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Subject: {ASSM}  {Joanna} The Ignominy Run (MF, caution) [2/3]
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Standard disclaimer: Over 18s only



The Ignominy Run
by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com)
January 2000


Copyright 2000 Joanna de Brito
All commercial rights reserved. Non commercial use of this
story is permitted as long as I am kept informed of that use
by e-mail and all author and copyright messages remain
intact.




Part Two



"Sarah. Wake up Sarah."

I rolled opened my heavy eyes, not really knowing who I was
or what had spoken. The voice was interrupting a very
pleasant dream.

"Wake up. Damn you. Sarah. Do you know what time it is? It's
six o'clock. Wake up."

I hadn't slept well and it seemed only a matter of minutes
since I'd dozed. "What is it? I whined, trying to sit but
finding that something was holding me down. My hair was damp
and matted.

"I need some medicine," the voice said. It was William. "I'm
ill."

"Ill? Medicine?" I still wasn't thinking straight. What was
wrong with William? I discovered that it was the ropes that
were preventing me from sitting. How stupid! I was still
lashed to the bed. Quickly, I pulled at the knots.

"I need you to get me something." William groaned. "From the
galley. I haven't slept. The constant motion. I've been
sick."

That was obvious. I could smell the stench.

I hurriedly dressed, the air was putrid, and stepped out
into the corridor. How was I going to get to the galley? No
William to carry me, who could I ask? Fortunately, I bumped
into the Captain on his way from Lord Edward's room.

"Good morning," I said, straightening my gown and running my
hand through my hair. He returned my greeting. I then
reminded him of his promise that first evening to arrange
for a crewman to care for my transportation between decks.

"William has been caring for this quite faithfully," I said.
"He knows his duty. But this morning he isn't at all well."

Captain Peters apologized, owning to a complete lapse in
memory. He begged that I give him a little time to make the
arrangement, and, true to his word, he returned just a few
minutes later to inform me that he had asked Mr. Smithson to
handle the task.

I thanked him.

"Oh," he said, with a final recollection. "Give my regards
to Mr. Gaskell. And take him some chicken broth. Chicken
broth: it works wonders."

I thanked him again and prepared myself to be lifted.

I am accustomed to being held by men. It is one of the
crosses I must bear as a cripple. Half way up the stairs Mr.
Smithson's hand slipped and suddenly he had hold of my ass.
The Captain by this time had long departed.

"Mr. Smithson," I protested.

I was expecting him to be embarrassed. This is not the first
time such a thing has happened, and when it does, my bearer
is always so flustered. Not so, Mr. Smithson. He didn't
attempt to move his hand at all. The very opposite, he
leaned forward and kissed me firmly on the cheek, grinning
broadly, while pinching my behind gently with his fingers.

"Mr. Smithson!" I blushed, intensifying my protest. But
there was a traitorous warble to my voice. I flushed even
more because he had noticed and was enjoying my discomfort.
"Don't worry, mam," he said pleasantly. "I'm not one to tell
anybody. Your little secret is safe with me."

Now I flushed bright red. Damn him! Damn, damn, damn!

"You can thank me later," he said.

Before I had a chance either to defend myself or retaliate,
however, we were on deck. Laughing, he dropped me rather
heavily into my chair and then swiveled me in the direction
of Lady Caroline. She was supervising the crewmen in filling
a large cask.

Mr. Smithson moved away, merging into the background. I
noticed that, like the previous day, Lady Caroline was
moving stiffly and with great discomfort.

"Perhaps it was the hardness of her bunk," I suggested,
having pushed my chair across the deck.

"No," she stuttered, glancing away awkwardly. "No, no. I
don't think so."

A sailor tried to pass between us. "Excuse me, mam."

I pushed myself back, allowing him through. He was carrying
a large bucket of seawater, which he poured into the cask.

I glanced at it dubiously. The idea had been the Captain's,
of course. Lady Caroline had told me about it the previous
afternoon following the entertainment with the slaves.

"The Captain has declared," she had explained anxiously.
"That as there are women on board, there is to be a solemn
ceremony to allow us all to bathe. When we are attired in
bathing dress and ready to leave our cabins, everyone else
will quit the deck, and remain below until we return."

I had assumed from her manner that she wasn't overly happy
with these arrangements. And neither was Major Brindley.
When he heard of it, he had insisted that they be amended so
that we bathe individually. He considered it lewd for women
to bathe together.

A little later Lady Caroline had come searching for me and
had found me in the galley surrounded by several open bags
of grain. She'd looked round and seeing nobody about, had
asked: "Where's cook?"

"Asleep," I'd grinned.

Looking over my shoulder, she'd seen my bowl of mixed
grains. I don't think she had ever cooked in her life.
"What's that for?" she'd scowled.

"A special recipe," I'd volunteered, tossing in some oatmeal
followed by a little rye. "It's something I used to make at
home for my sister. I was bored. It's for tomorrow."

"Oh."

She'd bent down and had whispered in my ear: "Talking of
tomorrow. What about the Negro? Will it bother you that he
will be there, able to watch us as we bathe?"

"No, not at all."

She'd nodded. "I spoke with Lord Edward and he is adamant
that a Negro doesn't signify."

As she'd spoken, she'd been waiting eagerly for my reaction,
waiting far too eagerly.

"And I spoke with William," I'd said cautiously. "And he
said that if I was bothered, he would arrange with the
Captain for the man's eyes to be taken out."

I'd shuddered, folding over the top of my small bag of rye
and sealing it fast. How could anyone be so inhuman? I'd
said as much.

