Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash
CYA: All standard disclaimers apply, whatever they might be. I make no money off this; I mean no harm. There's also something of a violence warning on this. Not a lot, just some. Oh, and maybe NC-17 for close to explicit Male/Male sexuality
The Union Jack snapped in the pre-dawn air as First Lieutenant William Bodie watched from the forecastle. The noise reminded him of how long the ship had sat dockside, waiting for a full complement of crew before they could sail. Ten men were needed to flesh out the Valiant's crew, and at last the local constabulary had provided them. The press gang stood huddled near the gangway remanding their charges to Midshipman Murphy, the watch officer. The new crew would be hard cases, the lot of them. Cutthroats and thieves mostly, who, when given the choice of the gallows or the navy, decided on a genteel life at sea.
This last voyage had been the worst he'd been on since joining the navy; not even his First Mate's commission seemed worth it: two men flogged to death, one keelhauled, and one -Samuel McCabe - hanged. The poor wretches didn't know how bad their lot was to be: Captain Macklin would eat them alive, and Towser would make stew from their bones.
Bodie glanced over at Towser, who stood ramrod-straight outside his master's door. The Captain never mentioned what island Towser called home, but from the shaved head, pointed teeth, and dark blue tattoos covering more than a third of his chest, Bodie suspected it was deep in the South Seas, where the natives still dined on their fellow man. A fitting companion for the stern, Calvinist Captain of the H.M.S. Valiant.
"Mister Bodie," The watch officer's shout brought his attention back to the new men. "Ten new hands for below decks. What are your orders?"
Bodie straightened himself and pulled down his jacket before descending to the main deck. This was the least of the jobs that Captain Macklin had assigned to his new lieutenant. "Discipline, Mister Bodie, is the key to a well-run ship. And since idle hands do the devil's work, your job will be to make sure no crew member sits idle." Part of that task was attending to the crew roster -- making sure trouble-makers were assigned to different shifts and different tasks.
Midshipman Murphy handed Bodie a packet containing the names and charges filed against the men before him. Bodie puzzled out the wording -- reading was not a skill he was entirely comfortable with -- before he turned to the crew roster. Few tasks on the ship required special knowledge, and those were assigned to old hands or new apprentices. This lot would merely fill out the ship's complement of deckhands before setting sail for the Barbados. As Bodie assigned the first few men to gunner and watch positions, he reflected on the twist of fate that brought him here. Ten years ago he'd signed on as a powder monkey, and now here he was a First Lieutenant. If fate had gone a bit differently -- if he hadn't had the fear of god put into him on the Liverpool wharf -- he'd have been in the same shape as these men: underfed and unwashed, lacking any measurable skill.
Bodie glanced up from the paperwork to the newest recruit, Raymond Doyle. He opened his mouth to assign the next position, only to close it and return to his roster in confusion.
He'd expected to see a born troublemaker exuding defiance of any authority. He'd expected to see someone who might have broken a cheekbone in an old fight. He'd expected to see anger and hatred for an officer of the British Navy.
He'd never expected to see someone he knew. He'd never expected to see the boy he had raped ten years ago. He'd never expected to see Raymond Doyle again.
Confusion, regret, anger, and despair flooded through Bodie, but not one drop of emotion leaked into his face. Blindly, Bodie named an open slot on the roster and moved quickly on to the next man, only to be jerked back by the Midshipman's confused confirmation.
"Raymond Doyle, Carpenter?"
Damn. Carpentry was a job normally given to an injured seaman who was of impeccable character. Too often the carpenter's walks were used by mutineers to plan their deeds, so assigning the position to a new crewman was instantly suspect. The tight walkways were well away from normal crew activity, creating a spiderweb throughout the ship. Holds, galleys, tiller sweep, ship's siding: anything made of wood was often in need of repair, and the carpenter's walk went there. A knowledgeable man could slip into an out of places before anyone else knew he what he was about. It could be a dangerous situation. Captain Macklin would have words with him about this assignment, no doubt about that.
"Are you questioning my orders, Mister Murphy?"
"No sir, just confirming them."
Murphy always seemed to be challenging him, waiting for Bodie to make a mistake. The young officer shared Captain Macklin's views on the working class: shiftless good-for-nothings who needed hard discipline to do their jobs properly. Bodie knew the fact that he had been promoted from below decks rankled both Macklin and Murphy. He knew the young Midshipman felt that he was better suited to be first mate, and if he could find an opening, he'd see that Bodie was back below decks where he belonged.
But Bodie didn't plan on giving him that opening. He quickly fired off the other assignments and shoved the roster back at Murphy. Let the Midshipman get the new men settled while he worked through everything in his mind. A door had been opened by the sight of Doyle, a door that refused to stay shut. Bodie needed to find a way to escape the torrent of memories that were rushing out. He calmed himself and walked to his cabin, bolting the door behind him. He tore off his coat and hat and fell into his hammock as the images overwhelmed him.
At fifteen, Bodie was one of the Liverpool lads. Tough boys who did a little work for the local moneylender. Keller led the gang, and he'd been growing more enthusiastic about their job in the last few months. No longer content with destruction for his high, Keller now relied on laudanum before a job to "do it right."
Tonight's task was of a quieter nature: break in to a bakery that refused to pay back the 'loan' they'd been given. Mess the place up a bit, kill the cat, smear its blood over the walls. Pretty simple, really. There wasn't supposed to be anyone in the bakery.
But there was. A boy of twelve, with big green eyes and curly auburn hair. The son of the baker.
Raymond Doyle.
Canon and Groth, Keller's favorites, were the first through the window, strong, brawny lads with more energy than brains. Then came Oldano, sullen-faced and sharp-nosed, ugly as his attitude, followed by Bodie, Turner, and Keller. Groth started the fun by breaking open a couple of barrels and Canon tossed them against the oven wall, laughing each time a barrel shattered and the contents sprayed out. Flour, water, salt and yeast soon covered the floor.
Oldano ignored them both, looking for whatever valuables might be found in a bakery while Bodie and Turner systematically broke apart furniture using the axes they'd brought with them. Keller merely leaned against the window and smiled, swilling down a bit of rum to help pass the time.
Oldano's voice called from the back room. "Keller, there's no cat, but I did find another valuable." He dragged Doyle across the room, one arm around Doyle's chest and the other around his mouth, while the boy clawed ineffectively at him.
Keller straightened up, a glint of interest finding its way to his eyes. "A right nice prize, Oldano, one I'm sure we can all use." He nodded and Oldano threw the boy to the ground at Keller's feet, hard enough to make the boy's head bounce against the floor. The noise was so loud even Groth and Canon stopped throwing barrels for a moment.
Keller smiled and nudged the boy with his left boot. "I'm sure he'll be a lot more fun than some cat."
Oldano stood back to watch, his breathing noisy and ragged. Bodie glanced questioningly at Turner; Turner refused to meet his eyes. He spoke quietly to Bodie. "It's none of my business, Bodie. I was hired to do a job, and I'll do that job. You do what you want."
