‘I imagine not.’ Nathan felt relief that his voice was steady. His stomach churned. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Clemence stir and willed her to be still.
‘A dozen?’ Cutler suggested, something like a smile creasing the corner of his mouth.
‘Eight,’ McTiernan corrected. ‘I want him on his feet in thirty-six hours. We’ll have it done now; call all hands and tell the bo’sun.’
‘With your permission, I’ll stop off at my cabin and change,’ Nathan drawled. ‘This is a decent pair of trousers, I don’t want to get blood on them.’
‘…blood on them.’ Clemence managed to focus her spinning brain and process the words that she had been hearing for the past few moments. Blood. They were going to flog Nathan. She had got him killed.
Three pairs of feet climbed the wooden steps over her head. Clemence dragged herself out and managed, using her hands, to climb after them. Her jaw throbbed, her ears were ringing, but that was as nothing compared to the utter terror gripping her. She saw Nathan move away from the others, go towards their cabin. At least they had not tied his hands. Could he get through a porthole? No, too small.
‘Nathan.’ He was stripping off his trousers as she hurtled into the cabin, breathless with fear. He dropped them on the floor and pulled on a pair of old loose canvas ones, not bothering to tuck the shirt back.
‘Are you all right?’ He pulled her towards him, his hands firm on her bruised jaw as he explored it with calloused fingers. ‘I didn’t have time to argue with you.’
She ignored the question, jerking her chin out of his grip. ‘Nathan, tell them it was me, that you were only following me.’ She hung on his arm as he turned to the door.
‘Clemence, if they take you to flog you they will find you’re a girl, then they’ll rape you.’
The cabin spun round her. ‘I know, but it was my fault, I broke my promise, you can’t be flogged for something I did.’
‘And if they try to rape you,’ Nathan continued inexorably, ‘I’ll have to try to stop them and they’ll kill me. Eight lashes will not kill me. Now, do you want to get me killed in order to salve your conscience?’
‘No! Nathan, I’m so sorry…’ Eight lashes with a cat-o’nine-tails. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain, then she remembered the screams of the man who had dropped the fid from the mast and the room went dark.
‘Listen.’ Nathan had her by the shoulders, shaking her. ‘You can’t faint on me, you must not cry. Do you hear me? If you do, you’ll give yourself away and this is for nothing.’ She nodded, her eyes locked with his, something of his strength seeping in to give her courage. ‘Come on, let’s get it over with.’
Silent, feeling as though her blood was congealing in her veins, Clemence followed him. He must feel fear, and yet he did not show it. She could never put this right, but at least she could make sure it didn’t get any worse, she resolved. She would be quiet, she would not weep and she would look after him when it was all over. He might, she supposed, forgive her one day. She thought she could never forgive herself.
Blinking, she stumbled out on to the lamplit deck, the hands all crowded round, the babble of excited voices. Nathan pushed her towards someone and a meaty hand took her shoulder and pulled her back behind him. Street.
‘No. I’ve got to watch,’ she stammered. ‘My fault.’ Listening to it happen would be even worse, she sensed. The cook shrugged, but let her stand in front of him. Nathan had tossed his shirt aside and stood, in front of one of the hatch grills that had been upended, bare feet braced on the scrubbed white planks. The bo’sun came forward with lashings, tied his wrists and ankles so he was spread-eagled against the frame, his face turned from her.
The man walked back, picked up a bag and drew the cat-o’-nine-tails from it, running his fingers through the knotted strings to shake out the tangles. Clemence’s stomach clenched. She forced her eyes wide.
The crew fell silent, waiting. Their faces, she saw, were not showing any pleasure at this spectacle. Nathan was liked, or, at least, respected, and they knew that with this captain it could be their turn next. The first lash landed with a noise that made her flinch back against Street’s great belly. He put one hand on each shoulder and held her. ‘Steady, lad.’
Two. Three. The blood was running now. Four. Five. So much for Cutler’s nice white deck, Clemence thought wildly. Nathan was silent, still, braced for the next blow, the muscles of his back and shoulders rigid and stark in the light. Six. He sagged, then recovered. Seven. She realised she was praying, her lips moving silently, although she hardly knew what she was asking for. This time he hung from his bonds, unmoving.
‘Thank you, God,’ she murmured, realising what she had been asking for. He had fainted.
Eight.
Street pushed her to one side and strode forward, catching Nathan’s limp body as the lashings were cut. He slung him over one shoulder as if he was a side of beef and stomped back to the companionway. ‘Bring water, boy. Salt and fresh.’
It took a moment to make her legs work. Clemence felt as though she were watching someone else through a thick pane of glass. Water splashed everywhere as she filled buckets, hands shaking. ‘Here, I’ll take those.’ It was Gerritty, the sail-maker, taking a bucket and thrusting a bundle of soft rags into her hand. ‘You’ll need these.’
‘Thank you.’ She followed him down. There was no doctor on board. What should she do? What did you do for a man whose back was cut to ribbons?
She pushed past the men, stripping back the blanket on Nathan’s bunk, taking away the pillow. ‘Put him here.’
The big man laid the limp body face down, grunted and went out. ‘Salt water first, while he’s out of it,’ the sail-maker advised. ‘Cleans it out. Then the fresh.’
Street came back and thrust a bottle into her hand. ‘Here, brandy.’ That appeared to be all the advice she was going to get.
The door closed behind them, leaving Clemence on her knees beside the bunk. Acting on instinct, she fumbled under Nathan’s heavy body for the fastenings on his trousers, then pulled them down, leaving him naked on the bed. It never occurred to her to feel any embarrassment. Keeping him as comfortable as possible was all that mattered.
She rolled towels and pushed them along his sides and flanks, then started to wipe the blood off all the undamaged skin. She draped another sheet over him from the waist down, then made herself really look at his back for the first time.