ThirteenDozen
Condemned
*Un-edited, and un-proof read at 0200 in the morning.... forgive whatever spelling or grammar errors may
exist. Also, don't know how to un-double space it - it automatically did so after copying from Notepad.*
P.S. - If any daring soul wants to discuss potentially re-enacting any part of this story or the subsequent sequels in real life
with myself as the recipient, I'd love to talk possibilities...
Dedicated to TheBeast, as promised...
Andrew awoke to the sound of gulls crying, waves softly lapping at the side of the vessel below
his open port hole. The grey dawn air was crisp and humid in the port at Innsmouth. A fly landed
on his cheek and as he reflexively made to swat it away, he remembered with dismay that his
wrists were chained in manacles to the wall over his head. His arms ached with the awkward
position, yet it was nearly impossible to relieve the strain as tightly as he was affixed. It had
been a miserable, cold, lonely night as he painfully shifted back and forth in the sitting
position he was committed to. His hands had long ago gone numb and white, and the steel of the
cuffs was chafing the skin away on his wrists. He muttered an imprecation under his breath at the
unnecessary cruelty of shackling him whilst he was already locked behind bars.
He had been warned about Captain Bligh's capricious and irritable ways when he had first signed
aboard the Dauntless 6 months prior. He hadn't been prepared however for just how easily tripped
the man's powderkeg temper and tyrannical vindictiveness were. He had wisely kept his head down
and managed to stay under the man's notice for the first several months, until an incident a few
weeks prior...
A young newly minted sailor, perhaps 17 or 18, had run afoul of the Captain's
notorious evil temper by spilling a bucket of deck water on his boots during morning rounds. The
lad hastily began apologizing and attempting to daub at the captain's soaked footwear, but the trap
had sprung.
"You needn't do that boy" the captain said, almost congenially. "I'm afraid the damage is done. I
shall retire to my cloak room and fetch my second pair, whilst I decide what is to be done about
you..." He had a slight smile on his face as he was talking, which the naive lad had mistaken for
gentle good humour, but Andrew could see the calculating cold rage glinting behind the man's
piercing gaze. The foolish boy offered a nervous chuckle, thinking the episode was at an end.
The rest of the day had gone without incident, and Andrew almost began to think it would merely
fade into memory. However, the next morning at the 11th bell, he was tending to a fractured
portion of siding when the ship's muster bell began ringing loudly. He could hear the first mate,
Mr Errol, calling the ship's company to assemble on the main deck. Andrew dropped the wood plane
and measuring stick, and took his place in the rough circular formation accreting on the deck.
Immediately, his stomach turned a little and his heart stopped.
The fair-haired lad from the
previous day had been seized up in a "spread eagle" on a slab of upturned grating. His wrists
were bound high and wide above his head, and his legs slightly spread, bound to a second grating
below him. He had been stripped to the waist, and his shirt was being held by a shipmate on the
sidelines. His naked white skin shone in the midday sun, gooseflesh apparent on his shoulders
from the cool of the early spring air. The wind blew his wispy straw hair across his eyes as he
pleadingly searched the eyes of his shipmates for assistance. Most people simply looked down at
the ground and couldn't meet his gaze, but when Andrew locked eyes with him, he found himself
curiously transfixed. The boy mouthed "please help me" silently, but Andrew said nothing. The
first mate spoke:
"We stand assembled this day to witness punishment. In accordance with maritime law, and the
Articles of War, this miscreant has been found guilty of insubordination, and showing grevious
disrespect to a superior officer. In war time, this could find a man hanging from a yard arm.
However, our captain is a merciful man, and he has decided to gently correct this sailor's errant
ways in a manner instructive both to him, and to those assembled to witness. Four dozen lashes
with a cat of nine tails, on the prisoner's bare back! Bosun, do your duty and do not favour the
man, or you will find yourself in irons yourself!" Some of the sailors quietly muttered to each
other... 4 dozen! On another vessel, this would have been reserved for serious offenses like
falling asleep at guard, or leaving with out permission!