Bodie left Turner to join Oldano near the wall. Doyle tried to say something, but Keller kicked him. "Shut up and you'll live. " He reached down and grabbed a fistful of tangled hair, pulling the boy upright. Blood ran down the right side of Doyle's face where it had hit the floor, though his nose still seemed to be in one piece. At least he could still breathe.
"Be real nice to me," Keller continued, "and we'll let you keep what's left of your looks." He held out a gloved hand and Oldano passed back a boning knife from the sink. Doyle swallowed hard as the knife crept near his throat and slid down the front of his shirt. Keller jerked the knife through the last bit of material and the boy gasped as the fabric ripped in two. Blood leaked out of a small slice on his chest where the knife had pierced his skin.
Keller smiled. "That's good boy, that's real good."
The air of the warehouse was thick with smoke and sweat as Keller finished stripping the boy, the noise of Canon and Groth echoing dimly from the back storeroom. Fire crackled in the ovens as Turner's meticulously laid broken furniture began to burn. Bodie could hear the sound of his own heart and felt the crush of his pants against his cock as the boy shivered in the night air. Sweat pooled along Doyle's spine and ran down his pale, hairless back to the firm, tight arse, where it was caught by a whisper of hair.
Keller pulled out his cock and shoved the boy to his knees. "Suck it," he said. He grabbed Doyle's head and forced his mouth open. "I said, suck it." Out of a corner of his eye, Bodie caught Oldano's hands reaching down to rub his own cock as Keller continued, "One nibble and you're dead."
With the knife at his throat, Doyle licked his lips nervously and tentatively maneuvered toward the glistening head of erect shaft. Keller dropped the knife and grabbed Doyle's hair, shoving himself deep into the boy's mouth. The boy gagged as Keller yelled, "oh yeah, that's it." He thrust twice more, then pulled back, jerking himself out of Doyle's mouth. The boy doubled over, gasping for air while Keller gripped himself by the base and pulled on his cock twice, splattering the lad's hair and face.
It was the same with the whores Keller used after their other jobs-hitting them lasted longer than screwing them. Blood and semen dripped down the boy's face as Keller tucked himself in and turned to the two men next to him. "Bodie! You're next."
Startled, Bodie jerked upright as Keller kicked at Doyle, rousing him from the floor. "Get up, ya slut. Bodie's been a good boy recently, and I'm inclined to give him a treat."
Bodie tried to cover his panic. If he didn't do what Keller said, Keller would kill him. And if he did, Keller would push him further the next time, and the next time, until there was not a hair's breadth of difference between them. Eventually, Bodie would be as much of a sadist as Keller; all ready his cock was hard with the thought of fucking Doyle.
"Bodie," Keller said, never taking his eyes of the lad cringing at his feet. "Get over here and have your piece."
"Not here," Bodie replied quickly, tring to buy himself time. "Outside. Where I can dump what's left."
Keller nodded slowly. "You can take him outside once I know you'll finish it. Oldano couldn't do much with him anyway."
Bodie pushed himself forward, his body flashing hot and cold with desire and shame. He stood frozen in front of Doyle. Keller pushed in forward and yelled "Don't you want it? Are you a girl or somethin'?"
Bodie unbuttoned his pants, trying to ignore Keller's stare.
His cock was only half-hard as Doyle worked himself into kneeling position on the bakery floor. He looked up once at Bodie, pain written in both eyes: a pain that struck deep into Bodie's soul. He licked his broken, bloody lips and opened his mouth to suck Bodie's cock.
The boy's mouth was lax and dry, little like the whores Bodie was used to. He could feel Oldano and Keller staring at him with anticipation, and Turner's aggressive ignorance. He tried to will it all away, to get lost in the feel of Doyle's mouth, but that was impossible. The pain and anguish of the lad was as tangible as the tongue licking at his balls. His cock just wouldn't stay hard and it slipped from Doyle's mouth.
"Shit!" Keller stepped up to Doyle kneeling at Bodie's feet and backhanded him across the face. "You're worse than useless." He turned to Bodie and handed him the knife. "Take him outside and remember, no witnesses once you leave the bakery."
Bodie picked up the almost comatose body from the floor, where it had fallen after Keller's last blow. He could feel Turner staring after him as he left. Screw him.
As he passed the open bakery window, Bodie heard Keller's laugh and say, "There will be others, Oldano, there will be others. I'm sure Bodie will learn to share after his first."
After his first...Bodie walked through the alley to the darkened street north of the warehouse district. Doyle lay heavy in his arms, his breath rapid and shallow, skin cold and moist where his body touched Bodie's. A thick ringlet , rust colored in the dim street light, hung over one eye and made him look younger and more innocent than he had before.
Doyle hadn't been Keller's first by any means. Was Bodie really interested in starting his own list? Did he really want to end up like Keller?
Bodie walked though the alley to the end of the wharf. Along the way, he could hear the muttering of fishermen as they put to sea for the day's catch. Here and there, a drunk seaman lay passed out in a doorway, pockets emptied by some local long ago. Bodie stepped over the legs of one man in his path, only to stop when he realized the man was dead. Doyle gurgled in his arms, his head lolling against Bodie's chest. He could just drop the boy right now, and the watch would find two dead bodies instead of one. If he had a little fun before then, who would know?
He looked down at the lad clutched in his arms, and felt his desire wane. The boy was bruised and bleeding, his breath rasping in his chest. Even if Bodie didn't do anything more to him, there was little chance of him lasting the night. Merely through his own inaction, Bodie could cause his death.
A thug, a rapist, a murderer. Just what was expected of a Liverpool whore's bastard.
But it wasn't what Bodie expected of himself.
A thug and a rapist maybe, but not a murderer. Determinedly, Bodie strode onto the main thoroughfare and down to the corner where the herbalist lived. Without thought, he pounded the door three times and handed Doyle's comatose form to the first person who responded. Before any questions could be asked, he ducked out of sight, sprinting away until his chest was sore from lack of breath. He slowed briefly, breaking into a run every so often on his way back to his flat. He threw everything he owned into a bag and left before Keller or anyone else could find him. The next day he'd joined the Navy and left the Liverpool lads back on shore.
He had wanted Doyle then, and he wanted Doyle now; the sea was no longer his salvation.
Someone pounded on the cabin door. "Mister Bodie," came the cry, "the Captain wants you in his room." With a curse, Bodie swung down from the hammock and grabbed for his hat and coat. A quick glance in the tiny mirror assured him that his uniform was in place and his hair neatly pulled back in a regulation ponytail. Captain Macklin was a stickler for discipline and had dressed down many a junior officer for a loose button or unruly hair. A mere seaman would be flogged for such an offense. It only took a moment to get to the Captain's door, and then ten agonizing minutes waiting for a response to his knock.
As Bodie stood outside the Captain's cabin, the weight of Towser's gaze sank into the base of his spine. He shifted uncomfortably as Macklin refused to respond to his knock and Towser continued to stare at him. The islander was part of the game Macklin played with his officers, unsettling anyone enough that Macklin relied on him to flush out any mutineer in his ranks.
