Quintspinner (13 page)

It was less than a full shift later that Smith found William and delivered to him the news that the Gimp was officially on shitpot duty while William had been assigned the added chores of attending to repairs with the ship’s carpenter, in between his continued duties in the cooking galley.

“It seems Cook’s taken a bit of likin’ to ya’, an’ he don’t like many,” Smith confided. “Ya’ see, most cooks aren’t cooks by choice,” he explained. “They be a bluecoat or a marine what’s been injured an’ can’t be a fighter no more. Take Cook’s leg, fer instance. Without it, he canna’ board another ship during battles nor even help too well with the loadin’ of the guns, but a life at sea’s the only thing he knows, ya’ see, so he cooks. An’ every day he’s resentin’ those who can go on fightin’. They remind him just by bein’ whole, of what he’s lost. And
that
makes him as miserable an’ unpredictable as a freshly knackered bull.”

With his father cleaning up after the animals, William adjusted his own chore schedule so that he gathered the eggs at the same time. John Robert’s previous experience in animal care was apparent, and the three goats quickly showed a fondness for him. The shaggy billy was smelly and aggressive but he could do little harm from the confines of his sling. A well placed head butt from him had sent William sprawling forward on more than one occasion, but John Robert’s touch seemed to please the scraggly animal, especially when it was a playful scratch along the goat’s neck or around his ears.

The doe, too, welcomed John Robert with an excited bleat, and often stretched her neck out in an invitation to be rubbed. But it was the kid, a tiny she-goat, for whom John Robert reserved most of his attention. Not yet entirely weaned and needing to reach her mother’s teats, the dark little doeling had not been put into a sling, and was allowed to frolic in the thin hay bed at her mother’s feet.

William took to calling the kid ‘Gerta’ and his father grinned in agreement when William called to her. The little animal soon came to recognize her name, and would be waiting at the rungs of the goats’ small corral, her inquisitive nose poking through the slats, her soft ears flapping sideways in an excited welcoming gesture. Her curiosity and frank interest in her keepers’ movements were in sharp contrast to the attitudes of the humans on board.

Conversations with his father were still one sided, other than the few guttural grunts that Da’ could manage, and it pained William to see his father struggle with most basic functions. Frequently, his father dropped the shitpot scoop, splashing the muck over the decking and on himself. Carrying the full pot up the companion-way was a laborious task for him as well, and William could see that each step up the wooden ladder was an effort.

He’s getting stronger, though,
William frequently told himself,
and he doesn’t fall as often. He’s gonna’ make it. We’re both gonna’ make it and one day soon, we’ll be free of this goddamn ship! We just need to carry on for a bit longer, that’s all. This voyage won’t last forever. It’s tolerable for a couple more weeks. I’ve heard the others say maybe one month more till we land. We can do this. We’ve been lucky to have had no trouble from anyone so far. It will be alright.
And it was.

Until the day the shitpot was lost overboard.

It was a very bad sign, Smith said. Nothing good could come from the loss of a bucket overboard, just horrible bad luck to the ship and all on board, the crew said. And three dozen lashes for the Gimp, for such inattentiveness, Captain Crowell said.

“But he can’t help it!” William’s terror at what was about to befall his father fueled a reckless courage within him. “Captain Crowell, Sir! Please! It fell from his hands as he was overcome with a fit, Sir! He didn’t do it on purpose!”

Steely blue eyes locked onto William’s own. “Do you dare address me on the Gimp’s behalf, Mr. Taylor?” Captain Crowell asked.

“Yes, Sir, I do.” William replied. “He has no speech–”

“And you feel compelled to be personal champion for all of the deformed and the demented and the shit-stained simpletons in life?”

His father was none of those! William felt his cheeks go hot with rage.

“It’s the frigging Navy’s fault!” he yelled. “It was the Navy’s press gang’s attack on him that robbed him of his speech! It was
your need
that destroyed his life!” William spat it out, all of his pent-up anger delivered with each word. The accusation left him breathless even as he heard the collective intake of breath from the stunned crew members.

They understood standing up for a fellow crew member – they lived their lives by such an unspoken creed – but to defy
the Captain?
And all for the lowly Gimp at that? Most shook their heads in disbelief, unable to decide if what they were seeing was a new level of raw courage and seaman’s loyalty that would put the rest of them to shame, or a display of unbelievable stupidity.

Silence hung thickly in the air for the few seconds before Captain Crowell spoke. “Very well, then, Mr. Taylor. If you feel that the man is undeserving of and should somehow be relieved of his pronounced punishment, I will offer to you this fair exchange: your back for his own. And let this be a lesson for your impudent mouth, lest your apparent disrespect for my authority bring your short life to its conclusion. Mr. Rogers, the gunner’s daughter for Mr. Taylor, if you please.”

The gunner’s daughter?
William was bewildered as his arms were grabbed and he was dragged over to the nearest cannon. The linen shirt he wore was quickly stripped from his torso and he was forced to lay face forward over the cannon. Within seconds, his hands were lashed to his feet.
Kissing the gunner’s daughter! Smith’s scars!
At that moment, William understood, with great clarity, the meaning of the seaman’s term.

The first crack of the whip sent a searing pain down the length of his back. William nearly fainted with the shock of its intensity. The second lash was worse. In spite of clenching his teeth together, William cried out with each slash of the whip across his shoulders and back. He lost count of the lashes and concentrated instead on keeping his head bent low, his eyes out of reach, he hoped, from the skin-splitting force of the whip’s knotted ends. The pain was unbearable, as the lash landed again and again. William felt himself beginning to black out, and his screams became muffled and distant to his own ears.

