Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [40]
“It is the considered opinion of this court-martial that the 100 Englishmen of Bonhomme Richard’s crew be discharged and put ashore to prevent further confrontations between different nationalities on board this ship. They will be disembarked at dusk tomorrow evening.” He paused and surveyed the company, allowing his gaze to linger here and there. “William Laurence Sturgis. Step forward.”
One of the prisoners shuffled his feet, head hung low.
“Sturgis, you alone of the prisoners, cannot have been a prime motivator in the act of mutiny as you had already been confined to the brig for the previous six weeks. It is apparent you were released only after the mutiny began. You have, however, been found guilty of disobedience for refusing to surrender when ordered to do so by your superiors. You will be put ashore with the rest.”
The commodore shifted his gaze to the smallest of the three prisoners, a thin weasel-faced man with dark restless eyes. “Jean Rousseau. You are French but allied yourself with the Englishmen. This has not been conclusively proved, but you have been found guilty of the theft of a cutlass belonging to the American Navy, appropriated from the ship’s armory. For this you will receive thirty-three lashes. The punishment will be given tomorrow.”
“You,” he indicated the main offender, “Quartermaster Towers, have been found guilty of acting as ringleader of the mutiny, the main cause and inciter of those among the crew too ignorant to know better. In an interview previous to this court-martial you asked for justice, and justice you will get. It is well known that justice in the case of mutiny means hanging from the yardarm until you are dead. Being English, you will know that in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy you could expect no less.” He paused for effect. During the first two sentences voices had risen in whispers; now breath was held. The commodore glanced down at his papers for long seconds, then up at the pale face of the accused. “However, Mr. Towers, you are in the American Navy, and we have own justice.
“For your heinous and despicable crime, this court-martial decrees that at this hour tomorrow you will suffer two hundred and fifty strokes of the lash on your bare back at the gangway. All hands will be present to witness the punishment. You will then be sent ashore with the remainder of your compatriots.”
There was an audible gasp from the crew. True, Paul Jones had not ordered him hanged, but hanging would have been a blessing compared to the whipping. There was very little chance Towers would still be alive when he left Bonhomme Richard.
***
The cat-o’-nine-tails whispered with the deadly hiss of an angry cobra. With a flicker like lightning in a summer sky, the nine leather thongs cracked then sank their teeth into the prisoner’s flesh. On the first strike Quartermaster Towers’s body jerked rigid, suspended by his wrists between the gangway timbers. Hands knotted into fists, the muscles in his arms contracted, his collection of tattoos dancing. His head was thrown back, mouth soundlessly agape, eyes squeezed shut. The petty officer unwrapped the cat-o’-nine-tails from around Towers’s back then drew back his arm for the next stroke. And the next. He quickly gained a rhythm, until after thirty lashes he stopped, the cat’s knots flailing briefly on the deck as they came to rest.
Towers’s back had been flayed to pulp before their eyes. The entire ship’s company, drawn up in ranks, watched silently. Even those who had been against the mutiny and had no liking for Towers at all, watched with pity. Each one of them knew the prisoner could so easily have been himself.
Towers was already broken. Soon after the first welts had risen to be cut open by the next crack of the lash, he had screamed. Only once, it was the howl of an animal. Unable to clench his jaws any longer under the onslaught of the beating, the whip-cord tension of his body had snapped and now he hung from the ropes between the two posts, bleeding where the hemp sliced into his wrists. His face was drenched