He was interrupted by a whistle and crack and a searing pain along his back.
“Stand to your oar, carrion!” roared Callus’ voice from above him.
Carse voiced a tigerish cry but Boghaz instantly stopped his mouth with one big paw. “Steady!” he warned. “Steady!”
Carse got hold of himself but not in time to avoid another stroke of the whip. Callus stood grinning down at him.
“You’ll want care,” he said. “Care, and watching.”
Then he lifted his head and yelled along the oarbank. “All right, you scum, you carrion! Sit up to it! We’re starting on the tide for Sark and I’ll flay alive the first man who loses stroke!”
Overhead seamen were busy in the rigging. The sails fell wide from the yards, dark in the moonlight.
There was a sudden pregnant silence along the ship, a drawing of breath and tightening of sinews. On a platform at the end of the catwalk a slave crouched ready over a great hide drum.
An order was given. The fist of the drummer clenched and fell.
All along the oar-bank the great sweeps shot out, found water, bit and settled to a steady rhythm. The drumbeat gave the time and the lash enforced it. Somehow Carse and Boghaz managed to do what they had to do.