Rumor had it that it had worked with one young seaman, and now it was part of the job of seeing the Captain. Towser stared doggedly at you, not looking right, not looking left, just the constant unblinking glare at the back of your neck until Macklin decided to respond. Bodie sensed it when Towser shifted a bit and felt the islander's gaze move up and down his spine, quartering his frame like a piece of meat. Which haunch would you prefer, Towser, if the Captain let you indulge your tastes?
He continued to stand outside the door, refusing to knock again, knowing he'd been heard. Finally, the door opened and he was admitted, Towser less than a step behind him.
The room itself was not as opulent as an admiral's cabin would be, but it cried luxury to Bodie's Liverpool-born senses. The velvet seat cushions and silver tea service were as elegant as anything Bodie had stolen in his life, and gave an aura of extravagance to what should have been a purely functional room.
The Captain's bed dominated the left half of the room, and the desk the right. The bed was an ornate four-poster unlike anything else on the ship. The sheets were changed daily, an unheard-of luxury on land, let alone at sea.
The desk was massive, carved from a rich mahogany from some English colony. Its curves and embellishments glistened, showing the care lavished upon her. The Captain sat behind the desk, the sea visible through the leaded glass windows behind him, the spit-and-polish model of a British naval Captain.
Macklin glared at him, a stare that made it clear that he thought Bodie a dangerous aberration rather than a true British Officer. He left Bodie standing at attention halfway across the room as he started his tirade. "Mister Bodie, before you allow anyone into the carpenter's walk you are to discuss the matter with me. Such a sensitive task should not be flung at the first able-bodied sailor that catches your eye."
Bodie stood stock still, not even nodding in response. Macklin's temper was notoriously fickle, quick to flare, quick to fizzle. A wrong move and you'd end up in the hold at dawn, assigned to rat duty, smashing their skulls with only a club as a weapon. If you weren't an officer, it would be worse: leg irons for the smallest infraction and flogging for the rest. Keep still, hold your tongue, and all would quickly pass.
That was the theory, anyway. So far, it seemed to work, though Bodie knew it was only a matter of time before his luck ran out.
His dutiful acceptance of what the Captain said seemed to have the desired effect. Macklin sat back in his chair and smiled in a self-satisfied fashion at Bodie's obvious penitence and steepled his fingers in front of his chest. "However, you may have done me a favor this time. Your man Doyle has some unionist ties that could become important in our trip to the Caribbean."
"Sir?" Bodie said, confused.
Macklin sat upright and gestured for Bodie to move closer to the desk. "The Governor of St. Martin has noticed a disturbing tendency for pirates to attack local sugar shipments. At first, nothing was noteworthy, for what is there for a pirate to attack except merchants? But then sugar plantations were burned, and stockpiles savaged before they could be loaded for transport to England."
He pushed himself away from the desk and turned his back to Bodie, looking out the window. Bodie felt Towser tense just slightly as the Captain's back was turned. Afraid I'll grab him from behind, Towser? He's not worth the trouble I'd get.
Macklin continued on, and Bodie tried to pick up the thread of his speech. "Someone is trying to prevent the shipment of sugar and rum to the British Empire, Mister Bodie, and there is some thought among the admiralty that the answer may lie with these Unionists who are trying to organize the factory workers. They seem to feel that having sweetened tea is an offense against God."
He shot a glance at Bodie, who instantly nodded, though he felt confused. Sweetened tea led to the factories of England being destroyed by Unionists. What was going on?
The Captain rounded his desk in an instant to stand less than a foot from where Bodie stood at attention. "England needs its factories, man, and factories need workers, and workers need tea. Damn it, even the Navy is affected if we no longer have rum. Our job is to protect the plantations around St. Martins and report any Unionist activity that we may find."
He stared a Bodie for an instant, then returned to his chair. "I want you to watch for any sign of Unionists aboard my ship, Mister Bodie, and I want an example made of the first one you find." He drew in close to Bodie. "Lash 'em; keelhaul 'em; hang 'em if necessary. We'll kill the entire crew if we have to, but there'll be no Unionists on my ship." He stepped back a pace and smiled, leaving no doubt in Bodie's mind that he would be keelhauled should the Unionists not be found.
Bodie saluted and left the cabin, replacing his hat once the door closed shut behind him. He'd escaped Macklin's wrath once again, but it seemed harder and harder each time. When Samuel McCabe had been hung on the last voyage, he'd thought that the Captain was stern in his judgment. When the men were whipped to death, he thought the Captain was cruel.
Now he wondered if the Captain was mad.
Bodie avoided Doyle for the next few days as the ship made its way out of British waters and onto the open sea; he didn't want to give the new seaman any reason to remember that night in Liverpool. It was easy to do as the carpenter's work kept Doyle below the waterline in the carpenter's walk for much of the day, and Bodie was able to organize his work so that he remained above deck.
The day came, however, when he wasn't able to avoid the Captain's wrath for some imagined insult, and Bodie found himself assigned to rat duty, just as he'd predicted. So, at last Doyle and he met outside the powderoom amidships.
Bodie nodded politely at Doyle's sullen salute, his mind in an uproar. A crew of five men stood before him, including Doyle; the sixth one was locked in leg irons on the quarter-deck for being a few minutes late on watch. Doyle was the only new man in the group, the rest had all been on rat patrol before.
He quickly paired off the other seamen and sent them into the fore and aft holds with clubs and oil lamps so that they could beat to death any rats they found. That left just Doyle and himself on the deck below the water line, ready to enter the bread room.
When he handed Doyle the belaying pin, their hands touched. Instantly, he felt the seaman go rigid. Bodie cursed his own luck.
"Mister Bodie, sir," said Doyle, his eyes narrowing.
Here it comes, thought Bodie. He's remembered me. He felt a bit odd, as if his body had been separated from his mind. "I'll have to kill him" was the only thing he could think of. Bodie gauged the distance to his club; it would crush a man's skull as easily as it crushed a rat's. "Yes, Doyle," he said carefully, his mind already working to construct an alibi. If Doyle attacked him and he had to kill him, he'd tell Macklin that Doyle was a Unionist sympathizer. The Captain would be disappointed, but no more questions would be asked. In a way, it would be better if he did kill Doyle; he'd never need to worry about being recognized again.
"If you don't mind my askin', what's an officer doing down here killin' rats?" Doyle swung the club with one hand so that it softly struck the palm of his left hand, as if testing its weight.
Bodie answered deliberately, using his words to bring his emotions back in-line. He hadn't killed Doyle ten years ago; there was no reason to become a murderer now. However, a subtle warning might not be amiss, if it came down to that. "A fair question. One man in a hold is temptation, an easy way for some cheese or salt pork to go missing. Two men means a conspiracy, and a hundred lashes when it's discovered." He stared grimly at Doyle. "In the short time I've served with Captain Macklin, I've personally delivered that sentence twice. The first man never lived past fifty. The second one survived until the next dawn."
