Whiplash

June 21st, year 1700

“Patience,” preached my father, “is the human quality closest to sainthood.”

At the ripe age of ten, I had heard the sermon a thousand times over, an’ it did nothin’ to calm my nerves. As patient as my father was, there was not much of it left over to listen to my worries.

We had been set off course by the winds, a usual happening aboard the Argenta. Danzig was supposed to have come into view days ago. I had already asked old Eli Baker why we hadn’t yet docked more than a million times. The Argenta was a dangerous brig. My father had sailed us right through a storm earlier in the voyage. Now, we were lost. I, young an’ scared as I was, wanted safe, solid grounds.

The prospect of spendin’ more time at the mercy of the elements was enough to make my feeble sense of control spiral completely. I needed answers, I’d always had. ‘Twas divine providence (not patience) that put Eli Baker on my father’s ship. He had answers an’ truths stashed in his pockets where money was not. An’ when he handed them out, his dark eyes would go wide, his even darker skin would pull into funny faces as he spoke.

“You cannot control the wind,” he’d begin. “You can learn only to harness its strength, an’ pray God’s keepin’ a keen eye on you. ‘Course, He watches over our dear Argenta,” he said, rufflin’ my hair before walkin’ off into the forecastle, leavin’ me alone on deck.

June 23rd, year 1700

I woke up to shoutin’ that day. No, not shoutin’. ‘Twas not pained or panicked. ‘Twas celebration. The noise startled me into wakefulness, grubby hands rubbin’ my eyes open. I stumbled out of my cot an’ climbed my way up to the deck. The weak but bright summer sky lit up my world, an’ there they all were, the crew wide awake an’ giddy with anticipation. Land! Food! Civilization!

Much as the noise peeved me, I found that I too was smilin’. I could not see the green splotch of land that was meant to be the Crown of Poland, what with men blockin’ the view here an’ there. I was curious, nothin’ out of the ordinary for a child my age. I knew what I’d see, an’ still I twisted an’ stretched to catch a glimpse of the miraculous Poland.

Eli saw me, standin’ tip-toed behind ev’ryone else. He ushered me forward, lifted me up so I could see over the rails. I remember feelin’ light as air. As if I were one with the light breeze that played with my hair. I remember the relief that coaxed my wind-frozen cheeks into a smile. There was Danzig. Only one day away. Safety, so, so close.

When the day’s chores an’ preparations were over, I’d wanted to sleep right away. I was a quiet child, rarely spoke. Still, ev’ryone on board knew the art of readin’ my moods. After all, I was the captain’s only son, an’ an obedient one at that. 

So as the sun was blazin’ orange in the horizon, I looked at Danzig, so near, so promisin’. I felt warm all over.

A hand fell on my shoulder, sudden an’ steady. I nearly jumped.

“Mr. Mallory,” I greeted the man behind me, lookin’ up at him.

“Matthew,” he answered. His hand never left my shoulder. Through my clothes, I could feel the heat of his hand on my skin, an’ ‘twas enough to make me want to squirm again. But I didn’t. I waited. Patience.

After a short while, Arlo Mallory stopped lookin’ at me. To this day, I can’t recall if I identified the look on his face as remorse or warnin’. I just knew it made me sad an’ uneasy. He was a tall man, strong an’ gruff as a bull.

I believe he had a specific resentment towards me. I did not notice it as a child, but lookin’ back, I was always better fed than the rest of the crew. Arlo Mallory was the man who looked at me the most when the hungry days came. Days when my father lost us out at sea. 

I waited for him to speak, for I knew he would not approach me without reason.

“Matthew,” he said again, clearin’ his throat. “Stay in the forecastle tonight. Yer a good kid, alright? Stay put. Yer pa told me to let you know.”

‘Twasn’t unusual for my father to send a message along to me through a member of the crew, busy as he was, an’ slow as he was while workin’ (patience, patience, patience). So I nodded to big, fairly scary Arlo Mallory, an’ ran away as soon as he took his hand off my shoulder.

I jumped into the belly of The Argenta, passed my father’s quarter with a, “Night, Pa,” an’ headed to my cot.

I slept soundly that night. Danzig, Danzig, Danzig, so close an’ gettin’ closer. I dreamt of green hills an’ solid land. I dreamt of men an’ women, warm an’ welcomin’ to us all.

June 23rd, year 1700. Near midnight. 

For the second time that day, I awoke to shoutin’. ‘Cept this time ‘twas louder. An’ angrier. An’ for a second I thought I must still be dreamin’, as surely there was no reason for any celebration to occur when the moon was still high an’ bright in the star-speckled sky.

I stirred in my cot, paid no mind to whatever was goin’ on outside.

Then the shoutin’ got louder–

An’ ‘twas surely just Mr. Mallory, gettin’ drunk an’ brawlin’ with Mr. Griggs. Surely, it could be nothin’ more than that, right? I heard footsteps, many of ‘em. Then quiet. Quiet at last. 

