'Aye, sir?' said the boatswain, hurrying to the scene.
'What's this, that you have a man on watch beastly drunk?' A thick edge to the words betrayed the Captain's own recent acquaintance with a bottle, but there could be no answer to his question: there was a fine line to be drawn between the effect of the usual quarter-pint of spirits and that of more. Swaine turned back to Doud. 'I came to tell this rascal to hold his noise but I see this - seize him in irons, and I shall have him before me tomorrow.'
'We have no irons in Seaflower? said Merrick, expressionless.
'Then shackle him to the gratings right here, you fool,' Swaine hissed.
At seven bells of the forenoon the following day, the ship's company of Seaflower mustered on the upper deck. Kydd saw the 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. Seaflower immediately swung on her anchor to face into an offshore current of quite some strength, and as soon as the longboat was placed in the water it streamed astern to the full length of its painter, ready with its oars aboard for any lifesaving duty.
'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 tone rose in contempt. 'Drops hook fer the night, never 'eard o' such shy tricks. We choked up inter this squiddy cutter . . .' The never-ceasing background babble rose and fell, and Kydd pictured the pugnacious seaman glaring wildly about'... blast me eyes if it don't stick in m' craw, nothin' but this fer ever . . .'
There were sounds of scuffling and mess traps falling to the deck, then Alvarez calling, 'Where ye goin' camaradd?
'Topsides — I've had a gutful.'
'Wait—'
Kydd met Renzi's eyes. 'It can only get worse,' said Renzi slowly. Kydd knew he was right: Seaflower’s captain was alienating his own ship's company, treating them as some necessary evil in his own problem.
Kydd agreed. 'No chance o' this one gettin' a promotion out o' Seaflower, he added. The probability was that he had been given the command of a lowly cutter to satisfy some Byzantine relationship of obligation, knowing that he would not be put to the test so easily. Seaflower would gradually decay from within, her heart and spirit wilting and fading under the disinterest and neglect of her captain. It was intolerable that the willing and exuberant soul of their vessel was to be wasted so.
A discordant sound — it might have been a muffled shout, thumping — jarred Kydd's ear against the general noises. It seemed to originate from on deck. If the lookouts had failed to see an approaching attack in time . .. Kydd scrambled to his feet. 'Somethin' amiss on deck.'
Renzi did not move, but looked up with a dry smile. 'I can conceive that Toby Stirk may well be a trifle restless!'
No one else seemed to have noticed as he forced his way aft. Kydd had no idea what would he would see on deck, and his mouth went dry as he mounted the ladder. It was dark, and he stopped short of emerging on deck while he blinked furiously, trying to pierce the murk. It had stopped raining, but the deck was wet and slippery. He caught movement around the stern but could not detect any other as he climbed out on to the upper deck.
He hurried aft, to where bumps and thuds sounded, and nearly fell over the lookout, who was on all fours trying to pick himself up. Kydd looked around hastily. In the longboat were Patch, Alvarez and two others. Patch had his knife, was sawing at the painter. Kydd shouted, and the chorus of snarls and laughter from the boat as it fell away left no doubt as to what they intended. The oars came out and it disappeared quickly into the night.
'What is it?' puffed Merrick, appearing next to him.
'Deserters,' Kydd replied. 'Skelped th' lookout an' took the longboat.'
'Who?'
'Patch, Alvarez 'n' a couple of others.'
Desertion was a continual worry for the navy - a good seaman could greatly improve his wages in the merchant service, or do even better by shipping out in a privateer. Theoretically, it could be punished by death or, worse, flogging around the Fleet, but practical considerations usually led captains who recovered men to treat the offence lightly rather than lose a good hand. But Swaine . . .