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| Sentence and Punishment; 8 July 1751 | |
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| Topic Started: 9 Oct 2008, 03:45 PM (227 Views) | |
| Brendan | 9 Oct 2008, 03:45 PM Post #1 |
A Legend. In regimentals. Pwn.
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  OOC - This thread begins after Secrets and Demons, starting on 8 July 1751 and running through to roughly 11 July 1751. IC - After Mister Evans had finally departed, McIntyre found himself unable to sleep. The midshipman was so full of hope, youthful, naive hope, that it seemed grossly unfair to subject him to such a grim proceeding. He would be far less naive by the end of it and that was a worse prospect than the inevitable sentence. The poor lad. The marine wrapped himself up in his blanket, hoping he'd get a chance to thank Gray for it. It wasn't likely, though. He probably wouldn't even get to say his farewells to any of the lads. Which was a pity, as he had quite a few things he wanted to say to several of them. They were good lads and he was sorry only that he'd let them down. Dawn came with the usual blare of the bugle and the rumble of feet somewhere overhead. McIntyre stirred beneath his blanket, groggily realising that he'd dozed off some time within the last hour. That was something, he supposed. Shod feet clumped toward his cell and he sat up to see Captain Cartwright's steward on the other side of the bars, carrying a bowl and towel. It seemed that Foley had been sent to help McIntyre clean up as much as he could. It was a small blessing. Freshly-shaven and washed, McIntyre was led to the officers' mess, his two escorts looking faintly disgusted at having drawn such a menial duty. As before, the same unsmiling group of officers were already sitting at their table, the differing colours of their coats clashing even more harshly now than they had the day before. Nearly all day he sat, trying valiantly to comprehend all the talk going on around him. Captain Cartwright and the smartly-dressed fellow - McIntyre learned finally the man's name was George Fellowes - seemed to understand it all, which only made the Irishman feel even more stupid. If he knew what was being said, he was sure he could be helpful. In the end, however, it didn't seem to matter. The court was dismissed in the waning hours of the afternoon, to permit the jurors to begin their private discussions. McIntyre was taken back to his cell again, feeling dazed and hopeless. The next morning was cold, it seemed. Foley had returned just after Rouse to help McIntyre clean up. Tellingly, he also brought a cleaner set of slops. Was he supposed to look as presentable as possible before he was sentenced to the gallows? When he was led back to the officers' mess, he discovered that the jury of officers was completely absent. The only men in the room were himself, Fellowes, Captain Cartwright, and the pinch-faced officer who'd been appointed to prosecute. That itself suggested ill things, though of course he couldn't expect anything good to come of this. Cartwright cast him an encouraging glance as the Members appeared at last, entering the mess in a single-file line. It was all McIntyre could do to keep himself from trembling. Even though he knew his fate and had long since accepted it, it was still somewhat terrifying to be about to hear the verdict and sentence read out aloud. That damned bastard Captain Stevenson gazed at him expressionlessly for many long moments before asking the Members if they had reached a decision. Unsurprisingly, they had. McIntyre stood up at Stevenson's order and tried to keep his face blank. Whatever else might be said about him, he was still a marine. An officer in yellow facings stood up, holding a single sheet of parchment. The verdict was no surprise at all. He was guilty, of course, there was no other outcome possible. Despite himself, McIntyre shivered. It seemed so very final. He barely heard Stevenson ask the Members for their chosen sentence, such was the mad jumble cluttering up his brain. It wasn't until Captain Cartwright seized hold of his arm and gave it a brief, discreet shake that he came back to awareness. "Sir?" There was a general babble of voices vying for dominance, it seemed. Stevenson was looking cross, while several other officers - all having been Members - seemed relieved. What had happened? Cartwright looked bewildered. "By God I don't believe it. They're not going to hang you. I don't know how or why..." What? McIntyre stared, certain that he had heard wrong. How could it be? He'd never heard of a desertion court-martial having any other outcome than a hanging. It was madness. The sharp rap of the gavel gradually brought the conversations to an end and all eyes were back on Stevenson, who was still looking unreasonably put-out. "The Court having heard and considered the evidence in support of the accusation together with what the Prisoner had to offer in his defence is of opinion that the Prisoner is guilty of the charge brought against him in breach of the first Article of the sixth section of the Articles