He grabbed up his own club and the lamp, motioning Doyle ahead of him. "The man who would have gone with you is in irons this morning; there was no one else who could be spared." He couldn't help but add, "Macklin believes in treating his officers with the same respect that he gives his men." The irony would be wasted on Doyle, but he used it to amuse himself.
Doyle slid past him to the entrance to the bread room. He opened the door and stopped suddenly, Bodie almost slamming into his heels. He spoke in a quiet manner that barely carried to where Bodie stood. "I've heard of your talents," the seaman made the word a curse stronger than most in the common tongue, "from others in the crew. None of them mentioned kindness or altruism."
He turned to look at Bodie, his eyes glinting maliciously in the lamplight. "If this door closes and I find you and a few of your friends have decided that I'm your light-skirt for this voyage, not even four thousand lashes could stop what I'd do to you." His voice dropped an octave as he added, "I may have been an easy target once, but I'll be damned if it will happen again."
Astonished, Bodie stared a moment at the slighter man. He had a few inches and several stone on Doyle, yet the seaman acted like he was in charge. Bodie smiled slightly. Doyle reminded him of the wild dogs on Liverpool's wharf: gritty terriers that defended their right to the most meager of scraps.
Cornered, and with his riotous curls, Doyle definitely looked like one of those dogs. Bodie spoke calmly, in the same quiet even tone Doyle had used, threat and promise suffused in one. "If anything like that happened on my ship, I'd see the lot of them hanged. You understand me, Doyle? And if you mention anything like that again, I'll have you gagged for a week for insubordination."
The seaman turned back to the bread room and Bodie shoved the lantern at him, his hand brushing Doyle's. Instantly, Doyle reacted. "I said, don't touch me."
"God above, man! I'm an officer of the British Navy. No officer would lower themselves to rape." He was amazed to realize that he wanted Doyle's respect. He'd worked hard to pull himself up from what he'd been, and until Macklin's ship, he'd been proud of what he'd become.
Doyle's mouth twisted with hatred. "The Navy's no different from the factories, Mister Bodie. Men in power always think they can do what they want with those that have none."
Light flooded the hold before Bodie could respond. "Seaman Doyle." Murphy shouted. "The Captain wants a word with you." He stared down at where the two men stood blinking in the additional light. "And I'm sure he'll want a word with Mister Bodie as well."
As always, Macklin's justice was swift. Even with Bodie there to argue for a lesser crime, some example needed to be set. Within the hour, Murphy shoved an iron bar into the kneeling Doyle's mouth and tied it tight against the back of his head, the inhuman bit tearing at the soft corner's of Doyle's mouth. Bodie watched from the main deck with the Captain as Captain Macklin commented on the punishment. "Two days without speaking should help teach that little powderkeg a lesson on how to behave on my ship, though I doubt it will do much good."
Murphy saluted Captain Macklin and the Captain nodded. As Bodie watched the exchange, he realized just how often Murphy had been acting in Captain Macklin's stead. The conversation in the hold was just one example. The conclusion was inescapable: Murphy was spying on him, and probably at Macklin's behest.
The Captain turned to Bodie, dragging his attention away from the Midshipman and Doyle. "Though I agree with your argument that there may be other Unionists aboard, I still think it should have been the lash. It's on your head, Bodie. If you can't find the others within the week, I'll have Doyle flogged as an example." He started for the stairs, then turned back toward Bodie as if stuck by a new thought. "If you can't find the ringleader, Mister Bodie, by the end of the week I'll have you flogged as well. Officers aren't immune to discipline on my ship, and I'm not sure that your interest in Doyle came from your desire to fulfill your duties. You have one week to prove me wrong."
Bodie nodded distractedly, as Doyle glared at him from behind the inch of iron pulled tight against his face. Two days. He had two days before Doyle would be able to tell anyone what had happened ten years ago. Two days to save his career.
Within the day, he had an example for Captain Macklin's justice. Jack McCabe took one look at Doyle during the noon meal, his food dribbling out of his mouth around the iron bar, and exploded. He grabbed at the barbarous gag to untie it, only to be belted away by the boatswain's mate. McCabe spat at the man, who grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him above deck. McCabe was locked in leg irons while the rest of the crew stared on, restlessly avoiding looking at Doyle or at McCabe. Bodie stared at the crew. He knew that they needed discipline, and that any effort to bite must be viciously punished, lest the whole ship be lost. But too harsh a punishment could spook the crew. Determined to keep control over just what happened, Bodie prepared to give Seaman McCabe a proper checkered shirt.
Bodie stood on deck as McCabe was led to the grating secured to the main mast. He removed his hat and folded his coat as McCabe's shirt was torn from his back and his wrists tied to the wood. Bodie unbuttoned the top of his shirt and loosened his sleeves as the rest of the crew gathered to watch. He could feel Macklin's gaze resting on his back as he lifted the smallest of the whips, a braided rope about a foot long and an inch in diameter. The end was frayed, spreading the force of the blow across a wide area, welting the skin but not necessarily drawing blood. He'd start with this for the first few blows, then move on to the longer leather whip, once the skin was warm to touch.
Captain Macklin wanted fifty blows, but Bodie would say how they should be dealt. And Bodie wanted McCabe to live. No matter what had happened to Captain Macklin, he was a British Officer, and would punish no more than was necessary.
The first blow startled McCabe, probably the first time he'd ever felt the lash. Eventually, he'd accept its use, just as Bodie had. The third blow made him jerk, and the fifth blow brought a cry. Bodie frowned. Even thirty lashes would be too much; McCabe's shoulders were already a bright, cherry red. Another dozen would break the skin.
Still, to do the whole job with the lightest of whips would prove nothing to the crew. Given his skill, he should be able to place a single leather strap well enough across McCabe's shoulders and back to minimize the damage. He turned and traded the rope for a thick leather strap, about two inches wide and eighteen inches long.
A murmur rose from the crew, a noise quickly quieted by the rest of the officers. He drew the lash back though his hands, enjoying the feel of the leather. It wasn't as critical as it had been with the rope--drawing it back gathered the ends together so they didn't spread uncontrollably during the second blow -- but the feel of the leather was hard to resist. It was the second of his dirty secrets: he liked power, physical power. Anything that made him sweat. His skill with the whip was part of that obsession, and using it was another.
He brought the whip up, sighting where next to land it. In one compact motion of wrist and arm, he landed the full width of the strap squarely across McCabe's right shoulder. The man jerked back against the force, screaming momentarily. Bodie smiled grimly. He had his work cut out for him.
Slowly the crowd receded to the edge of Bodie's consciousness as he focused on McCabe and the whip. Soon he felt nothing, heard nothing but his own breathing and the pounding of the blood in his temples. He knew he was sweating, his cock hard within his pants, the force of the job utterly controlling him.
He was totally unprepared when someone grabbed his arm and said "Use the cat, Bodie."
