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Chapter 33

A FLOGGING.


If you begin the day with a laugh, you may, nevertheless, end it
with a sob and a sigh.

Among the many who were exceedingly diverted with the scene
between the Down Easter and the Lieutenant, none laughed more
heartily than John, Peter, Mark, and Antone--four sailors of the
starboard-watch. The same evening these four found themselves
prisoners in the "brig," with a sentry standing over them. They
were charged with violating a well-known law of the ship--having
been engaged in one of those tangled, general fights sometimes
occurring among sailors. They had nothing to anticipate but a
flogging, at the captain's pleasure.

Toward evening of the next day, they were startled by the dread
summons of the boatswain and his mates at the principal hatchway
--a summons that ever sends a shudder through every manly heart in
a frigate:

"_All hands witness punishment, ahoy!_"

The hoarseness of the cry, its unrelenting prolongation, its
being caught up at different points, and sent through the
lowermost depths of the ship; all this produces a most dismal
effect upon every heart not calloused by long habituation to it.

However much you may desire to absent yourself from the scene
that ensues, yet behold it you must; or, at least, stand near it
you must; for the regulations enjoin the attendance of the entire
ship's company, from the corpulent Captain himself to the
smallest boy who strikes the bell.

"_All hands witness punishment, ahoy!_"

To the sensitive seaman that summons sounds like a doom. He knows
that the same law which impels it--the same law by which the culprits
of the day must suffer; that by that very law he also is liable at any
time to be judged and condemned. And the inevitableness of his own
presence at the scene; the strong arm that drags him in view of the
scourge, and holds him there till all is over; forcing upon his loathing
eye and soul the sufferings and groans of men who have familiarly
consorted with him, eaten with him, battled out watches with him--men
of his own type and badge--all this conveys a terrible hint of the
omnipotent authority under which he lives. Indeed, to such a man the
naval summons to witness punishment carries a thrill, somewhat akin to
what we may impute to the quick and the dead, when they shall hear the
Last Trump, that is to bid them all arise in their ranks, and behold
the final penalties inflicted upon the sinners of our race.

But it must not be imagined that to all men-of-war's-men this summons
conveys such poignant emotions; but it is hard to decide whether one
should be glad or sad that this is not the case; whether it is grateful
to know that so much pain is avoided, or whether it is far sadder to
think that, either from constitutional hard-heartedness or the multiplied
searings of habit, hundreds of men-of-war's-men have been made proof
against the sense of degradation, pity, and shame.

As if in sympathy with the scene to be enacted, the sun, which the day
previous had merrily flashed upon the tin pan of the disconsolate Down
Easter, was now setting over the dreary waters, veiling itself in
vapours. The wind blew hoarsely in the cordage; the seas broke heavily
against the bows; and the frigate, staggering under whole top-sails,
strained as in agony on her way.

"_All hands witness punishment, ahoy!_"

At the summons the crew crowded round the main-mast; multitudes
eager to obtain a good place on the booms, to overlook the scene;
many laughing and chatting, others canvassing the case of the
culprits; some maintaining sad, anxious countenances, or carrying
a suppressed indignation in their eyes; a few purposely keeping
behind to avoid looking on; in short, among five hundred men,
there was every possible shade of character.

All the officers--midshipmen included--stood together in a group
on the starboard side of the main-mast; the First Lieutenant in
advance, and the surgeon, whose special duty it is to be present
at such times, standing close by his side.

Presently the Captain came forward from his cabin, and stood in
the centre of this solemn group, with a small paper in his hand.
That paper was the daily report of offences, regularly laid upon
his table every morning or evening, like the day's journal placed
by a bachelor's napkin at breakfast.

"Master-at-arms, bring up the prisoners," he said.

A few moments elapsed, during which the Captain, now clothed in
his most dreadful attributes, fixed his eyes severely upon the
crew, when suddenly a lane formed through the crowd of seamen,
and the prisoners advanced--the master-at-arms, rattan in hand,
on one side, and an armed marine on the other--and took up their
stations at the mast.

"You John, you Peter, you Mark, you Antone," said the Captain,
"were yesterday found fighting on the gun-deck. Have you anything
to say?"

Mark and Antone, two steady, middle-aged men, whom I had often
admired for their sobriety, replied that they did not strike the
first blow; that they had submitted to much before they had
yielded to their passions; but as they acknowledged that they had
at last defended themselves, their excuse was overruled.

John--a brutal bully, who, it seems, was the real author of the
disturbance--was about entering into a long extenuation, when he
was cut short by being made to confess, irrespective of
circumstances, that he had been in the fray.

