Wind and the Sea

by Marsha Canham

  Even though there was hardly a man aboard the Eagle who had not already heard the terms of punishment, scores of shocked faces were upturned toward the bridge. The prisoners themselves remained unmoved. Seagram’s deep-set eyes were fastened on Courtney, as they had been from the moment he had spotted her in the blur of faces. He did not acknowledge the reading of the charges or the fact that he had been tried and sentenced without an opportunity to defend himself.

  “Have the prisoners any last words to say?” Jennings asked blithely.

  MacDonald stiffened and thrust his chest out on a deep breath. “Ma men accept their sentence, sar.”

  Jennings smiled and sucked in a pinch of air through his teeth as his pale eyes settled on Billy Seagram.

  An insolent grin split the wiry black beard. “Get on with it, ye damned jackanapes. An' may ye rot in hell for yer trouble.”

  Jennings arched a brow. “Bravely said. And yet I think the sting will be mine to deliver over the next hour or so.”

  Adrian Ballantine, standing to the right of the captain, heard a grumble from the body of prisoners who were collected together at the rear of the assembly. They were blinking in the raw sunlight, hunched with cramps from eight days in the brig. All of them knew what was about to happen and knew there was nothing they could do to prevent it. Ballantine felt their hatred washing over the deck in waves, and he silently cursed Jennings for insisting that the prisoners witness the proceedings. One shout, one surge against the guards, and they could have the makings of a bloodbath.

  “Seize up the first prisoner,” Jennings ordered and twined his fingers together behind his back.

  One by one the ten marines were led to an iron grating that had been set against the shrouds. They were ordered to unfasten their shirts and remove them, then they were bound spread-eagled to the iron bars. None of the marines balked or uttered a sound. Each took his strokes with clenched teeth and streaming brow, accepting each hiss and bark of the leather cat-o’-nines as a personal triumph over pain. The lashes were dealt by a new man each time, the captain having decided early in his command that, after two dozen strokes, eve the strongest man’s arm loses some of its effectiveness.

  Angus MacDonald was the final marine to be flogged. He shook off the hands of the man who sought to strap him to the irons; instead, he grasped the bars himself and stood braced for the kiss of the cat. The great slabs of muscle across his back barely rippled beneath the stinging lashes, and when it was done, he turned toward the bridge and tugged a forelock in a mocking gesture of respect for the helm.

  Only the two corsairs remained. The hush that engulfed those assembled on deck was stifling; it pricked the skin and caused shudders of revulsion in men long hardened to the cruelties of life at sea.

  When the quartermaster signaled to the men holding Seagram, the captain raised his ivory walking stick and wagged the end.

  “No, no, Mister Beddoes. The other fellow first. Let anticipation be part of the punishment.”

  Nilsson was carried to the platform and thrust up against the iron grating. His shirt was torn open across his shoulders and stripped down so that it hung from the waist of his breeches. His arms were jerked apart and bound to the iron bars, as were his ankles.

  “Seized up, sir,” Beddoes reported.

  The chaplain stepped forward and raised a shaky voice to the bridge. “In the name of all that is merciful, sir, I implore you to reconsider the severity of the sentences you have ordered. As you can plainly see, neither man is capable of withstanding—"

  “Reverend Knobbs,” Jennings interrupted, “what I plainly see is that you are interfering with naval disciplinary measures. If you favor keeping the skin on your own back, I suggest you return to your prayer-making and say nothing more to me.”

  Jennings gestured impatiently to the drummer and turned his back to the chaplain. The officers and sailors removed their hats, as they had for each previous flogging, and tucked them beneath their arms as the boatswain’s mate moved onto the break of the deck. He shook the coiled length of whip, letting the four-foot tails slither free on the planking. He glanced askance at the captain, who nodded and drawled, “Do your duty, sir.”

