Not One Shred of Decency

by Bob Brown

  Cromwell released his grip on Ganse, who dropped to the deck on his hands and knees. The only object in his vision was Cromwell’s shoes. His cutlass clattered on the deck. Red raindrops splattered on Cromwell’s shoes, on his hands, on the wood deck, and he felt warm sprinkles on his cheeks. He recoiled instantly and stood up. His brain burned while his backbone shivered. He painted his hands feverishly on his trouser legs in an attempt to rid them of Cromwell’s blood.

  Cromwell yelled, “Finish me off, Mackenzie! I’ll be gone in a minute anyway. If you won’t do it, I will.” He grabbed Mackenzie’s cutlass by the blade and attempted to pull its sharp point deeper into his belly. It sank further, but his grip on the sharp blade slipped, cutting his fingers to the bone. Blood gushed from around his fat fingers. If he felt pain, he did not show it. He bellowed, “Goddamn you, Mackenzie! I’ll spit on your miserable spirit when the devil claims your black soul.”

  Cromwell relaxed his hold on the cutlass blade and Mackenzie withdrew it, blood dripping from its point. Cromwell clinched his teeth. His nostrils flared with each breath, but no other hint of pain could be seen.

  Ganse retreated to a safe position. Should he try to retrieve his cutlass laying at Cromwell’s feet? Mackenzie had his hand on the top of his own cutlass and the point resting on the deck. A small circle of blood drained down on the deck. Ganse scolded himself. Why had he not thought to ram his cutlass into Cromwell when his arm was in Cromwell’s vise like grip?

  Cromwell roared at Spencer. “Goddamn you, Spencer! You addled simpleton. I’ll see you in hell and I’ll stoke the fires at your feet for all eternity!

  Ganse noticed Spencer’s anguished glance at Cromwell before looking back to the sea. He could only guess that Spencer was grieving for his own fate, not the fate of Cromwell.

  Garty, with pistol drawn, took his position just as Mackenzie had instructed; to shoot any boy who refused to pull on the rope. Cromwell looked over his shoulder. “You slimy shrimps on my rope, do me right or I’ll drag you to hell with me. And by God, you deep six my whistle with me so’s no other bastard’s lips’ll ever touch it.”

  Ganse’s confused mind strained to make sense of this  a dying man’s last words were for his whistle?

  Mackenzie waited until he had Cromwell’s full attention, looked him in the eyes and with no more emotion than he might show taking off his coat, slowly raised his cutlass and let it drop.

  Heave! Heave! The block creaked as the boys gave a mighty tug, the taut rope lifted the first two boys up from the deck, feet kicking wildly, but they held fast. Cromwell’s assent was slower than Small’s and the yardarm deflected under its unwelcome burden. The boys gave each other confused instructions on securing the rope in figure eights around a belaying pen. With the rope secure, the boys released their grips and the slack allowed Cromwell to drop a short distance. His massive arms bounced limply up and down as if attempting flight. Their mission complete, they viewed in awe Cromwell and Small swinging in the breeze. Blood dripped from Cromwell’s feet into the sea foam below. He was silent at last and would forever be so. They had done their duty, and with less misgivings than they had felt with Small. James Travis murmured, “The bastard. He was a goddamn bastard.”

  Mackenzie, looked up at Cromwell and said, “So be it.”

  With wobbly knees Ganse picked up his cutlass and followed Mackenzie to stand in front of Spencer. His breathing was labored, his heart was trying to explode from his chest, and a stream of saliva lava clogged his throat.

  Without being ordered to, Garty dropped the noose around Spencer’s neck, pulled it snug, and unlocked the irons that bound Spencer to the bulwark. Spencer gave a barely audible moan.

  Ganse scanned the crew crowded on the spar deck. The majority of faces were gaunt and pale but a few of the small boys were sobbing openly. The boys assigned to pull the ropes had now shifted over to take Spencer’s rope. Garty was in position as before, to shoot any boy who refused lay full weight into the rope.

  Mackenzie again placed the bloody point of his cutlass on the deck, but the blood was deep crimson now and no longer running. He said, “Now for Mr. Spencer.”

