Justinian
Title: Justinian (1/2)
Author: Anteros
Characters: Clayton, Kennedy, Simpson
Rating: NC-17, for suggested non-con
Notes: Clayton POV. This had been hanging around in my drafts folder for almost two years now (!), time for it to go. Part one of two, second part to follow shortly
He had come aboard early in the spring with a dozen other young gentlemen and volunteers. Clayton remembered them, he remembered all the boys that came and went. Some, reeking of privilege and interest, came aboard as though taking command of their birthright. Others, petrified, were barely able to stutter their names, or drag their eyes from the deck. One or two stood dumb and mulish, gazing forward with dull disinterest. Kennedy had lacked the arrogance, fear and abjection of the others. He came aboard smartly and looked around with interest, radiating confidence, curiosity and humour. He was one of the smaller boys, but to Clayton’s eye he seemed older by far.
Most of them didn't last the month. Within a matter of weeks, those with interest were transferred to more promising commissions with brighter prospects. Others simply left the service, presumably returning to home and school, until some unfortunate local congregation was in want of a parish priest. A couple of the duller ones sank into the morass of the ship’s company, taking their place among the ignored and forgotten. Clayton was surprised that Kennedy didn't leave with the others. Everything about him suggested breeding and interest. But no letter came requesting that Captain Keene transfer Mr Kennedy to this or that flagship at his earliest convenience. No influential relatives or retired admirals came to plead his case. Soon, he alone remained of the young gentlemen that had come aboard that spring. And once he was alone, that was when Jack made his move.
Kennedy had proved to be a popular boy, his easy manner, self-effacing demeanour and wicked sense of humour charmed officers and men alike, though his high spirits frequently earned him a spell at the masthead. For a new brief weeks it was as though the sun shone on Justinian. He was brutally honest about his prospects and interest. Yes, his family had lands and title, but minor in the great lineage of the clan, and both title and entail would pass to his elder brother. Their inheritance had been squandered by the profligacy of previous generations and what little income the small estate could generate had been used to purchase a commission for his brother. As the youngest son, he had largely been left to his own devices. That was until those devices had led him to Drury Lane and he was promptly shipped off to the navy, out of the way of further mischief.
Kennedy was never more in his element than when he was regaling the mess with tales of theatres and stage doors, of dressing rooms and alleyways. Jack simply listened, smoking placidly at the head of the table, occasionally egging the boy on to entertain them with tales of his exploits. Clayton was unnerved, he knew he should warn Kennedy, to tell him to keep his head down and his mouth shut, but somehow, it was outwith his power to do so.
And all the time Jack watched and waited; observing with a patience that belied his motives. Clayton had wondered when the inquisitions would begin; he could feel the pressure building, an oppressive air stifling the ship, like the proverbial calm before a storm. The older lads were restless and wary; Kennedy alone remained insensible to the threat.
Clayton never knew why Simpson chose that particular afternoon to make his move. The ship was as quiet as a vessel of eight hundred men and six hundred odd women, children and animals could be. Kennedy was reading, while the others smoked or played cards. Jack, coming off watch, removed his hat and cloak, smiling genially.
“Gentlemen,” he announced to no one in particular, “now that the wheat has been winnowed from the chaff, I believe it is time we reinstated the inquisition.”
Hether and Cleveland froze, cards in hand. Clayton felt a cold weight slide in his stomach. Kennedy continued reading, oblivious; blithely unaware that everything was about to change.
“Cleveland! Hether! Mr Kennedy if you please. Handsomely now!”
Kennedy had raised his head on hearing his name, and was looking enquiringly from Simpson to Hether. Clayton remembered the dull thud of the book as it fell to the deck, the hollow scrape of wood on wood as benches were hastily pushed back, and the sharp crack the boy’s head made as it hit the table.
Simpson had him flat on his back, leering over him, inches from his face. “So Mr Kennedy, it seems that you alone are to remain with us. Did papa forget where they left you? Or were they tying to wipe the stain from the family name? Send him off to sea, before he brings any more disgrace on the family? Bastard bye-blow of Drury Lane. You must have earned mother a pretty penny at the molly house. Turn him over boys, lets see Mr Kennedy’s wares. How much did they pay for this pretty arse then?”
