The Whipping
A guro story

There was to be a whipping, to pay for the previous night’s mutiny. The officer stepped out of his cabin early that morning. The procedure did not excite him, but he could not afford to be absent. In case his own loyalties were questioned.
The day was equally unpleasant as the task at hand. There was not a glimpse of sun and the sky was filled with fat black clouds. Tiny needles rained over the ocean in a drizzle that misted the officers skin and clothes, irritating more than drenching. The wind blew from all angles, angrily puffing up mammoth waves that rocked the steel vessel in a way that shook even the most seasoned of sailors.
Their duties forgotten in the excitement it seemed the whole crew was gathered on deck. They created a semi-circle around the mast. Standing around it as though it was some hollowed shrine, soon to be wet with blood of the wicked. They were an ugly lot the officer thought: battered leathery skin, sharpened teeth and all black eyes that look brutally out of place in the sleek blue of their navy uniforms. Recruiting sailors from the colonies had become an ugly habit of the admiral, he thought. He also hated the way their mutterings and careless laughter filled the air with unpleasant bristling electricity.
Reaching into a battered - almost empty – pack he tried to light a cigarette but the rain ruined the paper with yellowed spots and the wind blew out five of his matches before he gave up and with a grunt  tossed the stick away. As he did one of the mates walked up the steps to join him,
“Captains assigned Ratking to do it”
“Did he?”
But of course he did, Ratking was one of a kind , an undeniable artist of martial law and corporal punishment. He’d guided the officer and his captain through countless hangings , beatings and of course whippings. How he made the leather sing against the flesh!
“ Do you know when he’s due ?”
“Soon”
“Not soon enough”
The mate shrugged, it was not up to him to judge the practice. “You would do well to hide that disdain however” was his last remarks before he trudged down to join the rest.
“Aye I would”, he called after doubting that he’d hear
*
Several minutes later, Ratking appeared. Throwing open a hatch and strolling out into the mist with ceremonious applause. Two sailors armed with long rifles cleared the path for him and a third tailed with a slender wooden box. No doubt contained his mythic whip. Which he of course made a show of taking out, unravelling and then striking into the air once, with such a thunderous crack it silenced the whole ship. It had no doubt been attended moments after he heard of the scheduled whipping for its black skin gleamed with shine.
There was no man the officer despised more than Ratking himself. Who did not wear the navies blue but a black uniform of his own fashion and covered his face with a black bag that revealed one bulging blue eye and a row of crooked teeth (the upper row was missing entirely).  Not much was known of the mans background but he had grown in a spectacularly freakish manner. Tall but with a crooked back that forced him to slouch backwards. Skinny but with a round belly that protruded out of his visible ribs. Short legs,long arms. A clumsy tongue that barely spoke English but nimble fingers that could make any man sing.
He looked forward to the day the executioner would slip up himself and the officer would beg for the honour of skinning his back off.
*
The prisoner appeared after, to boo’ing, yells and bottles being thrown at him. Not a single of the rifle-men moved to stop it from smashing against his head and cutting his forehead. Could have cut the whipping short, the officer mused. It would have been a most definite mercy.
The man did not look like a mutineer now. His clothes drenched with sweat, eyes wide and darting and his teeth gnashing with nerves. He looked precisely like a panicked rat. But the officer had managed to see him the night before, where he led seven men in a feeble attempt to commandeer the life-boats and desert.  He’d looked a true bandit then, shrouded in fire and blood.
That was before the other six had been cut down and before he’d caught that bullet with his rib.
Now he was being led up to the mast, he and Ratking made contact. Both aware of the violent intimacy they were about to engage in. Two soldiers turned him around, shoved him against the mast and as he hugged it (shivering against its steel embrace) they ripped of his shirt. His back was firm and squirming with rope-like muscle. But it wouldn’t stand long against Ratking and his whip.
As they chained his hands to the mast, and a drunken priest hollered a prayer for the condemned one of the soldiers preparing the mutineer punched him in the back of the head. Earning a round of cruel laughter. He deserved punishment, no doubt, but this was unnecessary. The officer couldn’t help himself from thinking.
Eventually the man was firmly stood up against the mast, the priests prayer trailed off and was replaced by screaming seagull. The group stepped back, making space for the approaching Ratking as his gently tapped the end of the whip against the steel deck.