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- 2026-01-30T20:47:50.352Z
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- Anon, under sentry, between twin guns,
He slides off in drowse, and the long night runs.
Morning brings a summons. Whistling it calls,
Shrilled through the pipes of the boatswain’s four aids;
Trilled down the hatchways along the dusk halls:
_Muster to the Scourge!_—Dawn of doom and its blast!
As from cemeteries raised, sailors swarm before the mast,
Tumbling up the ladders from the ship’s nether shades.
Keeping in the background and taking small part,
Lounging at their ease, indifferent in face,
Behold the trim marines uncompromised in heart;
Their Major, buttoned up, near the staff finds room—
The staff o’ lieutenants standing grouped in their place.
All the Laced Caps o’ the ward-room come,
The Chaplain among them, disciplined and dumb.
The blue-nosed boatswain, complexioned like slag,
Like a blue Monday lours—his implements in bag.
Executioners, his aids, a couple by him stand,
At a nod there the thongs to receive from his hand.
Never venturing a caveat whatever may betide,
Though functionally here on humanity’s side,
The grave Surgeon shows, like the formal physician
Attending the rack o’ the Spanish Inquisition.
The angel o’ the “brig” brings his prisoner up;
Then, steadied by his old _Santa-Clara_, a sup,
Heading all erect, the ranged assizes there,
Lo, Captain Turret, and under starred bunting,
(A florid full face and fine silvered hair,)
Gigantic the yet greater giant confronting.
Now the culprit he liked, as a tall captain can
A Titan subordinate and true _sailor-man;_
And frequent he’d shown it—no worded advance,
But flattering the Finn with a well-timed glance.
But what of that now? In the martinet-mien
Read the _Articles of War_, heed the naval routine;
While, cut to the heart a dishonor there to win,
Restored to his senses, stood the Anak Finn;
In racked self-control the squeezed tears peeping,
Scalding the eye with repressed inkeeping.
Discipline must be; the scourge is deemed due.
But ah for the sickening and strange heart- benumbing,
Compassionate abasement in shipmates that view;
Such a grand champion shamed there succumbing!
“Brown, tie him up.”—The cord he brooked:
How else?—his arms spread apart—never threaping;
No, never he flinched, never sideways he looked,
Peeled to the waistband, the marble flesh creeping,
Lashed by the sleet the officious winds urge.
In function his fellows their fellowship merge—
The twain standing nigh—the two boatswain’s mates,
Sailors of his grade, ay, and brothers of his mess.
With sharp thongs adroop the junior one awaits
The word to uplift.
“Untie him—so!
Submission is enough, Man, you may go.”
Then, promenading aft, brushing fat Purser Smart,
“Flog? Never meant it—hadn’t any heart.
Degrade that tall fellow? “—Such, wife, was he,
Old Captain Turret, who the brave wine could stow.
Magnanimous, you think?—But what does Dick see?
Apron to your eye! Why, never fell a blow;
Cheer up, old wifie, ’t was a long time ago.
But where’s that sore one, crabbed and-severe,
Lieutenant Lon Lumbago, an arch scrutineer?
Call the roll to-day, would he answer—_Here!_
When the _Blixum’s_ fellows to quarters mustered
How he’d lurch along the lane of gun-crews clustered,
Testy as touchwood, to pry and to peer.
Jerking his sword underneath larboard arm,
He ground his worn grinders to keep himself calm.
Composed in his nerves, from the fidgets set free,
Tell, Sweet Wrinkles, alive now is he,
In Paradise a parlor where the even tempers be?
- title
- Chunk 2