I drifted back into sleep when–

The first scream rang out through the still night air–

The mind is a brilliant thing. It can erase things it cannot bear to relive. I cannot recall with absolute certainty what happened next, but my back still wears the memory–

⁎ ⁎ ⁎

“I’VE A SON, HEANEY,” shouted Arlo Mallory. He held the fat old man by the wrists with enough force to bruise them badly. Captain Heaney’s hands were pinned behind his back, and Arlo’s face was close to his. The gunner’s breath was hot against his cheek, spittle spraying on his blood-soaked face as he continued to shout into it. “A SON I HAVE NOT MET!”

“That has nothin’ to do with me, Arlo–”

“We have been through siege an’ storm with you!” he began, motioning to the crew gathered around them. “We have endured the cost of yer shortcuts, we have starved ‘cause of yer rations, an’ ev’ry time you lose yer north we go hungry for it!”

A collective shout of agreement rose from the men. They were skinny, beaten, sun-dried, an’ bitter. The Argenta had not been kind on them. 

“I’ve a son who I have not met,” Arlo repeated, “an’ when you put us through a storm, I knew that if I stayed under yer command, I would never get to see him”

He was taller than Joseph Heaney. He was broader and stronger and hungrier. He was fiercer. He hoisted the captain up to the main mast, barely able to see what went on around him. They had run out of oil for the lamps many nights ago. He barked for Henry Griggs to haul a piece of rope at him, and tied the captain’s hands behind the mast, his back bare an’ exposed to the crisp night air. The cold wind had nothing on the blazing fire that ran through Arlo’s body. 

“When I meet my son,” he resumed, voice low and threatening, “I will remember what you taught yers. ‘Patience,’ you always tell him. But here come news, Joseph. Patience only ever works when you hold all the power in yer hands. Patience for a man like me, well, it looks like starvation. Like poverty. An’ you have made my life look like that for too long now.”

He stopped, pulling the rope tight and burning off some of Heaney’s skin along with it. Joseph winced. Arlo stepped back, grinning, and turned to the rest of the crew.

“Who’ll do the honors?” he boomed. The dark mass of men below him chanted: “US!”

Henry Griggs walked out of the forecastle with a whip in hand. Eli snuck into it quietly.

⁎ ⁎ ⁎

“Us!” I heard from my cot. One shout loud an’ powerful, but muffled through the layers of wood.

I clutched my sheets tight in one hand, not darin’ to move. I heard the door to the forecastle open, lettin’ in a short rush of wind an’ fury before blockin’ it once more. Pa, I thought, startled. Had it really been him screamin’?

I took a tentative step onto the wooden floor, an’ t’was way too cold for comfort to my bare feet. I walked over to my father’s chamber, an’ found it desolate. I dared not walk out to deck. Not with the commotion. I headed back to my chamber, small an’ concealed, but safe. I had not yet reached the door when I heard footsteps nearin’. 

I ducked into the darkness, an’ out of the corner of my eye, I saw the wily, greasy Henry Griggs walk into my father’s chamber. An’ then out of it with my pa’s whip in hand.

What happened next was a blur. I cannot remember it clearly, but rather in bursts, painful bursts of violence an’ hatred, an’ fear most of all.

Eli creepin’ down the stairs, findin’ me, hidin’ me. Coverin’ my ears as my father screamed outside, as I heard the whiplash crash and crack on his back, on his face, on his stomach. He hushed my worries as the crew outside shouted in unison. As they mutinied the Argenta.

Then came Griggs again. Lookin’ for me. Eli put up a fight, I remember. Fists flew an’ teeth clattered on the floor bloody an’ useless. Most of all I remember keepin’ my hands on the sides of my head, shuttin’ my eyes so strongly I thought I’d never be able to open them again, knees drawn close to my chest–

A hand picked me up by the scruff. Hoisted my small body up the stairs, fingers pinchin’ my skin as I pleaded again an’ again for him to, “Stop it, STOP IT!”

⁎ ⁎ ⁎

Arlo stood over the bloodied form of Joseph Heaney with a dying smile on his face. He was not one for murder, but this was necessary, he told himself. It was necessary. 

Except old Heaney wasn’t dead, not by a long shot. He wheezed, face-down on the grimy wooden floor, breath rattling in his chest. His back was red, welted, and bloody. Skin hung off his it like wet rags, something brutal and terrible far and too painful for even Arlo to wish on him. But it was necessary. It all was. Or they’d keep on living under inhumane conditions, without guarantee they’d make it back to dry land.

It was all necessary until Griggs hauled the boy over.

Arlo barely looked up from Heaney’s beaten frame when he said, “No.”

“He deserves to watch the son die–”

“I said no. Leave the boy.”

“Shut it, Arlo,” said someone on deck. “Heaney must suffer! He starved us! Ye said it yerself! We’ve been through storms an’ sorrow ‘cause of that man,” he hissed.

And again, the crew chanted their approval in unison.

⁎ ⁎ ⁎

I was scared out of my mind. Griggs threw me on the floor, my forehead hittin’ the wooden floor with a loud thunk. I was on my knees. I was cryin’. I was weak. 