of War and do therefore sentence him to receive five hundred lashes with a cat of nine tails in the usual manner." Stevenson's voice seemed far too loud in the tense quiet of the mess. "This Court is adjourned." The explosion of voices came again. McIntyre sat down heavily, feeling oddly numb. Five hundred lashes instead of a hanging was certainly preferable but he had been preparing himself for the gallows, not the iron triangle. Oh Lord. He'd be able to go back to his company. His lads were still his lads... he bowed his head and prayed honestly for the first time in years. Behind him, Captain Cartwright locked gazes with his first lieutenant. So Forster had not let him down after all. Good man. It never occurred to him, when Forster looked away and hurried out of the mess, just what it had cost Forster to finally stand up and show some pluck. Just then, it didn't matter anyway. Tomorrow, McIntyre would be flogged but after that the entire affair would be over. That was all that mattered. ~ Foley's lungs felt close to bursting by the time he reached the docks. He had been hovering outside the officers' mess all morning in order to hear the court-martial's decision. Even though he'd fully expected it to be bad, he knew the lads deserved to know McIntyre's fate. What he'd heard had stunned him and he nearly got hit by the mess door when it abruptly opened to let several officers exit. Those same officers had shouted uselessly after him when he dashed away. This was news that had to be passed on to the entire bleeding squadron! The breathless marine clattered down the Navy dock and straight up the gangplank onto Intrepid, drawing wide-eyed stares and several shouts from seamen working on deck. Foley came to an abrupt halt squarely amidships and sucked in a great breath before bellowing "McIntyre ain't gettin' hanged!" There was, naturally, a great hubbub following his announcement. Men swarmed up from below-decks to nearly drown him with questions or with backslaps, as if he were personally responsible for the highly-favourable outcome. Foley lingered on Intrepid's deck for several minutes before tumbling down into the jolly-boat that had been lowered at the boatswain's order. His next stop was Dauntless and after that Proserpina, to finish spreading the news. Aboard the second-rate, Higgins was the first to spot Foley as the Irishman fairly flew up the side-ladder. Foley's announcement, shouted out with the same joyous, disbelieving spirit, nearly started a riot amongst the Dauntless marines who'd been practising musket drill on deck. Frazier and Smith had to be nearly tackled before they put Foley back down, as they had been carrying him around the weather deck on their shoulders like a hero. The news about McIntyre's true punishment would reach the ships later in the day, carried by seamen returning from work-details at the fort. For the squadron's marines, however, simply knowing that there was not to be another execution was enough, even for those who had turned their backs on their own corporal after learning of the initial charge. Marines were notoriously fickle creatures, after all. |
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| Royal Navy & Marines | 19 Oct 2008, 12:56 AM Post #2 |
5th Lieutenant
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 Posted rated Mature for mild description of violence. 10 July 1751 The drums were rolling ominously. Cartwright looked over the hollow square that had been formed, comprised of Kingston marines and one company each from the two Army regiments. There was a group of blue-jacketed seamen present as well, sent by order of Commodore St Montgomery to observe and no doubt spread the tale of the flogging throughout the squadron. The cold-hearted bastard. And of course there was McIntyre, the unlucky soul who was the object of so much formal attention, just being led onto the parade ground by two Kingston marines. "Prisoner forward for punishment!" Cartwright grimaced. Stevenson was enjoying this too, damn him. The two Kingston men were quick in the task of tying McIntyre's wrists and ankles to the halberds, almost as if they had had substantial practise at it. Even from where he stood, Cartwright could see the fading red welts slashing across McIntyre's back, the reminders of the flogging he'd received only a few weeks before for a completely different offence. Now he was to receive more and Cartwright hoped that he would survive it. Five hundred was a harsh sentence, by the Corps' standards. "Carry on, Sergeant!" A moment's pause, then there was the faint hum of the cat passing through the air, followed almost instantly by the harsh crack as the leather strands slashed against McIntyre's back. Cartwright curled his hands into tight fists and refused to glance toward Stevenson, despite feeling the other captain's steady gaze on him. He wouldn't give that bastard the satisfaction of appearing uneasy. If only Forster would bear up half as well. This time, McIntyre was immensely glad for the folded bit of leather between his teeth. Fifty lashes had been bad enough. He wasn't sure how he could stand taking