Eight days out of Portsmouth, HMS Banshee, a 120-gun ship of
the line, was in full sail as she ploughed South through light swell en-route
to join the sixth flotilla in the Indian Ocean. Her sails were a brilliant
white in the morning sun, and her pennants told the world at large that she
carried a Commodore as officer in command. Two frigates and one supply ship
maintained station to her rear.
“Midshipman Skinner!” roared Lieutenant Jones, standing at the base of the mizzen mast, shouting at a lad some twenty feet higher on its lowest yardarm.
The lad scuttled down the rigging, and dropped to land facing in front of his watch officer, and saluted smartly, even though he wore no hat. He had the short curly blonde hair favored by the Board, and the stubble-less chin of a lad barely out of kinder school.
Jones was tall and lank, steeled by years of hard work and lean rations. “Sir, you were idle on parade this morning. How say you?”
Skinner looked down at the wooden deck. “Sorry sir, I was called short to the latrine, It won’t happen again, sir.”
“This is two days in a row! You will show me your log.” Every midshipman carried a full navigation log of his own, meticulously detailed, to one day show to a promotion board as part of his proof of being able to perform the duties of an officer.
They walked together to the gun-room, where the midshipman hung their hammocks at night. All gear was neatly tucked away during daylight hours in toddy-bags or, if belonged by gentry, in wooden chests.
Skinner produced his log book.
Jones looked at the title page, which proclaimed that Francis Skinner had been granted papers on June 24, 1820 – just two weeks ago. The first page of the log recorded that the ship cast sail at eight bells on July 1st. That was its only entry.
“This is not good, Skinner”
“Our master has not yet given us instruction, sir. I did not want to do it wrong.” The ship carried a civilian, rated and paid as a midshipman himself, who taught his charges the crafts and skills of seamanship.
“I have more than enough grounds for Captain’s Orders. Will you accept my punishment, or shall I draw up the charges?”
“I will accept you punishment, sir.” The fate of midshipmen who went before their captain and failed to prove their innocence was a recurring theme in newcomer conversations.
“Then, sir, you will be so good as to report to me by gun one on the main deck at four pm today”
“Sir”
“I suggest that you do not wear your best trousers. You would not want to have to buy a new pair – it being so early in your career … Hmmm?” He initiated the salute, did not wait for an acknowledgement, spun on one heel and strode off.
Skinner looked at the back of the retreating officer. “Just tell him,” he whispered to himself, blinking back the tears, “that you are a girl.”
She took stock. It would be another month before she would “be called short to the latrine” again, by which time she and the Banshee would have long parted company. When they docked at Gibraltar, a 15 year old boy would desert ship. They would not be looking for a 17 year old girl.
On the other hand, if she confessed to being an impostor, virtually a stow-a-way, the only thing that was certain in her future was being shipped back to England.
The price for avoiding the forthcoming caning would not only be the failure to reach Roberto, but possibly an even more unpleasant form of corporal punishment instead.
Resigning herself to her fate, she began to shore up her resolve to undergo the upcoming ordeal with the minimum of public disgrace or dishonor. She was playing the part of a midshipman; she had better act like one.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
As per custom, she presented herself, dressed in ruffed white shirt and grey pants – cap and jacket left in the gunroom – well before the appointed hour.
There had been no public announcement, but many off duty ratings had taken up vantage points on the rigging to watch the proceedings. There was something satisfying in watching a person who could one day order them to be flogged undergoing a painful punishment of their own.
And, of course, all the other midshipmen who had no watch duties had gathered to give support to, or relish the discomfort of, their shipmate.
The 30-pounder long gun that occupied number one position on the main deck had four wheels, and it had been man-handled from its usual firing position so that it now pointed fore and aft, with the cannon aimed to the rear of the ship.
Lieutenant Jones was waiting by the breach, holding the standard four foot rod of ash that was used to inflict discipline on anyone under the age of 16. A birch rod was carried on board, but its use was restricted to those convicted by the Captain for “unnatural practices”.