One man kicked me. I cannot remember who. I just recall the betrayal I felt. The faces that did this to me, they had been my companions. Friendly, trusted, an’ reliable. 

Soon I became a punchin’ bag, as the men swung me this way an’ that, stuck their fists in my face, in my stomach, beatin’ me hard enough to make what little food I’d eaten crawl its way back up my throat. I vomited with the impact of another boot on my stomach, an’ I cried. I remember lookin’ up, to see my father bein’ held up by Arlo Mallory an’ Henry Griggs. I was defenseless. 

⁎ ⁎ ⁎

The boy was beaten beyond recognition. Vomit stained his white linen shirt, blood oozed from his split lip. Arlo frowned at the sight. He’s only ten, he thought. In that moment, he vowed to protect his own son from something like this with as much ferocity as his aging body would allow. He looked at Joseph. His left eye was black and swollen, barely even open. The right eye was wet with tears and horror. He sagged against Mallory and Griggs. He was impotent. 

Griggs let go of Joseph, made his way to the center of the deck, where the boy lay crumpled on the ground, his crying audible to everyone around him. He grabbed his thin arm, and ignoring his protests, brought him to his feet. He dragged him closer to the mast, directly in front of his father, and kicked him again.

⁎ ⁎ ⁎

They whipped me. That is what happened. Griggs kicked me to the ground, and I fell to my knees. He took the whip he’d used on my father an’ used it on me. The metal cracked on my back, shirt an’ all, an’ I screamed. I screamed as loud as my small lungs would allow it. Whenever I looked up, there was my father, blurry through my tears, lookin’ as sorrowful as he ever had. 

By the fourth lash, my shirt was nothin’ but a bloody rag stickin’ to my shirt. I was a snotty, teary, whiny mess. Some men laughed, others looked away, some went to scarin’ me for fun, pretendin’ they’d kick me just to see me flinch. 

Then came Eli.

⁎ ⁎ ⁎

Eli Baker’s face was bruised and bloody. Henry Griggs raised his arm once more, a manic, toothless smile on his face. The former captain was on his hands and knees, pleading, all dignity gone. Arlo Mallory watched, stonier than he should have been. 

Eli caught Griggs’ wrist mid-raise, an’ said, “Enough.” His voice was weak and pained. Matthew was a child, and an innocent one at that. Griggs turned to him, a wild look in his eyes. 

“You sympathise with ‘em?!” he accused. 

“Baker is right,” Arlo said, voice ringing true through the entire brig. “That’s enough for the boy. Do what you will with Joseph.” He strode over to the pair, and took the whip from Griggs’ hand. Thank you, he thought as he nodded at Eli. He kneeled next to the boy, watching him flinch at the sudden proximity. 

“Come on, boy, let’s get you fixed up–”

“You stay away from him,” Eli interrupted Arlo’s offer. “You just– stay away.”

He nudged the man away, and lifted the boy in his arms. Matthew cried out when he did, and Eli’s heart broke. 

“When we dock, I’m takin’ him with me,” Eli began. “You’ll hurt him no further.”

Arlo nodded, solemn. “Take care of him. An’ take him downstairs. Such mercy will not be shown to Joseph.”

Eli met his gaze, unreadable, and nodded. He went back down into the forecastle, and tended to Matthew’s wounds. They heard Joseph’s screams through the rest of the night. They died just before dawn.

March 13th, year 1710. Afternoon.

“I know it isn’t all that appropriate, but…” I lift the back of my shirt, showin’ her the marks that line my skin. Raised an’ bumpy, the scars rangin’ from white to purple to red. “It is true, all that I’ve told you. It really happened.”

I pull it back down, an’ turn to look at Abigail. She is dead quiet. A gust of wind hits us both, cold an’ damp, as if to remind us where we are. It seems to do the trick, for she snaps out of her daze, an’ frowns.

“I am sorry for all that happened,” she says, lookin’ away from me an’ into the ocean, grey an’ dull, no sunlight for it to reflect. Her feet dangle over the edge of the cliff, an’ still without meetin’ my gaze, she reaches her hand out to mine.

“I reckon we’re made for each other, then,” she says with a sad smile. She looks at our hands, lifts her sleeve, an’ I see them. The thin lines on her arms, thicker ones at her wrists. “From when I was in… the house,” she says softly. She reaches down, shows me her ankles, the both of them surrounded by scars that wrap around her feet like anklets. “Here too.” She covers back up. “An’ I doubt you’d like to see my stomach.” She laughs then, a bitter an’ sullen thing. “We’re both broken.”

I crack an attempt at a warm smile at her. 

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, lettin’ her head fall on my shoulder. I relax against her side, but I find myself frownin’. How many times have I wished for someone to tell me there was a reason for what happened? That it would pass, eventually. If I was patient enough.

But Abigail does not do that. 

After a minute, I turn my hand beneath hers and lace my fingers through her own. 

“I don’t reckon we’re broken,” I say, as softly as she did.

She looks at me. “We’ve been hurt. Beyond recognition. Is that not the same thing?”

I wait. Shake my head, slowly. “No.”

But I smile while sayin’ it.