‘Thrash him,’ called a voice suddenly. ‘That’s what we did in the service.’ It was the peevish old man who had previously questioned the purpose of the voyage.
‘You’re not in the Navy now,’ shouted an objector.
‘Flog him according to our custom,’ retorted the old man. ‘Each man gives three blows with a two-inch-and-a-half rope, and on a bare back.’ He looked around triumphantly.
‘So be it,’ said Eaton quickly. There was a look of satisfaction on his face. ‘Domine, remove your shirt and stand by the mast.’ He beckoned to the sailmaker. ‘Cut a length of two-inch-and-a-half, and whip the end.’
When the knout was ready, Eaton handed it to the big Hollander, Joris Stolck, who had first made the accusation. ‘Yours are the first blows,’ he said.
Stolck hefted the rope in his hand, stepped across to where Domine was standing and lashed the rope’s end hard across his back. The victim let out a low grunt.
‘Two more,’ called Eaton. He’d taken charge now. The Hollander lashed out twice more, then handed the rope to his countryman. Arianz ran the rope through his hands and dealt the Genoese three more sharp strokes. His victim flinched with each blow.
So it went on. One by one, the crew took it in turns to flog the culprit. Some blows were heavy and viciously struck. Others, those from his Mediterranean friends, scarcely landed. Domine bore up stoically under the beating, though his back was soon striped with a criss-cross of welts. Here and there the skin broke and blood oozed from the cuts. Unable to watch, Hector looked down at the deck beneath his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Eaton’s hands. They hung loosely by his side. Each time the rope struck Domine’s back, the captain clenched his fist. It seemed he was enjoying the spectacle.
When it came to Hector’s turn he hesitated. ‘You take your turn, just like the rest,’ snapped Eaton. Hector took the rope. It felt slick and sweaty in his hands where others had already gripped it. Half-heartedly he raised his arm and struck, aiming to avoid those areas where Domine’s back was already bruised and cut. The first blow was accurate, but the second too clumsy and must have hit a tender spot, for the Genoese sucked in his breath in a gasp of pain. Ashamed and hoping to soften the third blow, Hector swung the rope, then pulled his arm back just before it struck. The rope’s end flicked like a whip, and to his chagrin the blow split the skin. Behind him he heard Eaton give a low murmur of approval.
After every man had taken his turn, Domine was led away by his friends. They sat him down by the rail. Someone dipped up a bucket of sea water and they began to sponge his back.
The onlookers shuffled away. ‘That should put an end to thievery,’ observed Eaton to no one in particular. For him the matter was closed. But Hector noted Domine’s cronies deliberately turning their backs on the two Hollanders as they walked past. He could only hazard a guess as to how long a common hunger for gold would hold this crew together.
THAT EVENING, if Dan hadn’t been at the ship’s lee rail, the sinking shallop might never have been detected. The Miskito was helping Jacques, dumping ashes from the galley overboard. He emptied the pan and paused to contemplate the fiery orange glow left by the setting sun. Something on the horizon caught his eye. It was shaped like the horns of a crescent, but so small that at first Dan thought it was nothing more than an unusual double wave crest. But when the mark reappeared, lifted on the next swell, he walked aft and drew the helmsman’s attention to what he had just seen. Normally the helmsman wouldn’t have troubled himself to adjust course to investigate. But the object lay almost directly on the ship’s track and he was bored. So he moved the rudder very slightly.
Night had fallen by the time the Nicholas came level with the distant object. It was difficult to see anything more than a patch of deeper shadow. Certainly no one had expected to come across some sort of boat. Yet there it was, barely afloat, the sea washing over its mid-section with each passing swell.
‘What do you make of it?’ Hector asked Dan. The two men stared into the darkness. Beside them half a dozen of the Nicholas’ crew lined the lee rail. Quartermaster Arianz had ordered the sheets slackened and the yards braced round, so as to take all way off the ship.
‘I have never seen anything like it,’ answered the Miskito. The half-submerged vessel was an unusual shape. Some thirty feet long, it was broad and shallow, and each end curved up prominently. It was impossible to say which was bow and which was stern.
‘Could have been abandoned or broken free of a mooring,’ ventured Jezreel as he joined his friends.
‘But from where?’ asked Hector. ‘We’re too far from land.’
‘That’s not a deep-sea boat,’ observed Dan. ‘It is too small and too lightly built. And there is no shelter for the crew.’ The only structure on the low, wide deck was a hooped cabin of wickerwork, much like a kennel.
‘Why are we halted?’ asked Eaton sourly. The captain had come on deck and not yet noticed the hulk.
‘Some sort of shallop, awash and abandoned,’ said Arianz, gesturing over the side.
Eaton walked to the rail and glanced down. ‘Floating rubbish. It needn’t delay us.’ He turned to Hector. ‘So much for your navigation. Maybe we’re not as distant from land as you’d have us believe.’ He laughed contemptuously.
‘Maybe there’s something worth salvaging?’ suggested the quartermaster.
‘It’s a waste of time,’ snapped Eaton.
The quartermaster ignored him. ‘I’ll send someone to check.’
Dan volunteered for the task. He clambered down the side of the Nicholas, lowered himself into the sea and swam across to the abandoned boat. He pulled himself aboard and Hector saw him bend down to peer into the cabin. A moment later, Dan straightened up and, cupping his hands around his mouth, called out, ‘Throw me a line. There’s someone inside.’
Quickly the derelict shallop was hauled alongside the Nicholas, and the limp figure of a thin, black-haired man, clad only in a loincloth, was hoisted on to the larger vessel. Hector, reaching to help lift the man over the rail, was shocked at how light he was. The stranger weighed no more than a small child. As he was laid on the deck, they could see he was but a living skeleton. His skin had shrunk so that every rib showed starkly. His arms and legs were like sticks, and his body was all hollows and cavities. It was difficult to believe he was still alive. Yet when Hector put his ear against the victim’s chest, he could hear the heart beating.
Someone produced a rag soaked in fresh water, and a dribble was squeezed into the man’s mouth. His eyes stayed closed. He seemed past reviving.
Dan climbed back over the rail, and dropped lightly down on deck. ‘There is nothing else aboard, except for an empty water jar and a straw hat.’
‘Back to your posts, everyone,’ ordered Eaton curtly. ‘We’ve squandered enough time as it is. Cast off the wreck and make sail.’ He turned away and stalked back to his cabin.
‘How long do you think he’s survived?’ asked Jezreel, looking at the wasted figure.
‘Weeks or even months,’ said Hector. ‘Maybe we’ll never find out. I doubt he’ll last the night.’
But when the sun rose next day the castaway, as they now thought of him, was still alive. He lay on the deck, a blanket wrapped around his emaciated body. Only his head was visible. Once or twice his eyelids flickered. His breathing had become noticeably stronger.
‘Where is he from, do you think?’ asked Jacques. He’d prepared a broth to give the patient as soon as he was able to swallow.
‘He’s some sort of Easterner, that’s for sure,’ replied Hector. The man’s skin was yellow-brown, and he had coarse, straight black hair. ‘A Chinaman maybe?’