"Careful," Lady Caroline had warned. She'd watched me pick
up the sack of oatmeal and had followed me as I'd carried it
back to the store. "Be very careful," she'd said. "Your
feelings betray you, Sarah. You're too kind hearted. If I
can see that you have a soft spot for the nigger, then maybe
others can too. It's depraved, Sarah. A black man and a
white woman: depraved."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I'd replied
huffily, stumbling out of the store. "I don't know at all."

All at once I was brought back to the present. Damn it! Here
was I day dreaming and forgetting William entirely! He had
wanted medicine. He would go mad if I didn't return soon.

I turned and picked out Mr. Smithson, waiting by the hatch.
I sucked in my pride. "Please," I called, with suitable
reserve: "I need medicine for my husband. Could you help me
to the galley."

Then, as an aside to Lady Caroline: "William is quite ill
this morning. I told the Captain and he advised a little
chicken broth."

She agreed. "There's nothing like a little broth to settle
the stomach. Nothing."

However, when I went with Mr. Smithson to the galley and
found the cook, he had a very different opinion.

"If you give him broth, he'll empty both it and everything
else through the port hole," he said.

"Oh."

"Of course," he shrugged with a sly smile. "That might be
what you're after...? But no, I tell you what I'll do. I've
got some saline drops; they'll do the trick. You give him
those and he'll be fine in no time."

He opened a cabinet and began rummaging around. Curiously, I
stared inside. It was a true magician's treasure chest.
Everything was in there. There were herbs for palsy, for the
vapours, for headaches. There were powders there to help
with stomach cramps, with inebriation and with diarrhea. It
contained rat poison, spider's webs and elderflower. Picking
through the bottles he found one that he picked up. He read
the label, cloves for toothache, no, not that.

Suddenly, movement, a large black cockroach ran across the
floor and disappeared somewhere behind a large stone jar. It
ran so quickly that I had to look twice to make sure I
hadn't imagined it. I shivered. I hate cockroaches; I always
have.

"Ah, here we go," the cook said, picking out a small
dropping bottle. He presented it to me with a toothless
smile. "That should do the trick."

I thanked him, cast a final glance at the stone jar behind
which the cockroach had disappeared, and allowed Mr.
Smithson to carry me back below deck. When I arrived,
everyone was searching for me. "Where have you been?" Lord
Edward asked irritably. "The Captain is waiting to give the
command to come below."

"I'm sorry," I said, pushing myself away from Mr. Smithson
and hobbling into my State Room. "I had to get medicine for
William."

Inside, I found my invalid husband still lying in bed and
trying to decide whether he needed to dash for the porthole.
I handed him the drops and moved behind a curtain that I had
hung in the corner. There, I began to unbutton my dress.
"What's this?" William complained. I could imagine him
staring irritably at the bottle. "What is this supposed to
be? Don't you realize, bitch, that I'm really ill?"

"I spoke with both the Captain and the cook," I replied
irrelevantly, pulling off my dress and petticoats.

This pleased him. "The Captain, eh?" he said. I peeked round
the side of the curtain and saw him looking rather agreeably
at the bottle.

"It's saline," I added, after a pause, pulling my bathing
dress over my head. "It was highly recommended."

"You mean you're giving me sea-water?" he rasped. "Is that
the best you can do? Of what good to me is sea-water?"

"These people are sailors," I pointed out. "I'm sure they
must know how to cure sea sickness. Major and Mrs. Brindley
are much better this morning."

He made a noise which I assumed was born of contempt but
made no further comment.

I fastened myself up and let Mr. Smithson, who was waiting
outside my room, know that I was ready. At once, the command
was given for the crew to come below.

"You are wasted on that man," Mr. Smithson huffed, as he
carried me back up the steps. I protested, not at what he
had said, but because he had a large bunch of keys that hung
from his belt and these were digging into my side.

"I heard what he called you. He has no right," Mr. Smithson
added.

I assumed that he must have heard all of my conversation
with William. I must be more careful. The canvas curtain
between our State Room and the corridor is not much of a
barrier. However, I still couldn't allow him to talk about
William like that. "That man, as you call him," I said
icily, "is my husband."

"That man," he exclaimed angrily, "is a dog."

"Mr. Smithson!"

"I'm sorry, mam, but as I find, I judge."

"But you have no right to judge him! No man has. That is the
prerogative of the Almighty, and only the Almighty."

I'm not sure that I actually believed what I was saying,
but, whatever his faults, William was still my husband. It
was my duty to defend him. I certainly couldn't gainsay him
in front of others.

Mr. Smithson looked at me darkly, considering his reply. "I
disagree, mam," he dissented with assumed politeness. "If I
were to do what Mr. Gaskell has done, then I would be
brought before the Captain and brought to account. Are you
saying that the Captain doesn't have that right? That he
should leave things to God? If you are, then there can never
be any justice on this side of paradise."

I sighed. This wasn't the time for such an argument. The
whole crew were down below waiting for me to bathe. Any
conversation with Mr. Smithson could take place later, not
now. I tried to conclude the conversation. "My husband is a
man of honour," I said.

He shook his head. "You think so, mam? Then I pity you. I
pity you, most truly."

Whatever it was that he knew, it was offending Mr.
Smithson's sense of decency. William, what have you done
this time?

"It is not your business," I insisted. "I don't mean to
offend, but things to do with my husband are either his
business or my business. It belongs to no one else. Please
Mr. Smithson, whatever it is that you have heard or seen,
please forget it."

"I disagree, mam. It's my job to know what goes on, up and
down this ship, and it isn't always pleasant. This isn't
just the business of you and your husband, with respect,
mam. You ask him what he was doing below deck, for instance,
with Lord Edward and Lady Caroline. You ask him, the first
night we set sail, after the slaves were on board and we'd
set sail. I saw it, mam. They didn't see me, none of them,
but I saw them."

