'You, sir!' snapped Auberon. His cocked hat was jammed on at an aggressive angle, his arms thrust down behind him. There was no question of what was to follow.
Coltard touched his forehead. 'Aye, sir?' His face was pale and set; his hat passed nervously from hand to hand.
'You are adrift, sir!' As if to lend point to his words, the bell forward sounded a sharp double-strike. 'An hour!'
Trajan rose playfully to a sea on the bow, sending Coltard staggering a few paces. 'Got gripin' in the guts, sir - feel right qualmish, if y' please sir.' His voice was weak and thick.
Auberon's expression did not change. 'You have attended the doctor,' he stated, in hard tones. There could be no answer. If he had, Auberon would have had the surgeon's morning report; if he had not, it would be assumed he was fit for duty. 'This is the third complaint I have had of you, sir. What have you to say to that, you rascal?'
'Me belly, it—'
'You have been taken in drink, I believe. And at this hour. You shall dance pedro pee, upon my honour!'
Coltard straightened, but his eyes showed fear. 'Sir! I'm a petty officer, not—'
'Master-at-arms!'
This was harsh treatment for a petty officer: they had privileges that stood them above the common sailor, yet Coltard could no longer count on them. Discipline was above all. Quinn moved eight paces away, then turned and faced Coltard. His foot tapped a black caulked seam in the decking.
There was no pretence at work now: everyone turned inboard to watch. Coltard stared down at the black line of tar. 'Get a move on!' Auberon snapped. As though it were a high wire, Coltard stepped forward, and within three paces had lost his footing. 'Again!' said Auberon.
Within seconds it was over, and Coltard stood dull but defiant.
'Mr Quinn, this man is fuddled with grog. He is to be triced up in the weather foreshrouds to dry. Then he is to explain himself before the Captain at six bells.'
* * *
'Haaaaands to muster! Haaands lay aft to witness punishment!'
Reluctantly seamen ceased work to make their way aft. Emerging up from the gundecks, dropping to the deck from the rigging, they crowded on to the quarterdeck. The officers stood above on the poop-deck, looking down with grave expressions on the little party below.
Coltard stood flanked by the master-at-arms and the ship's corporal. His eyes darted among the mass of sailors; if he was looking for sympathy, it was hard to tell. Kydd caught his eyes and he responded with a sneer. Kydd started in surprise.
The awful words of the Articles of War sounded out, clear and final. Judgement was given: Coltard's head fell as he heard his captain disrate him. He was now a common sailor, turned before the mast. There was more, inevitably. Coltard made no protest as he was stripped to the waist and seized to the grating by his thumbs with rope yarns.
Kydd turned away his eyes as the marine drummer opened up on the poop. A sudden stop and sweeping down and the boatswain's mate's cat-o'-nine-tails mercilessly slammed into the paleness of Coltard's back. It brought only a grunt into the appalled quiet The second and succeeding lash brought no sound either — Coltard was going to take it all without giving his audience the satisfaction of a cry. Kydd stared at the deck and felt the skin on his back creep.
Making his way below afterwards, Kydd could join in the general hum of jollity at the humbling of a petty officer.
It was clear that the man was so much in the thrall of drink that he had risked the lash to indulge his need. It did not take much to surmise that his shipmates had tired of covering for him and, that morning, had left him to his fate.
Before