The bosun grimly nodded, and muttered a quick "aye, sir." He bent over to pull the cat from a
cloth sack on the deck, and gave it a few experimental flicks. The young sailor was almost in
tears with fright, and began piteously begging the captain for mercy. The captain said nothing,
but merely stood disinterestedly inspecting the back of his dress gloves for dust. The bosun
stepped forward and hung the cat at his side, judging the distance to the back he was going to
start to cut. Seeing that his entreaties were having no effect, the young man (now positively
trembling with fright and chill) hunched his shoulders and pressed his head against the wood. He
grimaced and clenched his teeth in anticipation, chest heaving with rapid breaths. Moments passed
and the air was silent, save for the rhythmic lapping of the waves against the hull. Daring to
hope against all odds, the young man opened his eyes and started to look behind him, hoping
against hope that perhaps the punishment was being stayed.
The lash caught him high on his left shoulder, one of the tails nicking his hairless chin as he
unknowingly turned his head into the strike of the cat. His blue eyes went wide with shock, and it was
clear that the pain hadn't made it's announcement yet. He blinked and worked his jaw back and
forth a little, a small droplet of blood running down from the cut on his chin. A cluster
of red lines were already forming on his pale skin, dark bruises at the tips where the end of the
cat struck. Mercifully, (if it could be called so) the captain had not ordered the cat to be
knotted, which sailors often said brought almost an equal additional measure of pain when struck.
The heavy tarred rope made enough of an impression however, when the second lash fell directly
below the first. This time, the boy stiffened as sensation began washing over him. He hissed,
sucking his breath in in surprise, as he pressed his forehead against the grating. A third stroke
landed with a heavy smack, this time crossing on top of the stripes still forming from the first
lash. At this, the boy let out a high pitched "Oh!" in a shaky voice, and clenched his fists.
It was clear he was making a valiant, but pitifully doomed effort to remain stoic in front of his
peers. Many men much stronger than he became reduced to shrieking animals as the dreaded cat
clawed the skin from their backs. The boy didn't stand a chance, Andrew thought to himself. Best
he can hope for is to pass out... he thought grimly.
At the 12th stroke, the bosun paused. The boy was positively shaking now, teeth clenched in
agony, a small drop of spittle running down his chin as he groaned softly to himself. He slightly
opened his eyes and looked behind him, the tiniest flicker of hope fading from his face as he saw
the boatswain's assistant withdrawing a fresh cat and taking up position. Protocol called for a
fresh man to alternate every 12 lashes during a flogging, so as to not afford the prisoner even
the slight relief of fatigue on the part of the executioner. Andrew threw a hateful glance at the
captain, thinking to himself that the least he could have done was at least let that small lapse
in protocol be a comfort to the boy during his first flogging. Suddenly, the captain looked up
and caught Andrew's gaze. His eyes flashed, as the venomous and legendary Bligh pride reared up
and sensed an insult to itself. Their eyes locked momentarily, neither flinching, then Andrew
hastily broke the gaze and looked at his feet. No use antagonizing the man... that wouldn't be
smart.
Back at the grating, the second man was lashing at the writhing young man's back with all the
fury of a woodsmen chopping a tree. Unlike the rote precision of the first man, it was clear he
was deriving enjoyment from his work. Each lash, he would draw the cat behind him, and swing with
a half turn forward, making it whistle through the air. His efforts were rewarded, as instead of
merely welting the skin, each stroke drew blood where the tips cut into the freckled flesh. At
the 17th stroke, the boy lost his admirable attempt at composure, and howled. The whipper had
become quickly frustrated with what he considered an affront to his talent, and deliberately went
"off target" from the lad's bleeding shoulders. He swung the cat to the side, and wrapped it
around the sailor's ribs on his right side. The tails caught him squarely on the nerve ganglion
under the armpit, and raked across his thin ribs. The boy shrieked in agony and tried to twist
away from the pain. Blood quickly welled up in tiny drops on his ribs, and the welts seeped the
length of their track across his back. The whipper smiled slightly, and landed another similar
stroke on his left side. The boy's head jerked back in exquisite agony, his back arching and
every muscle in his arms tensing. His mouth was moving like a fish out of water, the wind knocked
out of him with the force of the blow on his ribs. Instead of a scream, a wheezing gasp was all
he could muster as he fought to regain his composure. Involuntarily, hot tears of pain streamed
down his cheeks, and a sheen of sweat broke out across his neck and forehead.
