Balancing Pain
Fresh air. Fresh air and sunlight. It hurts. Especially in the eye. Too much brightness for only one, maybe. We stand on the deck of the ship. Surrounded by all those redshirts. I smile. The white shirt they gave me, God bless them, it is almost as red as their jackets. Even though the older stains have turned brown. Dyed. Died. Dead. Dead almost. Dying.
What is it about those wigs? I simply can't understand it. Strange men.
"You will both be members of the Royal Navy from this day forth. But you shall be marked pirates for everyone to see. For when you shall not subdue to the maritime regulations or interfere with the East India Trading Company again, you shall be hanged without the chance of pardon. Step forward and get down on your knees."
Aye, great. As if I didn't have enough bruises by now. This has pretty much been the bloodiest week of my life. And there have been bloody weeks, let me tell you. Jack has actually talked the Navy men into not hanging us. I have no idea what he told them. Maybe they only decided not to hang us so he will stop talking. But then, he would eventually have stopped talking once they hanged us ... . Anyway. In the end it comes down to this, we're able-bodied sailors. Well, I was. But will be again in some time. And the Navy needs crews. We're not the bad pirates here. Pirates still. Not bad enough to hang, but not good enough to get away. Well ... probably we wouldn't even get away were we not pirates. Anyway, we will not hang. And that's good news, after all.
I am to be branded first, Jack by my side to ensure I will make the short walk. My joints have suffered more than we expected. And my skin hurts like mad when I move. Getting on my knees sounds easier as it is. Jack helps me, before he steps back again. It hurts. A lot. They also took the bandages from my wrist to place cuffs on them, and the metal around the broken bones does not feel very comfortable.
Two soldiers come closer. One, a young man barely older than meself, with long blonde hair, gets down to me and tries to remove the bandana from my head. Which is quite a task, I haven't taken it off in a while. The other soldier has the branding tool in his hand, a blazing "P" on top.
"Christ." I hiss.
The blonde looks at me. I feel his gaze but try to avoid it. He has finally managed to loosen my bandana. He still looks at me. And now I return his gaze. For a brief moment we read each other's thoughts. He, there, Navy, about to brand a P into the skin of my forehead. Me, here, pirate, about to experience pain. What do you feel now, blonde guy? And then it hits me like a blow. His eyes, right in front of me, probing into me. Look at me. And I realize what he feels. He does feel compassion for me. Me, pirate. He, Navy. He's not anxious. He pities me. He pities the pirate. It is almost a shock for this desperately grim sailor that is me. He hands me the bandana and steps behind me, to take hold of my shoulders, to prevent me from moving. I clench my teeth, because his fingers pressing onto the cut skin and inflamed wounds send shivers down my back. I feel my blood pulsating in my veins. He puts a piece of leather in my mouth. And his grip on my shoulders tightens, as if to say: 'I'll help you through this. I'll hold fast so that not all of the pain travels down to your heart.' I close my eyes for a short second, bite down on the leather and give him a slight, hardly visible nod. I'm not sure if he realizes it is meant for him. Thank you, I acknowledge this. This is benevolent of you, and if I could, I'd take a bow before you.
The other soldier comes closer. And the man behind me kneels down, wraps one arm tightly around my head, the other one around my shoulders to steady himself. His face is next to mine, and I can feel his breath on my cheek. He breathes hard. I'm not breathing at all. Then the P touches the skin of my forehead. I smell burnt flesh, but I have smelt that before. It takes some time until I feel the pain. It feels as if he tries to fry my brain, or so I think. The heat shooting through my skull like liquid. My jaw is trembling, and my fingers twist the bandana in my hands. I don't realize how much I'm twisting, until I realize how deep the fingers of the soldier dig into my scalp. I can see the pain as a white light inside my head.
Am I screaming?
Can you – please – stop it!
Did I scream that?
The soldier puts the metal away, and it feels as if my flesh sticks to it. How deep is that hole? Has he touched the bone? My whole forehead seems to be on fire. The other one slowly lets go of my head, but even though he gives my neck time to adjust, it feels as if my head falls backwards. Now the plan was to straighten up, but my legs refuse to accept the task. I simply fall forward, onto my hands and the broken wrist, but the pain in my head does balance the one in the arm. For a second I think I will faint, because the planks before my eyes turn black.
