Chapter 3: Justice

Thirty feet above the canted deck of the Janet Lune, Robert O'Malley's rotting corpse swung and twirled with the ship's constant motion. His body had been hanging for three days after he was raised, wildly kicking and briefly screaming, to dangle from the highest yardarm. It had taken him a long time to die and even longer for gobs of foul excrement to stop dripping from his bare feet. His protruding tongue was now black and swollen. Fetid gases had bloated his grotesque torso and split open his clothing.

Robert's older brother and red-headed Michael Quinn crouched against opposite rails near the foremast, facing each other, both with one ankle manacled to a turnbolt by a length of chain. Each prized a piece of worn sail to use as a shelter. The Irishmen had been huddled at their lonely stations for as long as the younger O'Malley had been dead, rotating and decomposing. They seemed unable to stop watching the grotesque body bouncing off the mast or becoming entangled in a fold of the sail when the huge boom swung across the holystoned deck. Both wore fresh bruises on their faces and on their backs festered the scabbing welts of two dozen lashes. Like the swaying corpse, they were barefoot.

The "Lune" had circled back, helped by the gusting Westerlies, but had not found Benjamin in the gray-blue water. His body had been slowly sinking toward the cold sea layers far below the weedy keel, his white blouse rising briefly like a jellyfish mantle before it inverted and trailed from one clawed hand. A sailor did spot the torn remnant of Robert O'Malley's bloody shirt and fished that aboard with a gaff pole. Meanwhile, another member of the crew quietly informed the scar-faced first mate that there were fresh spots of what appeared to be blood near the steps leading to the starboard heads.

While the mate investigated that find, Matthew anxiously told the captain that his brother seemed to be missing. The captain responded that they were turning because a man had evidently fallen overboard. Matthew rushed to the side, called Benjamin's name and peered out at the empty sea. He climbed up on the slippery rail and stood, holding one of the backstays, screaming out the name like a gull's repeated cry. The captain ordered him down.

Meanwhile Elizabeth went below to take food to her hollow-eyed husband. While he attempted to eat, she noticed a black boot in Benjamin's hammock. She kissed her husband's dry forehead, left him with his cup and took the boot up to Matthew who was still scanning the ocean and, at intervals, hoarsely yelling his brother's name, tears streaking his reddened face as he stood at the fantail.

"What's this?" Matthew asked.

"Last night, I guess ye didn' hear for the singin', perhaps y'was asleep, somebody grabbed me and Ben fought 'im off. He tole me that 'e tore the man's shirt and pulled off one a'his shoes. We said we'd find 'im this mornin' if w'could and tell the cap'n what 'appened. I 'most put it out of m'mind with all this excitement 'til I saw that man barefoot, yonder, the one w'out a shirt."

Matthew, a knot in his throat and cold anger replacing his mournful look, handed the short boot to the first mate and told him the story as well as Elizabeth's suspicions. "My brother had a bit of a run-in with one a'them Irishers yest'day, so he tole me."

"Ah," said the mate, nodding as he examined the boot, "he did indeed. I had to pry 'em apart over by the scuppers after the first round of pumping. They was gettin' ready for a dust-up, 'struth."

The first mate called over his lean quartermaster and whispered brief instructions. The mate then had a few words with the captain while his assistant quickly fetched the three Irishmen to the stern of the ship. Except for the lines at the heads, most of the non-paying passengers soon followed and formed a rough semi-circle to see what was going to happen. The word of who the man overboard likely was had quickly spread, and any excitement brought an immediate crowd as the occasional fights had proved.

"Are these men armed, quartermaster?" asked the mate.

"See here, what's this about?" Sean O'Malley demanded, standing spraddle legged, fists on hips, shifting his weight easily with the Lune's roll.

"Quiet, if you please," said Mr. Philips, jiggling his heavy rope end behind his back.

"The big one's got a knife in his boot and the red-head has something under his belt, another knife perhaps," said the quartermaster after examining the men carefully, patting them under the arms and between their legs.

