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, 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 officer's skin and clothes, irritating more than drenching. The wind blew from all directions, 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 that the whole crew was gathered on deck. They created a semi-circle around the mast. Standing around it though it were some hallowed shrine, soon to be wet with the 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. 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 remark before he trudged down to join the rest.
“Aye I would”, the officer called, doubting that he’d heard.
*
Several minutes later, Ratking appeared. Throwing open a hatch and strolling out into the mist to ceremonious applause. Two sailors armed with long rifles cleared the path for him and a third tailed with a slender wooden box. No doubt containing 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. The black skin gleamed with shine and care.
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 grey eye and a bed of crooked teeth (the upper row was missing entirely).  Not much was known of the man's background but that 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 in his brutality and be punished. Then the officer would beg for the honour of skinning his back off.
*
The prisoner appeared after, to boo’ing, yells and bottles thrown at. 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 off 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 priest's prayer trailed off and was replaced by screaming gulls. The group stepped back, making space for the approaching Ratking as he gently tapped the end of the whip against the steel deck.
*
In that first stroke Ratking was elegance and grace defined. In one fluid movement he arched himself, let the whip fly up into the air, curl and then roar like a beast. As it cut through the air the rain seemed to stop and when it struck, the leather sounding against flesh, the waves quietened themselves. The whole crew stood awestruck, including the officer. The prisoner grit his teeth and huddled tighter against the mast, his quivering legs, however, betrayed his pain.
It took a moment for the split flesh to present itself, shakily opening up like a pink canyon. It wept heavily and the crimson was slowly washed down in the rain. It was a clean lash, running from shoulder blade to shoulder blade.
Pleased with his work Ratking grinned and began to circle once more, tapping the desk, priming himself for the next lash. He had a personal formula for whippings that the officer had observed numerous times. First the powerful strokes to cut and tear. Then he would move onto faster more frantic slices that left the skin raw and marked with bloody crosses. To their fortune many never lived that far.
The second lash went lower, curling around the ribs and clinging to the mutineers gasping stomach. Ratking let it rest just long enough so when he called it back, chunks of meat flew with it. A white smiling rib peered grotesquely out.
They were all been so transfixed by the melodic leather that they hadn’t noticed the mutineer was screaming.
The third went down against a muscle, cutting so deep through the tissue the man’s whole frame dropped. His arms twisted and fought against the chain and his screams turned to dog-like whimpers. Blood had now soaked him entirely and began to run down to the crew's shoes. The officer noticed that the air smelled of iron.
The fourth stroke drove him to his knees and made him beg for mercy, for his life and for Ratkings death. The whip had made a crescent round across his back that Ratking enjoyed so much he stopped the ceremony to admire.
Ending up on the ground after the fourth lash disappointed the crew. As they knew that now Ratking would move into his second and far less amusing phase. The officer heard money changing hands and the familiar sound of gambling. People collected their winnings and bet again, this time how many before he was dead.
 Ratking rolled the whip up around his hand, leaving only a short, sharp tail and moved closer to the prisoner. At first he managed to retain some of his grace, moving around the four large wounds and gouging out smaller ones between them. But once the blood began to earnestly flow he could no longer grip his humanity. Like a savage animal, he began to swing. His hands red blurs and the prisoners back resembling  mince- meat.  The officer counted along rapidly in his head, 35,39,42. This madness had to stop after fifty lashes the man hadn’t been condemned to death after all. But time had become distorted in Ratking's mind. And only he the prisoner and the whip between them existed. The crowd had grown silent, no longer enjoying the fun spectacle. They were forced to remember that the man had been one of their own at some point.
At 49, like a deranged conductor Ratking waved his hand and moved backwards, “ Raise him up!” he screeched at two riflemen. They obliged, pulling the prisoner back on his stiff feet, ignoring the blood that stained them and his mad whisperings. Ratking moved back, let the whip out to its full length. Cracked it once in the air. The final stroke would be a true one. The prisoner sensing this came to the last of his senses. He neck snapped back and his eyes alive for a last moment , with a dead man's desperation, tried to plead with Ratking. But his eyes only met the officers for a chilling second as the whip flew. Catching him at the neck, the tip sinking into the purple jugular that pounded with blood in that final beat. His head lolled back and like a broken pipe his neck exploded all over the deck. Soaking the crew and dripping on the officers face.
The dead man slumped against the mast, the flow slowed and began to drain quietly down his side. Someone in the crowd threw up.
“Take the dead man away”, the officer called. His own voice sounding so alien and outside to him, “  and take Mr Ratking down to the brig.”
With a silent resolve, a few men grabbed the executioner and began to drag him away. Ratking stayed quiet ashamed of how he’d ruined himself.
 The chains rattled and the mutineer fell into someone's arms. No one had the courage to look into his face. Where is the captain, the officer wondered declaring once more, “take him down to the surgeons and instruct him to clean the body. They nodded and begun to carry the corpse away leaving a gleaming trail of red behind.
The rest of the crew cleared away, their mutterings heavy in the air. And then it was only the officer, the screeching wind and the smell of death on the deck.
*
It was dim below deck with the lone lamps quivering light. Long shadows were cast on the characters in the morgue, the officer, the captain and the doctor whose pure white uniform was scandalised with a single dark stain. The body lay in the dark, out of their sight. The hideous back had been covered in bandaging and the neck stitched. Not that it mattered he was to be fed to the sharks at dusk anyway. His work done and sensing the hostile glares of captain to officer the doctor made his exit.
“ You were supposed to be there”
The captain gave an unapologetic shrug, “It was early and frankly I find the affair unappealing
“Yet necessary” the officer hissed almost
“Yes...but necessary”
The officer paced around the room, brandishing a lit cigarette, “ I don’t want to be at the funeral.”
“Yet you will be”
“And will you ?”
“Of course not”
The officer sucked down to the last ash and flung it on the ground, not forgetting his salute he stomped out. Of course, he’d be there and of course he wouldn’t.