The sea was full of vengeance those first ten days of sailing. The Witch jolted so unpredictably that James gave up the hospital cot and lay face down on the floorboards so his wounds wouldn’t split. Through the thin partition came the soul-shattered cries of a young sailor ravaged by the cat-o’-nine-tails. The surgeon was right; it was a barbaric tool of discipline. James found himself holding on to anything, the leg of his cot, even his own hair, whenever the young man’s cries started up. The surgeon kept himself busy scribbling furiously in his journal. Complaints, James assumed, a record of charges against the captain. The cato’-nine was supposed to be out of service, even James knew that.
‘What you writing, doc?’
The surgeon looked up as if he might answer, but turned back without a word, his writing hand industrious again.
As the days stretched on, the silences between the cries of the sailor grew wider. A relief, until the surgeon doused James’s back with the yellow water that smelled like piss and made him curse. James was sure the surgeon was taking longer than he normally would, but then it always felt like that. He groaned with pain and banged his head on the floorboards when the burn became too much, and the dousing came to a sudden stop.
‘Skin’s all gone from the neck to the thighs,’ the surgeon said.
James felt a surge of panic, then realised the surgeon was talking about the sailor.
‘Never seen the likes, not ever. Surely won’t last. Should have hung him, quick and simple.’ The surgeon spoke as though the sailor couldn’t hear.
‘What they do that for?’
‘Caught peeking at the captain fornicating with a woman back in Portsmouth. Should be whipped himself.’
James whispered a prayer for quick deliverance. A pang of guilt struck him as he understood the prayer was more for his own benefit than that of the young sailor. Still, the deep cries that started up again penetrated him to the core; then, as quickly as they rose, all fell silent again. James didn’t know which was worse: his own back or the agony of the sailor.
‘Be let up soon, will I?’ James asked, hoping for a quick release, though he knew his wounds weren’t ready for it.
James lifted the lip of his trousers carefully over the lower stretches of scab on his back. Then he tucked enough edge of shirt beneath the wool so it wouldn’t cling to his wounds. His shirt billowed briefly, but was flattened against his back by the red jacket, constricting him button by button.
It was the first time James had been on the top deck since Portsmouth. His eyes were unaccustomed to the glare of daylight. It felt as though he had been buried in the deck below, and he welcomed the bustle of the open deck. The familiarity of it all struck him like a friend slapping his shoulder. His land legs, standing firm on the deck, had finally figured out how to sway with the Witch.
That evening James found his hammock next to Abel’s again. Sunk into the bottom of it was the pocket-knife. He hadn’t expected to get it back. He looked to his friend for an explanation.
‘No idea, Jim,’ Abel said. ‘But you better hide it. Captain’s confiscated everyone else’s.’
‘What he do that for?’
‘Yes, I wonder what he’s done that for,’ Abel mocked.
James dropped the knife into his trouser pocket, felt it rest against the lace collar nestled at the bottom.
Above their heads, on the top deck, sailors had gathered and were singing in long reaching voices. The surgeon’s voice stretched above the others. Even without the detail of words, James knew it was a funeral service. Silence fell among the men. James ignored the pain and took two steps at a time to get up top before the surgeon finished his address. Sailors formed a circle around the corpse; it was impossible to get close enough for a look, but he glimpsed the blood-spotted sheeting, a body wrapped, balanced on a board over the side of the Witch’s railing. James bowed his head for the final prayer but kept his eyes open.
‘We therefore commit this body to the deep, looking forward to the last day, the resurrection through Christ Jesus …’
It was a wretched place to die, James thought. He imagined the soul of the dead man among them, watching his own funeral, listening to the surgeon’s last words, words with the power to hand him over to God. What then, he wondered, watching the white sheet slip away into the cold darkness below the stern. Would God leave him down there swimming among shipwrecked souls, waiting for the resurrection?
Shades of red and orange streaked the horizon, melding sea and sky into one bloody mess. James closed his eyes and prayed, then crossed himself. His prayer was earnest enough, but it wasn’t for the young sailor nor any others on board that ship, nor for his sister, nor for his mother. The blessing he called down was for him and him alone.