The bosun paused momentarily to enjoy the effect, and then rapidly delivered the remaining few
strokes square in the middle of the lad's shoulder blades. The boy's sweating chest slammed
against the grating with the force of each blow, and he continued to try to fight for air. His
lungs filled abruptly, just as the two men swapped places again, and a choking cry came out and
was halfway stifled. The boy was quietly sobbing, gasping, and shaking with the pain. The bosun
hesitated momentarily and looked askance at the captain. The captain fixed him with a steely gaze
and said, "Why do you hesitate, man? If you lose the momentum of the lesson, I will be forced to
discount what has been learned thus far and have you start anew at the beginning! Now do your
duty, sir!" The man swallowed and muttered another "aye sir, as you say" as he struck the poor
victim's bleeding right shoulder. The tails wrapped over his upper arm and drew blood again from
the tender skin near his elbow. The bosun winced at the missed lash, and took aim again. The
captain called out "The sentence was to be delivered upon this man's BACK, not his elbows, you
fool. That was a missed lash. Repeat it, twice, to be sure you landed it squarely this time!" The
bosun shook his head slightly, took careful aim, and struck the boy two more times quickly on his
shoulder blade. The lad was screaming with every stroke now, and shaking so violently in the
chains with animal desperation that the grating scraped slivers out of the deck. Drops of sweat
flew from his damp hair as his head jerked backwards again and again with every stroke. The bosun
completed his set and the assistant took place to finish the flogging. He wound up and landed a
vicious lash directly on the lacerated flesh where the two men had crossed the welts. The boy
stiffened and went limp, hanging in his bonds.
"Hold man... do not deliver a single further stroke. They are of no use to him in this state.
Someone revive this man, so that we may have done with this lesson and I may finally continue on
to my lunch!" A deckhand walked over and pinched the unconcious boy's cheek, then slapped it. His
head merely bumped against the grating and his body swayed as it hung. Someone approached with a
large bucket of icy sea water, and threw it over his head. The boy gasped loudly and stood back
up, shivering. In a moment of disorientation, he looked wildly around him, wondering if the
punishment was finally over and he had mercifully passed out for the finale. His hopes were
dashed when the first mate called out loudly, "complete the punishment now, sirs, and let us be
done with this spectacle!" The boy began to whimper pitifully as he realized the final 12 lashes
were to be delivered by the sadist, and not the clinician. The man grinned, and spat in his
hands, rubbing them together. He combed his fingers through the tails of the cat to separate
them, then drew his arm back and brought the whip whistling down across the boy's bleeding back.
Tiny flecks of blood spattered with each stroke now, and the occasional maverick drop landed on
someone's cheek in the crowd behind, as the sailor drew his arm back to strike. The boy shrieked
like an animal being slaughtered, and did a flexing, writhing dance in his bonds. The lashes fell
like rain, tearing the welts and stripes they were raking across.
Finally, mercifully, the horrific scene was over. The boy collapsed against the grating in
exhaustion, his thin torso heaving with every ragged breath. Sweat darkened his hair and
plastered it against his face, and his arms were trembling with the strain of supporting his
weight. As they cut him down, he collapsed in a heap on the deck, sobbing quietly to himself. Two
sailors took hold of him on either side, and dragged him away to the infirmary. Andrew got a
final glimpse of the poor creature's lacerated back as he was dragged below, a mass of bruises,
welts, and bleeding cuts. It had gone harder on him than it would have a man of more mass and
stronger temperament, as this was almost akin to lashing a young girl, as young and thin as the
boy was.
Andrew darkly cursed as he ruefully muttered to himself, "today is the last day that boy will
smile on this vessel... the light's gone out of him. That bastard and his trained ape enjoyed
every second of that shameful sight.
As he finished the sentence, he rounded the corner and ran straight into the captain himself, who
apparently had been standing there for a minute or two. Andrew hastily muttered an apology and
looked deferentially at the floor, his heart pounding out of his chest.
"Which 'bastard' would you be referring to, my good man?" the captain said, with a quiet smile.
As Andrew attempted to stutter through a lie or explanation, the captain laid a hand on his
shoulder and shook his head. "No matter. Go about your duties now..." Andrew gulped and nodded,
said his "yes sir" and made to depart. As he quickly turned on his heel and strode down the
corridor, his heart fell as he heard the captain quietly add,
"...and I will decide how best I can be of assistance to you and your dissatisfaction with
'bastards' and their trained apes...."