five hundred. They wanted to make him a cripple, he thought fiercely. Self-righteous bastards. The cat bit into his back with an unyielding regularity and he lost count of the strokes at twenty. It was pure agony - his back hadn't completely healed after the last flogging - and he bit down mightily on the bit of leather. Tears were streaming down his face, entirely unbidden, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. How was he supposed to endure five hundred when he felt all done in at - he listened, with an effort, and learned the count was only at seventy-four - seventy-four? From his place near the uneasily-fidgeting group of seamen, Doctor Finch watched the proceeding with a despairing eye. He hated floggings even under the best of circumstances, but this one in particular was especially distasteful. Five hundred lashes was nothing more than wanton brutality in his view, designed to accomplish little more than the ruination of an otherwise healthy and able man. Finch winced when the cat tore a flap of flesh clean off McIntyre's back. It was impossible to recognise the marine's back now, as torn and bloody as it was. He was surprised McIntyre had been able to bear it so well thus far, the count having just touched one hundred. But there wouldn't be many more, Finch resolved. Not while he had any medical authority. A sigh seemed to pass through the seamen as the marine on the triangle went suddenly limp. Finch scowled. McIntyre had passed out, blessedly, but he was quite used up. This abuse would not continue. Captain Stevenson called out "Stop there!" when Finch strode purposefully forward, but the physician roundly ignored him. Surprised, the sergeant wielding the cat faltered and a half-hearted blow splattered against McIntyre's back before Finch arrived at the triangle. Cartwright's steward, Foley, had followed and pushed the bewildered sergeant aside at Finch's curt order. "To hospital with him," Finch snapped, using a lancet to cut the ropes keeping McIntyre's wrists secured to the halberds. With Foley's help, he was able to support the unconscious corporal before the poor fellow could collapse into the dirt. By now in rare full temper, the physician turned his gaze to the thunderstruck group of seamen several yards off. "You men, lend a hand here!" Cartwright went forward as well, even as the entire blue-jacketed formation broke and hurried toward Finch. Of course they'd obey without hesitation, they were seamen from Dauntless, with a few from Intrepid mixed in. There wasn't a shortage of willing hands now. Cartwright stopped just shy of the bustle and waited for McIntyre to be carried away. The seamen weren't quite the same as having Port Royal marines aorund, but Cartwright felt suddenly confident that they would feel obliged to keep watch over the flogged marine as if he were a Tar himself. "Thank you, Doctor," Cartwright said, once the crowd of seamen had started toward the fort's hospital. To his surprise, Finch looked at him with a distinctly sad expression and simply shrugged. The physician made no reply as he too walked away, leaving Cartwright feeling confused. What had that been about? "A word if you please. Captain." It was Stevenson, striding angrily toward him. Cartwright sighed. Somehow, he was sure that he'd never truly be finished with Stevenson or the Kingston marines. |
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| Royal Navy & Marines | 19 Oct 2008, 08:48 PM Post #3 |
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5th Lieutenant
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 10 July 1751 Blessed were the seamen who had taken it upon themselves to provide guards all around the hospital, Finch decided. The warrant officer supervising them had seen to it that seamen stood at every doorway, in addition to the men who were marked down as assistants if required. There were those two marines from Intrepid as well, sent days ago to help Finch manage the remaining wounded from the mutiny. "Carefully," Finch said curtly, when one of the seamen reached out, cloth in hand, to dab up a fresh trickle of blood off McIntyre's back. It wouldn't do to have the poor corporal wake up and discover himself in a worse state than he'd been in while getting flogged. Finch suppressed a shudder as he remembered poor Watkins's fate. "Where d'ya want these, sir?" Bartlett asked, holding up a fistful of clean linen. The Norwich-man was studiously keeping his eyes away from the awful sight of McIntyre's back. Finch took the linen with a grateful nod and went to work, dribbling the soothing balm over each strip before laying them, one at a time, over McIntyre's raw back. Cleaning that mess had been particularly difficult, for he'd had to remove a good deal of torn flesh before he could adequately employ the vinegar-soaked rags. Presently, he bade his small crowd of assistants to sit McIntyre up so the covering swath of bandage could be wound around the Irishman's torso. Instead of the enlisted ward upstairs, the marine would be taken to the officers' ward on the first floor, where Finch could more easily keep an eye on him. The