The longboat put off from the Queen Anne. Martin Whitsun turned, his attention diverted, and began to swear viciously under his breath. I reached out and seized Jeb Hawkins's coat sleeve; his left boot groped for the skiffs gunwale.

“Don't clutch at me, ma'am — hold the rope steady,” he shouted irritably. I did as I was told, and his foot found a hold. He stepped backwards into the crowded vessel, the man he carried sliding heavily into the bilge— and at that moment the skiff rose up and slapped against the Marguerite's side, all but overbalanced by a sudden shift in weight.

Martin Whitsun and his fellows had abandoned us, diving into the chill waters rather than face the Queen Anne's rescue party.

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 Hawkins did not reply. Instead, he grabbed a mooring and made the skiff fast to the Quay. My brother jumped into the vessel and seized LaForge by the shoulders. Mr. Hill proffered his hand and helped me from the boat.

I had never been so thankful to find good, hard Hampshire stone beneath my feet.

“I made certain you had gone back home,” Frank muttered to me. “I merely stayed to see what became of the hulk — I never dreamed you were upon the Water.”

“Take him to Wool House,” I said tersely. “Mr. Hill will have the key.”

“Of course.” Hill hurried off before us, clearing a path through the curious crowd. Jeb Hawkins — who must, in truth, be exhausted — grasped LaForge's ankles and helped bear the insensible man the length of the Quay.

“How did you manage … to pry this fellow … from the depths of that barge?” Frank gasped, as we approached Winkle Street

“The Bosun's Mate,” I replied. “Mr. Hawkins is deserving of our deepest thanks and praise. He freed Monsieur LaForge and carried him to safety.”

“Safety? I begin to think this man shall never be safe until he has England at his back.”

Mr. Hill stood ready by the great oak portal of Wool House; he had found and lit a candle. We slipped through the door like wraiths or shadows, too swift to be clearly discerned in the pitch-black streets; the crowd's attention, in any case, had returned to the quayside where the longboats were approaching with their soggy burden of Southampton's own.

LaForge was laid on one of the old straw pallets and covered with a blanket. He moaned, and turned his head in restless dreaming; I thought perhaps his eyelids flickered, but it may have been only a chimera of the candle flame. Mr. Hill bent swiftly to feel for his pulse.

“Genevieve,” said a faint voice at our feet; and with a sharp intake of breath, I saw that LaForge was once more in his conscious mind.

I crouched near him and placed my hand on his brow.

“Ah, Genevieve.” He sighed. “Tu vives encore. “

“It is all right, monsieur — you are safe now, and we shall not let you come to harm. You may be assured of that. You are among friends.”

He frowned. “Cette voix — je la sais. Mais ce n 'est pas la voix de Genevieve.”

“It is I, Miss Austen. I am here with Mr. Hill and my brother and another man who saved you from the burning ship.”

Mr. Hill had been busy at the hearth to the rear of Wool House; he had tindered flame, and set a pot of water to boiling, and now appeared at my side with a hunk of day-old bread. “Soak it in water,” he commanded, “then try if you can to persuade him to swallow a morsel.”