Whip

Before them lay a runaway, face down, his buttocks bare to the sky. Chains clinked against the sand as he folded his hands.

Richard Whistler stepped between the prone man and the crowd. “We stand in witness today before this escapee,” he announced, his voice carrying over the surf. Ife craned her neck up to look at him. “This man chose to dismiss himself before his services expired, and henceforth shall be administered punishment.”

Whistler nodded. Eban swung, and the bullwhip popped across the shackled man’s back. A sharp whimper rose, muffled by the wind. Another nod, another strike. Ife knew the sound of the crack, but she had never seen the skin part. With every lash that echoed across the bay, the leather tore deeper. The crowd flinched in unison.

Whistler raised his hand. The biting ceased. The runaway pressed his forehead into the dirt, blowing sand with each ragged breath. Whistler turned toward three men standing near Ife. “You there. Relieve yourselves upon him.”

The men eyed each other, motionless.

Whistler pointed, his voice rising to a shout. “Lower your trousers and relieve yourselves upon the offender!”

When they hesitated, Eban cracked the whip at their heels. They sprang back, sand dusting their ankles. Ife recoiled, her back hitting her mother’s waist.

“Ah, the devil! Go on,” Whistler barked. “Do as I say.”

One of the three, trembling violently, untied his drawstring and pissed into the sand beside the bound man.

“No, no, no,” Whistler muttered. He stepped forward and shoved the man mid-stream, redirecting the flow onto the raw flesh. The runaway convulsed as the wet heat hit his back. Curses rippled through the crowd.

“Silence,” Whistler commanded, his hands on his hips.

Eban and Philip watched, their faces blank. When finished, the man pulled up his trousers and dropped his chin, hiding his eyes.

“Now you two,” Whistler pointed.

When the next two men failed to move, Whistler drew his steel. The crowd gasped, drawing back. Omotola’s hands clamped tight over Ife’s shoulders.

“Do it!” Whistler screamed, leveling the blade at them.

They stepped forward, fumbling with their waistbands. Ife froze. One man, paralyzed under the blade, produced nothing.

Whistler bared his teeth. “Leak upon him or I’ll cut it off.”

The man winced, bending his knees, desperate to force a stream under the gaze of the others. But he could not.

Whistler raised the sword high and advanced on the crowd. Ife held her breath at the steel, beaming in the sunlight, approaching nearer, nearer. But Whistler suddenly pivoted, walking back to the horses. Ife exhaled, her chest aching.

“If you shall not leak upon him,” Whistler said, re-sheathing the blade, “then you will deliver the lash.”

He took the bullwhip from Eban and shoved the handle into the dry-bladdered man’s hand. The crowd covered their mouths. On the sand, the soiled runaway shivered, his knees pulled to his chest.

“Go on. Strike him.”

The captive clutched the leather, throwing a mortified look toward his fellows.

“What the devil! Strike him!”

The man swung. The whip snapped against his brethren's back, drawing a heavy groan. More skin peeled. Murmured prayers rose from the crowd. Another crack, another flinch. Ife looked up at her mother, but Omotola’s lips were pressed into a hard, silent line.

“Again,” Whistler shouted. “Strike him!”

The whip cracked, but this time the man spun on his heel and lashed the leather straight across Whistler’s chest, ripping open the white silk shirt.

A roar burst from the captives—a sharp, collective suck of wind.

Whistler drew and fired his flintlock in a single motion. Ker-Ack! The explosion rattled Ife’s teeth. She slammed her hands over her ears as the smell of gun powder bit her nose. Philip and Eban instantly unholstered their muskets from their saddles.

The man with the whip buckled. He fell hard on his back, a dark stream from the chest wound led to a pool in his navel. He coughed red, his ribs heaving as he fought for air through the blood in his throat.

Screams erupted from the crowd. An old man near Ife moaned into his hands, “An evil deed... an evil deed.”

“’Tis a shame,” Whistler muttered. He mounted his horse and turned its head from the beach. His son and the overseer followed, their hooves kicking up damp sand, trotting away.

The crowd broke, rushing to the dying man. They cradled his head, pressing hands over the bubbling wound. “Take wind, child,” they wept. “Do not let go.” His fingers remained locked around Whistler’s whip, his teeth stained crimson.

A wave receded from the shore. “Sleep now,” they whispered. “Sleep.”

Behind them, others knelt to tend the defiled runaway, covering his raw back and his nakedness with borrowed smocks. Ife stood frozen, unable to tear her eyes from the tainted sand. The shouting died into a low, vibrating hum.

II Machete --->