The officer of the watch was leaning upon the capstan on the quarter-deck of H. M. S. Stinger. He was wet, cold and miserable, and wished himself anywhere else. Lounging there, with the fog collecting in silvery drops upon his uniform, he wondered how his god-father and god-mother, after having among other impossible vows, promised that "he should renounce the devil and all his works," could have used their utmost endeavour to get him into the navy, where he was called upon to assist Zamiel in such fiend-like business as the one in which he was then engaged. Lieutenant Ford having lately belonged to a ship commanded by a man who could govern sailors without bombast, and threatening every slight offence with the punishment of the lash, the preparations for torturing a sailor under the pretence of administering justice, disgusted him. He knew full well that the carpenter's mates had quietly brought aft two capstan bars, and lashed them securely to the ship's side, just abaft the starboard gangway; he was aware they had fastened two gratings to these vertical bars, and perfectly conscious of the boatswain's yeoman having brought aft a bag containing a number of the whips called "cats," and the necessary canvas bands or seizings by which the prisoner was to be seized, or lashed to the gratings. Lieutenant Ford knew all this, but he never turned his eyes in that direction, or appeared to be aware of the proceedings. At the appointed time he gave the necessary instructions to the boatswain, upon receipt of which, Mr. Shever walked to the main hatchway, and stooping down so that the sound might reach the cell where Clare was confined, blew a shrill blast upon his call, waited until the same was repeated by his mates between decks, then bellowed forth, with all the force of his powerful lungs, "Lash up hammocks, rouse out; rouse out, all of ye." Slipping his call into his vest pocket, he darted down the hatchway, and running forward, worried the men out of their hammocks, administering a kick, curse, or blow, as his playful fancy or the defenceless positions of his victims dictated. Small boys were there who turned out of their warm beds into the raw air with a gulph, as if suddenly seized with ague chills. These white, shivering forms were fair marks for Shever, who, snatching a piece of line from the hand of one of his assistants, soon demonstrated to the unlucky urchins how skillfully he could manipulate a rope's end, their howls showing that every stroke had raised what he jocosely termed "a mark that would give 'em some trouble to rub out."