She had been briefed, by the school master of all people, on the form and etiquette of the ritual. Any transgression would result in one to three extra strokes, purely at the whim of her executioner.
She marched up to Jones, stood to attention in front of him, saluted, and without once breaking eye-to-eye contact stated “Sir, Midshipman Skinner reporting as ordered, Sir”.
And then she dropped her right hand back to her side.
Jones returned the salute.
He pointed to the cannon. “Sir, if you please”.
She stood beside the gun, facing its rear. She swung her right leg up and over the top of the barrel, wriggled slightly until she was sitting squarely astride it, and then lay down along the barrel. She stretched her arms straight out, and then bent them at the elbows to point down towards the rear wheels of the breach block.
Four midshipmen moved in, one for each extremity, and her ankles were quickly roped to the front wheels, and her wrists to the rear ones. Her mouth was close to the cannon’ firing hole – her position was known as “kissing the gunner’s daughter.” She turned her head to one side, rested it on the gun metal, and closed her eyes to learn of her fate.
Jones took up a position somewhere near her left ankle.
“Gentlemen, ratings. In the matter of Midshipman Skinner. For being idle on parade, three cuts. For being idle on parade a second time, six cuts. For failing to maintain a satisfactory log, six cuts. In total, fifteen cuts.”
“Fifteen” she thought, “Oh god no.” She knew the absolute minimum was six cuts – and a first offender such as she, she reasonably expected the minimum.
Her buttocks were clasped firmly by her cotton twill pants, and her attempt to clench herself in readiness for the first stroke had no effect whatsoever.
“Bosun” called Jones.
“Sir” The bosun stepped forward. and Jones handed him the cane. He was a big man, with well developed muscles. He had stripped to the waist, so that he could get a full swing without hindrance.
He took the handle, and swished the tip through the air, to warm up his forearm.
He moved round and took aim at the taught seat presented to him. Then wound backwards, like coiling up a spring, until the cane was pointing straight down behind his back.
He launched the tip into a tight, whistling arc, and connected with full force.
To her amazement, she felt no pain at the moment of impact. And then as the blood raced back to the nerve ends, it exploded like gunshot across her bottom. She held her breath until the initial shock subsided, and then started to pant heavily in reaction to the shock.
The bosun stood back, and massaged his right forearm with his left hand, and looked around at his audience as if seeking approval, or at least recognition, for that stroke.
She had been told that this was going to be the worst part – waiting a full minute between each stroke – time to ensure that each stroke had maximum effect, time for the nerve to crack, and time to ponder fully just how bad it was going to get.
She felt the stick touch her bottom again. “Hold it, hold it, hold it” she said silently to herself.
Then the whistle. The crack of wood hitting its target. And then the shock wave.
The fire seemed to have increased by more that double! This was intolerable!
“You can do it. Hold on. hold on” A silent vow taken earlier that day - not to be a baby. If boys could take such pain in silence, she was damned sure she could.
She could tell the minute was nearing its end – her breath was almost back to normal.
Yes – the stick was being used to select the next target spot.
She forced herself to get ready: Breathe in – hold the breath – here it comes! – aa-aa-argh … A very quiet cry of pain, but one noticed by the boys nearest to her. All pondered if she was going to crack.
Wet eyes were alright she reminded herself. Everyone got wet eyes. That was ok. Come on, hold it, hold on. The seconds passed in slow motion, but once gone, the next stroke loomed ever closer.
Deep breath ,,, and …. aah! Although she was climbing up a wall of agony that seemed to have no peak, she was not going to crack!
I’ll show the bastard! All of the bastards! They won’t break me. Her anger ripped through her, strengthening her resolve, calming her vision.
She panted freely, but it was a controlled pant. She was back in charge of her body.
