No one has to tell the gallery to shush; by the time the first blow falls, all are silent.
What's the point of such stillness, Crozier wonders. You said it was temporary, an accusatory thought even as he looks back at Jospon, who he doesn't want to see in pain, but less wants to see bear the ruinous weight of perceived favoritism. (It would be real favoritism.) You said it was temporary, and this isn't even a whip, but I can tell it hurts, lad.
Like he can fucking hear him. He thinks of his own brushes with discipline, humiliating instances as they were. Distant by now. Does he even remember what they were for? Does he remember what prompted any blow from his father, bent over the man's knee? Does anyone remember the infractions, or just the fear, the shock at the violation, a turn from something trusted into something vulnerable?
It's not to teach him a lesson. It's to right the ship. Jopson is part of that ship, and he proved it by stepping into it well up to his bloody middle.
Nine, and he imagines it's him. Ten, he imagines it's him with his bare hand.
Jopson is loosed without comment. Cotter puts a hand on his shoulder to wrench him up and turn him over to the doctor, who looks at his back and will either tell him he's fine to redress if there's no bleeding, or pass him off to the surgeon to fix anything that's split. Already, the next man is called forward. Instigating, complaining, lying by omission, Crozier announces as dispassionately as he had for Jopson's. Ten strikes.
As before. For the next, it's the strap still, but more strikes. The last two, the actual combatants, get the whip. Ten for Chambers. Drunkenness, fighting, cowardice. Fifteen for the other seaman. Drunkenness, fighting, stealing. It is here that the night turns truly grim. A horror, this punishment. Blood and panic have scents. Men watching flinch, now, and turn their eyes away. The second combatant gets to twelve, and Cotter raises his arm for the thirteenth before Crozier determines that's enough.
no subject
What's the point of such stillness, Crozier wonders. You said it was temporary, an accusatory thought even as he looks back at Jospon, who he doesn't want to see in pain, but less wants to see bear the ruinous weight of perceived favoritism. (It would be real favoritism.) You said it was temporary, and this isn't even a whip, but I can tell it hurts, lad.
Like he can fucking hear him. He thinks of his own brushes with discipline, humiliating instances as they were. Distant by now. Does he even remember what they were for? Does he remember what prompted any blow from his father, bent over the man's knee? Does anyone remember the infractions, or just the fear, the shock at the violation, a turn from something trusted into something vulnerable?
It's not to teach him a lesson. It's to right the ship. Jopson is part of that ship, and he proved it by stepping into it well up to his bloody middle.
Nine, and he imagines it's him. Ten, he imagines it's him with his bare hand.
Jopson is loosed without comment. Cotter puts a hand on his shoulder to wrench him up and turn him over to the doctor, who looks at his back and will either tell him he's fine to redress if there's no bleeding, or pass him off to the surgeon to fix anything that's split. Already, the next man is called forward. Instigating, complaining, lying by omission, Crozier announces as dispassionately as he had for Jopson's. Ten strikes.
As before. For the next, it's the strap still, but more strikes. The last two, the actual combatants, get the whip. Ten for Chambers. Drunkenness, fighting, cowardice. Fifteen for the other seaman. Drunkenness, fighting, stealing. It is here that the night turns truly grim. A horror, this punishment. Blood and panic have scents. Men watching flinch, now, and turn their eyes away. The second combatant gets to twelve, and Cotter raises his arm for the thirteenth before Crozier determines that's enough.
And that's the end of it.