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]

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.

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?”