Simpson had picked up a belaying pin and was running it over the seam of Kennedy’s breeches. Hether and Cleveland, who had pinned his arms to the table, were glancing at each other nervously.
“I'm sure you'll provide some favours for your old shipmates, won’t you boy?” Jack continued smoothly. “Though you must forgive us if we’re a little slow settling our accounts. Good King George is somewhat tardy in paying our wages, though I’m sure you’ll find my credit good enough for the likes of you.”
Kennedy had uttered not a word. His face, pressed hard against the gunroom table, was turned towards Clayton and he would see the paralysing shock in his eyes. Clayton also saw the moment when Jack jabbed hard with the belaying pin and something in Kennedy snapped. His eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a thin hard line; without warning he kicked back hard, raking his heel down Simpson's shin, tearing stocking and skin. Then with surprising force he wrenched his arms free and twisted round to face Simpson. “Filthy fucking bastard,” he hissed. Jack bellowed in surprise and fury, caught Kennedy by the hair and brought his head down hard on the table. The sound of bone on wood sickened Clayton more that Jack’s threats. Cleveland and Hether let go of Kennedy’s wrists and he slid limply to the floor leaving a vivid red streak on the dirty table top. Simpson resumed his place at the head of the table, kicking the motionless form slumped at his feet. "Get that drab bitch out of my way."
When they hauled Kennedy down to the cockpit they found Heppelwhite considerably more sober than usual. It took Clayton some time to convince the surgeon that the boy had fallen, but eventually a bottle of good brandy ensured that Kennedy was signed on to the sick list with contusion resulting from a fall down the after hatchway.
After that, Simpson circled Kennedy like a shark. The other boys learned to give him a wide berth, afraid of rousing Jack’s wrath. Before long the ratings would spit as he passed, sneering at “Jack’s fucking molly”. Clayton knew the loneliness was hardest to thole for a boy with such a bright gregarious spirit. Some of the older mids stuck by him for a while, but then the fits started. Ignorance and superstition drove some away and prejudice the rest.
It was around that time that Kennedy started to disappear. Since the inquisition, Clayton had kept a surreptitious eye out for the boy. I eased his conscience and he was able to convince himself that he was doing his best to help. But in the sober light of morning he knew Kennedy needed more than a watchful eye.
Kennedy had been present when the ship mustered to quarters during the morning watch but Clayton had seen neither hide nor hair of him for the rest of the day. Simpson too was ominously absent. Clayton knew Kennedy was due to take the second dog watch, but when three bells sounded in the first dog watch and he still had not appeared, Clayton felt crawling fear coiling in the pit of his stomach. A brief reconnaissance below revealed no trace of the boy. Suspecting that Kennedy had been on the receiving end of another inquisitorial beating Clayton was only partially reassured when he finally appeared in the gunroom shortly before the bell sounded the change of watch. At first glance Clayton was relieved to see that the Kennedy appeared to be outwardly unharmed, however his deathly pallor and curiously stiff gait suggested all was far from well. Kennedy picked up his boat cloak and hat and, without acknowledging his messmates, immediately turned to leave, wincing as he stepped up to the companion way.
“Look lively there, boy!” Simpson called after him. Kennedy hesitated momentarily but continuing to ascend the companion without looking back.
No amount of gin would quiet the voice that whispered to Henry Clayton in the dark of the middle watch that night. Coward. Jack will kill him, or worse, while you stand by and watch. By somehow he was powerless in the face of Jack’s malice.
Several days later Kennedy disappeared again. This time it was two of the men from Simpson’s division that found him. Clayton had been on deck attempting to show the younger boys how to take the azimuth when one of the older seamen, who had been hovering in the waist, approached him.
“Begging your pardon sir, think you should come below.”
“Yes Matthews?”
The older man looked about cautiously before lowering his voice, “It’s Mr Kennedy, sir.”
Clayton nodded and quickly followed the seaman down into the bowels of the ship.
“It was Styles that found him sir. Down in the hold. He was looking for rats. For a wager, just a bit of sport like. Found Mr Kennedy instead.” Matthews shook his head and Clayton’s stomach lurched. “We didn’t know what to do sir.”
They had reached the hold now, Matthews lifted a lantern from a hook and guided Clayton through the maze of ballast, barrels and stores.
“Was it Jack?” Clayton asked, keeping his voice low, though they had seen no other soul since descending into the hold.