He blinked and wiped the sweat and hair out of his face. Murphy stood next to him, the cat-of-nine-tails in his hand. "The Captain said McCabe should be made an example of. He wants you to use the cat."
Bodie looked up to where Captain Macklin stood at the edge of the quarter-deck. The Captain nodded once. Bodie turned back to Murphy and shoved the strap at him. "Clean it. The blood cracks the leather if you're not careful." A murmur washed through the crowed, one quickly crushed by the more experienced men. Too much outcry would leave the whole ship on half-rations, or at least shy of the standard ration of rum.
He picked up the cat, stepped back and shook himself. The blood rushed back to his fingers where they had been clenched around the handle of the strap. He looked over at McCabe.
The seaman was a mess. Blood trickled down from his shoulder's and sides, his back a checkered mass of welts. Blood also trickled from his wrists, where the ropes had bitten into his skin as he jerked to escape the blows. Bodie could tell there was little fight left within him.
Bodie looked at the cat in his hands and frowned. He hated the thing, the nine braided leather ropes, each with lead weight at the end. It was a device for tearing muscle and flesh rather than giving discipline. Using it on McCabe was pointless, even stupid; the man was too far gone to properly feel it, and the crew would resent its use.
This time the murmurs didn't die down. The boatswain's mates spread through the crowd, lashing a few of the more vocal men with their own rope whips. Control was established once again, though the resentment sparked like electricity through the stagnant morning air.
Bodie looked back at McCabe and caught sight of Doyle, the iron bar still firmly wedged in his mouth. He could feel the crowd's unease and knew they thought the same as he did: no matter what he did, the cat would kill McCabe.
He had no choice. He would use as little force as possible to get the job done. He could feel Doyle looking at him as he dangled the cat, straightening out the strands so that they would be somewhat contained.
He landed the first blow and McCabe screamed. He didn't have to look at Doyle to see the revulsion in his eyes, and know what he'd be thinking-rapist, sadist, and murderer. He could expect no mercy from Doyle once the man was free to speak again.
"Thirty-one," Murphy said flatly.
He landed the next and there was another scream.
"Thirty-two."
"Thirty-three." Bodie wondered if all damned souls made as much noise as McCabe. He hesitated, unwilling to ply the whip again. He looked up at Captain Macklin, only to see Towser making his way towards him from the quarter-deck. He turned the whip over to the islander, humiliation and anger eating at him. Jack McCabe would die, just as his brother Samuel had, and Bodie could do nothing to stop it.
He could feel Doyle looking at him, but refused to turn and meet his eyes. Bodie stood as far away from the mast as possible while Towser finished the job, hating how much he enjoyed giving McCabe discipline and praying that no one had noticed. He watched along with the rest of the crew, for all the world the model of a proper English officer.
As he watched, he tried not to think about the men he'd been ordered to kill, tried not to tally all of his crimes: bully, liar, rapist, and thief. Men had died by his hand; some would call it murder. Bodie reasoned that since he'd been following orders, it wasn't, but the excuse was wearing thin, even for him.
"Thirty-six," Murphy counted.
Doyle shifted into his peripheral vision, backing away from the sight of Towser flaying McCabe alive. It reminded Bodie of what would happen when Doyle could finally speak. Bodie frowned. Killing Doyle would fix the problem, but Bodie didn't plan on adding murder to his list of crimes. He would find some other way out of this mess, without killing Doyle.
The crack of the whip brought his attention back to Towser, and seaman McCabe. He hung panting from the ropes, his body convulsed in agony, screams torn from deep within his ravaged throat.
"Thirty-six," said Murphy.
"Add five more stripes to the whole, Mister Murphy," Captain Macklin called from above deck. "He needs a good lesson."
The count continued long after McCabe stopped screaming.
For three days, Bodie worked to combat the infection, but it did no good. The cat had bitten too deep into the flesh for Bodie's poultices to stop the infection, and Jack McCabe died on the fourth day.
Bodie officiated at the funeral, Captain Macklin having refused to allow a proper chaplain on board his ship. As he spoke the traditional words, the crew was silent, respectful of McCabe's body sinking into the deep. Bodie was barely aware of them, too busy running in his mind how he could have managed things differently. How he could have kept McCabe alive.
Someone drew close to him after the prayers were finished, someone familiar yet different than how Bodie remembered him.
"You tried your best." Doyle said quietly. "His brother had written him a letter saying what Captain Macklin was like; he'd just never believed it. Jack just thought Samuel had jumped ship in the Caribbean somewhere and wanted to find him. Now they've both dead." He shifted closer to Bodie. "I heard some of the other hands talk about Samuel's death, and how you tried to stop Captain Macklin that time, too. I just thought you should know that they don't all blame you."
Bodie cleared his throat and managed a "Thank you" in response. He turned to say more, but caught Murphy out of the corner of his eye. The Midshipman's interruptions had been too convenient of late; it would be best to talk someplace where Captain Macklin had no ears. He gave Doyle a clout on the shoulder. "Back to your station, seaman. The wind should pick up soon."
Doyle nodded, and left to join the rest of the crew.
Bodie turned back to the sea, watching the spot where the water had claimed McCabe's body. He had two days left to find Captain Macklin's Unionist ringleader, or both Doyle and he would join McCabe at the bottom of the sea.
Nightfall brought welcome relief. Not only was the blistering sun no longer beating on the becalmed ship, but Murphy slept during third watch, a sign of Macklin's favor. It would give Bodie a chance to talk to the regular seamen without the Captain's dog nipping at his heels. He needed time to think, to figure a way out of this mess. As it was, he had two days. No, it was midnight; one day left.
He'd try to find Doyle and see if the man knew anything. He'd at least warn Doyle that Macklin had a price on his head as well. He hadn't let Doyle die ten years ago, he wasn't about to let him die now. He didn't left himself think about the why.
Bodie never came to the carpenter's area if he could help it. It was colder than the interior of the ship, plastered against the hull below the water line. He was in luck, Doyle was still awake, working on repairing a water barrel that the rats had eaten though. Space on the ship was at a premium, however, and about a dozen men had chosen to sling their hammocks in the carpenter's area, trading warmth for a little extra space. Doyle had managed to eke out his workspace at the far end of the room, and he sat surrounded by swinging hammocks as the ship pitched in the restless sea.
Catching Doyle's eye, Bodie gestured at Doyle to follow him, and the seaman rose warily from his work. He picked up the lamp and stared at Bodie a moment, then gestured abruptly for Bodie to follow him. They stood poised across the room from each other, Bodie unwilling to enter the room full of sleeping men and Doyle seemingly unwilling to leave. Finally, Bodie threaded his way through the room, taking extra care not to wake the idlers in their hammocks.
Doyle led Bodie down a back passage and into the carpenters walk near the shot locker, where the cannonballs were stored for later use. Although it smelt of rotting grease, mold and rust, the shot kept the area as quiet as catacombs.
Doyle hung up his lantern and sat down on the top of one of the wooden lockers. "All right, talk."
Bodie hesitated, still not sure of what to say. Doyle stood and grabbed the lantern, turning back down the passageway. Bodie blurted out "Macklin's mad."