task of moving the poor fellow was ably managed by the gang of seamen, for whose presence Finch was again grateful. ~ He felt stiff when he awakened. Stiff and dry-mouthed. Strangely enough he couldn't feel the tearing pain in his back that he knew he should feel. McIntyre opened his eyes and blinked. It was dark, wherever he was. Christ. He was dead. He had to be, why else would he not feel anything but a warm sense of blurriness? "Awake at last, mate?" McIntyre frowned. What? His mind struggled to function, but questions bogged it down. Questions and whatever strange fog that seemed to be wrapped around his brain. Where was he? Who the hell had just spoken to him? Why was he lying on his stomach? Perhaps most importantly, if he wasn't dead, what was he? Then it struck him that his bladder felt uncomfortably full. "Gotta... eh..." Even his tongue felt useless. McIntyre frowned and concentrated. What was the word he wanted? Pirate... private... priv... privy. Aye. That was it. "Privy," he managed at last and felt vaguely proud of himself. Then he frowned again. Were there privies wherever it was that dead marines went? Oh but he hoped so. |
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| Royal Navy & Marines | 3 Nov 2008, 03:15 AM Post #4 |
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5th Lieutenant
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  10 July 1751 It was only with a concerted effort that Corporal Johnson was able to rise from his bunk. He'd heard the commotion from downstairs - it was impossible not to - and it had disturbed his sleep. Littlefield had been quick to speculate as to the causes for such hubbub, but Johnson had no interest for uninformed guesses. Not when he could find out for himself what all the noise was about. Lachlan, that mad Scotsman, was already tottering toward the stairs across the hall, his half-healed leg making it difficult to move. Though Johnson was having similar troubles himself, he was not about to allow them to keep him stumbling downstairs and ahead of Lachlan. To his surprise, there were blue-jacketed seamen crawling almost everywhere around the hospital's main floor when at last he managed to get to the bottom of the stairs. What were they doing here? Johnson leaned heavily against the open archway at the base of the stairs and was embarrassed to discover that he felt exhausted. This was the most he'd moved in days, despite his persistent efforts to defy Finch's orders. Scowling darkly - his temper had suffered since his confinement to hospital - served to cover the stabs of pain in his side and leg, and after a moment's pause, Johnson started toward the nearest seaman. "What the devil's all this ruckus about?" The corporal demanded. "Can't a lad enjoy his afternoon rest no more?" The sailor gaped at him, more surprised by his lack of knowledge than his brusque tone and unkempt appearance. "It's Corpor'l McIntyre, y'know. He's got took down off the grating early by the doctor! Poor bugger took over a hunnerd lashes." Lachlan, who'd finally made it downstairs as well, let out a cheer. Several seamen close by grinned at the Scottish marine's enthusiasm, but Johnson's scowl only deepened. He'd heard of McIntyre's disgrace - who hadn't? - and it rankled badly to hear that the Irishman had escaped the gallows. A deserter was a deserter, and such cowards deserved no less than the noose. "Probably shamed the Court into it, the yellow bastard," Johnson grumbled. If that was the only cause of all this racket, he'd just wasted time and precious energy carefully navigating the stairs to find it out. "Shoulda been hanged." Both Lachlan and the nearby seamen stared in open-mouted shock at Johnson's back as the corporal turned to make his slow and careful way back upstairs. This was an occasion for celebration, not bad feeling. Even Johnson had to be more human than that. Jacob Bartlett, one of the two marines sent ashore from Intrepid, appeared from the officers' ward with a basin delicately cradled in both hands. "Ne'er mind him, lads, he's never been a happy sort. Clear a path then, I'm off to the privy so's I can dump this." Bartlett grinned saucily. " 'Less one of you boys wanna do it for me!" Unsurprisingly, nobody was willing. Bartlett trundled out with his basin, leaving Lachlan to the unrepentant anger of Doctor Finch, who had emerged from his working-room to discover that one of his patients was out of his bunk and quite removed from his ward. From his place near the surgeon's office, Colburn, one of Dauntless' boatswain's mates, grinned. Things would soon be back to normal around here, if scenes like this were any sign. |
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| Royal Navy & Marines | 4 Nov 2008, 12:54 PM Post #5 |
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5th Lieutenant