“See for yourself sir.” Matthews lifted the lantern as a bulky figure looming out of the darkness in front of them. Clayton recognised the man as Styles, another of Simpson’s division. He knew most of Jack’s men, some of them were thugs and bullies like Jack himself, but some were decent enough, or would have been with a half decent officer.
Styles knuckled his forehead desultorily as Clayton approached, before nodding toward a pile of discarded sailcloth behind a stack of crates. “Still out cold.”
Even in the pool of light cast by Matthews’ lantern, it took Clayton a moment to pick out the small figure huddled on the heap of dirty canvas. One look told him enough. It was all he could do not to heave his guts on to the deck. The two seamen where standing behind him shuffling uncomfortably.
“We didn’t know what to do sir,” Matthews repeated. “Didn’t want to call one of the officers…”
“No, no, you did the right thing,” Clayton interrupted, before crouching down beside the boy. He was breathing quietly, his face unmarked but for a swollen bloodied patch on his lower lip. He might have looked as though he was sleeping, had it not been for his scraped and bruised knuckles and the blood stains on his breeches.
“Archie,” Clayton kept his voice low. Kennedy didn’t stir. “Archie,” he tried again, smoothing the hair off his brow. “It’s me, Henry, you’re all right now boy.”
It was a lie of course, he wasn’t all right, far from it, but there was nothing they could do. They couldn’t possibly take him to Heppelwhite in such a state, with his breeches torn and bloodied. Hepplewhite might be a drunk, but he wasn’t a fool. And even a fool could see what had happened here. If anyone found out, in all likelihood Kennedy’s short life would end at the yardarm. There was precious little justice in it, but the Articles were clear. The punishment for the unnatural and detestable sin of buggery and sodomy was death, no matter the circumstances. Certainly it was no more than Jack deserved, it would be justice to see him hang. As a mere boy there was a chance a court marital would commute the capital sentence and dismiss the charges against Kennedy. But no doubt, Jack being Jack, he would slip his head from the noose and see it firmly knotted around Kennedy’s neck.
So instead they carried the boy back up to the larboard berth, after Matthews had fetched a spare pair of slop trowsers from his own dunnage. Clayton had offered to buy their silence with a few coins, but they both just shook their heads. “No need sir,” Styles had said looking him squarely in the eye, “’taint right.”
Jack was there when they entered the berth, seated in his customary place at the head of the table. Clayton was briefly gratified to see that he had a large bruise purpling one cheek and a livid scratch across his nose. He smirked as they carried Kennedy into the berth. “Little snotty had another fit?”
“Something like that Jack,” Clayton replied coolly as he slung Kennedy’s hammock. The rest of the mess kept their heads down, pointedly ignoring the presence of the two ratings and the limp figure they bundled into the hammock. They knew better than to get involved.
The fits continued, as did the disappearances. Clayton watched and waited. Half hoping that one day the boy would not return, that he would up and run, half fearing that he would seek another way out. Fearing that the next time one of the men stumbled over him in the hold there would be no waking him. But return he did, every time, and gradually Clayton noticed a stubborn determination emerging in Kennedy that could scarcely be believed in one so young. He endured Jack’s torments with a brutally stoic detachment that enraged his tormentor beyond measure. Often Kennedy appeared peculiarly absent, as though he had receded into some inner shuttered core. Clayton soon recognised that these absences often preceded a fit, and he would do what he could to ease the violence of the attack when it inevitably came. It was little enough, far from enough. Clayton watched helplessly with faltering conscience and a growing sense of shame. Coward, you’re a coward. You should do something to help the boy; get him off the ship, confront Jack, report him to the officers. Something. Anything.
But he did nothing. Nothing beyond the small commonplace kindnesses that seemed to be the limit of his courage and compassion. And every night it took ever greater measures of gin to salve his conscience and quiet the accusing voice that whispered incessantly in his ear. Coward.