Doyle turned back. "That's not news."
"He wants you dead."
"That's not news either." Doyle hung the lantern up again, bracing himself against the wooden post as the ship pitched steeply under his feet. "Though I understand that I'm not the only one he wants dead."
"No. Captain Macklin believes that there are Unionists aboard ship. He wants them all dead, and any collaborators."
"Including you." Doyle stated the fact baldly, the first time Bodie had ever really thought of the matter.
"Including me," Bodie agreed. He pressed back against the crates around him, partly to brace himself from the roughened sea, and partly to avoid thinking. He'd relied on the Navy and the sea to give his life structure, and now she had betrayed him. He did not what to think about what he needed to do next.
"So, you're a Unionist collaborator," Doyle continued. "Amazing. I've never seen you at any of the meetings." He lounged against a pile of wooden crates, arms crossed and hips canted. Even in the coolness of the carpenter's walk, his shirt was half unbuttoned, and his sleeves were pushed up his forearms, showing his new sea tan.
"I was hiding in back." Bodie said, swallowing slightly at the hedonistic figure Doyle presented. If Murphy walked in now, he'd probably add a morals charges to Captain Macklin's list of "Problems with Bodie."
"Ah." Doyle levered himself up with his hips, an amazingly suggestive move as far as Bodie was concerned. He came in close, the steam of his breath pooling an inch from Bodie's face. "Why should I trust you?"
Bodie never blinked. "You can't." The heat of Doyle's body pressed in close, and Bodie swallowed hard. His cock throbbed in anticipation, and Bodie could not tear his gaze from the full lips scant inches from his face. He wanted nothing more than for those inches to be erased and feel Doyle's cock grinding against his own.
Doyle laughed once, a barked, sarcastic sound that echoed in the room . "At least you're honest." Doyle shook his head and eased back a pace. " God help me, but I think you may be the most honest men on the ship."
Bodie sighed with relief. "I need to find out if there really are any Unionists aboard ship."
"And then what happens?" Doyle asked. "Do they end up swinging from the yardarm like Samuel McCabe or are they beaten to death like Jack McCabe? You find a way to guarantee their lives, and I'll find a way to tell you their names. Until then, I think it's best if we don't talk.
"Actually Doyle, you're a little late for that." Captain Macklin strode into the room, Towser and Murphy not a pace behind. They grabbed Doyle by the arms while Captain Macklin turned his attention to Bodie. "I admit I was skeptical when I gave you the task of ferreting out these Unionists, but you have done an astounding job." He looked Doyle over from top to bottom, a sneer curling about his lips. "This is so much more than I expected for someone of your upbringing. My congratulations." He turned back to Towser and Murphy. "Clamp seaman Doyle in leg irons and note who visits him. I want everyone who so much as glances his way given five lashes. Anyone who tries to speak with him is to be given ten. We'll settle the rest of Doyle's punishment tomorrow."
Towser and Murphy dragged Doyle out of the room, while he jerked and tore at their grip. He looked over at Bodie, his voice seething in fury. "I should have known you couldn't be trusted, you bastard." He spat at Bodie, hitting the officer square on the right cheek.
Bodie distractedly whipped it off with a handkerchief while Captain Macklin yelled down the hall, "And give him five lashes for that before you put him in irons. " He turned back to Bodie, his mind obviously still on Doyle. "Mister Bodie."
"Sir." Bodie hastily put the handkerchief away and drew himself into formation, his mind screaming at him to help Doyle somehow. He knew, though, that Doyle was as good as dead.
"You are remanded to your cabin until tomorrow, at which time I'll decide what I need to do with you."
Bodie saluted, and he turned for the hallway out of the shot room. He was quickly running out of options: he could save Doyle and throw away his career, or he could stay with Captain Macklin and pray for a court-martial rather than hanging.
There was really no choice; it was simply a matter of time. He'd need to devise some sort of plan and hope that at least half of the crew would go along.
The noise from above deck pulled him out of his thoughts. He rushed up the last of the ladder, expecting to see a fire or some other danger from the yells coming from the seamen. Instead, Towser was plying Doyle with the cat, his back a raw mass of welts, while the seamen angrily shouted it down. The boatswain and his mates were trying to keep the sailors under control, beating anyone who cried out against Towser's work, but it didn't seem to help. Murphy was standing to one side of the prisoner, looking shocked as Towser kept hitting the shackled man.
Doyle looked bad. The leg irons were bolted into the deck at the edge of the ship, and open to the lightest of spray. Already, his skin was drenched from the crash of waves against the hull as the ship dipped into the water. His face was bruised, and he looked ready to collapse.
Still, his spirit remained unbroken. Each time Towser hit him with the cat, Doyle responded with a new curse. Bodie was certain that if either Towser or Murphy came in range, Doyle would bite off their hand. Beaten and bruised, the man was still a fighter.
Bodie shoved his way though the crowd and grabbed the cat from Towser. The islander glared at him, his sharpened teeth flecked bared in the light.
Bodie shouted at him, "The Captain said five lashes! No more. The rest of the sentence tomorrow!" Bodie's heart pounded while his mind groaned. Not here. Not now. There was no time for plans or anything else.
Doyle turned and looked at him, pulling at the ten-year-old cord between them. The tie was stronger than mere sex, Bodie realized. In some strange way, Doyle was his conscience. Doyle had made him see the insane cruelty of his life on the liverpool docks, and now Doyle was making him see the insane cruelty of his life at sea.
Doyle mattered.
The tingling started at his hairline and sped down his spine, out to his arms, fingertips and toes as he realized just how important Doyle had become to him. More than the navy, more than a Captaincy, more than anything Bodie could think of, Doyle mattered. The epiphany shredded his blinders; there was no way to keep both his career and Doyle alive.
In god's name, there was only one thing that Bodie could do. He grabbed the whip from Towser and used it to strike the astonished islander across the face. That seemed to be the spark that the crowd needed, and they turned on the boatswain and his mates, grabbing their whips from them and using them against the officers.
The mob erupted as Murphy and the rest of the officers dropped back to find better weapons. The seamen grabbed anything that came to hand: belaying pins, knifes, rope, chain, anything that wasn't tied down. Bodie couldn't tell what was happening as Towser rushed at him, Towser's hands outstretched like claws, blood running down his face where the cat had torn the skin, his teeth bared for action. He was like some huge jungle animal chasing down its prey.
Bodie snapped the whip up, timing his response. As Towser lunged, Bodie stepped to the side, bringing the whip down with all his might. He heard Towser howl as the whip connected with his flesh; Bodie wasn't sure where. He pivoted as quickly as he could, praying that the whip wouldn't throw him off balance. He crouched down in a brawler's stance, presenting the smallest target for Towser to attack as he possibly could, yet still keeping his arms free with the whip.