"Let's have 'em," said the mate. "Hand them to the quartermaster. You was told no personal weapons when you signed on."

"Isn't true," said Michael Quinn, shaking his curly head. "Nobody tole us that."

"I'm tellin' you now. Hand over your weapons, all of 'em," said the first mate. The captain watched quietly, leaning forward on the rail of his small quarterdeck and looking up at the masthead pennants from time to time. The purser ducked back into his small cabin.

Mr. Philips put his rope end under the stump of his missing arm and examined the knife taken from Sean O'Malley. "Appears to be blood on it, sir, fresh blood I'd say." He handed it up to the captain, hilt first. Meanwhile Michael Quinn extricated a thin, flexible blade from his belt, and the mate put that up on the deck beside the captain's feet.

"Now then," said the mate, his scar turning livid. "There's blood on the knife, blood on the deck fo'ard where the man went over the side and where you buggers was standing, an' blood on this shirt." He leafed out his fingers one-two-three and then pulled the torn shirt, still dripping sea water, off the top of the locker and held it out toward the men.

The Irishmen looked at each other. "Wha're you saying, man?" asked Sean O'Malley looking mystified. "The poor man fell. Mab'be 'tis his shirt. He probably bled on it after he 'it his head."

"Don't think it would 'ave fit Benjamin," said the first mate, holding the shirt by its torn collar. He dropped it back on the locker "Now," he said, picking up the shoe Elizabeth had brought up from the hold, "there's this here boot. And whose is it, I asks?"

Silence from the three and some quiet talk among the assembled men.

"If we go down and look at hammocks 97, 98 and 99, will we find its mate, d'you think?"

"It's my boot. Some bloody cob pinched it las' night," said Robert O'Malley. "I don' sleep with my boots on, now do I?"

"And is that your shirt? I note you're missin' one of them, too?" asked Mr. Philips displaying a smile not at all warm.

"Naw, no, tain't mine," said the young man, shaking his head.

"Looks much like your brother's, don't it?" the mate asked. "Matthew, is this the kind a'shirt Ben wore?"

"No, sir," Matt answered from his position at the rail, trying to control his anger. "His was nut-dyed, linsey-woolsey.

"Didn' think so," said the mate, tossing the boot on top of the shirt. "What are those spots on your nice jacket now?"

As Mr. Philips reached for Robert O'Malley's coat lapel, the young man pulled away and cried, "He attacked me. I 'ad to defend m'self."

"Shut up," yelled his brother, cuffing him.

"No," said the first mate, prodding with his rope end. "Let's hear 'im out."

"What?" cried the younger O'Malley, a bit calmer. "I tole you. The bastid stole m'boots, and then 'e jumped me when I was taking a piss. So I, I cut 'im and he fell back, slipped, hit 'is head and went right overboard. So 'e did. Michael ran for help, didn' he?"

"How'd your shirt come to be out there?" asked the mate as the quiet and curious audience shuffled closer and strained to hear over the flap of the sails and the creak of the ropes.

"I don' know. It's not my shirt," said Robert O'Malley, looking about as if seeking a place to hide or escape, hoping for some support. He saw the wall of unhappy men at his back and only the grimacing mate, frowning captain and rolling Atlantic before him.

First-mate Philips turned to Michael Quinn. "What happened over there, laddy?"

"Like Bobby said, sir, big man jumped 'im, an' Bobby cut 'im and over he went. He feared you'd see the blood on his shirt and think wrong of 'im, so he tore it off and tossed that in." Quinn smiled, pleased with his addition to the tale. The crowd mumbled and pressed still closer.

"And you, sir?" the mate asked Sean, "did they get it right, finally?"

"Yes, yes, just an accident, sir. Terrible, terrible. Never should 'ave happened." Sean shook his head and looked mournful. "M'brother has a quick temper, I fear, but 'e was defending hisself. You'd a'done the same." He turned to face the crowd behind him. "Any a'you'd a'done the same," he cried.

"Indeed? And where were you when all this happened?" The mate tapped his thick cudgel into his palm.