To be continued...
exist. Also, don't know how to un-double space it - it automatically did so after copying from Notepad.*
P.S. - If any daring soul wants to discuss potentially re-enacting any part of this story or the subsequent sequels in real life
with myself as the recipient, I'd love to talk possibilities...
Dedicated to TheBeast, as promised...
Andrew awoke to the sound of gulls crying, waves softly lapping at the side of the vessel below
his open port hole. The grey dawn air was crisp and humid in the port at Innsmouth. A fly landed
on his cheek and as he reflexively made to swat it away, he remembered with dismay that his
wrists were chained in manacles to the wall over his head. His arms ached with the awkward
position, yet it was nearly impossible to relieve the strain as tightly as he was affixed. It had
been a miserable, cold, lonely night as he painfully shifted back and forth in the sitting
position he was committed to. His hands had long ago gone numb and white, and the steel of the
cuffs was chafing the skin away on his wrists. He muttered an imprecation under his breath at the
unnecessary cruelty of shackling him whilst he was already locked behind bars.
He had been warned about Captain Bligh's capricious and irritable ways when he had first signed
aboard the Dauntless 6 months prior. He hadn't been prepared however for just how easily tripped
the man's powderkeg temper and tyrannical vindictiveness were. He had wisely kept his head down
and managed to stay under the man's notice for the first several months, until an incident a few
weeks prior...
A young newly minted sailor, perhaps 17 or 18, had run afoul of the Captain's
notorious evil temper by spilling a bucket of deck water on his boots during morning rounds. The
lad hastily began apologizing and attempting to daub at the captain's soaked footwear, but the trap
had sprung.
"You needn't do that boy" the captain said, almost congenially. "I'm afraid the damage is done. I
shall retire to my cloak room and fetch my second pair, whilst I decide what is to be done about
you..." He had a slight smile on his face as he was talking, which the naive lad had mistaken for
gentle good humour, but Andrew could see the calculating cold rage glinting behind the man's
piercing gaze. The foolish boy offered a nervous chuckle, thinking the episode was at an end.
The rest of the day had gone without incident, and Andrew almost began to think it would merely
fade into memory. However, the next morning at the 11th bell, he was tending to a fractured
portion of siding when the ship's muster bell began ringing loudly. He could hear the first mate,
Mr Errol, calling the ship's company to assemble on the main deck. Andrew dropped the wood plane
and measuring stick, and took his place in the rough circular formation accreting on the deck.
Immediately, his stomach turned a little and his heart stopped.
The fair-haired lad from the
previous day had been seized up in a "spread eagle" on a slab of upturned grating. His wrists
were bound high and wide above his head, and his legs slightly spread, bound to a second grating
below him. He had been stripped to the waist, and his shirt was being held by a shipmate on the
sidelines. His naked white skin shone in the midday sun, gooseflesh apparent on his shoulders
from the cool of the early spring air. The wind blew his wispy straw hair across his eyes as he
pleadingly searched the eyes of his shipmates for assistance. Most people simply looked down at
the ground and couldn't meet his gaze, but when Andrew locked eyes with him, he found himself
curiously transfixed. The boy mouthed "please help me" silently, but Andrew said nothing. The
first mate spoke:
"We stand assembled this day to witness punishment. In accordance with maritime law, and the
Articles of War, this miscreant has been found guilty of insubordination, and showing grevious
disrespect to a superior officer. In war time, this could find a man hanging from a yard arm.
However, our captain is a merciful man, and he has decided to gently correct this sailor's errant
ways in a manner instructive both to him, and to those assembled to witness. Four dozen lashes
with a cat of nine tails, on the prisoner's bare back! Bosun, do your duty and do not favour the
man, or you will find yourself in irons yourself!" Some of the sailors quietly muttered to each
other... 4 dozen! On another vessel, this would have been reserved for serious offenses like
falling asleep at guard, or leaving with out permission!
