Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

Another skiff, larger than the Mate's and filled with at least eight young bucks of seafaring aspect, rowed around the Marguerite's bow and roared with delight at die sight of us. One — who must be their leader — held aloft a bottle in salute.

“Old Hawkins, ahoy there! Have you come to join the merriment? And brought a fishwife, too! Are you after selling your girl, Mate?”

“She's too dear for your purse, Martin Whitsun,” Hawkins retorted, “and well you know it”

“Aye, none but a fool would pay more than tuppence.” Whitsun busied himself with a bulky object clutched against his chest; another rocket, perhaps. He must have a store of them at his feet The two skiffs were drifting closer together; in a minute I should be discovered as anyone but Nell Rivers. I shrank behind the Mate's sturdy back.

“Oi, Nell,” shouted a buck through the gloom, “have ye tired of good English cock, then? Do you think to dance a jig for the Frenchies' pleasure? There's many a lad would die for the sight of your arse, love!” He grasped his trousers in a lewd gesture and commenced to lurch drunkenly in the skiff, so that it rocked and bobbled perilously in the waves.

“Mangy curs!” Jeb Hawkins swung upwards so suddenly that the pranksters were taken off guard. “I'll teach you to show respect to a lady!” The blade of his oar slapped hard against the drunken man's chest, and sent him careening overboard with a terrible cry. In falling, the man clutched at one of his mates — and the scuffle and tumble that then ensued caused Martin Whitsun to drop his rocket.

It had just been lit.

There was a horrified cry, “a welter of splashes and dark shapes leaping over the skiffs side, and I felt myself propelled backwards in Jeb Hawkins's boat by the violent pull of the man's remaining oar. And then, with a roar as calamitous as Judgement Day, the entire complement of Whitsun's rockets flared and shot skywards.

Boom! Boom! The light was searing, unlike anything I had ever witnessed, so that I covered my eyes with my hands and cried aloud in terror. Sparks and flaming pieces of Whitsun's ruined skiff rained down all about us. I was struck a glancing blow by one splinter, and crouched as low as possible in Hawkins's bow. Everywhere were heard the cries of Fire! Fire! — —and when I considered with surprise how singular it should be for the drunken bucks struggling about us to sound so vigorous an alarm, I glanced up at the Marguerite.

A burning spark, or several perhaps, had landed on the hulk's deck, where a coil of cable or a bundled hammock had caught ablaze. Perhaps one of the lanthorns had been knocked over by a flying splinter or struck by an errant rocket. Whatever the cause, flames were now licking merrily along the deck, lurid and frightening in the darkness. Where there had been no activity before, was suddenly a handful of flitting shapes — the Marguerite's skeleton crew, desperately working with sand and sacking to douse the greedy fire.

“Mr. Hawkins!” I cried. “What have we done?”

“That's not our doing, ma'am,” he shouted back. “That's God's judgement on the poor Marguerite !”

“But the prisoners — the men in chains below! What will become of them?”

The Bosun's Mate ignored me. He was bent over the side of his small craft, fishing intently for a floating oar. Heads bobbed everywhere in the expanse of water between ourselves and the Marguerite; Martin Whitsun's gang, I supposed, abruptly sobered by the shock of February water. One man appeared intent upon making for our boat. He thrust an arm awkwardly above the waves and cried out, then was submerged in swell. I hoped fervently that the rogues were more adept at the art of swimming than I should be myself, and clutched firmly at the gunwale of the skiff.

Hawkins rose up from the side with a triumphant cry, and stowed his prize in the oarlock.

“Mr. Hawkins!” I shouted fiercely as the man began to pull away from the burning prison ship, “you must go back!”

“I can do nothing from die water, ma'am. It's for the crew to save her now. The fire's not so great — I've seen worse in my time — but in the event they carry powder, we would not wish to be near. If the ship blows—”

I clutched at die stem of one oar and pulled heavily against my determined saviour. “There is a man held in that hulk who must not be left to die! I beg of you, Mr. Hawkins — consider your daughter! This man might be the saving of her!

Hawkins shipped his oars and stared at me. In the light thrown by the burning ship, his aged features were grotesque, like a gargoyle carved in a cathedral wall. The cries from the hulk grew more strident; I heard the splash of a body as it plummeted into the sea.

“Is that why you had me row you out to the boat? To save a Frenchie?”

“Nell's paramour, one Chessyre, was murdered a few days ago.”

“I know it”

“Chessyre's murderer would exult in this Frenchman's death. He would think himself secure. He might then consider the life of a poor woman like Nell, who had the misfortune to be in Chessyre's confidence. But if the Frenchman lives — and may tell his tale …”

“Then Nell shall be free from fear?”

It was a gross exaggeration of the facts, but I was desperate. I nodded my head.

Jeb Hawkins turned the small craft with a few dips of the oars, and heaved his way back towards the burning ship. All around us were the remnants of Martin Whitsun's skiff, blasted sky-high and floating now in the water; and to my horror, I glimpsed an oblong shape with streaming hair that rose and fell with every swell of the current: the corpse of a drowned man. Hawkins ignored it, dipping his oars with care and maneuvering amidst the flotsam, until he came hard by the Marguerite's bow.

“They have left out the ladders,” he muttered. “That's just as well; I'm not the sea rat I once was. I shall go up through the sally port, and work my way down. [26] The sally port was an entry hatch on a 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.

God knows how many men are held below. What is this Frenchie's name?”

“LaForge,” I said tersely. “He looks the gentleman.”

Jeb Hawkins threw me a grimace. “Have you any notion of oars?”

“None.”

“And I have no painter — only an anchor line I'm loath to lose. I'll find a cable yon and toss it down. You must secure the skiff to the ladder.”

The small boat bobbled with his weight as he grasped the rope ladder at the bow, and hauled himself up the side. I crawled forward, my anxiety extreme, and clutched at the ladder to keep the boat from drifting; but with a wave of panic I saw that I should be pulled over the gunwale.

“Oh, Fly, what I would not give for your strength!” I muttered between my teeth, and gripped the ladder with all my might.

At that moment, the gap of water widening between burning hulk and small cockle, a coil of rope thudded into the skiff's bottom. I snatched it up.

“Tie it to the ladder!” Jeb Hawkins cried. His face floated above me in the lurid darkness, and then was gone.

I know nothing of seaman's ropes, but I have embroidered many a square of lawn in my day, and may be trusted to tie off a knot that will serve in a pinch. The rope was slippery, and my hands fumbled in the darkness; but in a little the job was done, and I had but to wait.

I then became sensible of the chaos above: the hoarse shouts, tramp of feet, fearsome swearing and shudder of blows. One seaman at least must be hacking away with an axe at the burning timbers; they would be tossed overboard to gutter in the sea. It seemed impossible that such a large vessel could founder within sight of land — but I recalled the wrecks off Spithead, and the Mary Rose, sunk centuries before in Southampton Water. I peered upwards in an effort to discern something of the activity on deck: I saw nothing but the great bowed curve of the hull. Great roiling clouds of smoke billowed over the side.