by Téa Cooper
Marcus opened one eye and peered at her.
His cold, pale face reminded her of a corpse. She shuddered. ‘Marcus. Wake up! They’re going to keelhaul Christian.’
‘Christian,’ he mumbled, his voice full of sleep and ale. Both of his eyes took an eternity to flicker open then he glared at her long and hard. ‘Christian? Would you be referring to our good captain?’
‘Yes! Christian. The Captain. They’re going to keelhaul him. They have him tied to the yardarm. The crew have mutinied.’ Had the man lost all sense? She shook him again.
Marcus swatted her hands away and pushed up onto his elbow, running a hand through the thin grey hair plastered around his sleep-sodden face. ‘Mutinied? Who is in charge?’
‘Henk, the mate, and the crew. They’ve taken the ship.’
‘First mate runs the ship anyway. We know that.’
‘But they’re going to keelhaul him. Whatever that means.’
‘Don’t exaggerate, woman. The practise was outlawed years ago by the British navy, over a century ago.’
‘Marcus!’ Charlotte stamped her foot, fear and irritation coursing through her. She had no idea what keelhaul meant but if it was bad enough for the navy to outlaw and Henk was behind it, it couldn’t be anything pleasurable.
‘Pass me my coat,’ Marcus said with a tedious sigh as he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. ‘Is there any water in that flagon? My mouth is as dry as the bottom of a parrot’s cage.’
Suppressing her swirling fury Charlotte poured Marcus a cup of water and handed it to him. He slipped it slowly and ran his tongue around his cracked lips. ‘Now tell me again what is happening up on deck.’ He paused, his head cocked to one side. ‘What were you doing on deck? Why weren’t you in your cabin sleeping?’
‘Marcus!’ She stamped her foot again. The poor man dangled from the yardarm and Marcus sat there sipping water and worrying about her sleeping habits. ‘There is a man up on deck trussed up like a chicken and a crowd of men baying like a pack of rabid dogs.’
‘My dear, I think you forget your position. Let me remind you. I am your employer, and your saviour, as yet not your husband despite any arrangement we may have made. But for me you would be incarcerated in some foul factory sewing slops. Please accord me the respect to which I am entitled.’
Charlotte bowed her head and bit her tongue. Arguing with Marcus would benefit no one, least of all Christian. She needed Marcus’ help and his support. There was nothing she could do alone and the mood on deck reeked of vengeance. ‘I’m sorry, Marcus. I forgot myself, please,’ she rushed on, ‘please, I beg you, help me prevent this heathen act of torture.’ She played her trump card and ran her damp hands down her skirt praying Marcus would react as she hoped.
‘Very well, my dear,’ Marcus said, laboriously rising to his feet and shrugging his jacket over his narrow shoulders. ‘Lead the way and let us take on these heathens as God intended.’
A grey dawn gloom blanketed the ship; a pall, far more bone-chilling than the night air hovered like a wraith over the deck. The sails hung limp as if in answer to the pathetic slop of the tide against the hull.
‘It doesn’t appear to me there is a problem here.’ Marcus pulled his coat over his belly. ‘Henk is at the wheel, Jinks is there, standing watch…’
‘Yes, yes, but look over there!’ Charlotte grabbed Marcus’ arm, ignoring his shrug of discomfort and pulled him across the deck.
Christian hung, his feet barely scraping the deck, from the yardarm. They’d removed his shirt and his skin shone bronze in the bizarre light. Charlotte dragged in an agonising breath, horrified by the shuttered and remote expression on his usually animated face.
‘Marcus, we have to cut him down.’ She moved closer, her fingers tempted to touch the smooth amber skin of his naked back. A pale scar ran across his back and curved up under his arm. As she came closer he turned his head and his eyes flickered open and willed her away.
‘I wouldn’t even think about it if I were you, Miss.’ Bristol appeared through the mist. ‘Capt’n’s orders. He’s to stay there until sunrise.’
‘Captain’s orders?’ Charlotte’s temper snapped. ‘He is the Captain. Marcus! Make him untie the man. He’s in agony.’