"Lady Caroline?" It was a reflexive question. That first
night? I remembered William looking down Lady Caroline's
cleavage, also the length of time it had taken her to find
him, and how they had flirted over the dinner table. I knew
William well enough to be able to have a reasonable guess at
what had happened afterwards. I remembered just how long
he'd been that night and how I had fallen asleep before he
had returned to bed.

Mr. Smithson was very indignant. "Or perhaps you would
prefer me to tell the Captain what they were doing?"

"No, Mr. Smithson. Please, don't do that." I'm not sure I
could have stopped him from telling me what had happened
even if I'd tried. He needed to tell someone what he'd seen,
and he wanted that person to be me. I think he quite liked
me. Much better that he tell me than anyone else.

He correctly interpreted my silence as assent. "We had just
set sail," he began, fidgeting and moving back and forth.
"It was on one of the lower decks, just above the hold. Mr.
Gaskell was playing cards with Lord Edward and they were
gambling. They're both skilled at it, I think. Very strange
wagers they were having too. Lady Caroline was there, as
well as one of the slaves from the hold. A very buxom girl
she was, big tits, still in her irons with her hands behind
her back, naked she was.

"Lady Caroline was all nervous, because Lord Edward kept
losing. She kept fretting, telling Lord Edward what a
jackass he was and how he was gambling her, that is, Lady
Caroline's honor. But I could tell, the way she said it,
that she didn't really mean it.

"Anyhow, I guess Lord Edward must have lost because they
took the slave girl back and put her in the hold, and it was
Lady Caroline that was all blushing and nervous. Mr. William
told her to stand in front of him and Lord Edward. He made
her stretch and bend while taking off all her clothes.

"They made her do embarrassing things, disgusting things,
real bad disgusting like sit on Mr. William's lap in only
her drawers and her shift; like let Mr. William suck on her
tits. But it was just a game to her, I could tell. She was
liking it, getting real hot. Anyhow, soon they had her butt
naked, and then Mr. William made her bend double and open
her legs so he could see everything she'd got. I could see
too. It wasn't that I meant to look, but I had to, mam. If
I'd left, they might have seen me, and then they would have
known that I was looking. You do see that, don't you, mam?"

I brought him back to his story. "So you carried on
watching?"

"Yes, mam. That's right. I did. It was then that Mr. William
asked Lady Caroline, he asked her, mam, he asked her whether
she knew how much she was showing, and what it was that she
was doing to him. She said no, she didn't know. Then Mr.
William told her that she was showing her pussy, and that
she was no better than a whore. He said she was a bad girl
for making him all excited and making him forget that he was
a married man with a wife waiting for him in his State Room.
Lord Edward said it too. So then he took a birch and swished
her ass again and again until it was red raw. She screamed
and yelped. I thought everyone would hear, but even if they
did, they wouldn't have minded, they would have thought it
was just one of the slaves.

"When he'd finished, Mr. William kept her bending there,
shaking and crying. He told her she didn't deserve to get
up, and he got out his cock. It was as hard like an iron
pipe and he stood behind her, looking at her quivering ass
and telling her how bad she was. He kept stroking himself
until he came all over her soft hide. It didn't take him
long: he'd wanted to hurt her, if you get my meaning, mam. I
could see that. He'd enjoyed hitting her: he'd got off on
it. He spurted big white globules that splattered all across
her raw red ass and dripped down her legs. Then he rubbed
his come into her crack and also into her pussy lips with
his finger..."

"Enough!" I demanded. I held up the palm of my hand in an
emphatic stop gesture. Maybe he wanted, needed to tell me.
Maybe he was disgusted, but then, maybe not. Whatever the
case, I really couldn't allow him to continue saying these
things to me. There was only so much that I could take.

>From his surprised and disappointed expression, I assumed
that there was much more the helpful Mr. Smithson had yet to
reveal, but he had already told me more than I was prepared
to cope with.

"Thank you," I said, forcing myself to smile. "But, yes,
please, enough. Of course, I know you won't breathe a word
of what you've, what you've seen in the course of your
duties, you won't breathe a word of any of it to anyone."

"No, mam."

"Thank you, Mr. Smithson." I heaved a huge sigh and waited
for him to retire below stairs. As he left I could see what
a tent his erection was making within his breeches.


******


A week after we were married, I caught William with the
chambermaid. "Caught" isn't really the correct word. I'm not
fast enough on my feet to catch anything. He called me
upstairs. Since I was downstairs at the time, I couldn't get
to him quickly. I had to wait several minutes to find a
servant capable of carrying me up the stairs. I was being
placed in my chair when I heard William's booming voice
calling me again.

"What's keeping you, darn it?"

His voice was coming from my own bedroom.

"I'm coming," I puffed, pushing myself along the corridor. I
opened the heavy bedroom door and propelled myself in. Then
I saw them. They were in bed together: together in my bed.

"Come here, Sarah," William ordered. He was smiling, but it
was a new smile, unpleasant, cruel, and malevolent. He was
also drunk. A bottle of his best brandy stood half empty in
his hand. I looked at him. I saw her. There was a sheet
covering them both but it was obvious that neither of them
were wearing anything. I hesitated. "I told you to come
here," he barked, his nostrils flaring and his fists
clenched. Nervously I pushed my chair forward.