Ecclestone suspected, of that Clayton was sure. Once or twice he screwed his courage to the sticking post and came close to reporting to the first lieutenant why it was that Kennedy was to be punished yet again for being absent from deck during his watch. Even if they invoked the 29th Article and hung the boy, at least that would be an end to it. Surely that could not be worse than the purgatory he was enduring now? But Henry Clayton never did cross the quarterdeck, never did inform the first lieutenant. Instead he drank himself into oblivion to escape the guilt and the shame.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Clayton, Kennedy, Simpson
Rating: NC-17, for suggested non-con
Notes: Clayton POV. This had been hanging around in my drafts folder for almost two years now (!), time for it to go. Part one of two, second part to follow shortly
He had come aboard early in the spring with a dozen other young gentlemen and volunteers. Clayton remembered them, he remembered all the boys that came and went. Some, reeking of privilege and interest, came aboard as though taking command of their birthright. Others, petrified, were barely able to stutter their names, or drag their eyes from the deck. One or two stood dumb and mulish, gazing forward with dull disinterest. Kennedy had lacked the arrogance, fear and abjection of the others. He came aboard smartly and looked around with interest, radiating confidence, curiosity and humour. He was one of the smaller boys, but to Clayton’s eye he seemed older by far.
Most of them didn't last the month. Within a matter of weeks, those with interest were transferred to more promising commissions with brighter prospects. Others simply left the service, presumably returning to home and school, until some unfortunate local congregation was in want of a parish priest. A couple of the duller ones sank into the morass of the ship’s company, taking their place among the ignored and forgotten. Clayton was surprised that Kennedy didn't leave with the others. Everything about him suggested breeding and interest. But no letter came requesting that Captain Keene transfer Mr Kennedy to this or that flagship at his earliest convenience. No influential relatives or retired admirals came to plead his case. Soon, he alone remained of the young gentlemen that had come aboard that spring. And once he was alone, that was when Jack made his move.
Kennedy had proved to be a popular boy, his easy manner, self-effacing demeanour and wicked sense of humour charmed officers and men alike, though his high spirits frequently earned him a spell at the masthead. For a new brief weeks it was as though the sun shone on Justinian. He was brutally honest about his prospects and interest. Yes, his family had lands and title, but minor in the great lineage of the clan, and both title and entail would pass to his elder brother. Their inheritance had been squandered by the profligacy of previous generations and what little income the small estate could generate had been used to purchase a commission for his brother. As the youngest son, he had largely been left to his own devices. That was until those devices had led him to Drury Lane and he was promptly shipped off to the navy, out of the way of further mischief.
Kennedy was never more in his element than when he was regaling the mess with tales of theatres and stage doors, of dressing rooms and alleyways. Jack simply listened, smoking placidly at the head of the table, occasionally egging the boy on to entertain them with tales of his exploits. Clayton was unnerved, he knew he should warn Kennedy, to tell him to keep his head down and his mouth shut, but somehow, it was outwith his power to do so.
And all the time Jack watched and waited; observing with a patience that belied his motives. Clayton had wondered when the inquisitions would begin; he could feel the pressure building, an oppressive air stifling the ship, like the proverbial calm before a storm. The older lads were restless and wary; Kennedy alone remained insensible to the threat.
Clayton never knew why Simpson chose that particular afternoon to make his move. The ship was as quiet as a vessel of eight hundred men and six hundred odd women, children and animals could be. Kennedy was reading, while the others smoked or played cards. Jack, coming off watch, removed his hat and cloak, smiling genially.
“Gentlemen,” he announced to no one in particular, “now that the wheat has been winnowed from the chaff, I believe it is time we reinstated the inquisition.”
Hether and Cleveland froze, cards in hand. Clayton felt a cold weight slide in his stomach. Kennedy continued reading, oblivious; blithely unaware that everything was about to change.
“Cleveland! Hether! Mr Kennedy if you please. Handsomely now!”
Kennedy had raised his head on hearing his name, and was looking enquiringly from Simpson to Hether. Clayton remembered the dull thud of the book as it fell to the deck, the hollow scrape of wood on wood as benches were hastily pushed back, and the sharp crack the boy’s head made as it hit the table.
Simpson had him flat on his back, leering over him, inches from his face. “So Mr Kennedy, it seems that you alone are to remain with us. Did papa forget where they left you? Or were they tying to wipe the stain from the family name? Send him off to sea, before he brings any more disgrace on the family? Bastard bye-blow of Drury Lane. You must have earned mother a pretty penny at the molly house. Turn him over boys, lets see Mr Kennedy’s wares. How much did they pay for this pretty arse then?”
Simpson had picked up a belaying pin and was running it over the seam of Kennedy’s breeches. Hether and Cleveland, who had pinned his arms to the table, were glancing at each other nervously.
