Irving must unbutton Hickey’s braces for him in order to draw his trousers down, and the man makes no gesture of assistance. It is only a game to him, and he doesn’t have the moral sense even to shudder. At the first press of Irving’s hips the caulker’s mate wriggles like a wanton.

“You’re a big lad, aren’t you? No wonder you’ve been shy of me. Thought I’d catch wind of what you were packing in those drawers of yours and want a taste for myself. Word does travel, you know, down below.”

Hickey is goading him, inciting him, he is pushing him to the very edge of his self-discipline — but Irving will not have it. He wants to strike him with his fists, he wants to kick him in the soft parts of his belly and see him ball up on the canvas spread out beneath him. He wants to beat this man mercilessly, to knock him bloody and hear him cry out with all his pride broken — but there is no call for such violence when a subtler hand would do just as well. Irving has requested his presence here for a reason. He has brought him to this cold and desolate outbuilding for a useful purpose, one that could be called admirable: atmospheric observations, a study in the natural sciences. There is nothing about Mr. Hickey that can be called natural. Irving’s hand seizes in the scruff of his neck, buried in the damp of his long hair, to shake him.

“Be quiet, you wretch. You’re worse than a beast.”

“Do you know a great deal about animals, then, lieutenant?” Hickey says. “They do have their funny ways.”

Irving jostles his sinewy legs further apart with a kick. His member is standing now, fearfully erect and straining — when he goes to open his flies Hickey jerks away, almost escaping him and he must clasp him from behind with an arm across his chest to hold him in his place.

“Stay where I’ve put you, by God, or you’ll wish you had,” Irving says.

He is shocked at his own language, even as burning anger impels him. He had offered this man clemency, he had given him more mercy than he had any right to expect, and now Hickey has made him out to be a fool. Hickey lets his head drop, and Irving gropes at his backside until he finds what he seeks, that sordid place to which such sinners resort.

Irving continues, swallowing a hysterical tremor that threatens to make his voice turn high and broken.“You would debase yourself for this, and break the laws of God and man. This is what delights you. This is what you love more than your own life.”

“Cock, sir?”

Mr. Hickey’s manner is wicked — he turns his head and on his scarleting face there is an awful smile. He is mocking at him. He is just like the others, he is just like every other common rating who has ever snickered at him over his grog. Irving gives him a punishing press against the canvas and induces him to hide his face.

Hickey does not make a sound when Irving forces into him, though the way is impassably tight — John gives a great thrust but can make no inroads, though he can feel that wiry body stiffen beneath him. Mr. Hickey’s backside is pert and smooth beneath his hands but the unspeakable and dirty place — Mr. Hickey’s fundament — is muscular and resistant, hot with blood like a living thing under his fingers. He can’t bear to look at it.

“Try spit, sir,” Hickey provides, even as he is breathless from the position in which he is held. Irving produces some scant saliva, dredging it up from the floor of his tinny-tasting mouth.

He fits himself to Mr. Hickey’s insides, stretching him with his fingers to make that first thrust possible — Hickey exhales sharply through his nose and Irving presses in again, finding his stride. The grip around his member is queerly punishing, and though he disciplines himself by inches he cannot help but be reminded of what an unnatural inroads he is making.

Hickey’s eyes are shut, and he sweats. As the passage widens for him, Irving quickens his pace, rolling his hips with an urgency that would frighten him if he had any capacity to be frightened now. He must pursue his wrath to the very brink or else he will lose his nerve and that is unthinkable now — to have a rating and one with such a reputation as Mr. Hickey know of his weakness, to have breached self-discipline in such a way. Mr. Hickey is an undisciplined man and a laggard and if Irving can show him how repulsive his habits are to good men then he must do it. He will drive the Devil out of him, if he can.

Had he done this to Billy Gibson, with his soft curls and sad eyes — did he prevail over him by force? No, it could only be trickery — just as Irving has tricked him now, drawing him out under a false pretense. Hickey shudders under him and twists in his grip. All his bravery is gone, all his blazing cheek.

Hickey makes small brave cries that can only be pain, for he is enduring what nature never meant man to endure. The sheer coarse size of Irving’s member has always disgusted him, but now it serves him — the thickness of his tool filling that awful tight passage and forcing it to accommodate an unnatural intrusion. He drives into Hickey with a force fit to rattle his teeth — he could split him in two like this, he could batter him to pieces and make him squeal like a girl. Irving has never known a girl, not that way, and hearing talk of such things makes his ears burn with shame. This is the only rutting he has ever known besides the shame of his own hand.

Hickey cries out, his small chest tightening and his back arching — Irving grunts and his grip shifts around that small burning body, the better to immobilize it, to be driven into it. He thrusts his fingers into the wet hole of Hickey’s mouth, balling his knuckles so that Hickey cannot bite. Hickey sucks John’s fingers with cannibal ardor, and it sends a queer shock of pleasure right to the pit of him.

When John withdraws his slick shining fingers, Hickey says in a hoarse whisper, “Kiss me, John. Kiss me.”

Who would not be merciful? Irving obliges — wrenching his head to a better angle, rocking against that small neat body with all his weight. Hickey’s kiss is a press of whiskers, his burning mouth wet and bristling, and he fixes Irving’s bottom lip between his teeth.

Hickey bites him, hard. It is as if a soap-bubble has broken, or some other fragile thing — Irving pours himself out with a convulsive cry and for a moment there is no sight nor sound nor sensation, only the muted oblivion of forgetfulness.

Irving collapses against the small wriggling body beneath him. For a long moment he is dislocated from himself. Hickey’s breathing is ragged, but it is the only sound in his ears beside the whistle of the wind.

At length, Irving lifts himself off, to recover himself at his leisure. They are alone here and not wanted back at their ships until twilight. Hickey stays put, huddled on his side.

Nature has not rejected them, and God has not struck them down, not yet. The rugged ground beneath them has not changed, and the pale unsettling light that pries through the rivets and gaps is no different for having revealed a sin.

Irving cleans himself with a handkerchief. It will need to be burned once they return to the ship — he can’t stomach the thought of Mr. Gibson handling such a thing, crusted with his seed. He can scarcely look at Hickey now, now that all the heat of his anger has turned cold and sick — he feels a kind of cold pity, watching him huddled there, until he notices the damp patch in the front of Hickey’s woolen drawers and his contempt flares anew.

Irving frowns. He can feel the sweat next to his own skin, beneath his linen. “Do you repent what you’ve done?”

“I regret it now, sir.” Hickey rolls over, wincing.