Triumphantly, he lifted the covers from off the girl. She
lay rigid on my bed, naked, shivering with fear, her young
breasts and belly exposed expressly for my humiliation. I
forced myself to look lower, closer. Her legs were open. I
guessed William was forcing her to lie like that. I supposed
that it gave him some perverse thrill, making her exhibit
herself to me. Oh no! There was a splash of blood staining
the sheet immediately below the crack between her legs.

I felt sick, disgusted with myself and with him. And all at
once, I also felt sorry for the girl. She was so young. An
innocent. She was caught up in this monster's web equally
much as I. Were we so very different, she and I? He was
abusing her every bit as much as he was abusing me. What
choice does a young chambermaid have if the master takes a
fancy to her? To whom can she complain? What choice does she
have if he summons her to his room and orders her to
undress? If she refuses then she will end up on the street,
homeless, penniless, to be used and abused by each and every
passerby. If she accepts, then she is beholden to only the
one man.

What choice does she have if he makes her climb into bed
with him? And then takes it as his privilege to fuck her?
What if he tells her that if she doesn't do it willingly,
then he will tie her to the bed and force her; if he tells
her that the magistrate is married to his sister. Can she
refuse? Can she really?

But I still hated her.

"Touch her," William ordered, waving his bottle.

I drew back in horror. What was he saying? This was my
chambermaid. How could I?

"Feel her breasts," he slurred. "Touch them, caress them."

I've tried so often to get inside William's head, to
discover what it is that motivates him to be so cruel and
merciless. Is it fear? Is it jealousy? Is it revenge for
horrors that he faced in his own childhood or at school? Or
is it simply the alcohol?

For what sins am I paying?

His face hardened, his brow narrowed. "Do it, Sarah. I order
you! Touch her. Caress her breasts. If you disobey me..."

I didn't cry; neither did I scream. In no way did I act
rashly, that's not in my nature. I did what he asked me,
_everything_ that he asked me. I reached out and touched
that poor girl's breasts, just as he commanded. They were
soft and warm and not at all unpleasant to my touch. William
taught me that day what it is that a woman likes. I'm not
proud of the manner of my learning, but I learned the lesson
well.

Afterward, I went downstairs and found a quiet corner where
I brooded. I imagined William lying in bed and me with a
knife, or with poison, then with an axe. Each of these ideas
in its turn brought me some comfort before I sadly dismissed
them all as being far too humane.


******


It was strange being on the deck alone, normally there is
such hustle and bustle. At first it was quite daunting: I
wondered whether it was safe for the Ignominy to be sailing
unaided. What if we hit land or encountered pirates intent
on rape and pillage? One reads of such things, and last
night, I overheard the crewmen telling stories to each
other. I was sitting on the main deck in the darkness,
staring up at the sky, with my shawl wrapped round me to
keep out the cold. The sea was flat and the wind non-
existent.

I was remembering past happy days with my parents and with
my sister: pleasant memories, fond memories.

A group of four sailors were playing cards by the light of a
single lamp. They were further along the deck, just below
me. I could see them clearly, the dancing yellow light
glancing across their bearded faces. I could hear them too.
There was one, from his accent I assumed he must come from
Norfolk or Suffolk - East Anglia anyhow - who began to
excite the others with the most fearsome tale.

He said that soon we must enter a channel frequented by the
most fearsome French brigands. "They want money and will
stop at nothing to get it," he explained. "There was one
ship they captured where the Captain was obstinate. They
nailed him to the deck," the man whispered with glee.

My stomach turned over. How could they talk of such things?
I would have left and gone below deck except that there was
no one to carry me.

The man hadn't finished his story. "That's nothing to what
they did to the women," he hissed. He had the others
spellbound. They were hanging onto his every dreadful word.

"What did they do?" someone asked impatiently.

"They brought them all onto deck," the man continued in his
strange Norfolk accent. "And they stripped them all down,
you know, made them undress: there were petticoats and
shifts galore, my what a sight. And on top of that all that
woman flesh, jumping and bobbling as naked tit meat does.
Anyhow, when they were naked, they made them walk up and
down, then faster, they made them run so their tits bounced
up and down and their asses shook like you wouldn't believe.
And these were posh ladies, all genteel, not your normal
commoners: real ladies."

>From the gloom I heard the sound of a disappointed
disembodied voice. "Is that all?" it said. "Blimey, didn't
they do anything else? If that was me I would have got them
to do more than just run."

I wasn't sure which of the others had spoken, but the
account obviously wasn't salacious enough for this man's
taste.

The storyteller grew thoughtful. He wasn't to be defeated.
His voice became more animated. "No," he resumed, with
sudden glee. "That was just the beginning. After they'd
stripped the ladies naked, they took hold of 'em, posh
ladies every one of them, and they tied them all up. All the
men lined up and they all took a turn. Them ladies was raped
by near enough every one of those brigands, the more holes
the merrier, and when it was all over..." He made a quick
movement with his hand across his throat.

I blinked back a tear and tried to ignore them. Why are men
so insensitive?

Major Brindley says it's all fanciful nonsense, that men
make up lurid stories as a way of passing the time and
creating a little excitement for themselves. He says that
nothing untoward can happen in the time that it takes us to
bathe and that I should forget all about pirates and
brigands.

I guess that he's probably right. He told me in his cheeky
way that I have more to worry about from the rats.

I have seen the odd rat. They dart, seemingly from nowhere,
and then dash at full speed across the deck before vanishing
through some crack never again to be seen. Normally, they
don't frighten me, but on the deck alone, without any crew,
I must admit that I am anxious.

Dear God, Sarah, stop thinking about those pirates. It may
make a handsome fantasy, but right now they're a bit too
close to reality.


