Damme, I didn’t expect him to try to kill me! Lewrie thought in shock as he struggled and flailed to free his throat. There were other hands there in a moment, however, prying Rolston loose and hauling them both to their feet.
“You miserable, lying bastard! You said I killed Gibbs! I’ll kill you for it!” Rolston cried, wriggling to break free.
“The hell I did!” Alan shot back. I didn’t say it, actually. Just hinted round it, he qualified to himself. “In the privacy of this mess I said it was a shame you were riding him, and that’s all! Nobody is going to make me make a false report, not even against you.”
“It was an accident,” Rolston said. “But it’s all over the ship I pushed him or something, and it’s your fault. I want you dead!”
As he said it, he shoved hard to his left, breaking Bascombe loose from him and dragging free of Keith’s grip. Before anyone could restrain him, he drew his dirk and dove at Lewrie with the point held forward. Alan ducked across the compartment as Finnegan and Turner and the surgeon’s mates seized Rolston again, this time disarming him and forcing him to kneel on the deck.
“Stand to attention, the lot of you!” Lieutenant Swift ordered from the doorway. He had the master-at-arms and two ship’s corporals with him. He stepped inside, taking in the dirk in Finnegan’s fist, Rolston held down and raging, Lewrie looking as pale as a spook, and the mess littered with overturned utensils and bowls. “Now what’s all this about? Did I hear you threaten a man’s life, Mister Rolston? Explain yourself damned fast, boy.”
“Sir, I—”
“Did you accuse Rolston of causing Gibbs’ death, Mister Lewrie?”
“No, sir, I did not,” Alan vowed—with crossed fingers.
“Did he give anyone reason to think Rolston did it?” Swift asked the general mess. He was quickly informed that he had not; though the common opinion was against Rolston and his temper, Lewrie had refused to countenance such a thought.
“He’s a clever liar, sir. Don’t believe him!” from Rolston.
“Are you going to tell me that this is not your dirk, Rolston? Are you going to deny drawing it and attacking Mister Lewrie?”
“I…”
“Ashburn, was there a physical attack in these quarters with a weapon?” Swift turned to his trustworthy senior midshipman.
“Aye, sir, there was,” Ashburn said reluctantly, knowing he was sealing Rolston’s fate. He described the events, gave Lewrie a fair report, and quoted Rolston’s avowed purpose of murder.
“Master-at-arms, I shall have Mister Rolston taken aft to the captain at once. Charge of striking a fellow junior warrant and fighting with steel,” Swift said, specifying a charge less than murder, or the attempt at it, which would automatically qualify for hanging.
“Mister Swift, sir,” Rolston gasped, realizing what was to fall on him. “Please, sir, no.”
“Now get this place put to rights,” Swift said. “This mess looks like a pigsty. I shall expect all of you to be ready to go aft when the captain summons you.”
“Aye aye, sir,” they mumbled in a rough chorus as Swift took the evidence from Finnegan and strode out.
“Sufferin’ Jesus,” Chapman breathed after Swift was safely gone. “That’s all for that little boss-cock.”
“Rolston be damned,” Shirke said. “Just look at my breeches. Idiot.”
“What?” Chapman asked.
“I meant Rolston,” Shirke replied quickly, trying to wipe food from his clothing with the tablecloth.
“What’s going to happen to him?” Lewrie asked. The whole joke had gotten way out of hand. He had not expected Rolston to come for him like that, and was badly shaken.
“You notice the first lieutenant didn’t say attempted murder, so I doubt they’ll scrag him for it,” Bascombe said. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“Dis-rating, most-like,” Chapman said. “Flog him raw and pack him off home, soon as we get to Antigua.”
“For losing his temper?” Lewrie asked. “I mean … we go after each other all the time down here. We all have bruises to prove it.”
“When’s the last time I drew a blade on you and said I’d kill you?” Keith asked him.
“At least a week ago.”
“Be serious for once, Alan. That man tried to kill you. Not just wave a dirk about and shout at you,” Ashburn said sternly. “He’s for it, now. Just as well, before he got control over people. A man who can’t control his passions is obviously not a gentleman.”
“At least that passion.” Shirke picked up some bowls. “Though a passion for the ladies is allowed by the Navy.”
“If that’s so, I haven’t seen much sign of it,” Lewrie sighed.
* * *
The next day in the Forenoon watch Rolston was paraded on deck. There had been a swift inquiry, with all involved hands testifying. It also included details of what had happened with Gibbs, with Hawkes giving the impression that while it may have been accidental, it pleased Rolston greatly. While Captain Bales could not hold a court-martial (that took a panel of five captains), he could assign a punishment for fighting and assaulting a fellow midshipman with a weapon. Sea Officers had the power of life and death in their hands, for though the Admiralty might limit the number of lashes a man might receive, written reports exceeding those limits never brought even a peep of displeasure from Whitehall. Out of reach of land and senior authority, a captain could do pretty much as he pleased.
So, while the Marines were formed up with their muskets on the quarterdeck, the officers below the rail on the upper gun deck and the midshipmen to one side, Rolston was called to punishment. A hatch grating was stood up and lashed to the gangway, and the bosun and his mates stood by with a red baize bag which contained a cat-o’-nine-tails.
Bales read out the charges against Rolston and asked him if he had anything to say. Rolston bit his lip and did not have any words. Bales referred to his slim book containing the Articles of War, and read the specific passages aloud, to drum into the hands the folly of fighting or laying hands on one another, much less a senior.
“The Twenty-Third Article,” Bales intoned in a loud voice. “‘If any Person in the Fleet shall quarrel or fight with any other Person in the Fleet, or use reproachful or provoking Speeches or Gestures, tending to make any Quarrel or Disturbance, he shall upon being convicted thereof, suffer such Punishment as the Offence shall deserve, and a Court-martial shall impose.’” Bales also made reference to the Thirty-Sixth Article, the “Captain’s Cloak,” headed “All Other Crimes Not Capital…”
Snapping the book shut, he ordered, “Seize him up!”
Rolston was clad in shirt and breeches. The shirt was ripped off his back and a leather apron tied over his kidneys and buttocks. They pressed him against the grating and tied him spread-eagled with spun yarn.
“Give him a dozen!”
Bosun’s Mate Ream took off his coat and took the cat out of the bag. The lengths were not knotted, since it was not mutiny, theft or desertion, but that was cold comfort. Ream settled himself and drew back. He delivered the first stroke.
Rolston was a boy, after all, a vicious, bullying sixteen-year-old boy, not made to take a man’s punishment. The lash made his whole body leap against the gratings with a thud, and he gasped audibly. Regular as a slow metronome, the lashes struck home. By the end of the first dozen, Rolston’s back was crisscrossed by angry weals and already turning blue and mottled yellow from the savage pounding. He was weeping silently and had bit his lip trying to be game about it.