Page 16 of Captive of the Pirate King
He’s really going to do this for me. And I’m going to let him.
“Yes, Captain,” I say in my husky faux-male voice. “It’s true.”
“I’m disappointed in both of you. Let this be a lesson to you, Nick, to think for yourself and mind the rules aboard ship. And you, Locke—I don’t know what was in that ale-cask you call a head, but mind you don’t advise any other sailors to steal from the stores, or it’ll be the worse for you. You’ll take the lashes, but you’ll take ten, not five.”
I stifle a gasp.
The moment the punishment is pronounced, the pirates’ attention shifts from me to Locke. He nods, accepting his fate, and strides across the deck to stand before the central mast. With his back to the great wooden column, he faces the crew, the Captain, and me.
Mr. Hanschel comes forward, carrying a short whip with six leather tails. Locke says something to him, quick and quiet, and Hanschel leans in for a second, letting Locke murmur in his ear.
“Ho now, what’s all that whispering about?” calls the Captain. “Not thinking of taking it easy on him, are you, Hanschel?”
The crew mutter their agreement, low cheers and whistles rising from the lot of them. They’re eager for a break in routine, for some drama. Just like the ladies at court swarm to devour a new piece of gossip, these sailors lust for Locke’s blood. I suppose court ladies and pirates share a taste for human suffering.
Whatever Locke said to him has drained the color from Hanschel’s face. His hand goes slack around the whip he holds. But Locke hisses something else—an order I can’t hear from this distance—and Hanschel nods, swallowing hard, renewing his grip on the whip.
Locke shucks off his shirt and stands half-naked, the curved muscles of his arms and pectorals shining in the sun. I want to see his exquisite moth tattoo again, but Hanschel is the only one who can see Locke’s back.
Slowly Locke sinks to one knee, bracing his hands on his other thigh. His one pale eye fixes on me and doesn’t leave my face, not even when Hanschel begins to beat him. Again and again the narrow strips of leather slice across his back and shoulders.
For the first five strikes, Locke doesn’t flinch. But by the sixth one, I can see sweat beading on his skin, dripping down his temples. The lines of his face harden as if he’s trying not to make a sound. With the seventh lash, blood sprays in a fine mist from the whip’s tails, and Locke’s lips part, revealing clenched teeth.
Still he manages to stay quiet until the tenth lash, and then an agonized groan breaks through his control.
My heart throbs with echoed pain and pity. I’m convinced I will hear that sound in nightmares to the end of my days. And yet some primal, savage, sadistic part of me craves this, delights in watching his control slip, revels in the fact that he took this beating forme, when he had no reason to step in.
The punishment is over, and Locke pulls his shirt on immediately, grimacing through what must be excruciating pain as the fabric slides over his skin. He walks past all of us, staggering only slightly, blood blooming through the material across his back.
When he has disappeared below, the Captain snarls, “What are you all waiting for—your turn under the lash? Get back to work!”
I scuttle belowdecks and head straight for the galley.
“There you are!” grumbles Cook. “What took so long?”
“One of the men was whipped,” I reply. “May I take him something for the pain?”
Cook grumbles, but he passes me a flask, a roll of clean bandages, and a small tin. “There’s ointment in there, for the wounds,” he says.
“Are you a doctor as well as a cook?” I’m half-joking; but Cook nods. “I cook up medicines as well as meals, Nicky boy, and I’ve sewn up more wounds than there are weeks in the year. Off you go now, and don’t be long. I’ve something I need to say to you.”
12
I have no idea what Cook wants to discuss with me, but his words gnaw at my brain as I hurry toward the crew’s quarters. The few sailors who took the pre-dawn shift are snoring noisily in their hammocks, and I sidle past them, wrinkling my nose at the stench of unwashed feet and man-butt. Now that I smell better, the odor of everyone else seems worse.
Locke sleeps in the same long, narrow room where my hammock hangs, but he actually has one of the bunks—lucky man. It’s the bottom bunk of three, at the far end, half-hidden by a bulkhead. Not that I’ve been watching him or anything.
He’s standing in the corner beside the bunks, his tall form draped in thick shadows. After the morning brightness up on deck, I can barely see him in the gloom.
My toe catches on someone’s trunk, and my other foot bumps a sailor’s satchel, and I fall headlong into the personal possessions that litter the floor. “Hellsfire,” I snarl, struggling to disentangle myself. I fumble around and find the items Cook gave me, hauling myself to my feet. The Captain should really make his men keep a tidier ship. Even when the seas are calm, this room is a hazard, and it’s far worse when there’s rough weather and everything slides across the floor.
Locke is watching me, his one pale eye catching what little light there is. I square my shoulders and start to walk primly toward him—a reaction born from years of training in deportment and decorum—and then I remember to slouch and shuffle, to keep my head low.
When I reach him, I risk a glance up at his face.
He’s grinning so broadly I can’t help smiling back.
“That was quite the tumble, Nick,” he says. “Just what I needed.”
