Memories: Twelve strokes of the cane

Posted by Traditional School Discipline January 11, 2021

Memories: Twelve strokes of the cane

Six-of-the-best was always the standard punishment for serious schoolboy misbehaviour. Such a beating could have the bottom glowing red hot for some considerable time. But what if you got twelve! It wasn’t unheard of as David Niven, the globally-renowned actor, recalls in his autobiography The Moon’s a Balloon (Coronet, 1972).

In the nineteen-twenties Niven attended Stowe, an upscale English so-called public school. He and a fellow pupil, Archie Montgomery-Campbell, had been caught cheating in a public examination.

Poor Archie was the first to be summoned to the Headmaster’s study – he went off like Sydney Carlton at the end of A Tale of Two Cities. A quarter of an hour later, I was located near the lavatories where I had been spending the interim.

No smile on J.F.’s [Roxburgh] face this time, just a single, terse question, ‘Have you anything to say for yourself?’

For the lack of any flash of genius that might have saved me, I told him the truth – that I had failed the exam anyway and wanted to get out early. I also added that Archie was completely guiltless and stood nothing to gain from helping me.

J.F. stared at me in silence for a long time, then he crossed the quiet, beautifully furnished room and stood looking out of the French windows into the flower garden. Cheating in a public examination is a heinous crime and it seemed inevitable that I would be expelled. I braced myself for the news as he turned towards me.

‘Montgomery-Campbell made a stupid mistake in helping you with your Latin translation and I have given him six strokes of the cane. Until you stood there and told me the truth, I had every intention of expelling you from the school. However, in spite of your gross misbehaviour, I still have faith in you and I shall keep you at Stowe. Now, I propose to give you twelve strokes of the cane.’

My joy at not being thrown out was quickly erased by the thought of my short-term prospect ... Twelve! That was terrifying! J.F. was a powerfully built man and his beatings, though rare, were legendary.

‘Go next door to the Gothic Library. Lift your coat, bend over and hold on to the bookcase by the door. It will hurt you very much indeed. When it is over, and I expect you to make no noise, go through the door as quickly as you wish. When you feel like it, go back to your house.’

The first three or four strokes hurt so much that the shock somehow cushioned the next three or four, but the last strokes of my punishment were unforgettable. I don’t believe I did make a noise, not because I was told to avoid doing so, or because I was brave or anything like that – it hurt so much. I just couldn’t get my breath.

When the bombardment finally stopped, I flung open the door and shot out into the passage. Holding my behind and trumpeting like a rogue elephant, down the stone passage, past the boiler rooms I went out into the summer evening and headed for the woods.

After the pain subsided, the mortification set in. How was I going to face the other boys – a cheat?

Eventually, about bedtime, I crept up to my dormitory. It was a large room that accommodated twenty-five boys. The usual pillow fights and shouting and larking about were in full swing. They died away to an embarrassed silence as I came in. I took off my clothes, watched by the entire room. My underpants stuck to me and reminded me of my physical pain. Carrying my pyjamas I slunk off to the bathroom next door. An ominous murmur followed my exit.

In the bathroom mirror, I inspected the damage. It was heavy to say the least. Suddenly Major Haworth’s cheery voice made me turn. ‘Pretty good shooting I’d call that ... looks like a two-inch group.’ He was his usual smiling, kindly self. ‘When you’ve finished here get into bed. When that sort of thing happened to me I used to sleep on my stomach and have my breakfast off the mantlepiece.’

In the darkness the whispers started – ‘How many did you get? ... ‘Did you blub?’ ... ‘What sort of cane is it? ... ‘Promise to show us in the morning.’ All friendly whispers. In the darkness, I buried my face in the pillow.