We sailed in a few days, and after being some time at sea, the captain remembering what had taken place in harbour, ordered poor Tom, by way of punishment, to perform most of the menial offices of his station, and at length insisted on his executing the most degrading duty in a ship of war,—that of sweeping the decks. This he refused with a respectful firmness; and in that he certainly was wrong, for obedience is the first test of duty—no matter from what motive the order proceeds, and in refusing to obey, Tom acted improperly as a seaman; but who can condemn him, having the feelings of a man? His refusal, however, was of no avail; the broom was lashed by small cords to his hands, and a boatswain’s-mate stood ready with a rope’s end to enforce command. Tom obstinately declared that he would die rather than submit to unmerited oppression; the blows fell heavy on his back, but they could not change the purpose of the heart. In the moment of his anguish, whilst smarting from the stripes, but writhing still more with inward torture that bowed his spirit, he uttered some severe invectives upon the tyranny of his commander. The hands were immediately turned up, the gratings were seized to the gangway, and poor Tom was ordered to strip for flogging. Resistance was useless, his outspread arms and extended legs were lashed to the gratings, and after reading the Articles of War for disobedience of orders, the captain directed the boatswain’s-mate to give him two dozen.
This was not the first time I had witnessed punishment at the gangway, for scarcely a day had passed without it since my joining the ship. But poor Tom had been my early friend; I called to mind the happy hours we had passed together, and now to see him with his back lacerated and bleeding, the cat o’ nine tails cutting deep into his flesh,—oh, it was too much for me to endure, and I fell at the captain’s feet. He spurned me from him, and the first dozen having been given, a fresh boatswain’s-mate was called to give the second.
Tom never flinched; he remained immovable as a rock, and the only indication of bodily pain, was occasionally a contraction of the muscles of his face,—a deeper, an all-absorbing agony seemed to have triumphed over mere corporeal suffering,—an agony arising from the desperate struggles of his soul. I looked at the countenances of the men, but the generality seemed to have sunk into a settled apathy, and only a few, who had recently joined us from the Barfleur, displayed the workings of determined minds. They gazed at each other and tried to catch the sentiments of the crew; and it was plain, that had a corresponding feeling animated the whole, consequences the most fatal and desperate must have ensued. But the ship’s company had not been long together, and mutual distrust prevented an open declaration of discontent.
The flogging ceased, and poor Tom was consigned to the master-at-arms, and his legs once more fixed in the shackles. I tried to approach him, but was prevented by the marine who stood sentinel over him; my attempt was not however unnoticed, and the unfortunate victim gave me a look, and even a smile of grateful acknowledgment. Ah! then my heart sunk within me. I retired to the dark recess of the cable-tier,[6] and gave vent to my tears,—for what could a child in his twelfth year do to save the sufferer from the strong arm of power? I consoled myself with the idea that Tom would soon be released, but in this too I was mistaken; for on the following morning he persisted in his refusal to sweep the decks, was again seized up to the gangway, and two dozen lashes more were inflicted upon his already scored and mangled back.
The torture was beyond human endurance, and though no shriek betrayed the anguish of the smart, yet a convulsive spasm too clearly indicated the rending of the wounds. Still his firmness did not forsake him, and whilst the cat fell heavy on his shoulders, he remonstrated with his persecutor, and appealed to the officers whether he had not always performed his duty. No voice was raised in his behalf, though looks spoke, as forcibly as looks could speak, the detestation of every one for such merciless cruelty. At this moment, Will Scott stepped from among the assembled crew; he looked wildly upon his shipmates, particularly upon his old messmates, the Barfleurs; but all remained motionless as statues, and he resumed his station. Again the lash descended, and again the instrument of punishment was stained with the blood of the wretched man. Imprecations on the captain burst from his lips, and madness seemed to dictate his wild incoherent ravings; he was no longer passive, his mind gave way, and at the last stroke he hung senseless by the cords which bound his wrists to the gratings.
He was cast loose, and on his reviving, was again shackled in the irons, with the promise of a renewal of punishment on the morrow if he still disobeyed. In fact, the captain found his authority was at stake; he saw that he had excited disaffection; he knew that the principal portion of his crew (many of them desperate characters,) were not to be trusted, and the very men on whom he placed reliance—the Barfleurs—were disgusted with his treatment. To have receded, he considered, would have been an acknowledgment of error, and one triumph of the people would have been the prelude to more humiliating concessions. Thus he argued, and his very existence seemed to depend upon the issue.
It was one of those beautiful evenings in June, when the setting sun upon the verge of the horizon tinges the whole expanse of ocean with its golden brightness, that I stood upon the forecastle contemplating the glories of creation, and presumptuously arraigning Divine Providence for what I foolishly deemed an unequal distribution of good and ill. The seamen were formed in groupes along the gangway and waist, and the officers were pacing the larboard side of the quarter-deck, leaving the starboard side to the captain, who walked sullenly and alone. The lieutenant of the watch stood on the gangway, and did not join him; and there he strode, pale discontent upon his cheek and keen mistrust in the restless glancing of his eye.
The evening was indeed lovely, and calculated to calm the raging passions of the soul. The sea was beautifully smooth, the sails slept deep and still, and though scarcely a breath was felt, yet the breeze upon the quarter was carrying the vessel almost imperceptibly at the rate of five knots[7] an hour. I was but a boy,—a mere child, and whilst looking at the mild blue sky I thought of my home and of my mother. Poor Tom, too, he whose arms had cradled me in infancy! but what could I do? Whilst my thoughts were thus occupied, a marine with his drawn bayonet appeared ascending the fore-ladder; close behind came poor Tom Brookes, and every tongue was hushed. The captain caught sight of him and stopped; the officers continued their walk, but their eager gaze alternately changed from the captain to the suffering victim of his austerity; but no voice gave utterance to thought.
Poor Tom, I think I see him now! Ah! well do I remember the ghastly dolor of his look as he approached me; his eyes cast down, and his whole thoughts apparently rivetted on one object alone,—but it is impossible to describe it. I touched his arm, for nature spoke within me, and I could not help it. He paused for one moment, and a roseate flush suffused his cheeks; he seized my hand, and I felt that his was burning. I looked in his face, it was lightened up by a smile—but such a smile! It struck me he was thinking of his mother.