The following is inspired by actual events in August 1797. William Brown stole cod from the flake of St. John’s merchant Roderick Robertson and was punished.

The punishment was cruel and unusual by modern standards.

The Crime of the Ancient Mariner

It was late summer, and the night air was warm. Music drifted from the wedding hall, spilling onto the boardwalk, where it mingled with the gentle murmur of the harbour.

A young man stumbled out of the hall, his steps unsteady, the flush of too much wine on his face.

A short distance away, William Brown sat on a bench, his long grey beard stirring in the breeze. Though age had settled into his bones, it had done nothing to dull his sharpness—his eyes still glittered with life.

The young man recognized him. Brown was an old sailor, the bridegroom’s uncle, a man whispered about in stories. Something about him—perhaps an air of mystery—drew the young man closer.

“Mr. Brown,” he said, the liquor making him bold. “They say you’ve been everywhere. That you’ve seen the world.”

Brown let out a low chuckle, and took a long sip from his flask. “Aye, lad. The Navy’s had me all over. The Red Sea to Newfoundland and back again.”

The young man leaned in closer, curiosity evident in his eyes. “Newfoundland? They fish for cod there, right?”

Brown’s lips curled into a skeptical smile. “Fish for it?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “They don’t just fish for it, son. They worship it. It’s the heartbeat of that place.” His gaze grew distant as he thought back. “But mark my words,” he added with a sharp edge to his tone, “no fish should cost of a man his dignity.”

The young man frowned, unsure of what Brown meant. “What’s cod to do with dignity?”

“It was 1797,” Brown began, “to begin with, and I was a fool.”

The old man stared off into the darkness as though he could see it all playing out again. “I was just a young man, no older than you, serving aboard His Majesty’s Ship Romney. We were docked in St. John’s — a town overflowing with cod. The merchants ruled that place. They made their fortunes from the fish, shipping it off back here to England, down south, or wherever else they could sell it. To them, a cod wasn’t just a fish—it was money. And you’d better believe they’d protect it.”

He paused, his voice taking on a rhythm like the roll of the sea. “It was a quiet night, and we sailors were restless. Codfish, codfish everywhere, but not a thing to do. So I wandered the streets, bored out of my skull, until I saw it—a flake full of fish laid out to dry. Rows of it, gleaming in the moonlight. I thought, ‘What’s one fish in a town full of ‘em?’ So I took one. Maybe two.” He shook his head. “Didn’t think twice.”

“But I wasn’t the only one watching. Roderick Robertson—a merchant with a sharp eye—was there too. He’d been keeping watch. Before I could even tuck the fish under my coat, he had me by the arm, shouting bloody murder.”

“I tried to give the fish back,” Brown continued, his voice dropping lower, “but he didn’t want that. He wanted to make an example of me. The merchants in St. John’s hated the Navy lads. We came ashore, restless and sometimes too full of mischief, and to them, we were nothing but thieves. ‘A cod here, a cod there,’ they’d say. ‘It adds up.’ And to them, every fish stolen was another coin out of their pockets… and I suppose it was.”

The young man frowned, “So what did he do?”

“He dragged me to court,” Brown said grimly. “I confessed—thought it might help. But no, the merchants had the court wrapped around their fingers. Thirty-nine lashes, they sentenced me to—thirty-nine, across my bare back.”

“Thirty-nine!” the young man exclaimed.

“Curious number, isn’t it?” Brown sighed. “It was the maximum sentence according to the Bible. One more, and those good Christian men would have to reckon with their own sins. Thirty-nine was the limit.”

He paused, his eyes distant. “I got the maximum sentence… for taking a few fish. Tell me, lad, where’s the Christianity in that?”

He took a slow sip from his flask. “A man who prays well, loves well— and not just cod, his fellow man, too.”

The young man was silent for a moment before asking, “How bad was it?”

Brown leaned back, lost in the memory. “Well, I had a few folks on my side,” he mused. “The ship’s surgeon from the Romney stepped in, said I wasn’t fit for flogging. So I dodged that part.”

“That part?” the boy asked, his curiosity deepening. “There was more?”

“Oh, yes,” Brown said softly, his voice darkening. “Pain was just the beginning. They wanted to break me… make a mockery of me, too.”

Brown leaned forward, the bitterness still fresh in his voice. “They tied a codfish around my neck—and marched me through the streets of St. John’s. They wanted everyone to see what happens to a sailor who dares steal from a merchant.”

And it felt like the whole town turned out to watch—men, women, even children. Some shouted and others just laughed like it was the best show they’d seen all year. I wanted to shout back, tell them I wasn’t the first man to take something that wasn’t his.”

He leaned back. “By the time they marched me back to where we started, I was drenched in sweat. The rope had rubbed my neck raw, and I stank of cod and shame. I wondered if I might sooner have taken the lashes.”

The young man frowned, “All for a few cod.”

Brown nodded slowly. “Aye. To them, it was never about the fish. It was about power. The merchants of Newfoundland lived and breathed cod and coins. And to steal from them, even a single fish, was to challenge their rule. It wasn’t about answering for my crime, it was about making a lesson of me.”

The young man sat in silence, the weight of the story settling over him. After a moment, he lifted an imaginary glass. “To you, Mr. Brown.”

Brown let out a quiet chuckle, tapping his flask against the imagined glass, “To the price a man pays when his worth is weighed in cod and coins.”

The young man smiled.

The warmth of the wine had faded, and the world felt clearer now. One day, he might forget the wedding—but the old man’s story, that would stay with him forever.