At some point, Bugeye had lost count of the lashes. The crew became the sound of a distant storm, hoots and yells and thunder. The torches had gone dark and the clouds had buried the moon, leaving him crew faded away. It was just him and the captain engaged in this standoff of obstinacy. Every once in a while, the hairy face would lean close to him, arguing logic over insanity. "What's holding ye back? Money? Honor? Dying won't bring you either."
Pure, unadulterated spite probably wasn't a good answer, however true it may be.
The whip dropped to one side as the captain came up beside Bugeye, his fingers curling around the starfish tattoo at the back of his skull. "Let me offer something better. If ye give up this charade, you'll be a guest aboard me ship, eh? She'll get ye wherever your heart's desire lies. Have a girl? A family waitin' for ye? You'll get quite the reunion."
"I wouldn't go with you if you had the last ship on earth, scumbag."
Tightening his grip, the captain rammed his head into the mast. "Not the face," Bugeye slurred. His lip had split with the impact.
"Losing your good looks are the least of your worries now, boy." The man still had his head in a viselike grip. He yanked him around like a doll and painted his blood on the mast with Bugeye's cheek. "I'll give you one last chance."
Bugeye took a moment to get his breath back. His eye was already swelling shut. The captain wrenched his face close, and he hung limp in the man's hand until his tongue got the better of him. "You know, your mast is gonna need work if you keep slamming me into it." Blood pooled in his dry mouth until he spat it into the captain's face. "There you go. A little spitshine."
Releasing him, the captain stepped back. "I don't want to knock your brains out anyway," he assured him, in a way that was not at all assuring, because he was already petting blood out of the strands of the whip. "Me crew doesn't think you're worth the effort. I bet your captain didn't, either."
"My captain's a better one than you could even hope to be, walrus-lips."
A sailor dumped more seawater on him, and he was left shaking like a leaf against the mast as the salt seeped into his veins and the cold likewise seeped into his bones.
"N-nn—n-nice and c-clean and r-r-refreshing," he croaked, but no one understood him through his stutter and his bleeding lip. His pulse pounded in his ears, nearly drowning the captain's final words to him.
"I'll send your tattered corpse back to your captain as a new flag."
The flogging resumed, and the crew roared. Bugeye struggled for air as his back arched, his shoulders nearly popping out of their sockets as he fell against the deck in a miserable heap, no longer able to stand. He couldn't hear the whip anymore but his bleeding shoulders assured him it was coming. Rough hands squeezed his tattooed arms as he was cut loose. Water leaked or blood leaked from his swollen eye. He could barely fit the words out of his mouth. "No, no, no, I don't want to die. I give up…I give up, please…it's on the eastern beach of Pinchpenny Island, by the lone palm…we used it as a marker. Six feet under. J-just please…"
He repeated it until he was shouting. Bugeye was dragged across the deck like refuse. They dropped him on his belly onto a stretcher made of belts and spare timber. Someone shushed his piteous blubbering. Someone else took his hand.