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    10 July 1751 (before midnight) Few, if any, could call Thomas Forster brave. He could not even call himself brave. The recent explosion of events around the fort and surrounding town had laid his natural cowardice bare for all the world to see. That, perhaps more than all else, shattered what little confidence he had left. He had done next to nothing during the mutiny - certainly far less than had Captain Cartwright, who of course had risen magnificently to the challenge and danger - and had received a ghastly knock about the head simply for being there. The horror of being forced to fight against his own marines had rendered him immobile, completely useless when the battle had become close and confined, when every able man had been needed. Being told afterward that men had died to protect him after he'd be struck down did nothing to ease his guilt and self-despisal. Then had come the funeral. The final goodbyes to men that Forster realised he had barely known. They'd all given their lives holding to their duty, to what they felt was right, and he was hard-pressed to remember most of their names. It was embarrassing to think of that, in the face of the calm recitation of names as each coffin was carried past. Cartwright had been brilliant, maintaining his composure so easily - how did he do it? Forster had very nearly disgraced himself during the service. It was only the thin, stubborn thread of lingering pride that kept him standing stiff and silent until it was all over. The men were broken enough without seeing their officers openly show their own feelings. They were far better souls than was he, and he suspected they knew it just as well as he. Next, the mutineers' executions. If the loyalists' funeral had been difficult, this parade was sheer torture. Forster could only marvel at Cartwright's composure during the proceeding, much as he had for the burial. How did his friend bear up under it all? It was something he completely failed to fathom. The cold, cruel nature of the executions had cut through him as easily as a bayonet, far more deeply than had the actual, terrible combat. Forster had drunk himself into a stupor after that awful parade was over. The messy affair that had unfolded afterward, which led eventually to Corporal McIntyre's court-martial, had occurred while the Ipswich native was being sick in his quarters. And of course, the final disgrace. Captain Stevenson had called him to sit as Member over McIntyre's court-martial. That summons, taken with everything else and all the attendant emotions, was more than Forster could bear. It was also, remarkably, the event that allowed him one last chance to prove his mettle. In spite of the stiff resentment of Stevenson and the unspoken despair of Cartwright - or perhaps because of it - Forster had rallied himself and spoke with surprising conviction on McIntyre's behalf. His vote, set alongside those of Midshipman Evans and Lieutenant Crawley and the others, had been enough to spare the Irish corporal's life. But it was not enough to save the man from punishment altogether. The reality was that he had not completely succeeded in his bid to save one of his marines. McIntyre would live but he would be fortunate to remain in the Corps. The court-martial's sentence - five hundred lashes - was carried out the very next day. Aside from the Kingston marines, there was one company each from the two Army regiments. And, worse perhaps, there was a detachment of seamen from Dauntless and Intrepid. Forster bore that awful parade as best he could and was deeply grateful for Doctor Finch's timely intervention at one hundred and thirty lashes, for it spared both McIntyre and Forster an unpleasant display. When the barely-conscious corporal had been cut down and carried off to hospital, Forster had escaped to his quarters. His conscience could take no more. Now, he listened to the murmur of voices in the corridor of the quarters building and tried to be angry at the Kingston officers. But there was no anger, no hate, no poor feeling. Not for any of them. He wished he could have been as strong as Arthur Cartwright or even Colin Forsythe. He hated how poorly he had acted, how greatly he had let down everyone around him. He wished he had never come to Jamaica. He hated his father for forcing this commission onto him. But most of all, he hated himself for his weakness. Only at the end, nearly when it did not matter anymore, had he mustered enough pluck to do was expected. And right. Now... he was finished. Tears were on his face, blurring his eyes and making it difficult to concentrate. His shaking fingers worked clumsily at the length of shirt, managing at last to tie the linen into a passable knot. The shame of all his failures and shortcomings weighed far more heavily than the dishonour of the sin he was about to commit. There could be no redemption for him. There could never be. Forster glanced down at his cot, where his smart red dress coat was laid out, as if for parade. Impulsively, he reached for it. The wool was like a leaden shroud on his shoulders. How remarkably fitting, considering the circumstances. It was becoming difficult to see with the tears streaming down his face. He had been no help to anyone, least of all Cartwright, when the unwilling Captain of Marines had needed a reliable officer to support him. But now his uselessness was at an