  The mate braced himself against the roll of the ship. He swung the lash back and over his head, putting the full force of his weight into the swing as the nine tails cracked sharply across Nilsson’s back. The prisoner jerked on impact and his hands gripped the iron grate as if welding to it. His eyes bulged, and his lips drew back in a scream of agony that had not finished echoing across the deck before the hiss and crack came again...and again. The wounds to his ribs and thigh began to pour blood through the bandages. His fevered flesh shivered; his muscles went into spasms. The knotted tips of each leather tail tore into flesh that was already contused, drawing out splatters of blood on each stroke.

  At the end of twenty-four lashes the mate stopped, his face and arms bathed in sweat. He ran the whip through his fingers, squeezing out the blood, then handed the lash to the next mate in line. Dr. Rutger had gone to Nilsson’s side, but there was nothing he could do to ease the man’s pain, nothing he could say to halt the debacle. His soft hazel eyes reflected a mixture of anguish and contempt as he looked to Adrian for support, but the lieutenant’s face was impassive.

  At the end of the second set of strokes, the prisoner had fallen silent; by the third he was limp and unmoving. A ring of cast-off blood surrounded him and marked the lash’s path to and from the grating. Matthew rushed to Nilsson’s side when the fourth set finished; one look was all he needed to turn bitter, outraged eyes to the bridge.

  “This man is dead, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Continue the punishment, Mister Beddoes.”

  Matthew leaped forward. “I said, the man is dead! The sentence is complete—you have your pound of flesh!”

  Jennings leaned on the deck rail, his eyes narrowed to slits. “And I have ordered the quartermaster to have his men continue the punishment. Three hundred strokes were called for, three hundred he shall have.”

  The doctor was stunned, as was everyone within hearing. “That isbarbaric!”

  “Dr. Rutger, you will stand aside at once!” the captain ordered.

  “Be damned, sir! I will not!”

  Silence washed over the deck. The company froze, not daring to breathe or to move so much as an eyelash. The creaking of clews and tackle overhead seemed deafening in the silence; even the wind contributed to the tension by plucking at a loose rope and vibrating it on the mast like a snare drum.

  “I beg your pardon, Doctor?” Jennings said in an ominously smooth voice. “I do not believe I heard what you said.”

  Matthew ignored the warning on Adrian’s face and stepped toward the bridge. “You heard me. You all heard me,” he said and whirled accusingly to confront the ranks of men. “I am sick to death of the needless bloodshed we tolerate on board this ship. The prisoner is dead; there is nothing more to be gained by continuing his punishment. For Gods’ sake, cut him down and let his soul rest in some semblance of peace!”

  Jennings frowned and turned to Ballantine. “Lieutenant. We seem to have a minor revolt brewing. Since you are the one most familiar with the consequences of such an action, perhaps you could explain to the doctor—?"

  “There is nothing to explain,” Matthew retorted, his face flushing an angry red. “Adrian, for pity’s sake...!”

  “Pity?” Jennings mused. “Yes, indeed, I would pity any man who condones such blatant disrespect for his commanding officer.”

  Adrian spoke through clenched teeth. “The prisoner is dead, Captain. What more can be gained by seeing the flogging through?”

  “An example can be gained, Lieutenant,” Jennings said, eagerly watching the conflict in Ballantine’s face. “An example of authority and of respect for the discipline I will see enforced aboard my ship!”

  “Humane treatment of the prisoners would not be construed as a sign of weakness,” Ballantine insisted. “Nor would re
spect for their dead in any way detract from your authority. The man attempted a reckless act and has paid with his life. What greater price do we dare ask?”

  “I ask nothing,” Jennings said evenly. “I have, however, given a direct order. One that will be carried out regardless of who attempts to stand in the way.”

  Ballantine tried another tack. “If you martyr a dead man, you may find yourself with sixty more equally determined rebels.”

  “Are you presuming to question my order, Lieutenant?”

  “I question the consequences,” Adrian replied tautly.

  “Duly noted. I shall face them if and when they arise. Mister Beddoes—” he turned to the quartermaster—“have your next man take his place. The sentence will be completed as ordered.”

  “No!” Matthew roared, placing himself between the bloody corpse and the man holding the lash. “If you insist on seeing this travesty through, you will have to cut through me first!”

