The sharp noise jolted her awake.
“Ho, there! Get down here, boy!” She recognized Mr. Brackett’s harsh bark.
Sophia scrambled out from under the canopy. The crew gathered around the foremast, watching in ominous silence as Davy slowly descended the ratlines. At the center of the scattered group stood Mr. Brackett, hands planted on either hip, and legs braced wide in an attitude of imminent threat.
“Ahoy! All hands!”
She shook herself, trying to dispel the drowsy haze from her brain. What could Davy have done that would warrant this assembly, resembling nothing so much as a shipboard trial, with Mr. Brackett looking like judge and executioner in one?
Then she saw it, sticking out of the deck like a giant’s dart—the marlinespike driven straight into the planks. That must have been the loud thwack she’d heard. Davy had dropped it from the topgallant yard. If it had struck a man … Despite the heat, Sophia shivered. It was a miracle no one on deck had been killed.
She might have counted their blessings too soon.
As Davy finally reached the deck, Mr. Brackett’s expression spelled quiet murder. He walked over to the offending sliver of iron, planted a boot on the board it had pierced, grasped the spike with both hands, and pulled it free with one swift yank. He brandished it before Davy, jabbing the point into the center of the boy’s chest. “Careless, Linnet. Very careless.”
The boy stood a bit taller, but Sophia noticed his left knee begin to shake.
“I’m sorry, sir. My hand was sweaty. It just slipped. It won’t happen again, sir.” Davy’s voice cracked as he spoke.
“I’d like to believe that, Linnet. But I think I’d better teach you a lesson. Just to be certain.”
Teach him a lesson? What could the man mean? Sophia scanned the deck. The captain was out in the longboat. Mr. Wiggins was presumably belowdecks, resting. For the moment, the ship was Mr. Brackett’s to command.
And Sophia could tell, he wasn’t about to let the men forget it. The air and the water were so calm, so still, that every word echoed off the decking, as though it were a stage. And Brackett definitely had an air for the theatrical. He circled the men, turning his hawkish glare from one sailor to the next, letting his boots clunk ominously with each slow step. He held his audience rapt.
“This crew is the most indolent band of curs I’ve ever seen. I’ve been itching to give you men a taste of real discipline.” Brackett turned to Davy.
“Do you really mean to be a sailor, boy? Do you think you have what it takes?”
Davy nodded, once.
“Well, you can’t handle a marlinespike, can you? But perhaps you can handle a taste of the lash.”
Sophia leapt forward. “No!”
Mr. Brackett turned to her. “Miss Turner, this isn’t a fit spectacle for ladies. You ought to return to your cabin.”
“No. You can’t do this. I won’t allow it.”
The moment the words escaped her throat, Sophia knew she’d made a grave mistake. If Davy had any hope of leniency, she’d just erased it. Brackett’s black eyes pinned her, as dark and unyielding as obsidian. He would never back down now. To spare Davy at her behest would be tantamount to surrendering authority in front of his crew. Unthinkable.
“I apologize for offending your genteel sensibilities, Miss Turner. Justice can be an ugly business. Now, I advise you to go belowdecks.”
“Go on, Miss Turner,” Davy said. “I’ve had my share of beatings. It’s nothing I haven’t felt before.”
And of course he didn’t want her to see, the brave boy. Sophia cast him an apologetic look. Then she firmed her chin and spoke to Brackett. “Thank you, I will stay. If you can perform this atrocity, you can perform it in front of me.” Perhaps the man would go lightly on Davy with her here. Or maybe she could swoon at a fortuitous moment and put a stop to it altogether.
“If you wish.” Brackett turned on his heel, swinging the marlinespike around like a compass needle, ultimately selecting Quinn as its true north.
“You there. String Linnet up to the yardarm.”
Muffled curses rose up from the assembled crew. Quinn shifted his weight uneasily. Brackett swung ’round again, making another swiping threat with the marline-spike, and losing his hat in the process. The men dropped back in silence.
The sweat on Sophia’s neck went cold.
“Remove your shirt, Linnet.” When the boy simply stood in place, Brackett hooked the tip of the marline-spike into Davy’s collar and yanked, ripping the coarse tunic from neck to waist. Then he reached out with his free hand to tear the shirt away from the youth’s torso, exposing a smooth, pale chest.
Brackett rested the marlinespike on his shoulder like a dueling pistol and turned to Quinn. “String. Him. Up.”
Quinn did not move. Braced in a wide stance, arms crossed over his chest, he was a towering mountain of muscle. And he received Brackett’s command with all the stony indifference of a mountain that had just been ordered to jump. Make me, his gaze said. I’d like to see you try. Sophia wanted to believe the man felt some allegiance to Davy, but she suspected the heat factored strongly in his defiance. If Quinn hadn’t wanted to climb the mast ten minutes ago, he could hardly relish the idea of hauling a boy up with him now.
Mr. Brackett did not seem angered by Quinn’s mute refusal. Instead, Sophia thought he looked oddly gratified. His face lit with a smug, expectant grin. “Do you disobey a direct order then, Quinn?”
Quinn did not move.
“Insubordination,” said Brackett, circling Quinn slowly, “is a serious infraction. I advise you to reconsider. I’ll say it but one more time, Quinn.”
Brackett punctuated each word with a jab to the sailor’s chest. “String. Him. Up.”
Quinn shrugged off the spike, as a horse twitches its flank to dislodge a fly.
