"That's enough, Mr. Lowry!" A voice cut through the frenzied din of the crew's shouts and jeers, deep and clear and with a decidedly English lilt.

One last crack of the whip was heard just before striking and splitting the flesh of the boy's already bloodied back, the voices falling deathly silent at their Captain's unexpected and untimely arrival.

"Cap'n," one of the men interjected, in a meager attempt to explain. "We found 'im below deck. 'E's a stowaway."

The Captain, whose name was Harper, had taken on the motley crew more out of necessity than choice. As ragged and unsavory a crew as it was, he needed them as much as they needed him, if only for a short while. Boot heels clicked against the wooden planks of the decking, as Harper made his way through the crowd of men, one hand resting casually and threateningly against the pommel of the sword that hung against his right hip.

He winced as if he could almost feel the boy's pain, blood running in rivulets down his back, staining his trousers a shade darker, flesh shredded deep enough to scar, a lifelong reminder of an unjust punishment. Harper counted the lashes, which numbered fifteen, three more than the standard punishment given a full-grown man for disobeying one order or another. Well, he thought to himself, at least, they hadn't keelhauled the lad. With any luck, he might survive a whipping.

Harper cupped the boy's chin, lifting his head to get a better look at their stowaway, withholding the disgust he felt at the crew's savagery by clenching his jaw, a scowl marring his otherwise good looking features.

The boy was young, tall and thin and on the verge of manhood. Fourteen, fifteen, no more than, perhaps, sixteen, at most. He had the kind of face one might almost describe as pretty - a cleft chin, well-defined cheekbones, the kind of bone structure that belonged to the high-born, the sons of kings and queens. The color of his eyes was a mystery, as they were closed, youthful features slackened in unconsciousness, his hair long for a boy, golden brown in the afternoon sun.

Though Harper didn't recognize the boy, there was something that struck him to the core of his being, remembering himself at that age, perhaps, or thinking of someone else who was near and dear to his heart.

"Cut him down," the Captain ordered, slowly drawing his hand away from the unconscious boy's face. "Take him to my quarters and tend to his wounds."

"But Cap'n," the one named Lowry argued. A tall, burly man with the personality to match, he and Harper had taken an almost instant dislike to each other, but for the time being, one tolerated the other. "He's a liar and a thief. He's eaten the crew's food, and for that alone, he should be punished."

"I believe you've already seen to that, Mr. Lowry," Captain Harper pointed out. "Now, do as I say." He turned his gaze toward the rest of the crew, his next words meant not only for his First Mate, but for all of them. "Henceforth, no further orders regarding punishment will be issued without my utmost approval, in any case. Is that clear, Mr. Lowry?" he asked, turning a steady gaze back to the burly man.

Lowry clenched his jaw, obviously unhappy with the Captain's orders, thinking him as soft as a woman, but for now, he agreed to abide by his wishes. "Aye, Cap'n." He turned and waved a hand to signal the other crewmen to do as the Captain said. "You heard the Cap'n. Cut the boy down. Take him to the Capn's quarters." Lowry turned back to Harper, a scowl on his ugly countenance, which hinted at his displeasure.

Seemingly unperturbed by his First Mate's reaction to his orders, Harper turned to address the crew in general, his fingers idly rubbing the pommel of his sword, as if he was awaiting an excuse to use it on any one of them. "Sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but there will be no more entertainment today. Carry on as you were."

The Captain dismissed them with a wave of his left hand, turning on a boot heel to make his way back to his quarters and await the arrival of their prisoner.