"On deck there, holding my water, waiting me turn." Sean smiled confidently and looked around for support. He did not find any.

"And how did your wee brother come by the knife he used? Did you toss it to him?"

"Eh?" Sean's head snapped back to the first mate, eyes narrowed, jaw thrust forward.

"That knife, the one the captain now 'as, it's bloody. That's your knife, is it not, the one that killed Benjamin? Came out a'your boot didn' it? Eh? Tell me now."

"Enough," said the captain, slapping the rail. "Enough! 'Sblood."

"Yes sir," said the mate, coming to the position of attention. "I charge Robert O'Malley 'ere with murder and these two as knowing accomplices." He turned to the assembled crowd. "Do any of you have anything to say for any of these men? Did any of you see anything to add to what you've just 'eard?"

"That big 'un there did me out'a me bunk," said a voice from the back. "Right after they come aboard."

"Anyone else?" asked the mate, repressing a smile.

Silence except for the constant creak of pulleys, the susurrous sluice of water and murmur of sails. Elizabeth stood at the front of the crowd, feeling the press of men behind her, her arms folded over the purser's faded blue coat. She shivered despite the sun's warmth. It's like watching a theatrical, she thought, a melodrama. She briefly wondered if she were imagining it all and menatally pinched herself, hoping the moment would pass. She blinked twice, but the drama continued.

"Men, now hear me," said the captain in a loud, clear voice, his side-whiskers making him look like a engraved figure from some Bible story. "Ma'am," he said after noticing Elizabeth. "We can't have this; we cannot. I am the law on this ship, the very law. Tis a captain's sworn duty, his dread duty." Then he looked down at the Irishmen. "You should all three hang for this terrible crime," he said quietly as he slapped his hand down and gripped the rail, knuckles white. "Benjamin was a good, helpful man. If this was his majesty's Navy..."

The crowd of bond servants mumbled approval and moved even closer. "Now, 'old your place," cried the first mate. "Let the captain and crew 'andle this." He gestured to a large, lean man in a striped shirt who stepped forward with a belaying pin in his hand.

"You are all responsible for a passenger's death, a contracted bondsman," intoned the captain, glaring from Sean to his trembling brother and then to Quinn. "A man whose warrant I hold. Tis a capital crime, and we have no cells or space to hold you for trial in Annapolis, so it's here and now ye'll get justice. Have you ought to say?"

"He didn't mean to do it," said Michael Quinn, his pale face showing furrows of worry. "Twere an accident, sir, in truth, a sad accident, pure an' simple."

"Don't lie to me, boy. Will only make it worse. Be a man," said the captain, dropping his voice, as there were cried of "Aye" and "Hang 'em all" in the crowd. Some shook their fists and sprayed spittle at them.

"Speak now," said the captain to the O'Malley brothers, who looked dumbly at each other and then at the oft-scrubbed deck. Young O'Malley's boot rocked atop the locker and then tipped over as the ship heeled sharply.

"Very well," the captain said, carefully spacing his words as he spread his feet a bit farther apart.

"Wait," cried Sean O'Malley. "It's true. Robert did knife him, but that man attacked Bobby last night, and..."

"Another lie. I know what your cowardly brother tried to do last night to the good woman that shares your space down there, down with her sick husband. Attacking her was enough of a crime to hang him on my ship." He raised his voice. "And 'ang him we shall, for Benjamin's murder, and indeed, indeed, foul murder it was." The captain hammered the rail before him with his fist and closed his eyes. His jaw muscles bunched and his whole body shivered. He felt a knot forming in his gut.

The crowd of men groaned and parted, moving back toward the scuppers and rails, as the first mate and several crew members forced their way down the middle of the deck to the main mast. There they rigged a rope with a noose and waited as one man climbed the rigging to draw it through a pulley and over the yardarm of the square-rigged topsail.

"Bring a hatch cover," said the captain while work proceeded with the rope. Two crew members leaned one of the heavy covers against the edge of the low quarterdeck.