The bosun grimly nodded, and muttered a quick "aye, sir." He bent over to pull the cat from a
cloth sack on the deck, and gave it a few experimental flicks. The young sailor was almost in
tears with fright, and began piteously begging the captain for mercy. The captain said nothing,
but merely stood disinterestedly inspecting the back of his dress gloves for dust. The bosun
stepped forward and hung the cat at his side, judging the distance to the back he was going to
start to cut. Seeing that his entreaties were having no effect, the young man (now positively
trembling with fright and chill) hunched his shoulders and pressed his head against the wood. He
grimaced and clenched his teeth in anticipation, chest heaving with rapid breaths. Moments passed
and the air was silent, save for the rhythmic lapping of the waves against the hull. Daring to
hope against all odds, the young man opened his eyes and started to look behind him, hoping
against hope that perhaps the punishment was being stayed.
The lash caught him high on his left shoulder, one of the tails nicking his hairless chin as he
unknowingly turned his head into the strike of the cat. His blue eyes went wide with shock, and it was
clear that the pain hadn't made it's announcement yet. He blinked and worked his jaw back and
forth a little, a small droplet of blood running down from the cut on his chin. A cluster
of red lines were already forming on his pale skin, dark bruises at the tips where the end of the
cat struck. Mercifully, (if it could be called so) the captain had not ordered the cat to be
knotted, which sailors often said brought almost an equal additional measure of pain when struck.
The heavy tarred rope made enough of an impression however, when the second lash fell directly
below the first. This time, the boy stiffened as sensation began washing over him. He hissed,
sucking his breath in in surprise, as he pressed his forehead against the grating. A third stroke
landed with a heavy smack, this time crossing on top of the stripes still forming from the first
lash. At this, the boy let out a high pitched "Oh!" in a shaky voice, and clenched his fists.
It was clear he was making a valiant, but pitifully doomed effort to remain stoic in front of his
peers. Many men much stronger than he became reduced to shrieking animals as the dreaded cat
clawed the skin from their backs. The boy didn't stand a chance, Andrew thought to himself. Best
he can hope for is to pass out... he thought grimly.
At the 12th stroke, the bosun paused. The boy was positively shaking now, teeth clenched in
agony, a small drop of spittle running down his chin as he groaned softly to himself. He slightly
opened his eyes and looked behind him, the tiniest flicker of hope fading from his face as he saw
the boatswain's assistant withdrawing a fresh cat and taking up position. Protocol called for a
fresh man to alternate every 12 lashes during a flogging, so as to not afford the prisoner even
the slight relief of fatigue on the part of the executioner. Andrew threw a hateful glance at the
captain, thinking to himself that the least he could have done was at least let that small lapse
in protocol be a comfort to the boy during his first flogging. Suddenly, the captain looked up
and caught Andrew's gaze. His eyes flashed, as the venomous and legendary Bligh pride reared up
and sensed an insult to itself. Their eyes locked momentarily, neither flinching, then Andrew
hastily broke the gaze and looked at his feet. No use antagonizing the man... that wouldn't be
smart.
Back at the grating, the second man was lashing at the writhing young man's back with all the
fury of a woodsmen chopping a tree. Unlike the rote precision of the first man, it was clear he
was deriving enjoyment from his work. Each lash, he would draw the cat behind him, and swing with
a half turn forward, making it whistle through the air. His efforts were rewarded, as instead of
merely welting the skin, each stroke drew blood where the tips cut into the freckled flesh. At
the 17th stroke, the boy lost his admirable attempt at composure, and howled. The whipper had
become quickly frustrated with what he considered an affront to his talent, and deliberately went
"off target" from the lad's bleeding shoulders. He swung the cat to the side, and wrapped it
around the sailor's ribs on his right side. The tails caught him squarely on the nerve ganglion
under the armpit, and raked across his thin ribs. The boy shrieked in agony and tried to twist
away from the pain. Blood quickly welled up in tiny drops on his ribs, and the welts seeped the
length of their track across his back. The whipper smiled slightly, and landed another similar
stroke on his left side. The boy's head jerked back in exquisite agony, his back arching and
every muscle in his arms tensing. His mouth was moving like a fish out of water, the wind knocked
out of him with the force of the blow on his ribs. Instead of a scream, a wheezing gasp was all
he could muster as he fought to regain his composure. Involuntarily, hot tears of pain streamed
down his cheeks, and a sheen of sweat broke out across his neck and forehead.
