Wrenched away and shoved into the doctor's view, who gives him a once over and nods. Thomas knows putting his clothes back on will hurt more than the strap itself, but he pulls his shirt on as though it doesn't, then his coat. He glances back at Crozier, already announcing the next man's crimes, unsure of why he feels hot all over. (Thomas, please). When the whip comes out a terrible, dark thing akin to guilt and horror churns in his gut instead. The whip - the thing itself that Thomas lied for, to preserve Chambers a few moments of ship time without it. And here they are.
He will find the boy later - bring him something warm to help him sleep. He shouldn't, but it's what another seaman had done for him when he was lashed on the Racer. Small things go a long, long way.
The strikes turn brutal, the whole room tensing and turning acrid with the tang of blood and the uncomfortable coughs and huffs of men. It stops just before turning into something dizzying and the bloody man with twelve lashes is ushered off toward the doctor in far worse shape than he. The room is dismissed, the example made, and most of the men return quietly to their tables or to their hammocks to wind down for the evening as well as one can following such a show.
Thomas is no different. He straightens himself, turns to his own little hovel and splashes cold water in his face, smooths his hair into place, tries to cool some of the heat in his cheeks and throat. His back is murderously painful and it takes everything not to pour some of that cold water down the stinging heat of his spine. Instead he adjusts his jacket and slips back out.
The Captain's quarters need to be cleaned up from dinner, his bed made up for sleep, a nightcap, and night clothes prepared. While the Captain is out of sight he moves carefully, finding which ways he can bend and turn that won't send white-hot pain down his spine. It's only when he hears the scuff of boots and the groan of hinges that he straightens, tidying up the table, focused on the task.
"Your quarters are ready for you, Captain. I've just to remove these and pull the shades. Do you require a nightcap, sir? There's a decanter of water at your bedside all the same should you need it."
no subject
He will find the boy later - bring him something warm to help him sleep. He shouldn't, but it's what another seaman had done for him when he was lashed on the Racer. Small things go a long, long way.
The strikes turn brutal, the whole room tensing and turning acrid with the tang of blood and the uncomfortable coughs and huffs of men. It stops just before turning into something dizzying and the bloody man with twelve lashes is ushered off toward the doctor in far worse shape than he. The room is dismissed, the example made, and most of the men return quietly to their tables or to their hammocks to wind down for the evening as well as one can following such a show.
Thomas is no different. He straightens himself, turns to his own little hovel and splashes cold water in his face, smooths his hair into place, tries to cool some of the heat in his cheeks and throat. His back is murderously painful and it takes everything not to pour some of that cold water down the stinging heat of his spine. Instead he adjusts his jacket and slips back out.
The Captain's quarters need to be cleaned up from dinner, his bed made up for sleep, a nightcap, and night clothes prepared. While the Captain is out of sight he moves carefully, finding which ways he can bend and turn that won't send white-hot pain down his spine. It's only when he hears the scuff of boots and the groan of hinges that he straightens, tidying up the table, focused on the task.
"Your quarters are ready for you, Captain. I've just to remove these and pull the shades. Do you require a nightcap, sir? There's a decanter of water at your bedside all the same should you need it."