Stephen stood on the deck, his back warm in the midday sun, his hands clammy from being clasped in front of him. He stood next to one of the ship's guns, it having been rolled out for the occasion, and faced the lines of marines arranged below the quarterdeck. Two men stood just in front of the gun, holding a small boy between them. The child, no older than six or seven, shivered where he stood, shoulders hunched, his dark eyes casting murderous glances at the men crowding around. He clasped a hand to a bandaged arm and turned it away from prying eyes.
The entire company had been gathered, and likewise, they stood facing the quarterdeck, waiting for the captain to speak. It was Tuesday, the day all men chained in the brig received their awaited punishment. Being only a week into their cruise, and Jack holding no special preference for the cat, it was unusual to need such disciplining. Fortunately, there had been no cases of drunkenness (past the first days out of port), insubordination, or thievery that usually showed up. There was only one prisoner today: the pirate child Stephen had been hearing so much about.
He'd treated a sailor for a stab wound a few days before, a constant stream of stories filtering into sickbay of some half-wild creature who'd stabbed Tobias Kipling. Kipling's injuries were minor, of course, hardly warranting such gossip, but things were always exaggerated in close quarters. The infant child standing in front of Stephen, feverish and jumpy, was not the ruthless animal the he'd been described as. Aggressive though he was, he looked hardly strong enough to stand.
Jack stood on the quarterdeck with his officers, the Articles of War open in his hands. Stephen shot him a pointed look, raising an eyebrow in stark disapproval. If Jack noticed, he didn't let it show. He looked up and called out in a booming voice trained to be heard over the roar of cannon fire.
"Ship's Boy John Smith, you are hereby charged with stabbing fellow crewmate Tobias Kipling in malicious action. Smith, have you anything to say in your defence?"
The ship's crew turned their collective eyes to the child. He glared at the captain, eyes hard with fear and anger, his breath rasping in his chest. Stephen noticed a rigidity to his jaw, and saw his hand clench tighter over his arm. The boy uttered no words, standing in silence and casting suspicious glances at the men who shouldered him on either side. Jack stared him down, awaiting the answer, but didn't press further when he didn't receive one. His gaze shifted to the masses.
"Does anyone wish to speak in his defense?"
The men stared straight ahead, the sun shining off the sweat on their hatless foreheads, and said nothing. There was a dry cough somewhere in the back, adding to the uncomfortable atmosphere. Stephen had nothing to say; he had not been there when the offending incident had occurred, and he knew too little of the story to make an objective statement. Even still, as he looked upon the quaking boy, he wished he could offer some sort of contribution, something that would lessen judgment and the impending sentence. A child so small shouldn't even be facing such a punishment, but naval laws being what they were, no offender, regardless of size, age, or frailty, was safe from the cat. Or in this case, the cane.
"'Article 35,'" Jack continued. "'All other crimes not capital committed by any person or persons in the fleet, which are not mentioned in this act, or for which no punishment is hereby directed to be inflicted, shall be punished by the laws and customs in such cases used at sea.' Mr. Hollar," Jack looked down at the bosun, who stood at the ready with a wooden cane. "Two dozen lashes."
The drummer rolled out his beat as the captain of the marines called his men to attention, and the boy was gripped by the shoulders and brought in front of the cannon. His lip trembled, and he looked as though he might cry, but his face pinched into an image of childish anger and determination, and no tears fell. His bound arms were stretched out along the cast iron and tied into place, leaving him bent over with his bottom prone. He buried the side of his face in his arm and closed his eyes.
Stephen watched as Mr. Hollar drew back his arm and switched the boy across his posteriors. The cane made a resounding thwack, and the boy flinched, his breath hissing in a pained gasp, but he made no other noise.
"One," was the solemn call.
The cane struck again, and the boy bent his head lower. His hands shook from balling them so tightly into fists, his knuckles turned bone white. Stephen kept close watch, looking for signs of unconsciousness. Two dozen lashes was a brutal, yet standard, punishment in the navy, and even if the sentence for a boy was lesser than the traditional flogging, the child's chances of staying conscious dwindled with every strike of the cane.
Every strike made the boy tremble a bit more, the strain of holding back his cries making his body shake like a victim of high fever. He kept his head tucked to the side, hiding his face from the rest of the world. As Stephen watched, the boy's eyes slid upwards until his gaze locked with the physician's. Those dark eyes glared at Stephen, filled with so much hate and rage and pain, for a moment he could not believe what stood before him could possibly be one so young. But then came another blow, and those eyes were squeezed shut, and did not open again for the remainder of the punishment.
Stephen watched Mr. Hollar stand aside as the boy was untied, surprised he had lasted the entire sentence. The child let himself be hoisted to his feet, all the fight drained out of him, his head lolling to the side. He blinked slowly and stared unfocused into space.
Stephen saw his knees buckle before the men holding him, and stepped forward to catch him as he fell toward the deck. He went limp in Stephen's hands.
The doctor looked up at the other sailors. "Kindly take this boy to sick bay. I will attend to him there."
The child was lifted up and carried away as the bosun's pipes dismissed the hands. A low rumble erupted from the men as they moved back to their stations and the somber mood dissolved. Stephen straightened to his feet, squinting up at the quarterdeck. Jack stood just the same as he had before, authoritative and unflinching, holding his sacred Articles of War tucked under his arm. He stared down at his crew, but somehow managed to avoid making eye contact with Stephen or addressing the latter's pointed frown.
Stephen let out a slow breath through his nose, then followed the sailors and the boy down to sickbay.