Peter, a handsome lad about nineteen years old, belonging to the
mizzen-top, looked pale and tremulous. He was a great favourite
in his part of the ship, and especially in his own mess,
principally composed of lads of his own age. That morning two of
his young mess-mates had gone to his bag, taken out his best
clothes, and, obtaining the permission of the marine sentry at
the "brig," had handed them to him, to be put on against being
summoned to the mast. This was done to propitiate the Captain, as
most captains love to see a tidy sailor. But it would not do. To
all his supplications the Captain turned a deaf ear. Peter
declared that he had been struck twice before he had returned a
blow. "No matter," said the Captain, "you struck at last, instead
of reporting the case to an officer. I allow no man to fight on
board here but myself. I do the fighting."

"Now, men," he added, "you all admit the charge; you know the
penalty. Strip! Quarter-masters, are the gratings rigged?"

The gratings are square frames of barred wood-work, sometimes
placed over the hatchways. One of these squares was now laid on
the deck, close to the ship's bulwarks, and while the remaining
preparations were being made, the master-at-arms assisted the
prisoners in removing their jackets and shirts. This done, their
shirts were loosely thrown over their shoulders.

At a sign from the Captain, John, with a shameless leer,
advanced, and stood passively upon the grating, while the bare-
headed old quarter-master, with grey hair streaming in the wind,
bound his feet to the cross-bars, and, stretching out his arms
over his head, secured them to the hammock-nettings above. He
then retreated a little space, standing silent.

Meanwhile, the boatswain stood solemnly on the other side, with a
green bag in his hand, from which, taking four instruments of
punishment, he gave one to each of his mates; for a fresh "cat"
applied by a fresh hand, is the ceremonious privilege accorded to
every man-of-war culprit.

At another sign from the Captain, the master-at-arms, stepping
up, removed the shirt from the prisoner. At this juncture a wave
broke against the ship's side, and clashed the spray over his
exposed back. But though the air was piercing cold, and the water
drenched him, John stood still, without a shudder.

The Captain's finger was now lifted, and the first boatswain's-
mate advanced, combing out the nine tails of his _cat_ with his
hand, and then, sweeping them round his neck, brought them with
the whole force of his body upon the mark. Again, and again, and
again; and at every blow, higher and higher rose the long, purple
bars on the prisoner's back. But he only bowed over his head, and
stood still. Meantime, some of the crew whispered among themselves
in applause of their ship-mate's nerve; but the greater part were
breathlessly silent as the keen scourge hissed through the wintry
air, and fell with a cutting, wiry sound upon the mark. One dozen
lashes being applied, the man was taken down, and went among the
crew with a smile, saying, "D----n me! it's nothing when you're
used to it! Who wants to fight?"

The next was Antone, the Portuguese. At every blow he surged from
side to side, pouring out a torrent of involuntary blasphemies.
Never before had he been heard to curse. When cut down, he went
among the men, swearing to have the life of the Captain. Of
course, this was unheard by the officers.

Mark, the third prisoner, only cringed and coughed under his
punishment. He had some pulmonary complaint. He was off duty for
several days after the flogging; but this was partly to be
imputed to his extreme mental misery. It was his first scourging,
and he felt the insult more than the injury. He became silent and
sullen for the rest of the cruise.

The fourth and last was Peter, the mizzen-top lad. He had often
boasted that he had never been degraded at the gangway. The day
before his cheek had worn its usual red but now no ghost was
whiter. As he was being secured to the gratings, and the
shudderings and creepings of his dazlingly white back were
revealed, he turned round his head imploringly; but his weeping
entreaties and vows of contrition were of no avail. "I would not
forgive God Almighty!" cried the Captain. The fourth boatswain's-
mate advanced, and at the first blow, the boy, shouting "_My God!
Oh! my God!_" writhed and leaped so as to displace the gratings,
and scatter the nine tails of the scourge all over his person. At
the next blow he howled, leaped, and raged in unendurable torture.

"What are you stopping for, boatswain's-mate?" cried the Captain.
"Lay on!" and the whole dozen was applied.

"I don't care what happens to me now!" wept Peter, going among
the crew, with blood-shot eyes, as he put on his shirt. "I have
been flogged once, and they may do it again, if they will. Let
them look for me now!"

"Pipe down!" cried the Captain, and the crew slowly dispersed.

Let us have the charity to believe them--as we do--when some
Captains in the Navy say, that the thing of all others most
repulsive to them, in the routine of what they consider their
duty, is the administration of corporal punishment upon the crew;
for, surely, not to feel scarified to the quick at these scenes
would argue a man but a beast.

You see a human being, stripped like a slave; scourged worse than
a hound. And for what? For things not essentially criminal, but
only made so by arbitrary laws.

Herman Melville