome become an interrogation; but this was not our affair.
Jeb Hawkins righted himself, squinted at me through the clouds of smoke, and pulled his knife from his pocket.
“You'll never rate Able, ma'am,” he said, and sliced the skiff's painter in two.
Etienne LaForge—for it was assuredly he, in a dead swoon—lay sprawled in the bilge of Hawkins's skiff. I struggled to pull his shoulders upright, and rest his head upon my lap, while the Bosun's Mate settled his oars and turned our craft. He intended to slip round the far side of the Marguerite, and double back upon Southampton unnoticed in the general clamour; in a few moments we should be lost to view and quite safe from scrutiny.
“How did you discover him?”
“I asked where he lay,” Hawkins said curtly. “Many a man in His Majesty's service has cause to know the Bosun's Mate. I've a favour or two I don't mind using, when the occasion requires.”
“But weren't you questioned?”
“Every man jack on the Marguerite was setting about dousing the blaze; it's a small crew on a prison hulk, what with the want of sails and cordage. I told one tar that I must have the keys to the prisoners' chains, in case the hulk should be abandoned. He never blinked twice, just said they was kept on a hook in the old wardroom. I shinned along and fetched the picks, then asked politely where LaForge was housed.”
“You are a wonder, Mr. Hawkins,” I observed unsteadily. The Marguerite was receding from us now, the flames on her decks flaring like an unholy sunset. Everywhere about us, Southampton Water rippled red. “I owe you a very great deal.”
“He owes me a sight more, I reckon,” said Hawkins with a nod to the insensible Frenchman. “There's a few in that hold won't see another day, what with the smoke and the fright Screaming half fit to blow their own ears off, stark mad with fear some of 'em were.” He shuddered. “That's as close to hell as I'm comfortable sitting, ma'am. A quick death and clean in the cannon's mouth's one thing—but slow roasting within sight of your neighbours is not to my relish. I opened the manacles on the lot of 'em.”
I laid my hand over his where it pulled at the oar. “Thank you, Mr. Hawkins,” I said.
WE ACHIEVED THE QUAY AS THE LAST FLAMES ABOARD the Marguerite flickered and went out. Torches had been mounted along the seawall, the better to illuminate the spectacle of the burning ship; and a crowd of children and gaping onlookers had gathered. Among the horde of figures lining the stone platform I discerned my brother, and the slight figure of Mr. Hill at his side. How much time had my adventure demanded? It was now full dark—perhaps six o'clock in the evening, well past our dinner hour. Surely my mother would be grown querulous, Mary should be consumed with worry, and Martha attempting to comfort them both.
“Fly!” I called out as Jeb Hawkins pulled alongside the Quay. “Captain Frank Austen—ahoy!”
My brother started, peered down at the water, and then dashed down the Quay steps. “Jane! In the name of all that's sacred—! You were not out at that ship!”
“We have LaForge,” I said tensely. “He requires assistance and care. Mr. Hill—”
My brother cupped his hands about his mouth and in the best sailor fashion, roared for the surgeon. The pack of onlookers, though far from weary of their public burning, divided their attention between prison hulk and skiff.
“It's a dead man! He's drownded!” cried one urchin with enthusiasm.
“There'll be more'n worse by dawn,” prophesied a woman darkly.
“That's the Bosun's Mate!” shouted a third. “Eh, Jeb, are you become a Fisher of Men like the Good Book says?”
Jeb