Somewhere, from the hazy side of reality, angry voices rose and mixed together. William was doused with a bucket of cold sea water, the salt searing every exposed nerve ending in his fresh wounds.
Mother of God!
Merciful unconsciousness was going to be denied to him.

“There’s the first dozen fer ya’!” Mr. Rogers shouted.

Smith’s words came back to William.
Do ya’ want to die at the end of a cat whip, boy? Well, do ya’?

“I’ll stand in fer the next shift.” It was Smith’s voice, alright, but William thought his mind must be making up the conversation at this point. Suddenly, the ropes were loosened from his hands and feet, and William was roughly pulled from the cannon. He crumpled to the deck and struggled to stay conscious. Raising his head, he stared dumbly at the scene in front of him.

Samuel Smith was now bent over and tied to the cannon in William’s place, and Mr. Rogers drew the whip back for the first lash. Only a pained grunt escaped Smith’s lips as the whip tore into his flesh.

“
What are you doing?”
William screamed.

“’He’s takin’ the lash on yer behalf, he is,” the sailor next to William stated.

“What?”

“It’s any man’s option, if he chooses to stand in fer his mate.” The sailor looked down at William, half in pity for his bleeding wounds, half in amusement at his confusion. “Ye’d probably not have survived much more, without a break, it bein’ yer first time an’ all ….” He saw slow understanding begin to show on William’s face. “Ye’ve got another shift comin’, anyhow. That’s his twelve about done with now.”

William struggled up onto his feet and staggered forward towards Smith.

No one knew for sure who arrived at the cannon’s side first, but in the days and years to come when the story would be recounted for the amazed amusement of others who had not been there to witness it first hand, it would be told that there seemed to be a crush of bodies all vying for a spot at the cannon. William dropped to Smith’s feet, intending to untie him, while at the same time, two others pulled Smith off the cannon and tried to lay themselves face first over it, each jostling and shoving the other out of the way.

“Goddamn ya’, get the hell outta’ the way, ya’ scupperlout! I’m takin’ the boy’s next shift!”

“Naaagh!”

William jerked his head up. His mouth dropped open in astonishment. Right above him, his father and Cook pushed and punched at each other.

“By God above and the devil’s twisted tail below, I swear I will break ya’ in two, ya’ damned dunderhead, see if I don’t!” Cook roared, executing a wild swing of his fist toward John Robert’s face. The momentum of the effort threw him off balance and as he fell, several pairs of hands snaked out to catch and right him back up on his leg, just as John Robert’s slow motion punch arrived, connecting squarely with Cook’s chin and sending him immediately backwards into the crowd again. Hoots of laughter exploded from the gathered group of crewmen. It was apparent that they were very much enjoying this unexpected change in entertainment.

John Robert threw himself towards Cook and the fisticuff continued, much to the glee of the gathered crew. Even the outraged shouts from First Mate Rogers to stop, were drowned out by the cheers and calls of the crew as they surrounded the two fighters–Cook hopping recklessly on his remaining leg, and John Robert swaying in slow motion on both of his.

As Mr. Rogers stepped forward, Cook reached out and snatched the whip from his hand, bringing it down instead with a crack across John Robert’s shoulder. Spurred on by pain and anger, John Robert wrestled it from Cook’s grasp and brought the handle smashing down across Cook’s ribs. The two men struggled fiercely, each striking the other when he gained possession of the whip. With each blow landing, the crew grew more boisterous and raucous laughter rang out loudly above the general cheering.

“Enough!
” The command was punctuated by a single gunshot into the air. The effect on the brawlers and spectators alike was immediate. Voices hushed as the men shuffled backwards, opening their circle to reveal John Robert and Cook bloodied and entangled, lying on the deck with limbs entwined and hands at each other’s throat. All faces turned to look up and stare at the captain as he stood glaring down at them from the quarter deck, his pistol calmly raised and aimed in the direction of the men.

“It would seem, oddly enough, that enduring a lashing is the choice event of the morning. And therefore, as peculiar as that is to me, I will have the remaining twelve lashes divided equally among the four of you, without favorite.” A slow smile spread across his face as a thought took hold. “In fact, I will have three lashes administered to each and every one of you present, so as to remove any feelings of a man being left out! Mr. Rogers, begin with the crew and leave those four until last.”

Monitored under the watchful eye of the captain and his pistol, the crew lined up to receive their lashes without complaint. William was grateful that the captain had decided to leave the four of them until last. By that time, even Mr. Rogers’ bulky arms were playing out and the force of the remaining lashes upon their backs was nothing more than a sharp slap.

“Told ya’, didn’t I?” Smith nodded to William as the Surgeon later applied a greasy salve to their whip wounds. “Now you’ve a set of yer own stripes.”

“You didn’t have to take my second set,” William mumbled. It shamed him to have had Smith rescue him from the fury of Mr. Rogers’ lash. “However, I hope to pay you back somehow.”

“You’d have done the same, I’m sure,” Smith replied. William was not so sure he would have.

“And I don’t understand what Da’ and Cook were doing–”

“Why, what’s to wonder ‘bout that?” Smith cut in. “Yer Da’s yer Da’, and he’s the sort of Da’ what would do most anythin’ to save his son’s arse, an’ Cook’s the sort of man who’d do anything to
have
yer arse ….” Smith laughed at William’s shocked expression. “You’re really a bloody lander, ain’t ya’? Did ya’ not notice the lack of ladies aboard?” William remained speechless.

“Just watch yerself,” Smith chuckled, “if Cook be the one to offer to apply the grease to ya’!”