end. The chair by his tiny desk creaked as he stepped up onto it. He paused only for a moment, offering a quick prayer - as he had so many times in the past - for forgiveness for his many sins. Then he laughed at himself, the sound broken and choked. It was too late for forgiveness. Forster sucked in a ragged breath and listened to the high notes of the bugle calling Last Post. It was time to go. The chair creaked again. It was Arthur Cartwright who found him, barely an hour later. ~ 11 July 1751 (just after midnight and the discovery of Forster's body) In the humid confines of the officers' ward, McIntyre felt uneasy. His back ached constantly and if he moved too sharply, the pain flared up angrily. Doctor Finch had thoughtfully allowed him a dose of laudanum to dull the aches but the draught wasn't enough to last the night, especially as McIntyre found himself unable to sleep. In the corridor outside, he could hear the unmuffled snores of the seamen from Dauntless, still hanging about the hospital in their self-detailed positions as sentries. Not all of them were asleep though; he heard the shuffling of bare feet and the occasional murmur of voices as the Tars on watch kept themselves awake. For awhile, McIntyre contemplated the wisdom of easing himself out of his hanging cot and taking a brief walk to stretch his legs. That notion was swiftly scuttled when, at the actual attempt, one of the seamen heard him and sternly bade him to stay where he was and sleep. The rebuke had made him grin; the voice belonged to Dyer, one of the seamen who'd helped lever that cannon around on Dauntless, during the mutiny. It wouldn't have surprised him if all the Tars currently scattered throughout the hospital had been part of the initial resistance that McIntyre had led. A fine lot, the Dauntlesses. The Irishman shifted into a marginally more comfortable position in the cot and yawned. He was beginning to get tired, but sleep wouldn't come just yet. And the ache in his back persisted doggedly. McIntyre silently cursed Captain Stevenson for being such a vengeful bastard. It was probably just as well that the Port Royal marines had been banished to their ships. There would be endless territory battles between them and the Kingston men otherwise. He grimaced at the thought. If Stevenson had his way, it was a sure bet that every last Port Royal marine would find himself flogged and rendered useless except for light duties. In the corridor outside came the cautious scrape of shod feet and an increase in the hushed murmuring. McIntyre's drowsiness vanished and he strained to hear what was being said outside. Other than Doctor Finch, the only men who wore shoes - and troubled themselves to visit the hospital - were Port Royal marines. It was too late for Captain Cartwright to visit, so maybe it was Finch? "He done what?" The brief outburst was quickly hushed, but McIntyre was too curious now to be put off by misguided attempts to preserve his rest. He carefully pushed himself off the mattress, pausing too often to wait for the cot's swinging to subside, and just as carefully eased himself out of the ungainly contraption. Give him a hammock any day, over that blasted thing. The grey slop trousers he'd been given to wear felt too loose around his waist and seemed to sag uncomfortably as he padded unsteadily toward the ward's archway. He must've lost weight during his confinement in the dungeon. "Who's done what, lads?" The Tars on watch gave a start at his abrupt appearance. In the dim light cast by the lantern near Finch's office, McIntyre could just make out the faces turned his way. Chase, the boisterous topman who'd been the first to charge topside just behind McIntyre during the mutiny, Dyer of course, and a pair of men he didn't immediately recognise. They were probably from Intrepid. And there was Newbury too, relegated to serve aboard Proserpina so he could keep his position as Lieutenant Forster's steward. McIntyre frowned. Why was Newbury here? "What's happened?" The Irishman demanded, unnerved by the awkward silence. Newbury swallowed and glanced at Chase. It was the topman who ended up answering, after a long pause. "Mister Forster's hanged hisself, Mackie. That's what." The news was like a slap. McIntyre was stunned. Lieutenant Forster wasn't brave or especially good as an officer, but he'd never seemed like one who'd kill himself. Suddenly feeling dazed, the Irishman reached out blindly for the solid stone of the archway as he went slowly down to his knees. Chase and Dyer were at his side in an instant but their presence never registered. McIntyre couldn't believe it. Forster had stuck up brilliantly for him, according to Captains Cartwright and Somersby, who'd both visited earlier in the evening. "Get him back to his cot," somebody said. He was lifted carefully and carried back into the officers' ward, though he would later have no recollection of such movement. His mind had closed down completely upon the news about Lieutenant Forster. How had things come to this? |
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| James Gray | 11 Nov 2008, 06:06 AM Post #6 |
