Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [54]
Thurso divested himself of his coat and waistcoat, handing them to Barton, who came forward for them like a valet. Haines was undoing the red baize bag in which the cat was kept. To Paris, already bracing himself for what was to come, there was a horrifying elegance in this ritual disrobing, despite the incongruities of the captain’s thick figure and his big, square, weatherbeaten face. He might have been in his changing-room at a levee, his attendants about him, his petitioners below.
He took the whip from Haines and stepped down the companion. He measured his distance, took two short steps and struck with full power of his arm. They heard the swish of the tails and the pattering crack of the impact. A loud, deep panting sound came from Wilson as the breath was driven from his body by the force of the blow. Paris saw the tendons of the man’s neck tighten with his effort to make no sound. The first blow had opened his back and a broken line of blood showed where the knots had cut. Thurso delivered stroke after stroke with unfaltering ferocity and astounding energy, his eyes staring and his face dark red and swollen-looking. Wilson still made no sound but he writhed against the grating. His back was a red slough from neck to waist. Drops of blood were scattered over the deck with each stroke. At the tenth, and each one thereafter, Thurso was obliged to pause in order to run his fingers through the tails of the cat to free them from blood and bits of flesh. The fourteenth blow broke Wilson’s resolve. His knees gave and he hung by his wrists. ‘Oh God,’ he shouted thickly. ‘God help me.’
‘Aye,’ Thurso said, shaking drops over the deck. He had stains of blood on the sleeve and shoulder of his shirt. There were beads of sweat on his face and his chest was rising and falling heavily. ‘You are singing now, are you? You had better call on Thurso, he is nearer.’
It was what he had been waiting for. Wilson was a hardy ruffian but he had known he must give way. He took the count to eighteen, however, before throwing the whip to the boatswain. ‘Clear the thongs well for the next man that forgets himself,’ he said, and stumped back up the companion. ‘Cut the man down, Mr Barton, and send the crew about their duties. Tell Morgan I want hot water brought to my cabin on the instant.’
Freed from the grating, Wilson collapsed at once upon the deck, his eyes fixed and his face darkly congested, Paris saw him half led and half carried below by two men. He stood for some moments struggling to master his disgust and indignation. It came to him that he could assert his will against this brute in a way that poor Wilson, with no privileged exemptions, had not been able to, and so give some dignity to those lacerations. He stepped forward to face the captain. ‘Excuse me, Captain Thurso,’ he said. ‘I should like the favour of a word with you.’
He met the captain’s eyes and saw something vacant in them for the moment, the sort of vacancy that sometimes comes after strong effort or emotion. ‘It is not convenient at present,’ Thurso said.
‘Sir, this is the third time of asking and I have a right to be heard.’
‘A right?’ Thurso said. ‘What do you mean?’ His tone had quickened. ‘Do you talk to me about rights, here on my deck?’
Paris felt a violent contempt rise in him as he met the renewed glare in the other’s eyes. So strong was the feeling that he had consciously to caution himself, discipline himself physically. He clasped his hands together behind his back. ‘Yes, sir, I do,’ he said. He rested his eyes steadily on Thurso and saw something