  Ganse felt pity and anger for Spencer and nausea for himself. Spencer, who had rejected every opportunity to succeed in life, and now this, his last day, his last second, and at eighteen. Could there have been another way? His heart pounded, his eyes were dry and he squeezed them shut for a second, pressing a small tear that ran down his cheek and stopped. He could not wipe it away with all the boys looking their way. Please, oh Lord, end this agony.

  Mackenzie said, “Mr. Spencer, Elisha Small granted you forgiveness in his last moments.”

  With jaws clinched and teary eyes bulging Spencer barely nodded and shuddered as if freezing.

  “Mr. Spencer, you made the request to give the signal yourself. It is now time.”

  Spencer screwed up his face and sobbed, “I can’t do it, I can’t.” Involuntary eye spasms were incessant forcing a stream of tears down his cheeks.

  Mackenzie said, “I expected as much.” and he raised his cutlass.

  The boys on Spencer’s rope began taking up the slack. Spencer fell to his knees, pleading . . . mumbling something, he was incoherent . . . something about a joke . . . his father . . . Mackenzie dropped his arm. Spencer began to collapse head first, but his head never touched the deck for the noose abruptly pulled his surprised face back, eyes bulging, as the boys yanked his jerking body up and away toward the yardarm. The last grains of sand raced through his glass.

  Ganse tried to swallow, but thick saliva choked him. Spencer twirled in the wind, feet dancing to an imaginary snappy tune. The image of a puppet he had as a child flashed through Ganse mind. His mind froze, incapable of rational thought. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, his stomach heaved but he contained it. After a bit, he was aware of the sound of the brisk breeze whistling in his ears. Captain Mackenzie was talking  was he giving him an order? He turned to see.

  Mackenzie stood erect, captivated by Spencer’s performance at the end of his rope. Spencer’s dance tempo was slowing  he was near his finish. Mackenzie spoke softly, it sounded very much like, “Bravo, Mr. Spencer, bravo.”

  CHAPTER 25

  In a rare message to the crew, Mackenzie announced, “Never forget that it is our duty to serve God, our country, and our flag. The price of doing otherwise can be most severe, as these three men have just demonstrated. Before you hearken to perverted minds, note that they bluster boldly until caught. Then, as with Mr. Spencer, we find their bravery paper thin, and they die sniveling with lies in their mouths.”

  He turned to Ganse, “Do you think three cheers for our flag and country would be in order?”

  “If you think so, captain.”

  “Have the boatswain mate lead the crew in cheers, then.”

  Ganse relayed the order and Boatswain Mate Collins led the crew in giving three cheers.”

  “Hip, hip, hooray!” The cheer lacked enthusiasm.

  “Hip, hip, hooray!” Louder this time.

  “Hip, hip, hooray!” Very loud.

  Mackenzie said, “Dismiss the crew for noon mess, Mr. Ganse.” He went to the stern, turned around, leaned back against the bulwark, folded his arms, and looked up at Spencer.

  Ganse instructed Collins to pipe down for mess. Did Collins intentionally blow his boatswain whistle mournfully on this occasion? The sound reverberated for men and surrounding sea in the Somers’ tiny domain. A few boys talked in low tones, but most were silent, each a prisoner to his own thoughts as they got in line to go through the hatch to the berth deck.

  The calm after the storm did little to settle Ganse’s nerves. The thought of eating right then was out of the question. Shivers rippled down his backside, subsided, then pulsed down his back again. The sun was warm, even hot, yet he felt cold. Was it over? His eyes rested on Cromwell in his search for an answer. Yes, there he hanged. Small rotated like a rag doll beside him  in one direction
for a few turns, slowing to a stop, then began again in the opposite direction. Cromwell’s heavy body barely swung in the breeze, no dripping blood now. He was gone  really gone! Ganse listened. He could not hear Cromwell’s booming voice from the topsails, or echoing across the water, or throbbing from the deeps where he surely must be. He had not come to life. He was not sliding down a rope. That monstrous empty body, hanging from the yardarm like slaughtered meat, those massive limp arms, now useless for flogging. It was almost beyond belief  Cromwell really gone. He would never again challenge him with one of his excruciating stare-downs. Ganse felt pangs of guilt, but the reality of Cromwell’s death lifted a ruinous burden from his shoulders. Would God extract a price for his finding pleasure in the lifting?

