Mean Sun (10 page)

It was the officers’ custom to recreate in fencing exercises in the afternoon on the main deck. On this one particular day Lord Douglas joined them and displayed surprising skill. At the end of their routines, Greyson tossed a friendly challenge to Mr. Brooks.

“Come, cousin!” said Greyson in a bold voice. “Let’s you and I have a match. I promise to be careful with you; no blood will be drawn.”

Perspiration was already streaming down Mr. Brooks’ face. The sword looked heavy in his slender hands. At this moment all eyes were fixed on him, officers and crewmen alike.

“Go on, Mr. Brooks,” remarked Mr. Whitehead, laughing, “give our ambassador a thrashing.”

Brooks glanced around him as though seeking a path of retreat, but the crew was crowding around them now, hungry for this little theatre. A claque chimed in, most on the side of Lord Douglas.

With the tip of his sword, Lord Douglas knocked the hat from Mr. Brooks’ head.

“Square off, man,” said he.

Mr. Brooks’ mouth hardened at Lord Douglas’ arrogance. What I saw in him was not fear but rage, an age-old rage that chased back to his childhood, the ire of a man who had been hounded and hectored most of his life.

Both took their positions, and then engaged. The flash of swords commingled with the shouts and cheers of the audience. Greyson parried Mr. Brooks’ thrusts with easy grace, plainly enjoying the sport, while Brooks’ effort was clumsy and heedless. To further incite Mr. Brooks, Greyson began to slap him with the
broadside of his sword—on the leg, the shoulder, then squarely on his bare cheek, leaving a pink mark.

“Oh! What a swordsman, you are, Joseph!” declared Greyson mockingly in the heat of their fight. “Isn’t he, boys? He’s a fury with that blade! Oh! Watch out now!”

Mr. Brooks stumbled and Greyson hoped to end the game by stepping on his sword and knocking him off balance and onto the deck. He set the tip of his sword against his cousin’s chest. There was a smattering of applause.

“Concede, cousin?” said Greyson. “No hard feelings, now.”

To my surprise, just as quickly as the rage had seized him, it left Mr. Brooks. Angry determination took its place.

“No,” said he. “I’ll take my sword.”

The two men squared off again, with similar results. Mr. Brooks again refused to concede. Now the captain was on deck watching the combat. Both Brooks and Greyson were soaked through with sweat. Each time Mr. Brooks lost his match he demanded another. All humiliation in Mr. Brooks was heaved aside to make room for the abiding anger in his spirit. Greyson’s victory seemed to wither on his face.

Their audience grew somber; some returned to their tasks, while others gazed in growing sympathy at the hopeless pride of Mr. Brooks each time his sword fell clattering to the deck. Soon barely a person took notice anymore. Mr. Whitehead interceded.

“Captain says your sword play is at an end, gentleman.”

Both of them now gasping for air, the pair obediently halted. Lord Douglas managed an arrogant smile.

“Saved!”

“Saved, nothing!” Mr. Brooks hotly returned between gasps of breath. “You would have gained more begging my favor, which is more in your nature.”

The stars, however, were aligned against Mr. Brooks. From the day of our first dispute against the pirate ship, when he had betrayed his cowardice, the men along the main cannon deck had taken to a quiet rebellion. Their insolence took the form of exaggerated cheerfulness at any order. “Yes, sir!” would ring out and
the others within earshot looked on and snickered openly. Solomon Lamb, perhaps one of the most villainous members of our crew, quickly grabbed the lead in this crusade. One morning Mr. Brooks noted an empty fire bucket and held Mr. Owens to account, cutting his ale for the day. Mr. Lamb stepped forward and claimed responsibility, upon which he, too, lost his ale. Two more men merrily protested that they were the guilty parties and begged to be punished with their chums.

The following morning three more fire buckets were discovered empty and eleven men happily went ale-less for the day.

These small infractions grew in number and Mr. Brooks escalated the punishments, but the fatigue of these proscriptions began to wear away his sense of authority. When Mr. Brooks inclined to leniency for a time in a change of strategy, the discipline sank even further until the men understood that they were now in charge and slighted orders entirely. Mr. Whitehead and some of the other officers became aware of conditions on the main gun deck, but were loathe to interfere with another officer’s command.

One afternoon the revolt came to an abrupt end when Mr. Lamb, on a foolish, high-spirited lark, cleverly snatched a cannon ball from the garland and rolled it at Mr. Brooks as he passed, upending his legs and dropping him to the ground.

At mess I was sitting with Mr. Stempel, Hines and the others at cannon number six, where a board was dropped daily to serve as our dining table. I looked up suddenly to see Captain Hearne standing behind me, flanked by six marines with loaded guns.

“Gentlemen,” said Hearne in a stern voice, addressing all those within earshot, “an officer has been assaulted. I will have the name of man who did it, or you will all go without food or drink until he is delivered to me.”

No one said a word, but Hearne stood patiently, glancing sharply from one man to the other. When his eyes met mine, I blurted out—

“It was Mr. Lamb, sir.”

“Which of you is Lamb?”

Mr. Lamb stood. “I am, Captain.”

“Is Mr. Wren telling the truth?”

Mr. Lamb hesitated several moments before answering, the whole time keeping his eyes fixed on me.

“He is, sir,” he finally whispered.

“Take him!” declared Hearne to the marines. “The punishment is keelhauling.”

Lamb was immediately marched above deck. Not a word was spoken by any of the men. I had never heard the word keelhaul before, but by their dreadful stillness I sensed it was a serious affair.

“It just came out,” I said to Mr. Stempel.

“All your words are true; all your righteous laws are eternal,” replied Stempel.

“What will they do?” I asked.