******

I cowered behind the cask, trying to make myself look small
and inconspicuous. The faces of the pirates gleamed ghastly
and ghostly in the flickering light of their handheld lamps.
The bitter smell of discharged cordite poisoned the night
air. The Captain lay slumped against the rail moaning
softly. A nervous glance suggested he could not survive very
long. The second mate, Mr. Smithson, was also dead, slumped
within the cask immediately in front of me, face down.
Drowned, I guessed, by the look of him.

>From below there was a shriek of delight followed by a
shrill cry of protest. Moments later Lady Caroline was
bustled up onto deck at the behest of three sun burned
brigands, pulling her robe about her and being chased into
the arms of a wiry buccaneer. Lord Edward followed seconds
later, holding up his unfastened breeches. I saw that the
pirate bore a horrific scar across the whole of the left
side of his face. He tried to force an unwanted kiss upon
Lady Caroline and then fell about laughing at her hysterical
screams.

I knew from all the sailor's tales who this man was. His
name was Whitescar, and all the sailors held him in great
fear.

Whitescar leered at Lady Caroline. "A real British Lady," he
whispered, stepping back and idling a full circle around
her. She was clasping her gown to her bosom, breathing
heavily, not knowing where to look. I could see that
underneath she was wearing her blue cambric nightgown. Her
cap had been dislodged and her chestnut hair fell in an
untidy heap upon her shoulders. Not much here to protect
fair modesty.

Whitescar grinned. He was missing several teeth and wore an
eye patch over his left eye, bridging that horrible scar. It
was a dreadful malicious grin that made me feel faint. I
clasped the cask more firmly.

He was carrying a dagger in one hand, a cutlass in the
other. With the point of the latter, he plucked at Lady
Caroline's cap, flicking it from her head. "Well," he
teased. "I think our lady is a little overdressed. What do
you think, boys." There was a loud roar of approval. They
seemed drunk, but I smelled no drink. He moved closer to
Lady Caroline's face. "So guess what, my lady. It's time for
you to take off your things."

She shook her head slowly. I could smell her fear.

Whitescar's grin didn't break. It just became colder and
more malevolent. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear," he
said, turning his back on her, turning to his cronies and
speaking those words he knew they were most eager to hear.
"I didn't offer you a choice. No m'lady, I ordered you to
undress. It's me that gives the orders now. So, do it,
m'lady, do it now. If not, we'll feed your husband to the
fish."

Lady Caroline gasped and cast a quick glance at Lord Edward.
"I can't," she wailed. "Don't, please don't make me."

Whitescar made a short impatient gesture and suddenly where
Lord Edward had been standing by the rail, there was no one.
He fell without a sound, without a scream. One moment he was
there, the next he was gone. Lady Caroline shrieked. Like
me, she couldn't believe what had just happened. "Edward,"
she screamed. Then she turned to Whitescar in horror.

"Murderer! Bastard! My God! Edward!"

Each of these words received its focus. Each was hurled with
the fury of a burning missile.

Whitescar was unabashed. He took the full weight of each
insult broadsides on. The curl of his thin lips remained
frozen in a cruel smile. "Shall we try again," he suggested,
that smile slowly broadening. "I never bluff," he said. "I
never shout. I don't need to. Are you going to undress, or
do you require a little more persuasion?"

Lady Caroline didn't need telling again. Hurriedly her
fingers began to tussle with the fabric of her gown.

A sudden thought. I looked around, searching the shadows. I
couldn't see William. Where was he? I couldn't see him
anywhere. I did see Mrs. Brindley. Pirates were holding each
of her arms; someone had rent her bodice apart and her
breasts had come tumbling out. So large, big and heavy,
quivering in the fluttering shadows. The Major stepped
forward, grabbed a sword from the hand of a butchered corpse
and charged to her rescue. There was the clatter of steel
upon steel, such a hero, the Major, then the slicing of
flesh, a gasp of agony.

What had happened? So difficult to see. The knees of an old
pirate buckled, bubbles of blood oozed from the corner of
his mouth and trickled down his chin: merciful heavens, dear
God, oceans of blood, hallowed be thy name... He collapsed
to the deck.

The Major was after another. His bloody sword swung, felling
a second man, almost severing him in two. His blood
splattered across Mrs. Brindley's face, sprayed across her
chest, and dribbled down her bosoms.

Lead us not into temptation, thy will be done in heaven...

The man muttered, grimaced, and died.

Thine is the kingdom and the power...

The Major never saw it coming. I wanted to shout; I knew
what was going to happen, but courage had deserted me. The
Major raised his sword for a third time; he had vengeance in
his vision and cowards at his back. One of them stepped
forward and from behind sank his cutlass into the Major's
side, twisting it, piercing his guts and his kidneys.

Amen...

Mrs. Brindley's eyes were agony, opened wide, suffering his
wounds. She was wretched, pitiable, tormented. As she looked
upon her felled husband, and the scum that had murdered him,
I know what she saw. She was staring with certainty at a
better fate.

For Whitescar was there, cutlass in hand, laughing and
jesting, taking hold of a decanter of port to celebrate his
conquest. I recognized it. It was William's. Dear God, where
was William? What had become of him? I searched out the
shadows of the deck once more. Whitescar lifted the decanter
to his lips and swigged at the bloody liquid. Was William
right now lying murdered in his bed? Was that where he was?
Whitescar handed the decanter to another equally drunk
reveler. I looked again at Mrs. Brindley. "Rats," she
mouthed.

I was confused. "Rats?"