Another gunshot exploded across her bottom, but she simply added it to the tally, blinked away the tear and braced herself for the next one.
Come on you bastard, come on, you can’t hurt me, god damn you, come … aaah! Oh god, that one hurt … ah … come on, come on, show the bastards. Particularly that bastard … show him ..
Crack!!!! Aaa-aargh! The helplessness was returning. The pain was becoming overwhelming. It was only a question of time …
Then she looked up for the first time since her ordeal had begun. Jones was standing a couple of yards in front of her – and he was smiling! The god damned bastard was laughing at her pain.
Crack!!! She held his gaze, and with gritted teeth showed him that she was not one to be broken!
Damn, damn, damn! Crack!!!! Hold it, hold it, hold it. You are nearly there.
And yet another eternity ticked away.
Until … Crack!!!! She checked – there had been a slight reawakening of the pain, but there was no feeling! She was winning! Come on, come on, come on …
Crack!!! Yes! Yes you bastard! You cannot get through to me any more. Come on! Do it!
Crack!!!! And then, from nowhere, and to her intense shame and embarrassment, she had an orgasm. She lay in disbelief and confusion.
Crack!!! She yelled like a stuck pig. Oh god damn it, it was not fair, this is not fair, please no more ,,,
This time the eternity was filled with fear and dread.
Crack!!!! A cry that bordered on a scream. Come on girl, come on, Get a grip. Don’t let the bastards win, Come on. A deep breath, A pause.
Crack!!!! Aaah. That’s it. Back in control. You have it. Come on, you can take it.
She became aware that her feet and ankles were being unfastened. Was there not more to come? Was it done.
“Come on Skinner” some one was talking to her. “You did just fine. A shot of grog and you’ll be set up all square again.”
She slowly and stiffly climbed off the cannon.
Standing to attention was not easy, but she pulled it off with only small winces of pain.
She saluted Jones. “Sir, Midshipman Skinner requesting permission to stand down, Sir”
Jones returned the salute. “Sir, permission granted”
She dropped the salute and started to turn.
“Get a good night’s rest, Skinner. Tomorrow I have you down for duty on the top rigging,”
She marched away without comment.
“Midshipman Skinner!” roared Lieutenant Jones, standing at the base of the mizzen mast, shouting at a lad some twenty feet higher on its lowest yardarm.
The lad scuttled down the rigging, and dropped to land facing in front of his watch officer, and saluted smartly, even though he wore no hat. He had the short curly blonde hair favored by the Board, and the stubble-less chin of a lad barely out of kinder school.
Jones was tall and lank, steeled by years of hard work and lean rations. “Sir, you were idle on parade this morning. How say you?”
Skinner looked down at the wooden deck. “Sorry sir, I was called short to the latrine, It won’t happen again, sir.”
“This is two days in a row! You will show me your log.” Every midshipman carried a full navigation log of his own, meticulously detailed, to one day show to a promotion board as part of his proof of being able to perform the duties of an officer.
They walked together to the gun-room, where the midshipman hung their hammocks at night. All gear was neatly tucked away during daylight hours in toddy-bags or, if belonged by gentry, in wooden chests.
Skinner produced his log book.
Jones looked at the title page, which proclaimed that Francis Skinner had been granted papers on June 24, 1820 – just two weeks ago. The first page of the log recorded that the ship cast sail at eight bells on July 1st. That was its only entry.
“This is not good, Skinner”
“Our master has not yet given us instruction, sir. I did not want to do it wrong.” The ship carried a civilian, rated and paid as a midshipman himself, who taught his charges the crafts and skills of seamanship.
“I have more than enough grounds for Captain’s Orders. Will you accept my punishment, or shall I draw up the charges?”
“I will accept you punishment, sir.” The fate of midshipmen who went before their captain and failed to prove their innocence was a recurring theme in newcomer conversations.