Warrant Officer
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It was a few days since Jemmy was sent on shore to work in the hospital as punishment for the games on Intrepid. He wondered if Captain Gillette forgot about them, the captain hadn’t given any kind of word about how long they were going to be on this work detail. The days just went on one after another and Jemmy and Bartlett didn’t hear anything. There was more than enough work to do at the hospital with the wounded still there from the mutiny. Jemmy had a strong stomach to tolerate all of it and steady hands. He was run around all the time by Finch and the injured men and his hands were rough from cleaning the floors and surfaces of the hospital. He was happier for those days than he was in a while by having something to do though. He was pretty good at it too. He took their care to heart. Unasked he watched the men for bedsores, he kept their sheets clean and he changed their positions when he could safely do it if they couldn’t move themselves. Jemmy had some experience with keeping wounds clean and bandaged right, the small triangle shaped scars on his body could show that. His touch was appreciated by the men with sore or painful wounds. He was gentler and more careful than many of the others when he dressed the injuries. One or two of them told him he ought’ve been a sawbones. In the hospital he was in a good position to hear all the news around the fort and when the word spread like wild fire about McIntyre’s verdict Jemmy couldn’t believe it at first. The punishment for desertion was always hanging but somehow McIntyre escaped it. It was impossible but all the reports confirmed it, and when he asked Cartwright when he caught the captain in one moment he learned it was true. The rumor was that it was all thanks to Lieutenant Forster who stood up for McIntyre in the last few moments. Jemmy never could have guessed the spineless lieutenant had the courage to go against Stevenson who had it in for McIntyre from the beginning. But Forster seemed to have more heart than it looked like. He was not on the parade when the punishment was carried out, only the new marines from Kingston were made to witness it. But Jemmy could hear it through the open windows of the hospital, it seemed like all the marines in the hospital were strangely silent, the sickest men held back their groans and the sound of the whip cracking from the parade ground kept them all totally quiet. He tried to shut his ears to it but it broke through his concentration anyway while he carefully cleaned instruments and set out clean linen for the men he knew would come in soon. He flinched every time the crack happened and he didn’t meet anyone’s eyes of the others in the hospital to hide the sick feeling in his stomach. The flogging was better than a hanging but five hundred lashes would leave McIntyre maimed if he lived through it. He counted the lashes but suddenly they stopped at one hundred. Jemmy stopped what he was doing and stood still to strain to hear, it seemed that everyone else in the hospital was doing the same thing. But there was not another crack from the parade ground, it was quiet. Was the sentence commuted to only one hundred? It was only a couple of minutes later that the crowd of blue jacketed seamen came barreling into the hospital with McIntyre held up high like a fallen hero, but the carried him gently even with their enthusiasm. They put him carefully down on a table with his front downward and Jemmy felt a shudder go through him at the sight of the mangled back. It looked like an animal mauled him, the skin was hanging off his back in pieces and he could see it torn down to muscle in places. Jemmy saw men flogged before but this was one of the worst. ~ Jemmy stayed in the hospital in the night instead of going back to the barracks, he volunteered to stay on watch. He knew sleep wasn’t going to come to him easy that night anyway, he would have kept awake until finally nightmares came for him. It was better to stay up and do something. Bartlett stayed on watch with him, he wasn’t sure if the other marine shared his feeling but he suspected it might be the way of things. The two marines from Intrepid kept a close eye on the men and listened to their breathing to make sure nobody was changing for worse in the night, he would have to call the doctor in if anything happened. They all seemed to be resting more or less peacefully except for one or two that were in too much pain or feverish to sleep. Those ones called several times for water or bed pans, even at night there was always work to do. In the officers ward McIntyre wasn’t sleeping, Jemmy found out when he checked. But he didn’t seem like he was getting a fever either, his forehead felt normal a little bit earlier in the night. He didn’t worry too much about McIntyre’s condition, the tars were acting as self appointed bodyguards and they were on the watch out for him. If anything changed they would notice, but Jemmy checked on the other marine when he made his rounds anyway just in case. It was a little while since the last time he went down to