  Perry asked, “Are you all right, Ganse?”

  Ganse jerked his head in Perry’s direction. His eyes widened, for he had not realized that Perry was standing beside him. “Yes, yes. I mean  of course I’m all right.”

  Perry said, “Aye, but our captain is a cool one. I do believe he’d enjoy a good hanging  even if it had to be his own.”

  Ganse gave Perry a disbelieving and puzzled glance out of the corner of his eyes.

  Wilson, sitting in irons on the deck, tugged lightly on Ganse’s trouser leg. In a low voice he asked, “Mr. Ganse, will Captain Mackenzie be hanging us too?”

  Ganse had forgotten about the other four prisoners. No one had bothered to inform them of their fate. What must they have thought when three of their number had been summarily sentenced and executed? Naturally they expected to be next. Ganse looked at the four men, spaced at intervals on the deck. The empty leg irons and no longer needed sail covers of Spencer, Cromwell, and Small lay at the locations they had so recently vacated. He told Wilson, “If there are no more signs of uprising, I expect you will be taken back to New York for trial.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ganse, thank you.” With a relieved smile and his hand close to his chest, he gave the other prisoners a thumbs up sign. McKee bowed his head and appeared to weep.

  Mackenzie called to Ganse. “Let the bodies hang until sundown and then we’ll deliver them to the sea. Have the carpenter make a coffin for Midshipman Spencer and have Cromwell and Small sewed into their hammocks.”

  **********

  Near the bow, the sound of the Somers’ carpenter hammering and sawing echoed above the usual sea and ship sounds. He had a boy helping him build Spencer’s coffin. Ganse watched off and on as three boys brought Cromwell and Small’s hammocks up from below and attempted to spread them out on the spar deck. With edges curdled in grime and the centers a waxy gray, the stiff canvas refused to lay flat, having been the molded nests of Cromwell and Small for so long. A few small boys curiously watched without their usual nonsensical chatter.

  Cromwell would be let down first since he was swinging inboard of Small. Three boys removed several figure eights of the rope from the belaying pen holding Cromwell. With the advantage of friction on the remaining turns around the pen they let his body down slowly. Two boys waited until Cromwell’s body swung close enough to grab his legs and they pulled him inboard to lay face up on his curled hammock.

  Ganse had conflicting impulses about looking at Cromwell. He did not want to look, yet if he did not, Cromwell might somehow lunge at his back. First he fixed his eyes on Cromwell’s dried, blood-splattered shoes. The devil dared him to look more; at his dirty blood stained pants, his barrel chest with black red paste that glued his blouse to his belly, his beard, on to his chalk and purple splotched cheeks, his bulging eyes  he’s staring at me! He involuntarily jerked his head away. Oh god, what colossal gall  it’s permanent  even in death he bests me  as always. He turned around and prayed to the Lord to save him from vomiting in front of the men.

  After a few minutes he summoned nerve to look again even though it seemed to take all his strength. The boys had pulled the hammock over Cromwell’s face and with sail needles and course thread were sewing him in tightly. Travis skillfully worked the needle as one boy held the thread straight. Travis said, “This is forever, Cromwell, for I know for God certain, the fishes of the deep’ll spit you out.”

  After a tense moment to ascertain that Cromwell’s booming response would not filter out from within his cocoon, several boys snickered nervously. One boy quietly giggled, “Shiiit, Travis.”

  Ganse made an effort to swallow. He shook his head, but the lump still refused to go down. He walked to the bulwark and pleaded to the ocean for comfort. It was not forthcoming  splotchy foam churned, engrossed in its own restless agenda. He wanted to cry, but knew he could not.

  CHAPTER 26

  On December 13, 1842, Mackenzie and Ganse studied charts in Mackenzie’s cabin. If the wind held they should be in New York the next day. To be more accurate, Mackenzie studied the charts while Ganse only looked at them, for his mind had strayed.

