Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait. I dug myself a hole and had to get out of it before I could write any more. There is more coming--I'm trying to finish this tale. Hopefully it won't be as long of a wait. Once again, I owe Patrick O'Brian for Nagel and a few others that haven't appeared yet.

Darling Joseph. I am writing to give my love and inform you that we shall meet again in London this autumn. I have arranged it all. Father passed away from the fever, so only Mother and I will be able to come. There will be someone else, but I am not sure if it will be a little boy or girl. Ever faithful, Emeline.

Joseph pulled the letter away from the candlelight. His wife was having a baby--he was a father. He couldn't believe it. How could it have happened so quickly? Was it even his? He smiled, embarrassed at his own foolish thoughts. The baby belonged to him and no other man--he was sure of it. She was ever faithful, as it said in the letter.

"Joe."

He glanced up at the burly crewman, immediately overwhelmed by his unique odor. "What is it, Davies?"

"Captain wants to see you," the man grunted.

"Me?" Joseph repeated. "What for?"

Davies was suddenly annoyed. "They don't tell me nothin'--just go!"

Joseph got to his feet and started toward the captain's chambers. He wasn't overly fond of Captain Evans. He was a shrewd, thin man with a whiny voice and a love affair with discipline. Joseph had only seen him privately one other time, and he had spent the entire time explaining why he and his crew had repaired the mast improperly. Joseph, after a battle, had gone with a few of the other carpenters to repair the mast. They did a beautiful job of it as well, but for some reason, the wood had begun to chip the very next day. He still believed it was just carping on the captain's part--neither Joseph nor the other men had seen the chipping wood. As far as Joseph was concerned, the man was insufferable.

"Ah, Nagel," Lieutenant Peter Wells greeted him at the door. "The Captain will be with you in a moment."

Joseph remained silent while the ship creaked all around them. There was a cough from Captain Evans' quarters, a crash, and Peter rapped gently on the door. "Nagel is here, Captain."

"Send him in," Evans said firmly.

"You may enter, Nagel," Peter said in his snobbish voice.

"Sir," he sneered and walked in. Captain Evans was sitting at his table, quill in hand. He did not look up when Joseph stepped inside, nor when he stopped at his writing desk. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes." With a long fingernail, Evans scratched the side of his bony nose. "I want to make it very clear to you that I do not tolerate adequate work. I expect my carpenters to be the best, and do you know how one becomes the best, Nagel?" His beady eyes looked straight into Joseph's. "No? Hard work. Now, now, it's not to say that you are not trying, but you could try harder. And you will. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now, we're going to have to refit--the mast is in such terrible condition, I'm surprised this ruddy ship even sails at all." Evans put his spectacles on, resting them on the tip of his long nose. "I've found the perfect spot, but I'll need you and your men to work quickly. We're to be in Egypt by this autumn."

"This autumn, sir?" Joseph questioned. He hoped he had heard wrong--that was when he would be meeting Emeline in London.

"Yes," Evans answered without looking up.

"But I thought we were going back to England," he prodded. "My wife and baby will be waiting for me there."

"So send them a letter," Evans dismissed.

"Send them a letter?" Joseph felt his anger rising. "I haven't seen my wife for four months, and you want me to send her a letter telling her I'm not coming? This wasn't the plan. We were to sail around, looking for French privateers to take, and then go back to England!"

"Mr. Nagel, this is not your decision to make. This is your job." Evans glanced up. "And I will hear no more of this nonsense."

"Nonsense? No, what's nonsense is that you ever got a command in the first place!" Nagel shouted.

Evans suddenly drew out his cane, whacking Joseph across the chest. "I will not tolerate such insolence!" Joseph coughed, the wind completely knocked out of him. "Wells!"

Peter stumbled into the cabin. "Yes, sir?"

"Clap this man in irons on the grounds of insubordination," Evans snarled, throwing his cane aside in fury.

Peter quickly grabbed Joseph's arm and led him out of the room. "This way, now, move along," he muttered sternly, leading the carpenter by the crook of his elbow. Joseph walked silently, dismally aware of what would happen in a few hours. He would be flogged, and not without warrant. He had been insubordinate; he had been stupid. When they reached the brig, Joseph willingly slipped his feet and hands into the cold metal shackles and let Peter lock him up.

"That was stupid, you know," Peter said, putting his hands behind his back.

Joseph let his head droop. He didn't want to look up at the lieutenant; he just wanted to forget it had happened. He hated to imagine the pain, having never been flogged before. He had seen it done, of course, but never experienced the agony.

