Frank Mildmay; Or, the Naval OfficerMarryat, Frederick
History
Frank Mildmay; Or, the Naval Officer
Marryat, Frederick
Great Britain -- History, Naval -- 19th century -- Fiction; Great Britain. Royal Navy -- Officers -- Fiction; Sea stories
The brig was a most beautiful vessel. She mounted eighteen guns, and
sat on the water like a duck. I perceived that the pendant was up for
punishment, and this I thought rather an unusual sight at Spithead: I
took it for granted that some aggravated offence, such as theft, or
mutiny, had been committed. Seeing I was an officer, I was admitted
alongside; so I paid the waterman, and sent him away. As I went up the
side, I saw a poor fellow spread-eagled up to the grating, "according to
the manners and customs of the natives," while the captains, officers,
and ship's company stood round witnessing the athletic dexterity of a
boatswain's mate, who, by the even, deep, and parallel marks of the cat
on the white back and shoulders of the patient, seemed to be perfectly
master of his business. All this did not surprise me--I was used to it;
but, after the address of my captain on the preceding day, I was very
much surprised to hear language in direct violation of the second
article of war.
Cursings and execrations poured out of his mouth with a volubility equal
to that of the most accomplished lady at the back of the Point.
"Boatswain's mate," roared the captain, "do your duty! or by God I will
have _you_ up, and give you four dozen yourself. One would think, damn
your beard, that you were brushing flies off a sleeping Venus, instead
of punishing a scoundrel with a hide as thick as a buffalo's, and be
damned to him. Do your duty, sir, damn your soul."
During this elegant address, the unhappy wretch had received four severe
dozen, which the master-at-arms had counted aloud, and reported to the
captain. "Another boatswain's mate," said he. The poor creature turned
his head over his shoulders with an imploring look, but it was in vain.
I watched the countenance of the captain, and the peculiar expression
which I could not decipher at my first interview I now read most
plainly--it was malignant cruelty, and delight in torturing his own
species; he seemed to take a diabolical pleasure in the hateful
operation which we were compelled to witness. The second boatswain's
mate commenced, with a fresh cat, and gave a lash across the back of the
prisoner, that made _me_ start.
"One," said the master-at-arms, beginning to count.
"One!" roared the captain, "do you call that one? not a quarter of a
one. That fellow is only fit for fly-flapper at a pork shop! I'll
disrate you, by God, you damned molly mop; is that the way you handle a
cat? that's only wiping the dirt off his back. Where's the boatswain?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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