“The captain will tie a rope about this waist,” explained Stempel. “Lamb will be dropped into the sea and dragged by rope beneath the keel of the ship and brought up the other side.”

Mr. Hines had contentedly continued his meal and pointed his knife at me.

“On a ship this size, he will drown, if the barnacles don’t slice him to ribbons.”

I stood, taking up my plate and saw the other men staring at me in silence.

“No one blames you, lad,” said Hines. “They were all happy with this game.”

We were all called on deck to witness the keelhauling. Mr. Lamb was stripped of his clothing then bound around the waist. His legs were tethered to keep him from swimming. The long rope was looped over the ship’s stern and run to the other side. As the captain gave the order, Mr. Lamb was tossed over the larboard rail, while the men on the starboard side hauled as fast as their arms were able.

The hauling took an eternity. I could only imagine his body turning and twisting along the hull, beating over the keel, and then up again. Mercifully, Mr. Lamb was finally brought up the side, pulled over the rail and lowered onto the deck, still bound by the ropes.

He was dead. Seawater trickled from the corners of his blue lips. His face and torso were scarified by a hundred bleeding cuts. Captain Hearne examined the man, then looked about until his eyes fell on Mr. Brooks.

“Mr. Brooks,” said the captain in a firm voice, “I charge you with the responsibility of giving this man his burial and of disposing his possessions.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Mr. Brooks.

In short order a piece of canvas was brought on deck, folded like a coarse pillow, and handed to Mr. Brooks. There was a cannonball resting on top of it. Twine and a large canvas needle were delivered by the purser, and also given to Mr. Brooks. The captain retired to his cabin, but Mr. Whitehead and Mr. Grimmel stood by observing.

“I’ve not had practice at this sort of thing,” remarked Mr. Brooks to Mr. Whitehead.

Mr. Grimmel stepped forward.

“Mr. Wren and I will assist you, Mr. Brooks.”

“I’m indebted to both of you,” said Brooks softly, not meeting our eyes.

The three of us crossed the twenty paces to where the body lay. Mr. Lamb’s skin was waxy, grey and livid. Mr. Brooks spread out the canvas beside the body.

“Place Mr. Lamb atop the canvas, sir,” directed Mr. Grimmel, “and lay the cannonball at his feet. Wrap the canvas snug about him and sew him up from the bottom.”

“Would you be kind enough to take hold of his legs, Mr. Wren?” asked Brooks.

The two of us laid the body onto the canvas. Mr. Brooks took the cannonball and positioned it carefully. With me holding the canvas ends firmly over the corpse, Mr. Brooks began to sew the material together, using broad stitches. The canvas was thick and unyielding, and I noticed that Mr. Brooks had twice impaled one of his fingers in an effort to drive the needle home. Slowly, Mr. Lamb’s body was enshrouded up to his chin.

“Sir, you will close his head but not the face, said Grimmel. “That last stitch goes through the nose, Mr. Brooks.”

“The nose?” repeated Mr. Brooks vaguely.

“Aye, sir. To make certain the man is not still alive.”

The task ended, a board was set up atop one of the larboard rails. Mr. Brooks and I then lifted Mr. Lamb onto the board, held by two ordinaries.

“Wait!” declared Mr. Brooks suddenly. “We must say a word for him and a prayer.”

“I knew him, sir,” offered Mr. Grimmel. He stepped forward and rested his hand lightly upon Mr. Lamb’s chest. “Mr. Lamb served ably and dutifully in the Dutch Wars. He was faithful to King and Country. His nature was at times hard, yet I never saw him decline to come to the aid of a fellow sailor in battle or on shore. I saw him once save a man from being carried overboard in high seas, when, at his own risk, he took hold of this fellow’s hair and pulled him aboard. I recall him twice being wounded by French guns, yet keeping to his station. Now we will deliver him up into the forgiving arms of the good Lord and hereafter keep his memory.”

Mr. Brooks recited the “Our Father” in a subdued voice. The board was then tilted and Mr. Lamb was sent overboard.

Mr. Brooks and I went down to the lower deck, past the rank stench of the manger, to an area where a large number of footlockers were neatly lined up toe to toe. Holding his lamp up, Mr. Brooks read the names roughly inscribed on them until he came to “Mr. Lamb.”

The two of us took hold of the locker and dragged it to the upper deck. The bright light exposed all the nicks, scratches and flaws of the chest and gave it the aspect of a gnarled old man who had been snatched by his heels from his cozy bed.

The sell-off was announced and a group of sailors assembled on the deck in a solemn hush. There was a glass bottle, boots, a deck of greasy game cards, stockings, a hair brush, two jaundiced old whale bone pipes nibbled to the nub; a bundle of faded scarves, a balding seal skin jacket, several knit caps, a fragment of
scrimshaw, a pleasantly sketched picture of a woman, a tiddly suit and a handful of coppers. This sad little troop represented all of the worldly riches of this gentleman’s estate. Without their owner, they were as worthless as dust.

Mr. Brooks seemed at a loss as to where to begin the auction, then lifted the tiddly suit up by its sulking shoulders.

“A shore suit, gentlemen,” Mr. Brooks called out, “is our first article.”

“Two pence!” someone called back.

One by one the articles were sold off. The sum total was less than a pound. Mr. Lamb had no family or relations, so the money was held in trust with the captain, intended for the Sailor’s Home.

Order on board had been restored. The keelhauling had a powerful effect on the men. Mr. Brooks, however, thereafter seemed a much-altered man. He said little to anyone beyond the necessary orders of the day. I would frequently find him staring vacantly out at the water like a brooding gull.

I believe he had cut a truce of sorts—with himself, with me, and with all men aboard.

Chapter 8

The Carcass