sanctimonious expression on Swaine's face as he gave a biting condemnation on drinking. The inevitable sentence came. 'Twelve lashes - and be very sure I shall visit the same on any blackguard who seeks to shame his ship in this way!' Kydd felt a cold fury building at the man's hypocrisy.
Doud was stripped and tied to the main shrouds facing outboard. Stiles came forward, slipping the ugly length of the cat out of its bag. He took position amidships and experimentally swung the lash, then looked at Swaine.
'Bo'sun's mate — do your duty.' There was none of the panoply of drumbeat and marines, just the sickening lash at regular intervals and the grunts and gasps of the prisoner. Seaflower's company stood and watched the torment, but Kydd knew that a defining moment had been reached. The fine spirit that had been Seaflower's soul was in the process of departing. His messmates cut Doud down, and helped him below. On deck Swaine glanced about once, to meet sullen silence and stony gazes.
The cutter sped on over the sparkling seas, but the magic was ebbing. Kydd felt her imperfections slowly surfacing, much as a falling out of love: the suddenly noticed inability to stand up below, the continual canting of the decks with her fore-and-aft rig, the discomfort of her small size. He pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind.
Parkin was mastheaded at three bells for 'rank bone-headedness' but at the beginning of the first dog-watch it was Stirk who ran afoul of the increasingly ill-tempered Swaine; told to flat in the soaring jib he turned and ambled forward, his scorn for the uselessness of the order only too plain. 'You bloody dog!' raved Swaine. 'Contemptuous swine! But I'll see your backbone at the main shrouds tomorrow — silent contempt — depend upon it. Mr Merrick!'
Shackled on deck Stirk was a pitiful sight, not so much in degradation but in the sight of a fine seaman brought to such a pass. Merrick carefully avoided the side of the deck where Stirk lay, but Stiles merely stepped around him — in the morning he would be the one to swing the cat on Stirk's back and there was no room for sentiment in a boatswain's mate.
The evening arrived, and with it a convenient anchorage off an island south of Hispaniola.
'Holding should be good even so,' Jarman told Kydd. 'Sand an' mud because o' the river yonder.' Swaine disappeared and, after securing the vessel at her moorings, supper was piped.
It would be a dispiriting meal. Thinking of Stirk, Kydd winced as he heard rain roaring on the deck overhead. The berth-deck filled as men chose its heat and fug over the deluge above, leaving the luckless lookouts and Stirk the only ones topside.
'What cheer, Luke?' Kydd said, when the lad brought the mess kid of supper. Luke didn't look up, his bowed head sparking concern in Kydd. 'How's this?' he tried again, but the boy didn't respond. 'Luke, ol' cuffin, are you—'
'He called me names, Mr Kydd, no call fer that,' Luke said, in a low voice. His eyes were brimming. He had served the Captain first, so there was no need to know who it was had taken it out on this willing soul.
'F'r shame, o' course,' Kydd said softly, 'but a good sailorman knows how t' take hard words fr'm his officers.'
Luke stared back obstinately. 'But he called me ... it ain't right what 'e called me.' He turned and, with great dignity, left.
'I seen bilge rats worth more'n he, the shonky fuckster,' Doggo growled.
Renzi said nothing, but stared at the table. Kydd tried to lift the mood: if things got worse, Seaflower could easily turn into a hell-ship. 'There's no one seen him with a Frenchie in sight - could be he's a right tartar, he gets a smell o' prize money.'
'Don't talk such goose-shit, cully,' Stiles said wearily.
The table lapsed into a morose quiet, and the wash of talk outside on the larger berth-deck became plain. Patch's voice came through loud, his tone bitter. 'I teU yer, we flogs up 'n' down the Caribbee in this ol' scow, yer ain't never goin' ter feel a cobb in yer bung again!'
'Yair, but—' someone began.
Patch's
