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forefinger. As a distraction, it did not help.
"Jabe Aken. Maliciously and persistently slow in the execution of his duties." An undernourished looking creature who walked away from the beating, whimpering and slower than ever.
"Perseverance Atkins. Last man down from the studdingsail booms on three separate occasions Thursday."
It dawned on Summersgill with horror that they were working their way through the alphabet. The deck was already aswim with blood, pouring into the scuppers and thence to the sea. The boatswain and his mates had taken off their shoes and rolled up their trouser-legs to stop themselves slipping in it. The wind had dropped away and the warm reek of gore rose over the quarterdeck, cut with ammonia as Atkins pissed himself on the forty-first stroke.
"Joe Bainsford. Last man down from the masthead Thursday."
Joe Bainsford had the long plait, the silk scarf, and ribbonembroidered trousers that had been pointed out to Summersgill as the identifying signs of a long-term career sailor—worth his weight in gold to the king. Hearing his name, an almost inaudible growl went through the massed ranks of men.
"Arthur Berry. Answering back and slovenly treatment of the ship's ropes."
Berry screamed from the first stroke, the noises growing progressively more and more bestial until Summersgill wanted to stop his ears, to close his eyes, to pretend he was back on land. No wonder Peter had shocked him so by displaying a harshness Summersgill had not known the man possessed. Appalled did not even begin to describe what he felt.
The faces on the quarterdeck were hardly less inhuman than those in the waist of the ship, fixed in attitudes of sheer indifference. Only the boys—standing by their divisions— trembled or smiled as their natures dictated, the larval forms of the stern or gloating tyrants they would one day become.
The count moved on too slowly, and Summersgill looked away to the sea for comfort. But even there this ritual was grotesquely mirrored. Sharks kept pace with the ship, their bodies blue in the clear water, dashing and snapping in frenzy at the blood.
"Patrick Hare. Papist blasphemy and expressing opinions sympathetic to the Irish rebellion."
Patrick Hare was gagged with a metal spike that split his lips open on both sides and made him drool blood. His back was already raw—scabbed and half healed from a previous punishment.
"Spreading sedition is a crime against the whole ship's company," said Walker, stirring out of a kind of trance of glory—his face shining. "And treason is a capital offense..."
"Sir," as first lieutenant, Peter was standing at Walker's elbow. "I was present when this incident occurred," he said, "Hare expressed a sympathy with the Catholic suffragist movement—which is not an illegal nor a treasonous organization."
"He added a great deal more in Irish, sir," said the second lieutenant.
"And the speaking of Irish is an offense in itself," Walker finished with a smile. "Let him have twenty."
"Twenty lashes, sir?" asked the boatswain with a tinge of disappointment.
"Twenty dozen."
Tears leaked from Patrick Hare's tightly closed eyes and ran into his torn mouth as he was tied to the grating.
"Sir," said Kenyon again, "might I remind you that, only last week, Doctor O'Connor said he was not to be punished again for a month, to let his heart recover from the strain."
"O'Connor? Yes, well, he would say that, wouldn't he? These people are as thick as thieves." Walker frowned at the boatswain. "Well? Lay on, man."
"Sir..." there was an unmistakable urgency in Kenyon's tone now. Too much, for at the sound of it the captain's face suffused with red. His lips drew away from his teeth; his eyes disappeared into fleshy slits.
"Do you want to join him, Mr. Kenyon? Well? Do you? The next time you question me, I will have you under the lash, sir, admiral's favorite or not. Do you understand me?"
"I do." Peter bowed his head, and a muscle worked in the angle of his jaw. "I understand you very