“I'm sure you'll provide some favours for your old shipmates, won’t you boy?” Jack continued smoothly. “Though you must forgive us if we’re a little slow settling our accounts. Good King George is somewhat tardy in paying our wages, though I’m sure you’ll find my credit good enough for the likes of you.”
Kennedy had uttered not a word. His face, pressed hard against the gunroom table, was turned towards Clayton and he would see the paralysing shock in his eyes. Clayton also saw the moment when Jack jabbed hard with the belaying pin and something in Kennedy snapped. His eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a thin hard line; without warning he kicked back hard, raking his heel down Simpson's shin, tearing stocking and skin. Then with surprising force he wrenched his arms free and twisted round to face Simpson. “Filthy fucking bastard,” he hissed. Jack bellowed in surprise and fury, caught Kennedy by the hair and brought his head down hard on the table. The sound of bone on wood sickened Clayton more that Jack’s threats. Cleveland and Hether let go of Kennedy’s wrists and he slid limply to the floor leaving a vivid red streak on the dirty table top. Simpson resumed his place at the head of the table, kicking the motionless form slumped at his feet. "Get that drab bitch out of my way."
When they hauled Kennedy down to the cockpit they found Heppelwhite considerably more sober than usual. It took Clayton some time to convince the surgeon that the boy had fallen, but eventually a bottle of good brandy ensured that Kennedy was signed on to the sick list with contusion resulting from a fall down the after hatchway.
After that, Simpson circled Kennedy like a shark. The other boys learned to give him a wide berth, afraid of rousing Jack’s wrath. Before long the ratings would spit as he passed, sneering at “Jack’s fucking molly”. Clayton knew the loneliness was hardest to thole for a boy with such a bright gregarious spirit. Some of the older mids stuck by him for a while, but then the fits started. Ignorance and superstition drove some away and prejudice the rest.
It was around that time that Kennedy started to disappear. Since the inquisition, Clayton had kept a surreptitious eye out for the boy. I eased his conscience and he was able to convince himself that he was doing his best to help. But in the sober light of morning he knew Kennedy needed more than a watchful eye.
Kennedy had been present when the ship mustered to quarters during the morning watch but Clayton had seen neither hide nor hair of him for the rest of the day. Simpson too was ominously absent. Clayton knew Kennedy was due to take the second dog watch, but when three bells sounded in the first dog watch and he still had not appeared, Clayton felt crawling fear coiling in the pit of his stomach. A brief reconnaissance below revealed no trace of the boy. Suspecting that Kennedy had been on the receiving end of another inquisitorial beating Clayton was only partially reassured when he finally appeared in the gunroom shortly before the bell sounded the change of watch. At first glance Clayton was relieved to see that the Kennedy appeared to be outwardly unharmed, however his deathly pallor and curiously stiff gait suggested all was far from well. Kennedy picked up his boat cloak and hat and, without acknowledging his messmates, immediately turned to leave, wincing as he stepped up to the companion way.
“Look lively there, boy!” Simpson called after him. Kennedy hesitated momentarily but continuing to ascend the companion without looking back.
No amount of gin would quiet the voice that whispered to Henry Clayton in the dark of the middle watch that night. Coward. Jack will kill him, or worse, while you stand by and watch. By somehow he was powerless in the face of Jack’s malice.
Several days later Kennedy disappeared again. This time it was two of the men from Simpson’s division that found him. Clayton had been on deck attempting to show the younger boys how to take the azimuth when one of the older seamen, who had been hovering in the waist, approached him.
“Begging your pardon sir, think you should come below.”
“Yes Matthews?”
The older man looked about cautiously before lowering his voice, “It’s Mr Kennedy, sir.”
Clayton nodded and quickly followed the seaman down into the bowels of the ship.
“It was Styles that found him sir. Down in the hold. He was looking for rats. For a wager, just a bit of sport like. Found Mr Kennedy instead.” Matthews shook his head and Clayton’s stomach lurched. “We didn’t know what to do sir.”
They had reached the hold now, Matthews lifted a lantern from a hook and guided Clayton through the maze of ballast, barrels and stores.
“Was it Jack?” Clayton asked, keeping his voice low, though they had seen no other soul since descending into the hold.