There was a pirate now under her skirts. Dear God, what was
he doing under there? He must be between her legs. She
grimaced from the hidden pain. Dear God, what vile torture
was even now being perpetrated upon her secret crevices?
Someone else bit upon her nipple. She screamed. She could no
longer take the weight of them both and she overbalanced,
falling backwards. Neither could she speak; they were all
over her, stripping her, forcing her, violating her.

Yes, indeed. Rats.

Between Mrs. Brindley and myself were the rabble swaggering
about Lady Caroline. They were pushing and shoving, a couple
of them were applauding, one made obscene gestures while
another maliciously punctured her nightgown with the tip of
his cutlass, cutting a tear square across her front, along
the underside of her breasts. She stepped instinctively away
from him but fell towards the lurking hands behind her.

Suddenly there was an awful drunken cry that sang out into
the night: "Strip the bitch! Do it! Come on! Strip her!"

It sent shivers down my spine, so awful, so violent, yet I
could do nothing to help. I clung petrified to the cask, not
daring to run, not daring to stay, all the time knowing that
I was next, that they were sure to turn their attentions
upon me, that what I was watching was simply a portent of my
own dreadful end.

Lady Caroline hysterically clawed at the menacing hands
groping her, that were grabbing and pulling at her
nightgown. She struggled to get free, to get away. She
screamed, a terrible pitiful cry, it was followed at once by
a deep hollow laugh. There was a tearing of cloth, a ripping
of thread. Screeching, screaming: shreds of torn white linen
flew through the air, falling as if in slow motion upon the
shoulders of unshaven smiling monsters. I saw a glimpse of
her bare breast through the crowd, flashing in the light of
the flickering lamps, then I saw her bare butt bearing the
fading stripes of a bad beating, being clasped, being held
by a dirty, large hand.

Her legs were pulled open; someone pushed a fist inside.

About me there was bedlam: screaming, cheering, and hoots of
derision. There was sawdust, fighting, gunpowder, blood, and
deadliest of all, there were small splinters of wood, sharp,
awful and wicked.

Lady Caroline was being held, she was bent double, her legs
slightly apart, her butt lewdly displayed. Whitescar was
approaching; his tool was exposed and ready for marauding.
Dear God, poor Lady Caroline! Please spare her, forgive her
her trespasses, ease now her pain... I put my hands to my
ears to cover her screams. Doesn't he know, Whitescar?
Surely he must! That's not even the right hole.


******

The cask stood directly in front of me in the middle of the
deck. I took a deep breath. It was unattended and there was
a good deal of water spilled all around. Only five yards or
so away was the disruptive Negro, sitting on a small stool.
The Major had brought it for him, as well as a length of
gray sackcloth for him to cover himself. At first there was
a big protest and lots of complaints, but with William ill,
all that seemed to have gone away.

The Negro had his back against the main mast and was staring
at me through his large doleful eyes.

I sighed. Why did they have to put the cask so close to him?
This was going to be difficult.

I pushed my chair slowly, self-consciously the short
distance towards the cask. When I reached it, I pulled
myself up, letting the cask take my weight, and I dipped my
hand in its water. It was freezing.

Dear Jesus, what should I do? I couldn't bathe with him
sitting there watching me. It would be too mortifying. Then
I recalled with horror what William had said, without
conscience or emotion, about removing the man's eyes if his
presence bothered me.

But what did it matter, I asked myself. William was not
here. So, how would he know? There was no one watching,
everyone had retired. William would never find out.

Or would he? Could I really ever be sure about William? What
if I were wrong? What if someone was watching me? Right at
this very moment? That would be just like William: to set
his spies to catch me.

I looked around nervously. Nothing. No one was there apart
from the poor Negro in front of me.

I glared at him and in return was met by such pathos that my
gaze softened. This man was exhausted; he was cold; he was
hungry. Yet behind all these things I could feel his
determination to survive, I could see it on his face, in his
posture. He hadn't given up; he had hope.

So where was mine?

How stupid I was being over such a little matter: this
Negro's existence. What were my problems compared to his?

How could my mental anguish be of any consequence when
compared against the physical anguish of this poor wretch? I
was determined that his presence should not bother me.

I began to wash, first my face, then my hands and forearms.
I did so quickly, hurriedly, with the bulk of the cask
standing between the two of us. I felt so awkward already.
And all the time he kept looking at me. Each time I looked
up I saw that same look of undisguised admiration - I'm sure
that I don't flatter myself here - that left me muddled and
confused.

I unbuttoned the front of my bathing dress and reached
inside, carefully soaping my breasts.

Suddenly, he reached into the cloth that girded his loins,
the cloth that the Major had found for him, and hooked out
his black flaccid penis. For a moment I saw it without
seeing, it was so bizarre the way that he revealed it,
almost as if he were showing it to me.

I gasped. I felt so humiliated and embarrassed, and I didn't
know why. He had sat there for almost two days entirely
naked, so it wasn't even the surprise of seeing his penis. I
had seen it before. But this act of exposing himself, why
had he done it? I could only interpret the action as being
inspired by a sexual interest.

I hated him and I hated William for making me wash in front
of him. Dear God, the man really was a savage. Quickly,
hurriedly, I collected my things, jumped into my chair and
hurled myself across the deck toward the stairs. I yelled
down for Mr. Smithson.

"Quick. Take me, at once, please, take me to my room."

Mr. Smithson came up at once. I saw him glance suspiciously
over my shoulder at the Negro. Fortunately, by this time the
obscene cock had been placed behind the thick sackcloth and
so I didn't have to explain.

Only when I got to my State Room did I realize that my
bathing dress was still unbuttoned. Dear God, and Mr.
Smithson had seen me like that! Just how much had he seen? I
rushed inside, thankful that William was too preoccupied
with his own anxieties to pay attention to me.

