One could argue about Francis Crozier having no love for cruelty, seeing this— it's perverse entertainment as much as it is a chilling collective lesson, every time the whole crew assembles for punishment. A ship is one unit. Flagrant violations cannot be secrets. It's disturbing to watch, and it's disturbing to be watched; yet more layers of discipline. See, when you behave out of line, it touches the lot.
Too cold to be on deck, would be even at noon. They are below, with a table bisecting the room, penitent men on one side with an audience of the crew behind them, officers on the other, the ship's master with his tools at the head, Dr Robertson opposite, his assistant surgeon over his shoulder.
No fanfare. Crozier reminds them of the service they're in, and gets on with it. Jopson first. Meddling and lying, he says as the steward pulls off his shirt. Ten strikes.
He could walk over and shake him. Really. Seeing it—
You prick. 'I can weather the lashes well enough', he'd said. 'The pain is temporary.' And he'd disbelieved him. Jopson isn't a seaman, he has no service record. If it wasn't entered into the memory of gossip and telling tales, there's no reason for anyone to have made note of it; whatever he'd gotten up to on Racer must have been plenty mundane. He was going to do endure it again? Over what?
Thank hell, or some other thing, that he isn't the sort to gape. But it's a hard look he gives his steward as the master tells him to brace himself. It's the strap, not the whip, but it'll go on his back and not his rear. Cotter doesn't go easy. One. It's a loud noise. Two. Crozier keeps looking at Jopson, and his wide, clear eyes.
no subject
Too cold to be on deck, would be even at noon. They are below, with a table bisecting the room, penitent men on one side with an audience of the crew behind them, officers on the other, the ship's master with his tools at the head, Dr Robertson opposite, his assistant surgeon over his shoulder.
No fanfare. Crozier reminds them of the service they're in, and gets on with it. Jopson first. Meddling and lying, he says as the steward pulls off his shirt. Ten strikes.
He could walk over and shake him. Really. Seeing it—
You prick. 'I can weather the lashes well enough', he'd said. 'The pain is temporary.' And he'd disbelieved him. Jopson isn't a seaman, he has no service record. If it wasn't entered into the memory of gossip and telling tales, there's no reason for anyone to have made note of it; whatever he'd gotten up to on Racer must have been plenty mundane. He was going to do endure it again? Over what?
Thank hell, or some other thing, that he isn't the sort to gape. But it's a hard look he gives his steward as the master tells him to brace himself. It's the strap, not the whip, but it'll go on his back and not his rear. Cotter doesn't go easy. One. It's a loud noise. Two. Crozier keeps looking at Jopson, and his wide, clear eyes.