Bodie grinned. It was a good day. A gunshot grabbed his attention, jerking his attention from the fight with Towser. Vaguely, he heard Captain Macklin shouting something over the din, and Bodie realized that the wind was picking up. They'd have to finish things quickly, before the ship itself was lost. He turned back to the fight, surprised that Towser hadn't grabbed for him while his attention had waned.
Towser was gone.
Bodie cursed and ran to the side of the ship where Doyle was shackled to the ship. He knelt beside Doyle, running his hands over the lock to check how well he had been fastened in. Despite Doyle's struggles, Towser and Murphy had done a good job. No matter how he tugged, the lock held fast.
"Listen Doyle, I'll get you out as soon as I can, but I need to get to my cabin and get my keys." He sat back on his heels, watching the sea. "It looks like a storm's brewing, so when the waves come this way, take a deep breath before they hit. They'll cover you, but you'll be okay. I should be back before long, before she gets too rough."
Doyle nodded his hair shielding most of his face, though Bodie could see that the left eyes was almost swollen shut. He could tell Doyle was in pain, but there was nothing he could do now. He grabbed the whip tighter and levered himself up.
Captain Macklin and Towser were the main problems. A second gunshot caught his attention, one that came from the direction of the Captain's cabin. Fuck. He had hoped that they would have been stopped before they got to the cabin. There was no telling what the Captain might have in there. He tried to remember everything he'd seen during the times he'd been called in, but nothing seemed to have struck. A couple of pistols, and a rapier. He didn't think he'd seen anything else. If that was all there was, Bodie still had some possibility of containing them.
He ran for the cabin, gesturing for the rest of the crew to follow him. Captain Macklin, Murphy, Towser and a few others were holed up in the Captain's cabin. At the back of Bodie's mind, he barely registered how few of the officers and crew had gone along with Captain Macklin and how many were standing outside the door. The crew parted to let him through to the door.
"Macklin!" he shouted. "Give it up. We've got you outnumbered. I promise you safe passage to a lifeboat. You're on your own after that."
"You're a dog traitor, Bodie, and I'll see you hanged for this mutiny first!"
"You've got no choice, sir. If you don't come peacefully, we can starve you out in a few days. It's no mind to me." Bodie gestured to a couple of the men to get some rope. If necessary, they could get in through the leaded windows at the rear of the cabin. It would take time -- time that he didn't have right now -- but it could be done. Starving the Captain out would take too long, and would give those of the crew who were less committed to the mutiny time to have second thoughts.
The men brought the rope while the cabin was silent. Bodie gestured what he wanted: two men to go topside, and one man to climb down the rope to the windows. When the glass broke, two others would break through the cabin doors. There would be losses, but Captain Macklin wouldn't stand a chance.
The ship pitched steeply and Bodie cursed. The waves were getting stronger. They needed to put the plan into action now, before the ship's careening path worked against them.
"Bodie, you whoreson!" came a voice from inside the cabin.
"Sir?"
A hesitation, then Captain Macklin shouted, "Do I have your word as a British Officer that we'll have safe passage off this ship?"
Bodie answered, "Done." He gestured at the men who were headed topside to return to the cabin.
Murphy slowly opened the door and glanced right past Bodie to the rest of the crew. He handed Macklin's pistol to Bodie and stood aside. Captain Macklin never even looked at him as he made his way to the life boats. Several other men filed past, then Towser, the last of the group. Towser gave him a long look with death in his eyes as he filed past Bodie, but he did not act. Bodie sighed with relief as the rest of the crew surrounded their departing Captain.
Bode ran back to his cabin and picked up his keys, cursing himself for forgetting Doyle.
They were lowering the last of Macklin's little fleet when Bodie got back to the main deck. The Captain looked straight at him and shouted over the rising wind, "I'll see you hanged for this, Bodie! I'm going to send you straight to hell the next time we meet."
"Your pardon, Captain," Bodie yelled back, "but I've all ready been there."
Lightening blazed through the sky and the crash of thunder drowned out Macklin's reply. Bodie turned to his new crew, issuing orders making the ship safe for the duration of the storm, then ran for Doyle.
The sea had not been kind to the prisoner. He looked half-drowned, and the welts were inflamed where the salt water had touched them. Bodie gently lifted him from the deck after unlocking the irons. Doyle's head rolled against his chest.
He looked up at Bodie dazedly. "I remember you," he said. "We've done this before, haven't we?"
Bodie heart pounded with discovery. "Ten years ago," he stated baldly, "I was one of a group of men who broke into your father's bakery and raped you." He carried Doyle away from the edge of the ship and propped him up against the main mast.
Doyle gasped in agony, then gritted his teeth. He said nothing, either about Bodie's revelation or about pain from his wounds; it looked like all he could do not to faint.
In a way, Bodie was grateful for his silence. It dignified what he had said, giving them both some time to think about what would happen next, given that the ship stayed afloat for the next couple of hours. "As soon as the storm blows itself out, I'll be able to tend to you. Until then, I'm afraid this will have to do. At least it's out of the spray."
Doyle nodded his acceptance, then said something in a voice that carried little in the wind. Bodie pulled himself closer to Doyle, leaning down so that his breath rested in Bodie's ear. The words were soft, but their meaning strong." You were good with McCabe, Bodie. I survived what happened before; I'll survive what happens now. I can wait; the ship can't."
Bodie ran a hand across Doyle's forehead, smoothing the hair away from his eyes. Doyle glanced up and their eyes locked. Bodie saw within them a survivor who'd seen the darkest side of life, yet had never given in. A man who's love of life was as strong as Bodie's own, and who's moral compass was strong enough for two.
"Right." Bodie straightened up, dedicating himself to task at hand. He called all of the seasoned seamen he knew over to where he stood, near the center of the main deck. Each man reported what he knew about who was available and what their skills were. Bodie quickly made assignments for the most critical tasks of running the ship, and verbally assigned each man to a task as he was named. The crew responded to his authority, each man briskly, almost thankfully, turning to their assigned post.
Bodie knew the men followed his orders because of the storm, but as the night wore on he realized that there was more to it than that. The waves had crashed against the railing, sweeping two men overboard. His quick reactions saved the men, and because of that, the crew believed in his skills, believed that he would pull them though. By the time the storm had blown itself out, they seemed to have forgotten the role that Bodie had played under Macklin's command. He was their new Captain, and they followed him by instinct.
Bodie looked around his crew as dawn filtered into the morning air. They'd been fighting all night. The crew was on its last legs, and needed a rest. Bodie chose John Anson to be the second in command and posted a skeleton watch. Everyone else, he sent below deck to get some sleep.
He turned to the figure slumped against the main mast, and his heart thudded painfully against his cheek. He rushed over to Doyle, only to find that sometime during the storm, Doyle had passed out from exhaustion. Gently, he gathered the still-breathing form into his arms, carrying Doyle towards Captain Macklin's cabin and its feather bed. It would be a lot more comfortable for Doyle in there, and he'd need a lot of rest to recover from the inflammation that Bodie could see spreading throughout his wounds.