  To say that the cruise had been uneventful since the hangings would be an understatement. Men and boys eagerly jumped to, at the slightest command from any of the officers. They may have been unhappy about not having liberty at Saint Thomas, but they never voiced their complaints. They gained much comfort from the knowledge that they were on their way to New York, and home, and that was more important than liberty.

  The four prisoners ironed to the bulwark had endured heat, squalls and, for the last few days cold, without a single complaint. They cowed like pups with their tails between their legs when Mackenzie came on deck. Even the outspoken Wilson seemed despondent and never attempted to break the rule of silence Mackenzie had imposed upon them.

  Mackenzie, imperturbable as ever, had reverted to his habit of letting the officers take care of routine matters that he had little interest in. Floggings continued at a reduced rate and Mackenzie did attend all of those. At times he seemed bored during the floggings. Twice he lectured Boatswain Mate Collins on the need to whip with more vigor. His lifelong enjoyment of the sea endured, intertwined with his soul, and he would stand for long periods on the stern intently absorbing all facets of sailing. He might be found there late at night or during a squall observing the constantly changing sea. At other times he passively soaked in the sights and sounds of the wind, sails billowing, shark fins slicing the surface, boiling clouds, Old Glory rippling at the top of the mainmast. Sometimes he appeared mesmerized while watching the foam stretched on the marbleized water like tattered lace, or clouds that would mold into a mural only to begin a new one before finishing the last.

  For Ganse, hanging three mutineers solved the immediate crisis of losing the Somers and perhaps his life, but it did nothing towards cheering him up. He still met with Mackenzie every morning, but it was all business now, for neither one was interested in making small talk. When alone, he was constantly harassed with vivid moments of recall  Cromwell, either dead or alive, glaring at him until he invariably turned away; Spencer doing dados at the end of a rope; Perry drumming his fingers on the council table; bumping into Cromwell on that black night in the crew’s quarters; Mackenzie’s lips moving as he watched Spencer dance to an imaginary tune; the night he impulsively caved in to the majority at the council meeting; Elisha Small’s clucking sounds as he scrambled up the berth deck ladder; Cromwell’s blood splattering on his hands. Attempts to think of home and pleasant things were quickly overwhelmed by one of these recurring visions.

  He felt a nagging sense of having shirked his duty  a compulsion to justify his contribution to the hanging affair. Should he have shown more courage, more leadership? Was there anything he could have done to change the course of events? He felt guilty for not doing more, he should have done more, but what would it have been? His career, his dreams of becoming a captain did not seem important now.

  Mackenzie rolled up the chart and it immediately fell over the edge of his desk to join other charts already on the deck. The charts raced each other from starboard to port and back as the Somers heeled. He said, “I want to address the officers this afternoon.”


  “Yes sir.”

  And then as if it had just occurred to him, “Oh, and Ganse, just make that the officers who were members of the council to recommend punishment for the mutineers.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Wales and Garty, also.”

  “Yes sir.”

  **********

  Mackenzie addressed the group, “Gentlemen, unless we are becalmed we should drop anchor in New York tomorrow. I have called this meeting to let you know that I appreciate your contributions toward this very successful cruise.”

  A puzzled Ganse looked up and wondered if he was had been magically deposited on some ship other than the Somers.

  Mackenzie continued, “As you are aware we started with raw and undisciplined recruits and now we return with an exceedingly well behaved and seasoned crew.” With a trace of amusement, “Of course there was one little problem when three misguided souls felt that they were more gifted to command the Somers than the U. S. Navy. Following the recommendations of the council, in which most of you gentlemen were members, that spot of bother was resolved in a timely fashion.” He paused for a second, perhaps expecting others to share his amusement. With no response, he continued in a more serious tone. “Because of this minor blemish on our cruise, it will be necessary to restrict everyone to the Somers until the families of the mutineers have been informed of their fate. We will drop anchor in the harbor instead of tying to a wharf to insure that none of the crew becomes overly anxious to debark.”