Biddlecomb glanced around him. The men were grinning, enjoying the show, no doubt wishing that they could stand up to an officer in this way. Haliburton was humiliating the brig's captain, and Biddlecomb wondered when the captain would put an end to it.
"You are subjects of the Crown and as such are liable to impressment!" Pendexter argued.
"No, we are not, you bloody rascal! You stupid bastard!"
Biddlecomb could hear snickers from the Icaruses. Pendexter's face was flushed red and his mouth was hanging open. The captain was losing control of the situation.
"You will watch your mouth, you insolent bugger, or I'll have you triced up and flogged!" Pendexter shouted.
"You are breaking the law! How bloody many times do I have to tell you?"
"Right! Mr McDuff, Mr Longbottom, seize this man up to the capstan and give him a dozen to teach him manners!"
The two men were already moving before Pendexter finished issuing the order. They grabbed Haliburton by the arms and yanked him toward the capstan.
"Hey!" the American shouted, surprised by the crushing grip and the sudden threat of corporal punishment. He struggled against them, trying to break free. Haliburton was strong, Biddlecomb knew, but he clearly was no match for McDuff, and with Longbottom's aiding, he was quickly tied to the capstan, spread-eagle and chest down. McDuff grabbed the collar of his shirt and jerked down, the fabric parting like gauze and the man's naked back exposed.
"What the hell is this!" Rumstick shouted, and as Biddlecomb turned to order him silent, Bloody Wilson elbowed him in the ribs.
"Shut your bloody gob, Jonathan," he hissed, "or they'll have a go at you next." Rumstick scowled but he did not speak.
Longbottom burst through the forward scuttle clutching the red baize bag that held the cat-o'-ninetails. He was grinning.
"Now, Brother Jonathan," Pendexter sneered, "I shall give you the opportunity to apologize, and to volunteer for the Royal Navy, in which case you shall receive a bonus—"
"You can't do this, you bastard!" Haliburton shouted, twisting to try to meet Pendexter's eyes.
"Very well. Bosun, a dozen lashes," said Pendexter.
"This ain't legal, you fornicating, black-balling bastard!"
"Very well, two dozen. Bosun, do your duty."
Haliburton opened hie mouth but his words were replaced by a sharp intake of breath as McDuff slashed the cat across his naked back. The flesh opened up in bright red ribbons as the whip smacked down again and again.
"Sweet Jesus," Biddlecomb said, turning his head away. He thought he would be sick.
"He's using a thieves' cat, the bastard," Bloody Wilson whispered.
"A what?"
"A thieves' cat. The tail is knotted to really tear a bloke up. It's supposed to be used only on them what's caught stealing, but bloody McDuff likes to use it on everyone."
"Silence!" roared Smeaton. "The next man to speak will be next on the capstan." The watching men fell silent.
At a dozen lashes McDuff switched hands, he being equally capable of flogging a man with his left hand as with his right. The whip came down now at right angles to the first dozen and made a horror of Haliburton's back.
The bosun made it to number sixteen before Haliburton cried out in agony, a sharp, inhuman sound, like an animal being mutilated. Biddlecomb swallowed hard, struggling to keep the contents of his stomach down. Each crack of the cat tore more flesh from Haliburton's back, each scream was more horrible then the last.
And then it was over. A waiting seaman dashed a bucket of salt water over Haliburton's back. Pink trails of water and blood ran down the deck and into the scuppers. Longbottom cut Haliburton free, but the American had fainted by the twentieth stroke. Two of the Icarus's men carried him below.
"Some take flogging harder than others," Wilson muttered to Biddlecomb. "Your mate there took it about as hard as any I've seen."
"That is what insolence will get you aboard this vessel!" Pendexter announced to the still-gathered men. "There can be no disobedience of orders, no back talk to officers. Do your duty and you will be fine. Fail to do so and you shall dance with the cat. Mr Smeaton, put the new men on the books. Mr Dibdin, please get the longboat aboard and get the brig under way." With that he turned and walked aft to the weather side of the quarterdeck.
The Icarus's company moved silently to their stations as Smeaton called out the orders that would get the brig under way again. Biddlecomb and Rumstick were left standing by the gangway watching the maneuver, so familiar in principle but so foreign in execution. The men ran to their lines and stood there, waiting to do their single tasks. The bosun and his mate ranged up and down the deck, cursing and beating men with their rattan canes.
"O brave new world that hath such people in it," whispered Biddlecomb.
"We've been dragged into hell." Rumstick spoke for the first time since the flogging commenced. "We've been dragged into fucking hell itself."
The Icarus's yards were braced around and the brig gathered way. Bloody Wilson ambled over to the two Americans, grabbed Biddlecomb's seabag, and slung it over his shoulder.
"I ain't carrying yours, brother, after the drumming you give me mates," he said to Rumstick, but there was no malice in his tone. "Here, follow me, and I'll show you where to stow your dunnage."
Biddlecomd and Rumstick followed as Wilson led them down into the cramped lower deck of the brig, explaining as he walked the protocol of life aboard the man-of-war.
"And one more thing," Wilson said as they were preparing to go topside again. "Don't you cross the bosun or his mate. They don't like no one, but especially they don't like Americans. And don't cross Pendexter, the captain. He says he don't love the cat, but that was the first flogging he ordered, what you just saw, and I think he's getting a taste for it."
Chapter 14.
The Man-of-War's Men
BY THE END OF HIS FIRST WEEK aboard the Icarus, Biddlecomb had the number of his mess, which was six. What this meant, or so Biddlecomb came to understand, was that he ate at mess table six, which was the third aft on the larboard side. Rumstick in turn was assigned to mess nine, on the other side of the deck and one table aft. The man-of-war's men seemed to attach great importance to where and with whom they ate. And the men at mess six quickly accepted Biddlecomb into their ranks, showing him his duties as regarded the policing of the mess.
"This here is our kid, and our bread barge, and this here metal tags is for marking the mesh bags in the tubs," Bloody Wilson explained. "One week out of six you're the cook."
This surprised Biddlecomb greatly. "For all these men? Surely a man-of-war carries a cook! Even a coasting packet carries a cook."
"Not for the ship, for the mess," Wilson explained.
"I hope the mess isn't too discriminating, because I've never cooked anything without I've burned it."
"This is what you do as cook for the mess," Wilson continued. "You get the meat from the ship's cook, put it in the mesh bag here, and remember to put the tag on it, then you give it back to the ship's cook for him to boil, and when he's done boiling it, he gives it back to you and you carries it back to the mess table."
"Oh." Biddlecomb was pleased with the simplicity of his duties but concerned with the quality of the fare served aboard the brig. He was used to poor food on shipboard, but this boiled meat, day in and day out, sounded even less tempting than merchantman's rations.
"And on days when you's the cook, you cleans up the mess table and gets all the gear squared away. See here how all our gear's got the number six on it?"