Tim Severin - Sea Robber

Now there were no more tortoises left to race, and the men were slack and apathetic. The Nicholas was fast and well found, and she covered the sea miles with little incident. Since leaving the Encantadas, the Pacific had lived up to its benign reputation. Apart from one brief squall, which hit them in the dark, the wind had been steady. The sun had shone day after day from a gloriously blue sky. Puffy white clouds sped along in the same direction as the Nicholas forged ahead, a fair breeze on her quarter and a clear wake behind. Apart from basic maintenance to the ship, there was nothing for the crew to do except idle away the hours. The ocean offered them no distraction. There were no birds, no whales, and the only fish were the occasional clusters of flying fish. They burst out from the waves, skimmed ahead of the vessel and then, with a barely discernible splash, vanished as suddenly as they appeared.

‘Wasting your time again?’ Eaton had strolled up behind Hector and, as usual, was mocking his chartwork. ‘No one knows the true size of this ocean. And you only guess where we are.’

It was true. With cross-staff and almanac, Hector was able to establish the Nicholas ’ position north or south to less than half a degree. But he had no accurate way of measuring how far west the ship had come. He was relying on nothing more than the total of each day’s progress, as recorded by the men on watch. The numbers they provided him with were often suspect, and took no account of ocean currents. Even if he had the Nicholas ’ position right, there was every chance the map itself was distorted. The Ladrones, the China coast, Japan – everything he and Dan had copied down so carefully – might be drawn wrongly on the original map.

Eaton smirked. He had voiced his criticism loudly and clearly so that anyone on the quarterdeck could hear what he said. Hector knew why. The captain resented the fact that Hector was in charge of navigation, and looked for every chance to undermine the crew’s confidence in his ability. But that was typical of the Nicholas ’ captain. Eaton was one of those manipulative commanders who maintained his authority by sowing doubt and discord in the minds of his crew. He was at pains to discredit anyone who became too popular or respected. This did not make for a cheerful or steady crew, and Hector often wondered why they suffered such a fault-finding commander.

‘It’s a pity your French friend failed to check the water stowage for himself,’ said Eaton. There was malice in that remark too. During the preparations for departure, Jacques had asked the Nicholas ’ cooper to oversee the filling of the ship’s water containers. Unfortunately the man was lazy and incompetent and hadn’t ensured the casks and jars of water were packed securely in the vessel’s hold. When the squall had struck just two days into the voyage, the Nicholas had heeled suddenly. Many of the heavy earthenware jars had shifted and smashed, their contents wasted. From that day forward, the crew had been on a strict water ration. It was another source of discontent.

Hector rolled up the chart, slid it carefully into its wooden tube and stepped across to the side rail to clear the deck space. The men were gathering in twos and threes. Some of them affected looks of indifference. Others had uneasy expressions and glanced frequently out to sea to avoid looking at one another directly. Arianz the quartermaster appeared, tight-lipped and grave. He took up his position by the capstan head and waited until the entire crew was present. In his hand was the wooden dipper that was brought out three times a day so that each man could ladle his single ration from the tub of drinking water that stood beside the mast.

Now Arianz rapped the dipper on the capstan to draw everyone’s attention.

‘We decide the case of Giovanni Domine. He is accused of water theft,’ he announced to the assembly. His eyes flicked towards a small, surly-looking man standing in the front rank. Domine was one of the men who Hector had earlier guessed were from Mediterranean ports.

‘Who says he’s been stealing water?’ shouted the sailor next to Domine. He had the same olive skin, stocky build and dark, heavy eyebrows. It was evident they were cronies.

‘Joris Stolck reports that Domine was missing during his watch. He was found in the hold, drinking from one of the casks in the lower tier.’

‘Impossible. Those casks are too heavy for one man to handle. And they are buried deep.’

‘He was using a musket barrel to suck up water through the bunghole. I saw it,’ said a new voice.

Hector craned his neck to see who’d made the accusation. It was Arianz’s countryman, the other Hollander. Hector supposed there was bad feeling between the northerners and the men from the Mediterranean. Giovanni Domine sounded like a name from Genoa or Naples.

Eaton added his voice. ‘I checked Stolck’s accusation. Domine’s musket was dismantled. The inside of the barrel was wet.’

The quartermaster looked around the assembled men. ‘None of us want to be standing out here in the sun while we argue. You all know our articles, we decide these matters by a general vote. Those who believe Giovanni Domine to be guilty, raise your hands.’

Hector watched as more than half the crew found a guilty verdict. He noted that not one of the Mediterranean group agreed.

The quartermaster finished counting the show of hands and rapped again on the capstan head with the dipper. ‘What is his punishment to be?’

His demand was met with silence. In the general hush Hector could hear only the soft sound of the breeze in the rigging, the murmur of the waves against the vessel’s hull. There was tension in the air. Someone in the assembled crowd coughed nervously. No one was willing to decide the form of punishment.

From his place beside the quartermaster, Eaton intervened again, pressing the matter forward. ‘We all know the rules: anyone found guilty of theft is to forfeit his share of the prize. That’s the custom. But we have no prize to divide. I propose we decide a general sanction in which we all share.’

‘Thrash him,’ called a voice suddenly. ‘That’s what we did in the service.’ It was the peevish old man who had previously questioned the purpose of the voyage.

‘You’re not in the Navy now,’ shouted an objector.

‘Flog him according to our custom,’ retorted the old man. ‘Each man gives three blows with a two-inch-and-a-half rope, and on a bare back.’ He looked around triumphantly.

‘So be it,’ said Eaton quickly. There was a look of satisfaction on his face. ‘Domine, remove your shirt and stand by the mast.’ He beckoned to the sailmaker. ‘Cut a length of two-inch-and-a-half, and whip the end.’

When the knout was ready, Eaton handed it to the big Hollander, Joris Stolck, who had first made the accusation. ‘Yours are the first blows,’ he said.

Stolck hefted the rope in his hand, stepped across to where Domine was standing and lashed the rope’s end hard across his back. The victim let out a low grunt.

‘Two more,’ called Eaton. He’d taken charge now. The Hollander lashed out twice more, then handed the rope to his countryman. Arianz ran the rope through his hands and dealt the Genoese three more sharp strokes. His victim flinched with each blow.

So it went on. One by one, the crew took it in turns to flog the culprit. Some blows were heavy and viciously struck. Others, those from his Mediterranean friends, scarcely landed. Domine bore up stoically under the beating, though his back was soon striped with a criss-cross of welts. Here and there the skin broke and blood oozed from the cuts. Unable to watch, Hector looked down at the deck beneath his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Eaton’s hands. They hung loosely by his side. Each time the rope struck Domine’s back, the captain clenched his fist. It seemed he was enjoying the spectacle.