“Then, sir, you will be so good as to report to me by gun one on the main deck at four pm today”
“Sir”
“I suggest that you do not wear your best trousers. You would not want to have to buy a new pair – it being so early in your career … Hmmm?” He initiated the salute, did not wait for an acknowledgement, spun on one heel and strode off.
Skinner looked at the back of the retreating officer. “Just tell him,” he whispered to himself, blinking back the tears, “that you are a girl.”
She took stock. It would be another month before she would “be called short to the latrine” again, by which time she and the Banshee would have long parted company. When they docked at Gibraltar, a 15 year old boy would desert ship. They would not be looking for a 17 year old girl.
On the other hand, if she confessed to being an impostor, virtually a stow-a-way, the only thing that was certain in her future was being shipped back to England.
The price for avoiding the forthcoming caning would not only be the failure to reach Roberto, but possibly an even more unpleasant form of corporal punishment instead.
Resigning herself to her fate, she began to shore up her resolve to undergo the upcoming ordeal with the minimum of public disgrace or dishonor. She was playing the part of a midshipman; she had better act like one.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
As per custom, she presented herself, dressed in ruffed white shirt and grey pants – cap and jacket left in the gunroom – well before the appointed hour.
There had been no public announcement, but many off duty ratings had taken up vantage points on the rigging to watch the proceedings. There was something satisfying in watching a person who could one day order them to be flogged undergoing a painful punishment of their own.
And, of course, all the other midshipmen who had no watch duties had gathered to give support to, or relish the discomfort of, their shipmate.
The 30-pounder long gun that occupied number one position on the main deck had four wheels, and it had been man-handled from its usual firing position so that it now pointed fore and aft, with the cannon aimed to the rear of the ship.
Lieutenant Jones was waiting by the breach, holding the standard four foot rod of ash that was used to inflict discipline on anyone under the age of 16. A birch rod was carried on board, but its use was restricted to those convicted by the Captain for “unnatural practices”.
She had been briefed, by the school master of all people, on the form and etiquette of the ritual. Any transgression would result in one to three extra strokes, purely at the whim of her executioner.
She marched up to Jones, stood to attention in front of him, saluted, and without once breaking eye-to-eye contact stated “Sir, Midshipman Skinner reporting as ordered, Sir”.
And then she dropped her right hand back to her side.
Jones returned the salute.
He pointed to the cannon. “Sir, if you please”.
She stood beside the gun, facing its rear. She swung her right leg up and over the top of the barrel, wriggled slightly until she was sitting squarely astride it, and then lay down along the barrel. She stretched her arms straight out, and then bent them at the elbows to point down towards the rear wheels of the breach block.
Four midshipmen moved in, one for each extremity, and her ankles were quickly roped to the front wheels, and her wrists to the rear ones. Her mouth was close to the cannon’ firing hole – her position was known as “kissing the gunner’s daughter.” She turned her head to one side, rested it on the gun metal, and closed her eyes to learn of her fate.
Jones took up a position somewhere near her left ankle.
“Gentlemen, ratings. In the matter of Midshipman Skinner. For being idle on parade, three cuts. For being idle on parade a second time, six cuts. For failing to maintain a satisfactory log, six cuts. In total, fifteen cuts.”
“Fifteen” she thought, “Oh god no.” She knew the absolute minimum was six cuts – and a first offender such as she, she reasonably expected the minimum.
Her buttocks were clasped firmly by her cotton twill pants, and her attempt to clench herself in readiness for the first stroke had no effect whatsoever.
“Bosun” called Jones.
“Sir” The bosun stepped forward. and Jones handed him the cane. He was a big man, with well developed muscles. He had stripped to the waist, so that he could get a full swing without hindrance.
He took the handle, and swished the tip through the air, to warm up his forearm.
He moved round and took aim at the taught seat presented to him. Then wound backwards, like coiling up a spring, until the cane was pointing straight down behind his back.
He launched the tip into a tight, whistling arc, and connected with full force.