“See for yourself sir.” Matthews lifted the lantern as a bulky figure looming out of the darkness in front of them. Clayton recognised the man as Styles, another of Simpson’s division. He knew most of Jack’s men, some of them were thugs and bullies like Jack himself, but some were decent enough, or would have been with a half decent officer.
Styles knuckled his forehead desultorily as Clayton approached, before nodding toward a pile of discarded sailcloth behind a stack of crates. “Still out cold.”
Even in the pool of light cast by Matthews’ lantern, it took Clayton a moment to pick out the small figure huddled on the heap of dirty canvas. One look told him enough. It was all he could do not to heave his guts on to the deck. The two seamen where standing behind him shuffling uncomfortably.
“We didn’t know what to do sir,” Matthews repeated. “Didn’t want to call one of the officers…”
“No, no, you did the right thing,” Clayton interrupted, before crouching down beside the boy. He was breathing quietly, his face unmarked but for a swollen bloodied patch on his lower lip. He might have looked as though he was sleeping, had it not been for his scraped and bruised knuckles and the blood stains on his breeches.
“Archie,” Clayton kept his voice low. Kennedy didn’t stir. “Archie,” he tried again, smoothing the hair off his brow. “It’s me, Henry, you’re all right now boy.”
It was a lie of course, he wasn’t all right, far from it, but there was nothing they could do. They couldn’t possibly take him to Heppelwhite in such a state, with his breeches torn and bloodied. Hepplewhite might be a drunk, but he wasn’t a fool. And even a fool could see what had happened here. If anyone found out, in all likelihood Kennedy’s short life would end at the yardarm. There was precious little justice in it, but the Articles were clear. The punishment for the unnatural and detestable sin of buggery and sodomy was death, no matter the circumstances. Certainly it was no more than Jack deserved, it would be justice to see him hang. As a mere boy there was a chance a court marital would commute the capital sentence and dismiss the charges against Kennedy. But no doubt, Jack being Jack, he would slip his head from the noose and see it firmly knotted around Kennedy’s neck.
So instead they carried the boy back up to the larboard berth, after Matthews had fetched a spare pair of slop trowsers from his own dunnage. Clayton had offered to buy their silence with a few coins, but they both just shook their heads. “No need sir,” Styles had said looking him squarely in the eye, “’taint right.”
Jack was there when they entered the berth, seated in his customary place at the head of the table. Clayton was briefly gratified to see that he had a large bruise purpling one cheek and a livid scratch across his nose. He smirked as they carried Kennedy into the berth. “Little snotty had another fit?”
“Something like that Jack,” Clayton replied coolly as he slung Kennedy’s hammock. The rest of the mess kept their heads down, pointedly ignoring the presence of the two ratings and the limp figure they bundled into the hammock. They knew better than to get involved.
The fits continued, as did the disappearances. Clayton watched and waited. Half hoping that one day the boy would not return, that he would up and run, half fearing that he would seek another way out. Fearing that the next time one of the men stumbled over him in the hold there would be no waking him. But return he did, every time, and gradually Clayton noticed a stubborn determination emerging in Kennedy that could scarcely be believed in one so young. He endured Jack’s torments with a brutally stoic detachment that enraged his tormentor beyond measure. Often Kennedy appeared peculiarly absent, as though he had receded into some inner shuttered core. Clayton soon recognised that these absences often preceded a fit, and he would do what he could to ease the violence of the attack when it inevitably came. It was little enough, far from enough. Clayton watched helplessly with faltering conscience and a growing sense of shame. Coward, you’re a coward. You should do something to help the boy; get him off the ship, confront Jack, report him to the officers. Something. Anything.
But he did nothing. Nothing beyond the small commonplace kindnesses that seemed to be the limit of his courage and compassion. And every night it took ever greater measures of gin to salve his conscience and quiet the accusing voice that whispered incessantly in his ear. Coward.
Ecclestone suspected, of that Clayton was sure. Once or twice he screwed his courage to the sticking post and came close to reporting to the first lieutenant why it was that Kennedy was to be punished yet again for being absent from deck during his watch. Even if they invoked the 29th Article and hung the boy, at least that would be an end to it. Surely that could not be worse than the purgatory he was enduring now? But Henry Clayton never did cross the quarterdeck, never did inform the first lieutenant. Instead he drank himself into oblivion to escape the guilt and the shame.