"Lash those two miserable liars to the grating," said the captain, "and tie that foolish man's hands behind him. Now hear this, all of you: I sentence Robert O'Malley to be hanged by the neck until dead and these others shall have two dozen, well laid on, and they are forbidden below decks for the rest of this voyage. None of you is to either speak to them or mistreat them. Understand? I'll give them to the governor's men in Maryland. If this were the Navy, they'd get a hundred, but I don't hold with flogging. Never did. Robert O'Malley, y'have a few minutes to prepare yourself if y'be a praying man."

"No," screamed Robert repeatedly as two seaman held him while the one in the striped shirt roped his wrists together, yanking the knots tight with a fixed smile. They hauled the young man, his feet dragging and tears flowing, toward the mast while the quartermaster stretched Sean O'Malley's and Michael Quinn's hands above them and tied them to the top of the hatch grating. At the mast, the assistant quartermaster fitted the coarse rope around Robert's neck, pulled the knot tight under his ear and the line taut, and then tied the rope down. The condemned man stood poised on his toes, his eyes wide, chest heaving, mouth drooling. He had soiled his trousers.

"Proceed, quartermaster," said the captain. The first mate produced a cloth bag from the deck locker and from it the squat quartermaster withdrew a long, black whip.

"Two dozen," said Mr. Philips. "The brother first, if you please."

"Sir," said the quartermaster, a short, muscular man whose greased hair was neatly braided in a queue. He shook out the heavy whip and began the flogging with a long, whistling lash across the middle of Sean O'Malley's back. He then stepped up and ripped the man's shirt away. "Sorry, sah," he said to the mate. "Bit out of practice. Shall I count?"

"I will," said Mr. Philips.

Each blow struck with a solid thud rather than a crack. Each strike left a long, red mark across O'Malley's broad back. The man grunted but did not cry out. The stripes began at his shoulders and proceeded down his back as the quartermaster's rhythmic beating continued. At Mr. Philip's count of "twelve," the quartermaster paused, took a deep breath, spat to the side and began again at O'Malley's shoulders, crossing the first linear bruises. Now blood came in a spray and small bits of flesh flew with some blows. At "twenty" Sean O'Malley sighed and fainted, his face mashed against the hatch cover, lips splayed open, tongue lolling. He hung by his wrists while the quartermaster completed his task. The final blows near the man's waist had a rather spongy sound and made his body jerk convulsively.

Robert O'Malley had watched this beating quietly, having lost control of his bladder and soaked the front of his fawn-colored britches. He twitched and shuffled his feet, his chin stretched skyward by the rope. The quartermaster went to the water butt, shaking his right arm. Elizabeth stood beside Matthew, her hand on his arm, feeling him tremble, bile in her throat.

"Vernon," said the first mate and the tall sailor wearing the striped shirt stepped forward. "You are presently the quartermaster's assistant, right?"

"Aye, sir," said the man, knuckling his forehead. He smiled and handed his belaying pin to another crewman. With one hand he checked to see that his clubbed queue was tightly tied.

"Well, let's see how you handle the duty. We'll give Mr. Green a rest. Two dozen of your best."

The lean sailor picked up the heavy whip from the top of the locker and shook it out. He tore Michael Quinn's shirt from his back and wiped the length of the whip. "Ready, sir," he said, tossing the reddened rag away and smiling.

"Proceed," said the mate, and Quinn screamed before the whip hit and then cried out again with each blow until, without a pause, all two dozen had lashed his bleeding back in less than two minutes. Flayed skin hung in several places, and Quinn's back muscles seemed to crawl and shiver even after the beating ended. Vernon stood panting beside him, showing his teeth, obviously proud of his work, his face and right arm dotted with the Irishman's blood.

"Mamood," said the mate and the small man stepped forward and smeared some glistening ointment on both of the torn backs. Quinn jumped and cried out once more. Sean O'Malley recovered his senses enough to moan and shake his head.

"Cut 'em down," said the first mate. "Now turn around and stand up, you worthless pissants." Both Quinn and the older O'Malley turned and rested their buttocks against the hatch cover. Their heads hung low and they rested their hands on their knees, but they stared down the length of the deck to the place where Robert waited, weeping, moaning. Philips nodded to the five men standing near the main mast.