Bristol stepped between Charlotte and Christian, blocking her. ‘It won’t be happenin’. Now why don’t you both go back to your cabins and catch up on your sleep. It’ll all be over when you wake up.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Charlotte stepped forward and pushed the old sailor aside. ‘Marcus?’ As her high-pitched scream broke the silence, the sun breached the horizon and the sky turned lilac illuminating the silky, smooth water.
‘Get her off the deck.’ Henk appeared. ‘I told you before this is no hen frigate. Off my deck. Now!’
His words galvanised Marcus. ‘I would like to formally protest the treatment of this man. He is your captain and you, sir,’ he prodded Henk in the chest with his long bony finger, ‘are a mutineer. In the name of the Council of Churches I demand you cease this foolishness.’
Charlotte’s eyes widened, impressed with Marcus’ stand and convinced Christian would be released in no time and order restored. This was Marcus at his best, in control, the Marcus who had stepped aboard the Atwich and turned her nightmare into an ordered reality.
Henk pursed his lips and nodded slowly. ‘You do, do you?’ He turned and whistled low and clear and within seconds every member of the crew stood at his back, with the exception of Jinks whose hands stilled on the wheel as he surveyed the scene with a wary eye.
‘Step back, Mr Wainwright, and you too.’ Henk lifted his chin and glared at Charlotte. ‘You have a choice. Stay, watch and keep your traps shut or go below decks.’
‘We’re staying,’ Charlotte interrupted, her eyes firmly fixed on Christian’s naked back. ‘You can’t do this. It is illegal.’
‘I am the Captain and as long as we’re at sea I am the law. He’ll take his punishment.’
‘Punishment? What has he done? He hasn’t even been accused of anything.’ Charlotte’s voice caught and turned plaintive. ‘It is you who have broken the law.’
‘My dear, you are not helping. This is a matter for men.’ Marcus patted her arm. ‘Pray, cease your prattle and let me deal with the issue.’ Marcus cleared his throat. ‘Now, Henk, exactly what is the crime your…er…your…er…ex-Captain has committed?’
‘Thieving!’ Windy’s high pitched squeak sliced the deck. ‘He’s thieved our share of the profits. Stopped us getting what we’re owed.’ He rubbed his hands together, his eyes bright with anticipation. ‘And Henk says keel’aulin’ is the punishment for thievin’. It’s what the Dutchies do.’
Marcus turned his head slowly and looked the young seaman up and down. ‘Do you know what this entails, Windy?’
‘Yes, sir!’ His shock of ginger hair bobbed and he pushed it back from his face. ‘They’re going to tie the other rope to him and push him over the side, then we have to pull like crazy on that there rope.’ He indicated to the rope dangling from the yardarm on the starboard side of the ship. ‘Then the Capta…’
Charlotte gasped as the reality of Christian’s punishment flared before her eyes. She measured the width of the ship, at least sixteen feet across the deck and they would drag him under the hull, through the water. No one could survive that.
‘Windy.’ Jinks nudged the boy. ‘He’s not the Capt’n no more. Henk is.’
Windy blushed, his face clashing with his mop top and matching the sunrise. Ignoring Jink’s comment he continued, his excitement palpable. ‘Then he’ll get hauled along under the ship from port to starboard. He’ll probably be dead when we bring him back aboard. Lungs full of water.’ Windy rubbed his hands together and shot a look at Henk, searching for approval.
‘Like the way we found ‘im. Bloody murderer.’ Henk hawked in derision. ‘About time too.’
Charlotte examined the motley line of men ranged behind Henk, their faces bright wit
h macabre expectation. Marcus stood, his arms folded and his eyes squinting into the sun, to all intents and purposes impervious to the threatened punishment.
Unable to stand the anticipation any longer Charlotte stepped in front of Marcus. ‘Do something. You can’t leave him hanging there. It’s inhuman. It’s torture…Marcus!’ Was he deaf? What was the matter with him? His eyes had a glazed faraway look. ‘Marcus?’ She nudged him and his head turned to her.
‘He will definitely drown.’ His voice sounded analytical. ‘There’s no chance of a man holding his breath long enough under water. It will take approximately…’ He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and gazed at it.
‘Marcus!’ Charlotte stamped her foot on the timber planking.
‘A moment, my dear.’ His finger traced the glass of his timepiece as he looked at the lightening horizon.
‘He’s hanging from the yardarm like a man crucified.’
