The terse, evilly expectant drum roll continued as he made his leisurely way up onto the deck. There was guilt in his soul for the little drummer boy made to work so in order for his arrogance to be fully presented for what it was—the only thing that stood between him and the savage men of the lower orders who where more man than he by an order all its own.

The snow fell heavily to the deck, pattering upon the sails above, decorated by the hanging feet of some sailors sent aloft to dress them even as one of their fellows was disciplined before their captain, and before him, Lord Pendleton Shaw, Governor of Port Drake, as Porto Soto would be renamed upon his arrival, a haven for pirates and a heaven for sin no longer.

The drum roll was brought to a rude, snaring, fever pitch as he took his place next to the beastly, one-eyed, Captain Smithers, who barely acknowledged his presence and extended his scarred hand to halt the dirge. The sergeant of the deck guard, a bristle-bearded fellow in old morion and brass-studded leather jacket, barked like a head of Cerberus, as if he were the least aspect of the very son of Typhon and Echidna, dedicated to welcoming the damned to the burden of a suffering eternity and preventing their leaving, “Seaman Griegs, for the crime of buggering a mate, two-hundred lashes are to be your lot!”

His answer came in the voice of the man who had often lifted his spirits as a boy ensign when last he sailed this sea, “Seaman Daundry be no boy, but a bawd with teats like that could have choked you on your fat mother’s lap, sergeant—she’s a stow ‘way, a tempting wench come climbed into my hammock.”

The sergeant’s voice ground like stone, “As the good captain prophesied, your sass shall be rewarded, Griegs. Twenty and two-hundred shall be your lot. Men, loosen your arms!”

The drum began on the cue of the Captain’s curt nod as six brawny fellows, lined up to the left of the main mast, where Griegs was lashed hands to mast with heavy hemp. The first and brawniest of the men was handed a cat-of-nine-tails, as the cruel knot of hempen cords was known, clotted rusty with years of sodden back lashings. The first stroke was not the crack of a whip, the lash of a switch—such as Hempstead formerly took to his playmates for being rough with him in his youth—nor the snap of the tiding crop lashing the hide of a faithful beast, but the “su-comp-comp” of this singular implement. This and other such hideous sounds made by the crude device as it spoke in its various demonic tongues now rang in his augury-prone ears. So the makeshift device of random pain sang its varied songs as Pendleton sought the refuge that had always been his, the power of the reverie trance and ambitious dream to soothe the pained soul among the horrors of a world for which it seemed ill-forged.

The Don soon lay in a sprawled heap of misery, his feet at the feet of the naked heathen who seemed as if risen from some ancient battlefield. He also reposed like El Cid, with still handsome and dignified countenance, at the feet of the three catholic clergy and the nun. Despite his crippling hip wound the Don faced the heathen with resolve and made his sacred demand, asking absolution for his sins as he passed from life at the feet of his nation’s own clergy. To this noble request the heathen answered most cruelly with a savage sweep of the man-long blade, which cleaved all three of the robed men in twain even as they prayed. The blade was then brought down like a nail of damnation into the guts of the don. As the nun fell to her knees and vomited, Griegs—always with the ready word—swore. “By God, there be three less papist dogs to trouble ole Uncle Calvin me-Lord.”

He felt himself remove the glove from his hand with the one that was just beginning to palsy, and advance with extended hand to shake hands with a man who spoke his own language, if but crudely, his small form but sure manner not yet reflecting a mind disappointed by the ways of the world, “Well done, man! I am Lord Pendleton Shaw, late of Dover, ward of Frederick Henry, Prince of Orange, Stadthouder of the Dutch Republic. It is a pleasure. To what highland clan, may I ask, were you born, and how came you to this heathen shore?”

Te bloody talon of flesh and bone engulfed his powdered hand and the savage drawled, “Given name is Jay Brant Bracken—were born ta dis lan’, sir. I’ll tell ya all ‘bout it while yer men row me ta yon’ shore ta recover ma prisoner. I could swim it again but I’m haulin’ freight now.”

He turned to the woman in the nun’s habit, grabbed her roughly by the arm and dragged her to her feet. She looked up searchingly for a mercy that she did not expect. She was a pretty, big-eyed Spanish-Algonquian mix. The savage opened her mouth and checked her teeth, then felt her small, full breasts and slapped her butt to make sure she was fit. She shed some tears, though not over many as she seemed to resign herself to this rude creature’s base attention.

“Bwayno Chakeyta,” said the barbarian, in the worse enunciated Spanish Pendelton had ever, to this day, heard.

The man then heaved her over his shoulder and turned to him. “Well, Lord Shaw, iz id a deal?”

They managed about twenty minutes of question and answer as they sat in the jolly boat

“Yes, Jay,” he responded, eager to speak with this marooned Scotsman. They then repaired to the jollyboat, the object of his mission now lying cleaved on the cold and bloody sands. The water of the heavy-heaving river could be heard lapping heavily against its sodden banks and the side of the jollyboat—

—no, it was the sodden slap of the knotted cat-of-nine-tails striking the very back he, as a boy ensign, had redden upon to keep his feet dry when embarking and disembarking, the back of the man who was now flung bloody to the deck like those Spanish monks had lain upon the red-pooling sand.

“What is to become of this wretch, Captain Smithers,” sounded the stern voce of Lord Shaw—echoing a world away from the mind of Pendleton, who paged through a fanciful atlas somewhere in the back of his beleaguered mind.

“Locked away in irons until we make Port Drake, where we shall Barbados him.”

“And, Captain, what is to be done with the object of his unsavory attentions—the girl-sailor, who somehow passed before your First Mate’s eyes without arousing due suspicion?”

“Barbadosed as well, Lord.”

The voice of the Governor rose to a stern, flat note, not a cracking pitch as it should have, “Hempstead, make purchase of the wretch and the wench, at a pound more than what the Captain expects to profit. I shall be needing servants, and do suppose that those available for service in the slovenly port ahead can be no worse. Good day, Captain. I shall return to my studies.”

Not waiting for the savage Captain’s rejoinder, Pendleton made his way, like a great stalking water bird, below deck, to the cabin that rested behind decorative windows, above the rear gun ports, and below the Captain’s quarters. At last, the door snug behind him, the snow comfortingly clinging to the windows before him, he returned to his open book, his inked quill, and found not a word to summon from the shrinking sink of his soul.