McIntyre’s ward and the time was coming around for him to check on him again. He was coming down the stairs from the enlisted ward when he heard the quiet voices whispering and another pair of shoes on the ground outside of the officer ward. Jemmy stopped for a bit in the entrance of the corridor, he could see a couple of the sailors clustered around another marine that Jemmy recognized was Newbury. Jemmy knew from the look on Newbury’s face that something was wrong. He stood there without moving while he heard the entire thing. Bartlett came up behind him and moved toward the seamen. “He done what?” Bartlett raised his voice a little in shock and Jemmy went after him quickly to hush him up. All of them were quiet suddenly, hoping they didn’t wake anyone up but when McIntyre appeared in the doorway Jemmy knew it was too late, they already got his attention. The injured marine swayed a bit in the doorway as he asked “Who’s done what, lads?” Nobody wanted to answer him but he insisted “What’s happened?” Jemmy shook his head frantically at Chase as the seaman slowly opened his mouth but the tar answered anyway. “Mister Forster’s hanged hisself, Mackie. That’s what.” He was too late to stop McIntyre but when the marine sagged after Chase told him about Forster Jemmy darted forward, the sailors were closer and they caught him underneath the shoulders to keep him from falling. “Get him back to his cot,” Jemmy said before he turned around to face Newbury. “You shouldn’t have told them,” Jemmy said to Newbury in a low voice of anger. Newbury shouldn’t have been talking about it with Chase or Dyer either. “Damn it you should have just kept your mouth shut! How about you don’t gossip about it with anyone else!” He turned away from Newbury furiously and headed into the officers ward where Chase and Dyer took McIntyre, he thought Bartlett was behind him. It was Newbury’s fault, McIntyre didn’t need a shock like that when he was in a dangerous situation. Jemmy knew that infection could happen easily to the wounds from the flogging, he knew other marines that died that way. He didn’t want to hear anything the steward had to say about it or anything that Chase had to say, the seaman should have just kept his mouth shut too. Chase and Dyer were standing over McIntyre’s cot, they were just shadows in the darkness. Jemmy barely had a chance to realize what happened himself, only in the dark ward it really hit him with full force. Forster hanged himself! Jemmy felt his stomach lurch. How could it happen, how could Forster do that to himself? Forster should have been the hero of the hour after McIntyre but instead he was dead by his own hand. He was hanging instead of McIntyre who he had saved. The idea of the suicide seemed to make the ward darker and smothering |
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| Royal Navy & Marines | 16 Nov 2008, 08:57 PM Post #7 |
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5th Lieutenant
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OOC - More short and more rubbish. >_> IC - Newbury stood, rooted to the spot, as the two seamen bolted forward to catch the wilting McIntyre. He knew he should've kept the news to himself, but he'd been too thoroughly struck by the event that, when Captain Cartwright had sent for him, he'd nearly been ill. It was all so... wrong. Lieutenant Forster wasn't perhaps the best officer Newbury had ever known, but at least he tried. He certainly meant well too. Or he had. Other seamen in the hall were awake now, roused from their fitful slumber by the noise. Newbury turned sharply away and hurried for the working-room. Gray was right that he shouldn't have gossiped - but Dyer was to blame for challenging him and demanding to know his business in the hospital so late. Stupid, rumour-mongering seamen. Newbury collected the items he'd been sent for and dashed back out, barely able to keep from colliding with several seamen who were now milling about in the receiving hall. Nobody paid his exit any mind, blessedly. The word about Forster's fate was already spreading - Dyer hadn't bothered to exercise any discretion and told the first man he encountered, after depositing McIntyre back into his hanging cot. Jacob Bartlett, having followed Gray into the officers' ward, couldn't help sneering in disgust. "Stupid bastard," he grumbled. "Always did have a loose tongue fer gossip. An' him bein' 'Tenant Forster's steward, no less!" Shaking his head, Bartlett moved away to stand by the archway, arms folded. He wasn't grieving for the lieutenant yet, such was the effect of the initial shock of hearing that the man was dead. It was all a mess, everything relating to that damned court-martial. Now they had one marine laid up with a ruined back and an officer dead, for no honest or good reason. In his cot, McIntyre stared numbly at the blurry, dark outline of the cot's edge. He felt stupid and very low, knowing what had caused Lieutenant Forster to buck up as he had. "Ought've been me," the Irishman mumbled into the pillow, and covered his head with his arms. |
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