“You, John, you, Richard, (Richard was Sukey) you Mark, you Antone,” said the captain, “were yesterday found fighting on the gun-deck.  Have you any thing to say?”

Mark and Antone, two steady, middle-aged men, who had been admired for their sobriety, replied that they did not strike the first blow; they had submitted to much before they yielded to their passions; but as they acknowledged that they had at last defended themselves their excuse was overruled.  John—­a brutal bully, who in fact was the real author of the disturbance was about entering into a long harangue, when the captain cut him short, and made him confess, irrespective of circumstances, that he had been in the fray.  Poor Sukey, the youngest and handsomest of the four, was pale and tremulous.  He had already won the good will and esteem of many in the ship.  That morning Fernando and Terrence had gone to his bag, taken out his best clothes and, obtaining the permission of the marine sentry at the “brig,” had handed them to him, to be put on before he was summoned to the mast.  This was done to propitiate Captain Snipes, who liked to see a tidy sailor; but it was all in vain.  To all the young American’s supplications, Captain Snipes turned a deaf ear.  Sukey declared he had been struck twice before he had returned a blow.

“No matter,” cried the captain, angrily, “you struck at last, instead of reporting the case to an officer.  I allow no man to fight on this ship but myself.  I do the fighting.  Now, men,” he added fixing his dark stern eye on them, “you all admit the charge; you know the penalty.  Strip!  Quartermaster, are the gratings rigged?”

The gratings were square frames of barred woodwork, sometimes placed over the hatches.  One of these squares was now laid on the deck, close to the ship’s bulwarks, and while the remaining preparations were being made, the master-at-arms assisted the prisoners to remove their jackets and shirts.  This done, their shirts were loosely thrown over their shoulders as a partial protection from the keen breeze, until their turn should come.

At a sign from the captain, John, with a shameless leer, stepped forward and stood passively on the grating, while the bareheaded old quarter-master, with his gray hair streaming in the wind, bound his feet to the cross-bars and, stretching out his arms over his head, secured them to the hammock netting above.  He then retreated a little space, standing silent.  Meanwhile, the boatswain stood solemnly on the other side with a green bag in his hand.  From this he took four instruments of punishment and gave one to each of his mates; for a fresh “cat,” applied by a fresh hand, was the ceremonious privilege accorded to every man-of-war culprit.  Through all that terrible scene, Fernando Stevens stood transfixed with horror, indignation and a thousand bitter, indescribable feelings.  At another sign from the captain, the master-at-arms, stepping up, removed the shirt from the prisoner.  At this juncture, a wave broke against the ship’s side and dashed the spray over the man’s exposed back; but, though the air was piercing cold, and the water drenched him, John stood still without a shudder.