‘Not crucifixion, my dear. Never fear — he’ll drown. It will take a good five minutes for them to pull his weight through the water, even with six men on the line the force of the resistance with the swell, at least five…’
The ship rocked as the first breath of morning wind tickled the sails.
‘Marcus!’ Charlotte steadied herself against the deck rail and pushed her hair from her face, the sleepless night and the surreal situation taking its toll. First the girls in the hold and now this. She swayed, fighting a wave of nausea, then her gaze flicked back to the man dangling in front of them and tears filled her eyes. His dark lashes lay across his high cheekbones and with the pallor of his skin from the pain of his bonds she saw Jamie, the look on his face as the Bobbies pulled him away from Elizabeth’s broken body.
‘Henk, on whose authority are you inflicting this punishment?’ Marcus took several measured paces until he stood nose to chest with the Dutchman. A wave of thankfulness washed over Charlotte. At long last Marcus would make a stand and intervene.
Henk folded his arms and raised one scarred eyebrow then nodded. ‘Told you. I’m inflicting this punishment as the captain of this vessel.’ He dared Marcus to defy him. ‘It is my duty to maintain discipline aboard ship. The punishment for stealing is kielhalen and it’s final. Always has been. Always will be. If it’s good enough for the Dutch navy it’s good enough for me.’
‘This isn’t a Dutch ship.’ Charlotte pushed herself between Henk and Marcus, determined to have her say. It was barbaric. Worse even than the condition of the poor girls below decks. ‘You have no right and besides he hasn’t stolen anything.’
‘You reckon? He’s stolen right enough.’ A morbid grin slashed Henk’s face. ‘Hasn’t he, boys?’ Henk turned to the crew and they snapped to attention.
‘He’s stolen right enough.’ Bristol stepped up. ‘Stolen our ship and our profits. Thieving, sure enough.’
‘What rubbish.’ Charlotte stamped her foot in frustration. There was little she could do and even less Marcus appeared willing to do, consumed by his morbid calculations.
‘Sun’s up. I reckon it’s about time.’ Bristol rubbed his hands together, a malicious glint lighting his eyes. ‘Capt’n?’
Charlotte took a deep breath and slipped her hand into the pocket of her skirt. Henk and his crew were beyond reason and Marcus’ total preoccupation with the scientific outcome of Christian’s fate rendered him incapable. The comfortable reassurance of Mina’s blade grazed her fingers. Thank God she’d had the foresight to pick it up from the deck. If she could get behind Christian she could slip the knife between the binds on his hands and…
‘Where do you think you’re goin’?’ Henk’s foul stench coiled around her. For a man of his size he moved like morning sneaking across the rooftops.
‘I…’
‘No, you don’t, chicken.’ Henk’s filthy hand ran down her arm into the pocket of her skirt and reefed the knife from her grasp. ‘Now that’s a pretty little piece. Where would a chicken like you get something like this? Huh?’
Charlotte dropped her eyes, terrified Henk would link the knife to Mina and instigate yet another evil form of torture.
‘Looks like the blade that did this.’ He ran the tip down the still bloody scratch on his cheek and then leant in. With a gentleness belying his size he lifted the curtain of hair from her cheek and scored her cheek lightly with the tip of the knife. ‘Partners in crime perhaps.’ His words, whispered in her ear, made her flesh crawl.
‘Take your filthy hands off her!’ Shocked out of his grisly contemplation Marcus stuffed his watch back into his waistcoat pocket and, with an unusual display of dexterity, knocked the knife out of Henk’s hands.
All eyes followed the blade as it skittered across the deck and landed at Catz’s feet.
‘Leave her be, we’ve got better things to do.’ Henk stepped up until he was almost nose-to-nose with Christian. ‘It’s your turn now.’
‘He won’t be able to breathe.’ Charlotte covered her mouth with her hands and stood close to Marcus.
‘He’ll drown this time, darlin’. Nothing’ll save the murdering bastard. We fished him out once and now we’re going to return him from whence he came.’ Henk gave a chuckle as he aped Marcus’ cultured accent. ‘But we’re goin’ to give him a little bit of help.’ Henk waved his hands like the magician Charlotte had seen in Hobart Town and produced a rancid sea sponge from the pocket of his coat. He held it aloft and squeezed it. Thick oil oozed from between his fingers.