  “Matt!” Ballantine stepped to the rail, and Jennings’ ivory walking stick came smashing down on the oak rail beside him.

  “If the doctor wishes to stand in the way of justice, then he shall have the pleasure. Beddoes! Have the flogging resume. Anyone standing in the path of the lash does so by his own choosing. Now, by God!” He smashed the cane down on the rail again. “And you will put your back into the work or there will be more flesh stripped here today!”

  The new mate coiled the lash back and sent it snaking toward the grate. Matthew turned and shielded Nilsson’s body with his own, gasping as the leather strips were laid across his shoulder. With the second stroke, welts were raised on his neck above his collar as two of the nine tails found bare skin. His frock coat was thick enough to absorb most of the shock in the beginning, but after a dozen strokes, the cloth began to shred, and patches of white cotton shirt showed through the crisscrosses.

  As the first splashes of blood seeped through Matthew’s clothing, the numbing rage that had immobilized Adrian exploded. Fury blinded him to his own precarious position as he lunged past the grouped officers. He was halted, as was every other man on deck, by the blood curdling roar that shattered the horrified silence.

  Seagram had thrown his massive body forward, jerking the three men who had been restraining him off their feet and into a heap of arms and legs on the planking. He plowed into the ranks of midshipmen and crew, swinging himself like a dervish so that the ends of his chains spun out and flayed at the men like a scythe. The chain linking his leg irons snapped under the tremendous pressure, and Seagram was up the ladder and shoving aside the marine stationed at the top before anyone could move to block him.

  The captain, seeing the ferocity in the depths of the black eyes, screamed for protection and scrambled to the far side of the bridge. A shocked marine found himself thrust into the giant’s path, and without thinking, he raised his musket and fired point blank.

  The force of the blast carried the corsair back against the rail. The rail gave way under the sudden strain, offering no support as Seagram’s arms flailed wildly for balance. His hands folded over the gaping hole in his chest, and he pitched onto the deck, his body sending another wave of sailors scrambling out of range. Only one figure dated toward the confusion rather than away from it. Courtney bent over Seagram in time to catch a few gasped words before the glitter faded from the sunken eyes.

  Ballantine pushed his way past the guard that had formed around Jennings. The soldier who had fired the shot was still aiming the barrel of the musket at the sprawled body as if expecting the corsair to come to life again. Courtney was on her knees beside the body, her face bloodless, her eyes wide and haunting as they sought Ballantine’s.

  “Get away from the body,” he murmured urgently. “Go below and lock yourself in the cabin and stay put.”

  “Seagram..."

  “Did you hear me?” Adrian snarled, conscious of the men venturing closer now that the danger was apparently over. "Do it: Go! Now!"

  “Please.” She reached out a hand to his arm. “Please do not let them do anything to Seagram!”

  “Dammit, do as I tell you!” He grabbed her roughly by the arm and spun her away from the body. She stumbled back into the crowd of sailors, but her eyes stayed locked to his, her lips trembling in a soundless plea.

  Ballantine looked away and saw Matthew still protecting Nilsson’s body with his own, although his head drooped and his fingers were frozen to the iron grate. Beside him, Dickie Little plucked frantically at the doctor’s frock coat, his mouth contorted in anguish, his eyes streaming. The prisoners in the stern were shouting and surging against the line of marines—they were only a spark away from erupting across the deck. Whirling around, Ballantine saw the top of the captain’s feathered cockade; the man himself was a bodiless babble of orders coming from within a wall of thick-chested marines.

  “You!” Adrian shouted to the quartermaster. “Beddoes, quickly, cut that man down.”

  “But, Lieutenant—“

  “I said cut him down!”

  Beddoes recoiled from the savagery in Ballantine’s voice, but it was Sergeant Andrew Rowntree who stepped to the grate and shouted, “Aye, sir!”

  Adrian turned back to Seagram’s body and found himself staring into the crisp blue eyes of Angus MacDonald.

  “If ye nay mind, sar, I’ll just be helpin’ ye mysel’.”