"Pull," said the one in charge and then, "Ho! Heave. Ho. Heave!" They walked the long rope back toward the bow, pulling hand over hand, and Robert O'Malley steadily rose, thrashing alongside the mast.

"No!" he screamed once and then his cries were just animal sounds. He kicked his legs and twisted left and right. He gurgled and flopped about as the rope tightened. Everyone, including his brother who by then had fallen to his knees, watched as Robert rose to hang a few feet below the yardarm and its neatly furled sail. The sailors tied the rope to a cleat on the mast and stepped back to admire their handiwork, rubbing their hands on their canvas britches. Robert jerked and twisted above them, now silent, spittle dripping from his open mouth and urine from his feet.

The cabin door swung wide and the misses Conroy stepped out on deck with a rustle of colorful skirts. "What in the world's going on," the older one asked as they both looked about. "We heard noises while we were..." She saw the two bloody-backed men near her and the crowd looking up toward the mast top. She put out her arm to stop her sister. She was too late.

"My God," Anne screamed looking at Robert's twitching body, his kicking feet. His stricken eyes seemed to be staring down at her. "What have you done?" she howled at the wind.

Her sister yanked her around and pulled the wide-eyed girl back toward the dim passageway. Anne twisted aside and glanced at Michael Quinn. With a strange grimace, he turned away from her so that she could see his whole back. She gasped, ducked inside and pulled the door closed behind her, pushing her sister down the short flight of steps that led to their cabin, her mouth filled with vomit.

On the change of watches, the captain had Mamood called to his cabin. The slight man reported, touched his forehead and stood before the table, feeling at the worn boards with his bare feet.

"We've no real sailmaker in this crew," the captain said, not bothering to look up from his chart under the swaying lamp. He marked the location he had determined from the casting of the log and then held his finger tip to the spot, dividers in his other hand.

"Yes, sir," said Mamood, waiting and wondering.

"Have you a heavy needle and some cord? Ask Mr. Philips if you do not. I want you to sew up that dead man's body in a piece of sail cloth or use his hammock. You may get one of the men to do it if you wish. Understand?" The captain looked up.

"Yes sir," said Mamood. "Shall I put in something heavy? To make it sink? On naval vessels they use cannon balls."

"Yes," said the captain, "do that. We have some balls for the swivel gun. They're lowering the body now. He's been up there long enough to teach the lesson. Get to it."

Mamood touched his forehead again, bobbed his head and left. The captain returned to his chart. Still a long way to go, he thought as he walked the point across the chart, perhaps seven or eight more weeks if they were lucky and faced no early storms this winter.

In the morning, after the passengers had breakfasted on a piece of hard bread, thick pea soup and citrus water, the first mate called them aft. Robert O'Malley's body rested on a hatch cover in a large, stiff, cloth bag. The captain appeared on his elevated deck with a dark book in his hands and read the service to commit Robert's body to the deep as the pages flapped under his fingers. He said something about "hope" and the "last day," but the wind tore his words away and threw them over the heaving stern. Then three men raised the back of the hatch cover and the weighted canvas bag slid into the sea, Sean O'Malley and Michael Quinn stood at their places and watched. They might have been praying.

The captain slammed his book closed, and the crowd on the deck looked up at him as he leaned down toward them, looking from left to right. "I have noted," he said, in a voice that carried well, "that those two men shackled up fo'ard have new bruises on their faces, arms and legs. I want all of you to leave them alone. They are my prisoners, mine. If they live long enough, I intend to turn them over to the royal authorities in Maryland. They have been punished and are still being punished at my order. If I catch one of you trying to punish them more, you'll feel the cat on your back. You won't like it. Ask either of them. Dismiss. Wait, I want you to bring your hammocks up on deck today, wash them at the pumps and then take them below when they're dry. It's going to be a fine day for it. Dismissed." He turned on his heel, went back to the wheel and examined the binnacle reading, tapping his prayer book against his thigh.