An Eye of the Fleet by Richard Woodman Page B

sparkled in the spring sunshine.
    On the last Sunday in March, instead of the Anglican service,Captain Hope had read the Articles of War. Drinkwater stood with the other midshipmen as Hope intoned the grim catechism of Admiralty. He felt himself flush, ashamed at his own weakness as Hope read the 29th Article: ‘If any person in the Fleet shall commit the unnatural and detestable crime of buggery or sodomy with man or beast he shall be punished with death . . .’
    He bit his lip and with an effort mastered the visceral fear he felt, but he still avoided the eyes of those he knew were staring at him.
    After the solemnly oppressive reminder of the Captain’s power the hands had been made to witness punishment. In the recent bad weather two men had been persistent offenders. Hope was not a vicious commander and Devaux, with a simple aristocratic faith in being obeyed, never pressed for strict action, infinitely preferring the indolence of inaction. He was content that the bosun’s mates kept
Cyclops
’s people at their duty. But these two men had developed a vendetta and neither captain nor first lieutenant could afford to stand for that.
    A drum rolled and the marines stamped to attention as a grating was triced up in the main rigging. A man was called out. Before passing sentence Hope had endeavoured to discover the source of the trouble but to no avail. The lower deck kept its own counsel and guarded its own secrets. The man came forward to where two bosun’s mates grabbed him and lashed his wrists to the grating. A piece of leather was jammed into his mouth to prevent him from biting through his own tongue. It was Tregembo.
    The drum rolled and a third bosun’s mate wielded the supple cat o’nine tails and laid on the first dozen. He was relieved for the second and his relief for the third. After a bucket of water had been thrown over the wretched prisoner’s body he was cut down.
    With difficulty Tregembo staggered back to his place among the sullen hands. The second man was led out. Threddle’s powerful back testified to previous punishment but he bore his three dozen as bravely as Tregembo. When he too was cut down he stood unsupported, his eyes glittering with tears and fierce hatred. He looked directly at Drinkwater.
    The midshipman had become inured to the brutality of these public floggings; in some curious way the spectacle affected him far less than the sonorous intonation of that 29thArticle of War.
    Like many of the officers and men he managed to think of something else, to concentrate on the way the row of fire buckets, each with its elaborately painted royal cipher, swung to the motion of the ship. He found the device reassuring, helping him to master himself after the disquiet of that uncompromising sentence. It was thus disarmed that Threddle caught his eye.
    Drinkwater felt the occult force of loathing hit him with near physical impact. The midshipman was certain that he was in some strange way connected with the animosity that existed between these two men that had broken out in persistent and disruptive fighting. It was only with difficulty that Drinkwater prevented himself from fainting. One seaman did. It was the handsome young topman who had been Morris’s pathic.
    Later in the day Drinkwater passed close to Tregembo as the man worked painfully at a splice.
    â€˜I am sorry you were flogged, Tregembo,’ he said quietly.
    The man looked up. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow, evidence of the agony of working with a back lashed to a bloody ruin.
    â€˜You don’ have to worry, zur,’ he replied. Then he added as an afterthought, ‘It shouldn’t have to come to that . . .’ Drinkwater passed on, musing on the man’s last, incomprehensible remark.
    Later that night the wind freshened. At 4 a.m. Drinkwater was called to go on watch. Stumbling forward to the companionway he was aware that once more
Cyclops
was pitching