“Better not,” said a top-mate; “it’s death, or worse punishment, remember.”
“There goes the lash!” cried Jack. “Look at the old man! By G—-d, I can’t stand it! Let me go, men!” and with moist eyes Jack forced his way to one side.
“You, boatswain’s mate,” cried the Captain, “you are favouring that man! Lay on soundly, sir, or I’ll have your own cat laid soundly on you.”
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve lashes were laid on the back of that heroic old man. He only bowed over his head, and stood as the Dying Gladiator lies.
“Cut him down,” said the Captain.
“And now go and cut your own throat,” hoarsely whispered an old sheet-anchor-man, a mess-mate of Ushant’s.
When the master-at-arms advanced with the prisoner’s shirt, Ushant waved him off with the dignified air of a Brahim, saying, “Do you think, master-at-arms, that I am hurt? I will put on my own garment. I am never the worse for it, man; and ’tis no dishonour when he who would dishonour you, only dishonours himself.”
“What says he?” cried the Captain; “what says that tarry old philosopher with the smoking back? Tell it to me, sir, if you dare! Sentry, take that man back to the brig. Stop! John Ushant, you have been Captain of the Forecastle; I break you. And now you go into the brig, there to remain till you consent to have that beard taken off.”
“My beard is my own,” said the old man, quietly. “Sentry, I am ready.”
And back he went into durance between the guns; but after lying some four or five days in irons, an order came to remove them; but he was still kept confined.