Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

The skiff jerked abruptly so that I was almost unseated, and a dark, seal-wet head appeared over the gunwale. Gleaming eyes, a mouth open in a snarl, and two hands reaching for a hold. The boat bobbed wretchedly again.

I screamed aloud. The sound was lost in the general din.

“Help me,” said a voice hoarsely.

Those two words spurred me to action. I reached forward and grasped the wet hands — rough, male fingers slippery with seawater — and braced myself against the skiff's bottom. I leaned backwards. He surged forward, and fell a=sprawl in the bottom of the boat.

Martin Whitsun.

“Who the devil are you?” the Rocketeer growled, and promptly vomited a quantity of the Solent over my boots.

AT LENGTH THERE WERE FIVE MEN HUDDLED IN JEB Hawkins's boat, shivering and cursing and half-dead from cold; Martin Whitsun was the most voluble of these, his vehemence sharpened by his frustration with my knots.

“Trust a woman to foul a line so bad it cannot be undone,” he muttered. “If I had my knife—”

“I should be forced to scream for Mr. Hawkins,” I retorted patiently. “I have no intention of abandoning him, and I shall not allow you to steal his boat.”

“You'd rather see us die of exposure, I suppose.”

“That is why I hauled you from the sea,” I replied implacably.

“Curse you, woman! What have you done to the cable? It's lodged so tight we shall never get free.”

“We might s-w-wim for it, Marty,” suggested one of the rogues. His teeth were chattering, and his lips were blue. “There's the Queen Anne sending out a longboat, and I'll wager they've grog and blankets.”

It was true. The fire could not help but be seen by the score of vessels moored roundabout, and it would not be long before a host of small craft converged upon the hulk and endeavoured to aid her survivors. Martin Whitsun shaded his eyes with his hands, and peered across the dark water, I glanced anxiously upwards, intent for any sign of Jeb Hawkins.

“I don't fancy meeting a longboat full of Navy men,” Whitsun said shortly. “They might ask cruel questions, about the rockets and such. The hulk's a Navy vessel, mind.”.

The men stole shuddering and miserable glances at me. “Here,” Whitsun demanded suddenly. “You fashioned the sodding knot; you get it undone, or I'll throw you over the side.”

He looked as fierce as his words, and being vastly outnumbered in strength and desperation, I did not like to test his mettle. I propelled myself forward, and clutched at the vile cable with gloved hands and a sinking heart. The wet coils had swollen and tightened inevitably upon themselves; the knot was fixed, for all my scrabbling fingers might do. I stopped short in the attempt, and drew off my gloves, hoping to buy time.

“Longboat's c-c-coming!” cried one stuttering buck.

“What I won't do to Jeb Hawkins when I meet him,” said Martin Whitsun through his teeth. He shoved at my back, nearly toppling me from the boat. I cried out and clutched at the rope ladder.

“Say that again, Martin Whitsun,” demanded a voice from above. “Happen you'd rather beat a man senseless than a poor defenceless woman — or maybe you'd rather go over the side?”

I looked up — and saw the Bosun's Mate peering through the livid gloom above. He carried a burden over one shoulder: a man, insensible and unmoving.

“Stand aside, you fools!” Hawkins shouted, and heaved one leg over the Marguerite's rail. He grasped the rope ladder with his right hand, and steadied his load with the left Such strength and grace in a man of his age must stand as testament to the hardy nature of the finest seamen. I watched with bated breath all the same, my bare fingers twisting together, conscious of Martin Whitsun malevolent at my back. If he moved — if he menaced Jeb Hawkins in any way — I was determined to shove my elbow hard into the rogue's ribs in an effort to unseat him. The Bosun's Mate torturously descended, breathing hard, his burden dangling. I could not tell for the smoke whether it was LaForge or no.

“Ahoy, there!” cried a voice across the water. “Have you need of assistance?”

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.

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.”