He gently laid Doyle down and started removing the blood- and sea-soaked clothing. Doyle awoke and brought his hands up, feebly trying to protect himself. His eyes were glazed with fever and exhaustion. "You don't have to rape me," he mumbled. "You saved my life."
Bodie reached down and brushed the wet, scraggly hair out of his face. "I'll never do that again," he said. "I just need to get your clothes off so that I can clean the wounds."
"That's all right, then." Doyle stopped fumbling, and relaxed as Bodie unbuttoned his shirt and eased it off his battered chest. Pants and socks followed, Doyle saying nothing. Bodie looked up as the last stitch fell to the floor and realized that Doyle had passed out again.
Bodie fetched some clean water from the ship's stores, and tore one of Captain Macklin's old shirts into rags to clean the blood and sea spray from Doyle's body.
The skin was pale under the tan; Doyle had lost quite a bit of blood. His back was bloodcrusted over where the cat had torn the skin. Bodie gently washed it clean, stopping occasionally to rinse the cloth out and spread a layer of salve over the freshly-cleaned skin. Bodie ended up using another of Captain Macklin's shirts as a bandage and tied it in place with strips from one of Captain Macklin's spare set of sheets.
Bodie dragged the Captain's chair away from the desk and next to the bed. Pulling off his own boots, he settled back into the chair and looked over at Doyle, once again admiring his indomitable will.
Unbidden, he leaned over and kissed Doyle on the check. Doyle's eyes opened sleepily, and he smiled bemusedly. "I always hoped you'd come back," he said, then drifted back into sleep.
Bodie tried to work through what Doyle had meant, but exhaustion finally caught up with him as well, and Bodie slept.
The days took on a comforting routine for Bodie. In the morning, he'd wash and take navigation sightings, correcting the course to steer them to the nearest set of neutral islands. Then, he'd check on Doyle, changing the dressings as best he could. Then the rounds of the ship, making sure that everything was going well. Once Doyle's fever broke, they spent the evenings together. Doyle turned out to be a good chess player, using the set they'd found tucked away in Captain Macklin's desk. He brought dinner up to the cabin and they ate together, then Bodie would say his good-nights.
With no other trained officers, he needed to be up every few hours, checking on the ship's status. He'd grab whatever sleep he could between shifts, in a hammock he'd slung near his Captain's desk. Doyle slept alone in the bed. Neither one mentioned what had happened those many years ago; there seemed to be no reason.
One morning, Doyle was finally well enough to master a small bath. The welts had healed over and the infection was gone, leaving Doyle weak but alive. Bodie warmed the water and filled the Captain's standing metal tub, helping Doyle in once it was ready.
Doyle settled back against the sloped side, then looked over at him, their silence awkward for the first time in days. Doyle cleared his throat. "How's the ship?"
Bodie didn't look at him, the strain of command having worn thin his veneer of civility. He wanted to run his hands over Doyle's body, feel the play of muscle underneath his fingertips. He felt close to breaking, and tried to distance himself from Doyle. "Fine, a few problems with some of the older hands, but nothing I can't handle."
They lapsed into silence again.
The silence was worse than talking, leaving Bodie with too much time to think of how Doyle would writhe against him in the heat of passion.. He searched blindly for something to talk about, something to drive the images from his mind. "They're calling you the Captain's woman, you know." Bodie tried to joke.
Doyle looked over at him, seeming to read Bodie's secrets. "Better yours than Macklin's," Doyle replied. "Wash my back."
He handed the cloth to Bodie and turned his back. Ah, forbidden fruit, thought Bodie as he lathered Doyle's skin. The slickness of the soap made it worse, and Bodie knew he was lost. He tried to turn away, tried to hide his interest, but Doyle grabbed his arm before he could leave. The cloth slipped from his had as Doyle stared at him, and Bodie knew that Doyle had read his thoughts. No words passed between them as Doyle stepped out of the water, and toweled himself dry
Bodie could stand it no longer. "I want you."
Doyle dropped the towel to look at him. "I know, " he replied.
Bodie stepped back, embarrassment and amazement vying for domination. "You know."
"Yes."
"You don't mind?"
"You saved my life ten years ago. By god, you saved my life ten days ago." He grabbed Bodie and pulled him onto the bed. "Shut up."
Doyle was more recovered than Bodie had realized, but he soon forgot about that in his hurry to get rid of his garments. They both pulled and unfastened, hands and fingers flying, each interfering with the other in their haste. Bodie groaned as Doyle pressed his cock against his, feeling the warmth on the still damp skin pressed against his flesh. He moaned as Doyle grabbed both of their cocks with his hand. He gave up any measure of control, and followed Doyle's lead, kissing and sucking Doyle in an exact mirror of what Doyle did to him.
Finally, when he could stand it no more, he knelt between Doyle's legs, licking and sucking on Doyle's cock with a depth of passion that he'd never explored before. Doyle stopped him after a moment and drew him back up, their cocks grinding into each other in two powerful, final thrusts. Bodie shuddered as he came, then he felt the shudder of Doyle's release as well.
Doyle gazed into Bodie's eyes, searching for something. He smiled and kissed Bodie once more, leaning against his heaving chest. "I know you've worried about this, but you didn't rape me, Bodie, Keller did. You saved my life." He lay back against the sheets snuggling against the Bodie's left shoulder. "I've been fantasizing about this ever since." He blew out the candle and rolled over.
Bodie wrapped his arm around Doyle and pulled him into a tight embrace.
Neither one spoke about the subject ever again.
"How long 'till land?" Doyle asked, three days later, after they'd exhausted themselves yet again.
Bodie refused to look at him, rolling over to the other side of the bed. "Not long. A few more days, unless that storm took us further from course than I thought. It's an open island, one used to both English and French visitors. I'm sure you'll be able to find someone who can help you start a new life."
"You're daft. I'm not going to leave you; I've been looking for you for ten years to thank you for saving my life." Doyle propped himself on his arm to look at Bodie. "I've already had to start my own life over several times. What's one more? No, I was thinking about yours."
Bodie sat up and shrugged, "Captain Macklin will keep looking for me until he dies, you know." He cleared his throat, determined not to demand anything that he knew he didn't deserve. "You might not want to stick it out with me. It's not going to be easy. "
Doyle sat up as well, shaking his head in amazement. "It never is, Bodie. I've fared worse than this in my life. What's a few more years on the run?"
Bodie grunted and looked away, effectively avoiding the discussion for now. But by the time the "Land Ho" call finally came, Bodie had finally agreed to let Doyle find him a new life.
"There are a lot of things we could be doing, trouble we could be causing. We just need to make the right connections."
"So how do we do that? Every mate I've ever had is British navy, and right now, as a mutineer, they'd sooner spit on me as talk to me. They only connection I have is to a rope. So unless you happen to be related to the Monarchy, it's going to be well-neigh impossible."
"Actually, It's quite simple," said Doyle. "There's bound to be someone on the island who knows a man named Cowley."
Bodie sighed. He didn't understand, but whatever Doyle had planned, it sounded like a very busy life.
-- THE END --
January 1997
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