  “Good man,” said Adrian. Together they lifted the dead corsair and carried him to the rail. Two of the other guards who had been lashed helped Rowntree bring Nilsson’s body from the grating, and the two corpses were gently shipped over the side. Then crew and prisoners alike fell silent, turning row by row to see what the reaction would be from the bridge.

  Only Adrian ignored the hushed cluster of officers. He crossed the main deck to where Dickie Little was helping Matt to a seat on a capstan. The doctor’s face was contorted with pain; his shoulders were slumped beneath the bloodied tatters of his coat. He glanced up as Adrian approached, but he could not force the words through his chewed, puffed lips.

  “You damned fool,” Adrian muttered. “What the hell were you trying to prove?”

  “The s-same thing you just did,” Matt gasped and gave a weak smile The smile turned brittle as he focused on the florid face looming up behind the lieutenant.

  “Mr. Ballantine?”

  Adrian straightened slowly.

  “You have at last overstepped your authority on this ship, Lieutenant. You have not only countermanded a direct order, you have encouraged the men to join in a demonstration of your contempt for my command. You leave me no option but to order you, and Dr. Rutger, confined to quarters, pending my decision as to whether your court-martial will be held here, on board the Eagle, or whether I should share the pleasure with my fellow captains in Gibraltar.”

  Adrian stared at Jennings with unconcealed loathing.

  The captain took a precautionary step back. “Mr. Falworth!”

  The Second Lieutenant moved forward eagerly. “Aye, sir?”

  “Have these men—the lot of them—confined to their quarters. They may consider themselves under arrest and without rank as of this moment.”

  “Under arrest?” Falworth could hardly believe his ears.

  “Do you have an objection, Lieutenant?” Jennings demanded, directing a portion of his wrath toward Falworth.

  “No sir. No, I—"

  Jennings cut him off and redirected his venom at Ballantine. “Your saber, if you please, Mr. Ballantine.”

  Adrian’s fists flexed. Reading the flinty contempt in his eyes, Jennings signaled furiously to a nearby marine.

  “Soldier, if this officer does not relinquish his saber at once you are ordered to draw your pistol and shoot to kill!”

  The marine was visibly shaken by the command, and more visibly relieved when Adrian’s hand moved slowly to his belt buckle. He unstrapped the scabbard from around his waist and presented it to Jennings with a mocking flourish. The captain accepted the polished steel and leathe
r, his face splotched crimson.

  “Now get out of my sight,” he hissed. “Take yourself and this worthless, yellow-bellied leech and get out of my sight.”

  “With pleasure,” Adrian murmured and turned his back on the two officers. He supported Matthew as the doctor struggled to his feet, and with the sound of their bootsteps echoing in the taut silence on deck, he and Dickie Little steered the wounded doctor below to his cramped cabin.

  There, they eased him onto his bunk and gingerly peeled away the layers of coat and shirt until his back was bared for inspection. Welts rose in a crisscross pattern, red and angry, across most of Matthew’s back and shoulders Thankfully few had split, but they all burned like the very fires of hell.

  Adrian fetched a crock of rum from the sideboard and poured a healthy draught into a tin mug. “Here, drink this.”

  “Nodon’t need it.”

  “You will need it when I rub the salt and turpentine in,” Adrian advised him dryly.

  Matthew took the mug and swallowed the contents in four loud gulps. “I never was one for heroics.”

  A wry grin trembled on Adrian’s mouth, then broadened, and in moments both men were laughing at the absurd irony of the statement.

  “I guess we have both done it this time,” Matt said, sobering.

  “I guess we have, old friend.”

  Chapter Eight

  Otis Falworth was ecstatic. Overjoyed. Incredibly pleased with the morning’s turn of events. He had counted on Ballantine and Jennings going for the jugular at some point during the voyage. The challenge to Jennings to have Ballantine break his probation was just too great to ignore, whereas Ballantine's inbred codes of honor and ethics were simply too vast a weight to bear in light of the captain's vicious nature. Falworth had watched and waited. He had played out the cards in his hand slowly and carefully, wanting to be assured, regardless of who emerged the victor, that he, Otis Claymore Falworth, would be on the winning side.