"Yes, you'll certainly be flogged," Peter went on smugly. "At least five dozen lashes--any less would be insulting to the Captain."

"What are you still here?" Joseph finally asked. "Don't you have any guarding to do?" he said flatly, looking up at him.

A bemused expression fell upon Peter's face. "Actually, I'm to make sure that you don't do anything rash. Scurvy victims have been known to gnaw through their chains."

"Scurvy?" Joseph questioned with a tinge of fear in his voice. "I couldn't have I?"

"Have you been eating enough limes?" Peter inquired, raising his eyebrows. "I dare say the lower ranks don't get enough." He glanced at his pocket watch, pleased at how he had sufficiently frightened him. "Well, you should be all right for a few hours. I'll come back before sunset."

Joseph watched as the door closed, leaving him in the cold, dark brig to wallow in self-pity and self-doubt. How would he tell Emeline? He would not be seeing her in London after all, but when would he? He thought about what he would say to her in the letter. He certainly wouldn't tell her about the flogging. No, she worried too much about him already. He would suffer, but she shouldn't have to.

"One hundred!" the man shouted. Joseph wrapped his fingers around the grate more tightly, biting his already bleeding lip. "One hundred-twenty-one!" He could feel the blood trickling down his back. "One hundred-twenty-two!" He cried out, unable to bear the pain. Hot tears stained his cheeks, stinging every inch of skin they touched. The next three lashes melted into each other, and he nearly collapsed onto the deck when he was untied. "Joe, Joe," people were saying his name, but he hardly heard them. Their words were so quiet, so faint, disappearing before they reached his ears.

"Joseph Nagel...carpenter's mate? Where's the real carpenter? Not well? Oh, I see. Well, fix him up, I suppose. The Captain'll need him by tomorrow."

Joseph let his eyes flutter open at the sound of a closing door. A pair of beady eyes behind thick spectacles was peering down at him. "Welcome back." The man giggled. "Didn't mean to pun, of course."

Joseph cringed. It felt like a thousand needles were pricking him all over his back. "Where am I?"

"The lacerations stretch onto your stomach, Mr. Nagel...why don't you turn over?" Joseph struggled to turn over, his back seeming to be tearing apart. He was in the infirmary with Doctor Marshe. He must have passed out after the last of the lashes. "Now, these wounds of yours are still bleeding quite badly." Marshe removed his spectacles. "Can you sit up?"

"I'll try," Joseph said, pushing himself up. He watched the doctor gather up some cloth and some kind of salve. "What's that for?"

"It's to heal your cuts." Marshe stepped behind Joseph and started rubbing the cool cream into his back. Joseph couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. He wasn't normally one to take off his shirt and this man was rubbing him with cream with the greatest ease. He started wrapping Joseph with cloth, stepping directly in front of him. Suddenly he stopped, peering intently at his stomach. Marshe grabbed his spectacles. "What is this? Have you been in any brawls?"

Joseph shook his head. "No, the boys don't fight much."

"Indeed." Marshe looked at him skeptically. He ran his finger along a dark line on his stomach. "Then what is this bruise, I wonder?"

Joseph looked down. There was a long black mark that he knew was from the cane. He couldn't say anything--he would be flogged again, maybe worse, the next time. "From the whip, maybe." When Marshe didn't say anything, he blurted out, "I haven't been in any fights, honest!"

Marshe remained silent and continued to wrap the bandage around his middle. When he was finished, he said quietly, "I want you to come see me again. Tomorrow, when you have a moment."

"Is that really necessary?" Joseph asked uncomfortably. "There's nothin' wrong with me."

"Who's the doctor here?" Marshe quirked up an eyebrow.

"You are, sir," Joseph replied grimly.

"Now," Marshe began, placing a hand on Joseph's arm, "you'll come tomorrow so I can have another look at that bruising. I wouldn't want there to be any internal damage."

"Yes, sir."

"Good-night, Mr. Nagel."

"Good-night, sir." Joseph, taking pains to move again, stood up, and shuffled out of the infirmary. There was something strange about that man...something very odd. It was late by the time he reached his hammock. All but a few of the men were off duty and fast asleep. Joseph wondered how he would ever get to sleep. Too many things were flooding through his mind: Anger, fear, sadness--he didn't know what to think. If he told Doctor Marshe what had happened, would the Captain find out? Would he be whipped again? He regretted ever wondering what it felt like and he never wanted to feel the pain again.