Cruel angry was the master, Thomas Dennott,
Driven by the devil and storm scudding his mind.
When he blew hot, the seams’ pitch waxed warm.
Swore by the cat and the cutting cane, did Dennott;
Plenty of guts, but no bowels, as the saying runs.
More than bounce any mortal, he’d look upon ‘em with evil eye
And provoke ‘em past all bearing: the common cry of lags;
Marines; first mate; even the ship’s surgeon, Augustus Beyer,
Your most obedient servant, sir.
These Irish tinderboxes, rebels of ’98, that embarked at Cork
Were a skittish mob, grousers in the main.
And Dennott was jumping mad about conjecture of mutiny,
Fiercely determined to crab any rioting and rollicking.
His guards found faked saws and knives, a pair of scissors,
Iron bars for cudgels.
Ay, there’s a hot piece of work afoot! the master bellowed.
Set up the puzzling-sticks at the instant!
Fetch the ruffles for these damned Irish scoundrels, aiders and abettors!
For the bell-wether, James Brennan, he ordered three hundred lashes;
A further five hundred on the morrow.
‘I will make bold to say, if I give offence –‘
Cut the line, Mr Beyer! Repair to your cabin, if it please you.
You may take cold on deck.
Floggers, wet your whistle with a tot of rum directly
‘Ere you warm to your work.
Would that I could have stayed his hand.
From my quarters, above the slap of swell against the gunwales,
The screams and piteous pleas of those devils dinned my ears,
Along with shrill curses of the master redounding through creaking timbers:
Damn you! I will cut you bog-trotters to pieces!
Hanging is too gentle a death for the likes of you! Strip his masthead!
Locked up in my cabin was a cache of wine intended as comfort for the sick,
Which I availed myself thereof.
‘Pon the next morn, Brennan was led out by guards,
Double irons riven but stiff in limb, head bowed,
Yet with defiant mien, and trined to the triangles.
Dennott was eager to study the prisoner’s red shirt,
Flayed to purplish welts crusted by salt.
Damn your eyes, this will open your carcase!
Neck or nothing!
Already he was knotting tags of horse-skin to the nine-tails.
The cat’s claws are sharpened. Fall to it, man!
With this burst, Brennan’s back steadily sliced open
In drizzles of blood that the cat flicked away with nonchalance.
‘I beg you cease, Mr Dennott. This wretch can bear it no longer.’
Damn a horse’s hind leg if I do. Methinks ‘tis you, Mr Beyer,
That can bear it no longer.
If truth be told, I had not the stomach.
I own ‘twas my duty to oversee all floggings,
But not countenance wanton blood-letting and humiliation.
Not after what he did to Jenny Blake, that had attempted suicide.
Took a razor to her head and shaved her cropped hair.
Indeed, sir, ‘tis true. Caned her at the bulkhead,
Beat her about the face and naked torso, all the while
Taunting ‘infernal vixen’, ‘blone’, ‘chuckey’ and such like.
Then ironed both legs and chained her.
Bark on, curs! Dennott mocked those tinkers brought up from the hold
To witness the colleen’s shame, cussing under their breath.
Let her cry! She’ll piss the less.
Swish that cane, he would, at trifling offences too.
Poor Mary Cogan. Her mind was permanently fogged.
Now that wench did take her own life
Consequent upon the teasing of this madman
- begging your pardon, sir.
You are going to be hanged, Mary. Do you understand?
I have sent for a piece of white line to tuck you up genteelly.
‘Saving your presence, Mr Dennott, I cry you mercy, sir!’
You have no right to interfere with these gut-foundered felons, Mr Beyer.
God blast ye! What the devil’s got hold of you?
You yoursen scarce descend to the louse-house to administer and fumigate.
Although pinched by want and in the greatest tribulation,
These croppies were tough as tack.
A mere ten men and one woman died on the passage,
Whereas on the Scarborough six years before we lost seventy-three,
For we could not afford to give those cursed mutineers an airing on deck.
Six of the Britannia’s ring-leaders died after their flogging.
Er, possibly from thirst. Such was Patrick Garnley,
That stood the welter of four hundred lashes.
But even he cried out for water.
I’ll give you plenty to drink soon enough, ye limb of a gypsy!
In a watery grave! barked Master Dennott.
In truth, there wasn’t much water on board,
Save in the sluicing and larding of the foul prison deck.
The water-casks had been staved in so the master’s goods for private
Trafficking might be stowed to bring home dollars.
Sir, how in heaven’s name could I discharge my duties
When this ranting demon put me under restraint,
Ignored my counsel and reports and treated me with disdain,
A louse upon the elephant’s back?
My position had become so fraught with peril that the desperadoes
Would have slit my throat durst I’d gone below to the tween-decks
To dress their wounds with plasters.
What means of redress had I against a commanding officer’s
Brutality and want of common decency?
By the bye, sir, ‘tis a damned lie and wicked calumny
That I was a drunken sot and loused myself on the hen-coop.
By the holy, we are all damnation sinners.
Michael Small April 22-May 6, 2004
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