“Are there any Englishmen aboard this galley?” he demanded.
“Ay, that there be; eleven of us—or was, avore you fired upon us,” answered a voice. “I’m afeared you’ve a-killed one or two of us down here, but what do that matter so long as you’ve a-comed to deliver the rest of us out of this here floatin’ hell, as, thanks be to God Almighty, you have, I do suppose.”
“You are right, lad, we have,” answered George, cheerily. “And who may you be?” he continued, a slight twang of his Devonshire dialect creeping into his speech in his excitement.
“I? Why I be Joe Cary, to Plymouth; and I was took a year ago at San Juan de Ulua, along wi’ some others, when we put in there, under Admiral Hawkins, to refit. We’ve—”
“Tell me, quick, man,” interrupted George. “Do you know anything of the whereabouts of a Mr Hubert Saint Leger, who was with Captain Drake in that affair?”
“Do I know anything about Mr Saint Leger?” repeated Cary. “Ay, sure I do. Why, he’s one o’ us here aboard this galley. ’Twas he that—Hi! Mr Saint Leger—Mr Saint Leger—what’s come to ’e? Here be a vine brave Devonshire lad askin’ about ’e. He’s for’ard, sir, on the larboard side, the fourth bench ahead o’ this here one that I be sittin’ on.”
There was no response to Cary’s call, so George quickly turned and, striding along the gang-plank, reached the fourth bench, upon which sat three men, the middle one of which was supporting the senseless form of his neighbour nearest the gang-plank. Peering down, in the semi-darkness, George beheld in the senseless one a lean, muscular figure, his naked body brown with long exposure to the sun and weather, covered, as were the rest, with a growth of short hairs and, also as were the rest, with innumerable long cicatrices, some white and evidently the result of wounds inflicted long ago, but most of them of comparatively recent date, showing how mercilessly the boatswains were in the habit of plying their whips. But in the case of the man whom George was then gazing upon, those more or less ancient scars were almost obliterated by the blood which was still oozing from some thirty or more long slashes across the back, shoulders, loins and arms of the senseless one, whose features were almost hidden by a great, unkempt black beard and moustache already touched with grey, as was the touzled mop of black hair upon his head. Yet, through it all, as George’s eyes grew accustomed to the twilight gloom of the place, he was able to recognise the features of his brother Hubert, obscured as they were with hair, dirt, and sweat.
“Is he dead?” he demanded of the man who was supporting him.
“Nay, señor, I think not,” answered the man. “I believe he has but swooned under the merciless flogging inflicted by that demon yonder, whom your shot have slain and so perchance saved from a better merited death.”
“And why did he flog this man so mercilessly?” demanded George in a tone of terrible calmness.