Mesmerised, Charlotte watched the oil coat his hand and dribble onto the deck.
‘You can give me a bit of help here, love.’ Henk held out the sodden sponge.
Charlotte shook her head, tempted to spit the bile from her mouth into his grinning face.
‘Take it. Come on.’ He thrust the greasy mess under her nose.
With an unsteady hand she reached up.
‘Now for my act of Christian charity.’ Henk poked Christian in the chest. His eyes flashed open and two spots of colour flared on Christian’s pale cheeks. A look of pure loathing filled his eyes.
‘Open your mouth. I’m doing you a favour here. It might be the one gasp to make the difference between heaven and hell.’ Henk locked his hand around Christian’s neck and forced his head back. ‘Open your bloody mouth.’
Christian’s cheekbones stood out in stark relief as he clamped his teeth together and shook his head from side to side. Charlotte’s stomach heaved and her mouth filled with spittle as the Dutchman’s intentions became clear.
Henk slammed his stubby fingers into Christian’s mouth and prised his lips apart. Christian’s mouth opened and his teeth came down with a snap. Blood dribbled over his lips and down his chin. Henk didn’t even flinch. He lifted one hand to Christian’s forehead, tipped his head back and stretched his jaw wide. ‘Shove it in ‘is mouth. Now.’
Charlotte squeezed the sodden sponge, horrified at Henk’s demand. There was no way she was going to stick the filthy festering lump of grease and oil into anyone’s mouth, least of all a man tied up and incapable of resisting.
‘Go on.’
‘Do what the man says, Charlotte.’ Marcus’ voice wafted across her consciousness. ‘There’ll be enough air trapped inside the sponge to give him one, maybe two, gasps of air while he is under the water. It’s an interesting phenomenon. I’ve seen it reported in the scientific journals. Pearl fishermen apparently…’
Charlotte opened her clenched fist and looked down at the sponge as Marcus’ voice droned in the background. The prospect of stuffing the foul sponge into Christian’s mouth went against her every instinct, but if Marcus was correct and the air would make a difference and help Christian the least she could do was overcome her queasiness and do what was required. She resisted the temptation to squeeze the sponge. It had almost doubled in size and if the oil repelled the water then maybe, just maybe, Marcus was correct. This oozing lump of sea sponge could be the difference between life and death for Christian.
‘Get a move on before me bloody
finger’s bitten right orf!’ Henk’s words pulled her out of her stupor and making a snap decision she stepped up and thrust the sponge over Henk’s bleeding fingers into Christian’s mouth.
Christian’s nostrils flared and he gazed deep into her eyes. Eyes the colour of nutmeg, warm and comforting with a hint of spice; she shook the thought away and read instead his thanks and what might have been a rueful grin.
Henk rubbed his hand then stuck his two injured fingers into his mouth and sucked hard before spitting the bloody mess across the deck. ‘Right, lads.’
Bristol hefted the heavy sinker attached to Christian’s ankles while Catz ran across the deck and fastened another rope to Christian’s belt and lowered him from the yardarm towards the deck.
‘Man the ropes,’ Henk shouted.
Marcus’ hand closed over Charlotte’s elbow and he guided her across the deck to the wheel. ‘We should get a good view from here. Now watch carefully, my dear. You may never see this again. It is intriguing. They’ll push him over the port side of the ship into the water. With the weight on his ankles he’ll sink like a stone. Then on Henk’s orders the crew will pull the rope.’ Marcus pointed to the other side of the deck where the crew stood. ‘See where they are all lined up on the starboard side? The rope runs through the starboard yardarm. He will be dragged below the hull of the boat and hauled to the surface. Fascinating. Simply fascinating.’
Marcus’ needless explanation floated in the air. She’d worked out what would happen. Clenching her fists, her nails biting into the palms of her hands as she searched for some form of reality to eradicate the nightmare playing out in front of her. And Marcus had told her this would be a far more pleasant trip than her previous experiences. She would swap any moment of the last hours for six months aboard the rat-infested confines of the Atwich.
Marcus’ grunt of satisfaction brought her back to the present. ‘It’s about to begin. I’d like to time this exactly. How long can a man contain his breath, do you think?’