Lady in the Mist - Laurie Alice Eakes [128]
“If the English keep stealing our men, we will.”
“Then I’ll tell everyone I can what I know in an attempt to stop some of the destruction.” Parks shifted, his body thumping against the deck. “It gives me a reason to live.”
“We both need it.” Raleigh bowed his head. “And Jesus to accept us if we don’t survive.”
“He’s already accepted us.” Parks shifted again. “If—”
The drum began, the wordless order for all hands to assemble on deck. Bile rose in Raleigh’s throat. His skin crawled. Gooseflesh rose on his arms.
Tramping feet accompanied the drum rolls. Then the hatch opened and a marine stood in the opening, two more behind him.
“On your feet,” the first one commanded. “The both of you.”
They rose. Parks laid a light hand on Raleigh’s shoulder, then allowed himself to be nudged forward through the gun deck to the main hatch. Raleigh followed. His boots felt as heavy as the cannonballs that filled those guns during battle. His head felt as though it had received a full broadside. Soon his back would feel worse. Fire. That’s how others had described it. After the blow of the lead-weighted leather straps—nine of them—the fire came, blazing through flesh, muscle, bone. Most men fainted after half a dozen. The bosun’s mate wielding the lash would have him cut down, and the ship’s surgeon would revive him for the rest of his punishment.
Raleigh intended to faint after two lashes.
At that moment, stepping into the blazing sunshine and seeing the ship’s company assembled, hats off in deference to the Article of War about to be read, Raleigh thought he might faint before the punishment began. If not for the firm hand of the marine on his arm, he might have run and jumped overboard.
A quick scan of the crowd showed him Parks, pale but docile, between two marines, and too far from the gunwale.
Raleigh steeled himself for what he must do.
The marine marched him to the foot of the quarterdeck ladder. The captain, lieutenants, and midshipmen stood above him and the assembled ship’s company. The lieutenants looked solemn, the midshipmen a little queasy, the captain grave.
“Raleigh Trower,” the captain began.
The ship’s company fell silent.
“In your absence,” the captain continued, “your court martial was conducted and found you guilty of the fifteenth Article of War, which reads as thus.” He opened a leather-bound book in his hands and cleared his throat. “‘Every person in or belonging to the fleet, who shall desert or entice others so to do, shall suffer death, or such other punishment as the circumstances of the offense shall deserve, and a court martial shall judge fit: and if any commanding officer of any of His Majesty’s ships or vessels of war shall receive or entertain a deserter from any other of His Majesty’s ships or vessels, after discovering him to be such deserter, and shall not with all convenient speed give notice to the captain of the ship or vessel to which such deserter belongs; or if the said ships or vessels are at any considerable distance from each other, to the secretary of the admiralty, or to the commander in chief; every person so offending, and being convicted thereof by the sentence of the court martial, shall be cashiered.’” He closed the book. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“I am not a British subject,” Raleigh intoned.
“It has been established by the North Atlantic fleet commander that you are.” The captain glanced to the nearby bosun, who held a green baize bag. “Let the punishment begin.”
The sea breezes grew as hot as the sun. Sea and sky, staring men and blazing sun, spun around him. He was going to lose consciousness for certain.
“None of that.” The bosun threw cold water into his face.
While Raleigh sputtered, two marines grabbed his arms. They stripped him to the waist, then tied his hands to a hatch grating that had been propped upright. He