But then I feel the blonde soldier reaching for me. He grabs hold of my arms and helps me to get up. I can't stand, and I lean so heavily onto him that I'm afraid I'll make us both fall. The planks beneath my feet feel as if we were encountering heavy seas, when actually there are barely any waves. But he stands his ground, holding me. I cling to his jacket for some seconds and try to find my balance. He looks at me, concerned. I look back at him, contorted. Why are you doing this? Why do you help me?
I somehow manage to assume a standing position with him holding me straight. He stays by me side while they prepare to mark Jack.
"Thank you." I say to the man. Pause. "I feel humiliated to ask more of you. But could you please move your hand a little bit to the right? My flesh is torn just where your fingers are, and the pain is killing me."
While I am saying this, it comes to my mind that the cut might in fact kill me, literally. I have to face it; I am more than lucky if I survive this. A blood poisoning is caught so easily, and I've spent my past days in conditions that were far from clean. Actually, losing an eye is worse enough. I don't want to lose a limb. And I don't feel comfortable anymore about dying just now. Survived too long.
"I am truly sorry." The voice of the blonde soldier brings me back to reality. "I didn't realize I hurt you. Is it better like this?" He moves his hand.
"Aye, thank you."
When Jack's bandana is removed, murmuring arises. I look at him and burst into laughter, despite the pain in my head and the whole rather uncomfortable situation. And despite the soldiers looking at me, barely able to stand, scarred and bruised, but giggling.
It is scary, to hear my laughter rise above the silence, and nothing but my laughter for what is easily half a minute.
Jack, he has a huge tattoo on his forehead, and not a very well done one, if I might add. And it says, "LIVE". I take some seconds to figure out what it means. Then I remember he told me once, he wanted to have "evil" tattooed on his forehead. I remember I told him I thought that was the most needless tattoo ever. But I didn't count on him to listen to me. Since he was always wearing the bandana tightly wrapped around his head, I never wondered if or if not he had got the tattoo. But apparently he got it, and the tattoo artist he consulted was illiterate. Or, blind.
I'm chuckling, while the Navy people discuss whether to brand over the tattoo or not. They finally conclude to brand onto his arm instead. Great. Next time, I'll have "DAB" tattooed onto my forehead, just in case. That might save me from a branding so deep it is scarring my skull.
When Jack's arm is done, they take us back to the hold. Until we are able to work, we shall remain here. The blonde one is still by my side. Jack on the other. I cannot walk by myself, and my head is swimming. The soldier helps me to lie down on the floor.
"Thank you for the coat." I say to him.
I have been sleeping on that for the past week. Jack has told me it is this guy's coat. Seems he didn't want it back, bloody as it was.
"Do you need something?" he asks us.
"Aye, we be in need of some clean sheets and water. And salt ... or vinegar, whatever you prefer. You wouldn't happen to have a doctor here, me dear? We really could use one."
The young seaman gulps, "We have one, but I'm not sure if he will be able to come down to see you. Therefore, no, I am afraid."
Jack leans onto his shoulder. "But maybe ... maybe some rum. Only for the means of benumbing, of course."
The blonde guy shrinks away, "I'll see what I can do." He leaves.
"Wait!" I try to get up but it is futile.
Yet I really don't want him to go away like this. He has shown me more kindness during this last hour than most people have ever thought of presenting to me in my life.
So I ask: "What would be yer name?" He turns around and gives me a slight smile.
"Turner. Private William Turner."
"William Turner." I return his smile, however weak, "I shall remember that."
I shall remember that until I die. No matter how soon.
"Hal?", that's Jack again.
I look at him. "What is it?"
Jack puts the bandana back on.
"Not a word about ... THIS!", and he vaguely gestures towards the huge tattoo on his forehead. Then, his tone becomes threatening. "Not a word. Else, I'll give you a word: Eunuch."
I snort, and can't help grinning. Upon Jack's killer glance, I bite down on my lips, straighten my face to form the most sincere expression of all mankind, and raise my right hand, as if to swear.
"Not a word, brother.", shaking my head no. But I think I might have crossed my heart on that.