Brackett sneered, sweat trickling off his brow. His black hair was soaked with perspiration, matted to his scalp like raven feathers. Whether it was the heat, the power of command, or both—this scene had unleashed something dark in the man. Something terrifying. His eyes were wild, and he wielded the marlinespike like one of the devil’s own tormentors.
“I was going to make an example of the boy there, but now I think you”—he jabbed Quinn again—“will make a better example by far.”
With sudden, agile fury, Brackett swung the heavy iron spike and hit Quinn square in the back of his knee. The man’s leg crumpled beneath him, and he dropped to the deck with a heavy thud.
Sophia clapped a hand over her scream.
Quinn groaned and rolled to his knees. Brackett twirled the marlinespike in his hand and hammered him between the shoulder blades with the blunt end, sprawling him face-first onto the deck. Before the sailor could recover from the blow, Brackett had his boot planted on the man’s neck, holding him down.
The assembled crew stood frozen, the men glancing frantically from one to another. Sophia understood their hesitation. Even if their captain would not countenance such violence—and Sophia felt certain he wouldn’t—to overpower Brackett would be mutiny.
Quinn struggled to rise. Brackett crushed his heel down on the man’s neck, stifling all protest.
Sophia glanced toward the ship’s prow. It was impossible to see the longboat from here. If only she could make some sort of signal … or call out to the captain.
“Fetch me the lash,” Brackett ordered, pointing the marlinespike at Davy.
“And be quick about it, or I’ll double your strokes.”
Sophia didn’t wait for Davy’s response. She turned on her heel and bolted down the stairs belowdecks, racing through the ladies’ cabin and passing into steerage.
“Mr. Grayson!” She wove through the jumbled crates. He would make everything all right, she knew it. He had to. “Mr. Grayson! Gray!”
A hand snagged her elbow.
“Come to me at last, have you?”
It was stifling hot in the compartment, and Sophia was overwrought. At the sound of his sleepy baritone and the reassuring feel of his hand on her skin, she nearly melted. He leaned against the stacked crates, rubbing sleep from his eyes with his sleeve. “What is it, sweet?”
“Come quickly,” she said, removing his hand from her elbow and tugging him back toward the stairs.
At the frantic tremor in her voice, he snapped into seriousness. She yanked on his arm, but he did not move. “What is it?” he repeated, his eyes searching hers.
“It’s Davy. And Quinn … he’s going to flog them.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Brackett.”
With a muttered curse, he shook off her grip and charged past her, making his way through the ladies’ cabin and taking the ladder three rungs at a time. Sophia hurried behind him.
“What the devil is going on here?” Mr. Grayson demanded. The scene looked much as Sophia had left it. Was it possible only a minute had passed? Brackett still held Quinn under his boot, at the point of the marlinespike. Around him, the crewmen stood in a half-circle, sweat streaming from their brows under the midday sun. At the sight of Mr. Grayson, they visibly relaxed. The only one missing was Davy.
“Ah, Mr. Grayson. Good afternoon.” Mr. Brackett greeted him calmly, his eyes hard as stone.
“Where’s the boy?”
“I’ve sent him to fetch the lash. This one”—he shifted his weight to Quinn’s neck—“needs to learn who his superiors are.”
“There’s no lash on this ship, Brackett. I don’t permit flogging. Never have.”
Brackett smirked. “Small wonder, then, that your crew is so worthless. They’re well overdue for their dose of discipline. And if you’ve no lash …
well, I’m certain something can be improvised.”
“Ahoy!” The call came from the front of the ship. The longboat had returned. A few of the sailors began backing away from the scene, toward the prow. They looked toward Mr. Grayson for permission, and he dismissed them with a nod.
“That’ll be your captain, Brackett. You may stand down.”
Mr. Grayson’s voice remained so calm, so authoritative; his posture was relaxed. His coat and trousers hung haphazardly from his frame, in contrast to Mr. Brackett’s orderly rows of buttons, glaring in the sun. He was unarmed, unkempt, unruffled. Yet there was no doubt in anyone’s mind who had the upper hand. Once again, Mr. Grayson had assumed command of a scene without even breaking a sweat.
Meanwhile, Sophia trembled so violently, her ribs rattled against her stays. She felt an arm take her elbow, steadying it. Swiveling her head, she found Stubb standing beside her.
“The boy’s below,” he whispered. “When he come looking for the lash, I told him to stay out of sight.”
Sophia swallowed and nodded.
Mr. Grayson crossed his arms over his chest. “Stand down, Brackett. If there’s discipline to be meted out, the captain will handle it.”
Brackett removed his boot from Quinn’s neck, only to give him a swift kick in the ribs. The sailor groaned at his feet, and the officer’s mouth twisted in a sick smile. “I’m first mate. I don’t work for the captain. I work for you.”
Mr. Grayson’s eyes hardened. “Not any longer, you don’t.”
The captain strode across the deck, wiping his brow before replacing his hat. Four sailors followed him, still shirtless from their stint in the longboat.
“What’s going on? We heard a commotion.” The captain spied Quinn groaning in pain on the deck and knelt beside him. “Good God. He didn’t fall from the rigging?”
“No.” Mr. Grayson nodded toward Brackett. “Captain Grayson, you should know that Mr. Brackett has been relieved of his duties as first mate of the Aphrodite, effective immediately. How you accommodate his presence on this ship for the remainder of the voyage is yours to decide. I recommend the brig.”