The bosun paused momentarily to enjoy the effect, and then rapidly delivered the remaining few
strokes square in the middle of the lad's shoulder blades. The boy's sweating chest slammed
against the grating with the force of each blow, and he continued to try to fight for air. His
lungs filled abruptly, just as the two men swapped places again, and a choking cry came out and
was halfway stifled. The boy was quietly sobbing, gasping, and shaking with the pain. The bosun
hesitated momentarily and looked askance at the captain. The captain fixed him with a steely gaze
and said, "Why do you hesitate, man? If you lose the momentum of the lesson, I will be forced to
discount what has been learned thus far and have you start anew at the beginning! Now do your
duty, sir!" The man swallowed and muttered another "aye sir, as you say" as he struck the poor
victim's bleeding right shoulder. The tails wrapped over his upper arm and drew blood again from
the tender skin near his elbow. The bosun winced at the missed lash, and took aim again. The
captain called out "The sentence was to be delivered upon this man's BACK, not his elbows, you
fool. That was a missed lash. Repeat it, twice, to be sure you landed it squarely this time!" The
bosun shook his head slightly, took careful aim, and struck the boy two more times quickly on his
shoulder blade. The lad was screaming with every stroke now, and shaking so violently in the
chains with animal desperation that the grating scraped slivers out of the deck. Drops of sweat
flew from his damp hair as his head jerked backwards again and again with every stroke. The bosun
completed his set and the assistant took place to finish the flogging. He wound up and landed a
vicious lash directly on the lacerated flesh where the two men had crossed the welts. The boy
stiffened and went limp, hanging in his bonds.
"Hold man... do not deliver a single further stroke. They are of no use to him in this state.
Someone revive this man, so that we may have done with this lesson and I may finally continue on
to my lunch!" A deckhand walked over and pinched the unconcious boy's cheek, then slapped it. His
head merely bumped against the grating and his body swayed as it hung. Someone approached with a
large bucket of icy sea water, and threw it over his head. The boy gasped loudly and stood back
up, shivering. In a moment of disorientation, he looked wildly around him, wondering if the
punishment was finally over and he had mercifully passed out for the finale. His hopes were
dashed when the first mate called out loudly, "complete the punishment now, sirs, and let us be
done with this spectacle!" The boy began to whimper pitifully as he realized the final 12 lashes
were to be delivered by the sadist, and not the clinician. The man grinned, and spat in his
hands, rubbing them together. He combed his fingers through the tails of the cat to separate
them, then drew his arm back and brought the whip whistling down across the boy's bleeding back.
Tiny flecks of blood spattered with each stroke now, and the occasional maverick drop landed on
someone's cheek in the crowd behind, as the sailor drew his arm back to strike. The boy shrieked
like an animal being slaughtered, and did a flexing, writhing dance in his bonds. The lashes fell
like rain, tearing the welts and stripes they were raking across.
Finally, mercifully, the horrific scene was over. The boy collapsed against the grating in
exhaustion, his thin torso heaving with every ragged breath. Sweat darkened his hair and
plastered it against his face, and his arms were trembling with the strain of supporting his
weight. As they cut him down, he collapsed in a heap on the deck, sobbing quietly to himself. Two
sailors took hold of him on either side, and dragged him away to the infirmary. Andrew got a
final glimpse of the poor creature's lacerated back as he was dragged below, a mass of bruises,
welts, and bleeding cuts. It had gone harder on him than it would have a man of more mass and
stronger temperament, as this was almost akin to lashing a young girl, as young and thin as the
boy was.
Andrew darkly cursed as he ruefully muttered to himself, "today is the last day that boy will
smile on this vessel... the light's gone out of him. That bastard and his trained ape enjoyed
every second of that shameful sight.
As he finished the sentence, he rounded the corner and ran straight into the captain himself, who
apparently had been standing there for a minute or two. Andrew hastily muttered an apology and
looked deferentially at the floor, his heart pounding out of his chest.
"Which 'bastard' would you be referring to, my good man?" the captain said, with a quiet smile.
As Andrew attempted to stutter through a lie or explanation, the captain laid a hand on his
shoulder and shook his head. "No matter. Go about your duties now..." Andrew gulped and nodded,
said his "yes sir" and made to depart. As he quickly turned on his heel and strode down the
corridor, his heart fell as he heard the captain quietly add,
"...and I will decide how best I can be of assistance to you and your dissatisfaction with
'bastards' and their trained apes...."
To be continued...
