STO'B 16

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The bosun's mate and the Master at Arms each seized one of Wight's thin arms and roughly yanked off his shirt. They led him over to a specially prepared grating and lashed him to it. "Seized up, sir," reported the Master at Arms.

Philip paused. He was about to order punishment for the first time. He musty be sure that it was strong - an effective deterrent. "Off hats!" he ordered, and the entire ship's company stood before him, bareheaded. He removed his own hat and held it under the crook of his arm. "Two dozen," he said, and in the corner of his eye he saw a small grin cross the first lieutenant's lips. "Bishop, do your duty."

At this, the bosun's mate pulled his cat from its red baize bag and ran his fingers through its tails to untangle them. He considered Wight as the seaman stood there, swaying slightly as the ship rocked. He drew his hand back and wound up. "One," he said, a huge grin on his face as he swung the cat down over Wight's naked back with a tremendous 'thwack'. Wight cringed as much as his bound arms would allowed, and two or three ill-defined pink lines appeared across his back.

Bishop wound up again. His first blow had been off to the right and he adjusted his aim. "Two," he grunted, swinging the cat again. Closer to the target, but still off to the right.

"Three!" Now he was on target. He settled into an easy rhythm.

"Four!"

"Five!"

"Six!"

"Seven!"

"Eight!" Yes, this was much better. Instead of inconsequential pink welts, Bishop was now drawing rich, red lines. A thin stream of blood ran down his target's back. Much better indeed.

"Nine!"

"Ten!"

"Eleven!"

"Twelve!"

"Thirteen!" Something wet struck Philip's cheek. Rain? He mastered himself to continue to pay attention to the man he was having flogged.

"Fourteen!"

"Fifteen!"

"Sixteen!"

"Seventeen." Bishop's voice began to flag. His grin faded and he paused to catch his breath.

"Bishop?" Philip prompted.

"Yes, your honor," said Bishop, taking a deep breath and bringing his arm back again. "Eighteen!"

"Nineteen!"

"Twenty!"

"Twenty-one!"

"Twenty-two."

"Twenty-three."

"Twenty-four."

Wight slumped against the grating. He hadn't responded to the last two or three strikes of the cat, and his back looked like raw meat. Silence, except for the voice of the Badger herself, the ocean, and the wind in the rigging. "Cut him down," said the captain, and while the bosun and his mate freed Wight from grating and turned him over to the surgeon, "Master at Arms, bring forward the next case."

Liddle was tried and convicted next. He received the same sentence, but Bishop was spent, and the job fell to the bosun himself. There were no other cases, so Philip dismissed the men and the orderly ranks of sailors and marines broke up. On the quarterdeck, Lieutenant Grey directed the disassembly of the grating and the washing down of the deck before taking up his customary on-duty position by the taffrail. The Master, frowning about something Philip missed, disappeared into the waist.

As Philip returned his hat to his head he remembered the rain that had fallen on him during Wight's flogging, and noted the absence of wetness on the Badger's decks. He touched his cheek.

It was not rain. It was blood.

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