Behind the curtain as I caught my breath, I barely had the
wherewithal to call through the wall to Mrs. Brindley that I
was finished.

Dear God, what had I done? For most of that morning I stood
in my bathing dress with the buttons undone. I stared at my
reflection in the mirror, turning and twisting, trying to
ascertain just how much of an eyeful I had presented to the
second mate. I flushed at the result. I was quite certain he
must have been able to see most of my naked breasts.

What must he think of me?

Yet gradually my thoughts calmed, and returned to the Negro
and his cock. Why had he done that? Why had he pulled it
out? If it had been erect then maybe I might have understood
him. But what had he expected me to do? Did he want me to
touch it, to feel it, or was he only expecting me to look? I
was shocked, and yet at the same time I was also pleasantly
flattered: such confused feelings.

Dear God. If William had not been there in his bed suffering
so much, I know for certain what I would have done to ease
my anguish. However, as he was there, the fire continued to
burn in my belly.


******


Late that day, the two other lady passengers, Lady Caroline
and Mrs. Brindley promenaded the deck with me as their
companion. There was nothing much to do, and we were bored.
For a while we watched some sailors. These spent much of
their free time dancing hornpipes or jigs. Others were to be
seen sitting near the galley playing cards or backgammon
while waiting for their next unappetizing meal. Mrs.
Brindley pushed me slowly passed the dancing sailors towards
the bow and my Negro.

I was nervous at returning to that part of the deck after
what had happened that morning, but I couldn't think of any
reasonable excuse to keep away, not without rousing the
suspicion of my companions.

They brought me to a halt about ten yards from the main
mast.

Our attention soon focused on the piece of sackcloth that
inadequately covered his groin. "Does the Major really think
it makes any difference to a savage whether he is clothed or
unclothed?" Lady Caroline inquired ruefully. "What is
modesty to a beast?"

Mrs. Brindley laughed. She is quite attractive when she
laughs. "I think," she said. "That he considers it
inappropriate for a lady of breeding to be forced to look
upon any man's manhood, savage or otherwise."

"Shame," Lady Caroline murmured, flapping her fan furiously
and glancing slyly towards me. She winked.

At once, I didn't know what to do with myself. I prayed that
the Negro wouldn't repeat his trick of that morning and
expose himself. That would make my mortification complete.

Lady Caroline continued to bait me by observing that she had
heard that there were Negroes whose "thing" could grow to
the size of a forearm.

My jaw must have dropped, or, maybe I reacted in some other
way, I'm not sure. I did something, because Mrs. Brindley
vexed me by adding in a reassuring tone that I needn't fret,
because "it" would only harden for a black bitch. Standing
behind her, Lady Caroline was barely able to conceal her
mirth. Then, both ladies agreed that this was a fact, for
certain, only for a black bitch, and then Lady Caroline
fluttered her fan frenetically in delight.

I blushed bright red. I kept thinking that he might be able
to understand them. He was so close he could certainly hear.
If he pulled "it" out from the sackcloth just as he had done
that morning, then he was certain to be beaten. Dear God,
please, don't let that happen. He is so weak. I am sure he
wouldn't be able to bear it.

"Sarah is shocked," Lady Caroline laughed from behind her
fan. "I can see that she thinks us quite common."

An image flashed through my mind. I didn't ask for it, it
came of its own accord. It was Lady Caroline naked, bending
over for my husband, while he shot his wad across her
stinging ass. I had an urge to ask whether this was the
behavior of a true lady, or whether she was in fact "quite
common", but I bit my tongue. That would be an act just as
cruel as the original birch with which she had been flogged.

Never mind, it doesn't signify. Vengeance is mine, saith the
Lord.

Mrs. Brindley took hold of my arm, and whispered
confidentially into my ear. "The man is a Negro," she said.
"There is no need to feel uneasy. Negroes, you see, are not
civilized at all."

So we are civilized? Is that what she was saying? Was it
civilized to be talking in front of this man about the
possible size of his member? I, for one, was at that moment
not feeling very civilized at all. A wicked had thought
crossed my mind; I'd dismissed it instantly but it had found
its home and it insisted on returning.

The thought was simple: I wondered what this Negro would
make of a white bitch.


******


The week before we set sail, James Russell, William's best
friend called upon me. I knew him already because he had
been a member of William's wedding party. We had also met
several times since then.

James was tall and broad and I had liked him at once. A
liking that may also be partly due to the fact that he had
approached me shortly after the wedding service. He had
kissed my hand, looked into my radiant face and had declared
that I was the prettiest lady he had ever had the good
fortune to meet, a compliment that made it difficult for me
not to like him later.

He was engaged in matrimony to a young lady from Biddulph
named Molly Barton. She was the eldest daughter of a
clergyman. Despite this attraction - or perhaps because of
it, if William is to be believed. He said Miss Barton has
the face of a hippopotamus - James was still a frequent
caller at Greystone Park. His manner was easy and free. In
fact, truth to say, he had become my only real friend in
Derbyshire.

It was still early, that morning of his call, and I was
practicing my French "devoirs". William was in town on
business.

"I'm afraid you've had a wasted journey," I explained, as
the maid brought in some tea. "William has gone into
Buxton".

He waited until the tea was poured and the maid had left.
"Yes," he said, somewhat tersely, tentatively sipping his
tea. There was something on his mind. I waited patiently for
him to continue. At last he did. "Did you know that William
is in debt?"

I shook my head. "If it is about money then you will need to
speak to William."

James repeated the question. He was so earnest that he
frightened me. "But did you know that William is in debt?"

"No. William doesn't tell me anything of his finances."