To her amazement, she felt no pain at the moment of impact. And then as the blood raced back to the nerve ends, it exploded like gunshot across her bottom. She held her breath until the initial shock subsided, and then started to pant heavily in reaction to the shock.
The bosun stood back, and massaged his right forearm with his left hand, and looked around at his audience as if seeking approval, or at least recognition, for that stroke.
She had been told that this was going to be the worst part – waiting a full minute between each stroke – time to ensure that each stroke had maximum effect, time for the nerve to crack, and time to ponder fully just how bad it was going to get.
She felt the stick touch her bottom again. “Hold it, hold it, hold it” she said silently to herself.
Then the whistle. The crack of wood hitting its target. And then the shock wave.
The fire seemed to have increased by more that double! This was intolerable!
“You can do it. Hold on. hold on” A silent vow taken earlier that day - not to be a baby. If boys could take such pain in silence, she was damned sure she could.
She could tell the minute was nearing its end – her breath was almost back to normal.
Yes – the stick was being used to select the next target spot.
She forced herself to get ready: Breathe in – hold the breath – here it comes! – aa-aa-argh … A very quiet cry of pain, but one noticed by the boys nearest to her. All pondered if she was going to crack.
Wet eyes were alright she reminded herself. Everyone got wet eyes. That was ok. Come on, hold it, hold on. The seconds passed in slow motion, but once gone, the next stroke loomed ever closer.
Deep breath ,,, and …. aah! Although she was climbing up a wall of agony that seemed to have no peak, she was not going to crack!
I’ll show the bastard! All of the bastards! They won’t break me. Her anger ripped through her, strengthening her resolve, calming her vision.
She panted freely, but it was a controlled pant. She was back in charge of her body.
Another gunshot exploded across her bottom, but she simply added it to the tally, blinked away the tear and braced herself for the next one.
Come on you bastard, come on, you can’t hurt me, god damn you, come … aaah! Oh god, that one hurt … ah … come on, come on, show the bastards. Particularly that bastard … show him ..
Crack!!!! Aaa-aargh! The helplessness was returning. The pain was becoming overwhelming. It was only a question of time …
Then she looked up for the first time since her ordeal had begun. Jones was standing a couple of yards in front of her – and he was smiling! The god damned bastard was laughing at her pain.
Crack!!! She held his gaze, and with gritted teeth showed him that she was not one to be broken!
Damn, damn, damn! Crack!!!! Hold it, hold it, hold it. You are nearly there.
And yet another eternity ticked away.
Until … Crack!!!! She checked – there had been a slight reawakening of the pain, but there was no feeling! She was winning! Come on, come on, come on …
Crack!!! Yes! Yes you bastard! You cannot get through to me any more. Come on! Do it!
Crack!!!! And then, from nowhere, and to her intense shame and embarrassment, she had an orgasm. She lay in disbelief and confusion.
Crack!!! She yelled like a stuck pig. Oh god damn it, it was not fair, this is not fair, please no more ,,,
This time the eternity was filled with fear and dread.
Crack!!!! A cry that bordered on a scream. Come on girl, come on, Get a grip. Don’t let the bastards win, Come on. A deep breath, A pause.
Crack!!!! Aaah. That’s it. Back in control. You have it. Come on, you can take it.
She became aware that her feet and ankles were being unfastened. Was there not more to come? Was it done.
“Come on Skinner” some one was talking to her. “You did just fine. A shot of grog and you’ll be set up all square again.”
She slowly and stiffly climbed off the cannon.
Standing to attention was not easy, but she pulled it off with only small winces of pain.
She saluted Jones. “Sir, Midshipman Skinner requesting permission to stand down, Sir”
Jones returned the salute. “Sir, permission granted”
She dropped the salute and started to turn.
“Get a good night’s rest, Skinner. Tomorrow I have you down for duty on the top rigging,”
She marched away without comment.
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