Whip

Ife knew the sound of the crack, but she had never seen the skin slice open. Eban swung, and the bullwhip popped across the shackled man’s back. A sharp whimper rose, muffled by the wind. With every lash echoing across the bay, the leather tore deeper. Another nod, another strike. Ife flinched.

Richard Whistler stepped between the shackled man and the crowd. “Those who choose to dismiss themselves,” his voice carried over the surf, “shall get the lash.”

Ife huddled in front of her mother’s shift under the big palm tree, the shadow of Whistler’s wig looming. Below them lay a runaway, his torn naked back to the sky, his hands tethered to the trunk of the palm.

Whistler raised his hand. The lashing ceased. Pressing his forehead into the dirt, the runaway blew sand with each ragged breath. Whistler faced the two men nearest Ife. “You there. Relieve yourselves upon him.”

Ife stared past Whistler, at the horses along the beach, their manes waving in the breeze. Whistler’s son, Philip, sat in his saddle, heavy and still.

Whistler scoffed, waving his finger at the men near Ife. “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 spine pressed into her mother’s thigh.

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

One of the men, trembling, untied his drawstring and pissed in the sand beside the runaway.

“No,” Whistler muttered. He stepped in, shoving his boot into the man’s back, forcing his warm stream to hit the raw, torn flesh. The sound of splatter festered in Ife’s ears. Low curses grumbled from the crowd.

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

Eban and Philip watched, their faces as blank as their horses. When the man pulled up his trousers, Whistler turned his cold gaze to the remaining man, anchored in the sand. “Now you.”

When he failed to move, Whistler drew his steel. The crowd gasped, drawing back. Her mother’s hands clamped tight over Ife’s shoulders, dragging her a step behind her shift.

Whistler leveled the blade. The man clenched his jaw, staring at the point of the sword.

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

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

Whistler raised the sword high, drew a deep sigh, and advanced on the crowd, his boots digging heavy furrows as he stomped through the sand. Ife held her breath under the steady thrum of his steel. But Whistler pivoted 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 man’s hand. In the muck, the soiled runaway shivered, his knees curled to his chest.

“Go on.”

The man clutched the leather, throwing wide eyes at Ife and the others.

“What the devil! Strike him!” Whistler shouted.

The man swung. The whip snapped, drawing a heavy groan. More skin peeled. Another crack, another flinch. Ife looked up at her mother, but Omotola pressed her lips into a hard, silent line.

“Again!”

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

A roar burst from the captives—a sharp, collective wheeze.

Whistler drew and fired his flintlock in a single motion. The explosion rattled Ife’s teeth. She slammed her hands over her ears as the smell of gunpowder bit her nose. Philip and Eban unholstered their muskets before the smoke cleared.

The man buckled, dropping the whip. 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 heaved, fighting for air through the blood in his throat.

Screams erupted from the crowd. An old man’s voice rang in Ife’s ears, “An evil deed.”

“’Tis a shame,” Whistler muttered. He mounted his horse and turned the beast’s head from the beach. His son and the overseer trotted behind with their muskets drawn, their hooves kicking up earth and grit.

They swarmed past Ife, 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 fell limp, his teeth stained crimson.

A wave receded from the shore with a fading hiss. “Sleep now,” they whispered.

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

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