He grimaced. "As I thought. But I think you should know,
Sarah. You should know that William has heavy gambling
debts, very heavy debts. He owes a lot of money to a lot of
people, to a lot of very important people."

"I'm sorry," I insisted. "But it really does have nothing to
do with me. You will need to speak to William."

"I'm sorry too," James apologized. "You see, if his fortunes
don't change quickly, then he will have no option, he will
be forced to flee, to flee the country."

I looked down. What could I say? The words meant so little.
"I see."

"That will mean disgrace for him. Do you understand, Sarah?
It will be the end. He will be ruined."

"Is there nothing... is there absolutely nothing that can be
done?"

"I don't know." He sighed. "It isn't promising. He did hope
to shorten his losses, until at least he should come by your
money."

"My money?" This was news. I knew of course, about my
legacy, that I would come into a small amount of money on my
twenty first birthday. My mother's father had bestowed it on
me. This money must now, naturally, go to William as my
husband. But it wasn't a large sum. I hadn't realized that
William was in need of it, was anticipating its arrival.

James was blunt. "Sarah. I'm sorry. The need for money was a
spur to William's search for a good match."

Is that all I was to him? A good match? A source of finance?

"But William won't come into my money yet, not for another
fifteen months," I argued.

James nodded. "There's a short term deficit," James agreed.
"One or two of us are trying to forestall William's
creditors, begging them to give William more time. There is
one man in particular; his name is Sir Michael Chamberlain.
I have tried to talk with him, to reason, but he will not
budge. He is determined to bring William to bankruptcy."

I clasped my hands in my lap; my palms were sweaty. "But
why? What has William done? Why does this man hate William
so much?"

"He doesn't hate William," James assured me. "To him it is
all just a simple business enterprise, nothing more, nothing
less."

"Then we are ruined?"

"I'm afraid so," James sighed, somberly. He paused. "There
is..."

"Yes?"

"There is one possibility." James explained that William had
tried one last time the previous week to shift Sir Michael
from his adamancy. Sir Michael had finally agreed to an
extension, conditional on a single payment of extraordinary
interest."

"But that's excellent news," I exclaimed.

James helped me to understand. "It's not good news. It's bad
news. I tried to deter William, to make him think again, but
he insisted. By extraordinary interest Sir Michael means
that he will come round here and you will provide him with
entertainment. Do you understand me, Sarah? Sir Michael
isn't referring to afternoon tea. He wants you, he wants you
to make him happy."

I was stunned. "And William agreed to this?"

James nodded without looking at me. He didn't like his role
as messenger, I could tell that. He was embarrassed,
embarrassed for me, and embarrassed by what he had just had
to say. "It provides William with a solution to his present
difficulties," he explained.

"I see."

I stared out into the garden. It was pouring with rain,
beating against the windows. The skies were gray and
ominous.

He rose. "I'm sorry, Sarah. You just don't know..."

I smiled weakly. "Oh don't worry about me," I said, putting
on my bravest face. "I am quite sure that I shall survive."
Tears were forming in my eyes. "Worse things have been known
to happen to a woman, you know. And if it means that William
can keep Greystone Park, his honour, and his friends, then I
am sure it will all be for the best."

James bent down and kissed me softly on the forehead. His
voice was hoarse and strangled. "William doesn't deserve
you," he said.

I took hold of his hand. "James," I begged. "Dear James, if
it is to be..." I couldn't escape the notion that William
had married me solely as a solution to his financial
difficulties. Again a longing for revenge filled me, and
with it came the germ of an idea. William had done a lot to
educate me during the past couple of months. I am a fast
learner and it was now time to make use of my education.

I tenderly caressed James' hand. "It is so important that I
do everything right for Sir Michael," I said. "I'm not sure
that I can. Will you, will you allow me to practice?"

He stared at me silently for some seconds, then lifted me
out of my chair, took me in his arms, and hugged me tight.
"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

James was a perfect gentleman. Or at least, as much of a
gentleman as he could possibly be given the circumstances.
Certainly, far more of a gentleman than William had ever
been.

For some minutes we sat and stared at each other, both of us
at a loss as to what to do, or how to begin. In the end I
forced myself to break the ice. "Sir Michael, sir," I
opened, rather nervously. "I know why you are here. Of
course, I must obey my husband's wishes; I must do what he
expects of me. So, please, excuse me, but I am putty within
your hands. Please, what would you like me to do?"

James explained softly that Sir Michael wouldn't ask to fuck
me. He was an old Catholic, with a well-connected wife and a
stern priest. He wouldn't care to pay the penance for
adultery. He was a man inclined to tailor his sins to the
price he would be called upon to pay.

"What then will he want of me?" I asked hesitantly. I'm not
sure whether I was relieved or not. My thinking was in such
a muddle.

James considered. "Go over by the fire," he commanded. "Make
yourself comfortable."

I shuffled awkwardly across to the fire, crackling softly
behind me. As I did so, Sir Michael closed the sitting room
door and turned the key in the lock. He sat down in the
large armchair, William's chair, and pulled an oversized
white handkerchief from his coat pocket. He lay it over his
lap like a large serviette. Next, he loosened his neck cloth
and the belt of his breeches.

I sucked in my breath. "James?"

Sir Michael glowered at me, pulling a small, engraved silver
snuffbox from his pocket. He flicked it open, and took a
small pinch of snuff between his short stubby fingers. "You
understand," he said thickly. "That I expect a great deal
from you, today."

I still had no idea what he wanted, and he was scaring me.
There was a fluttering in my stomach and a tightening in my
chest that was worse than any corset.

He dusted his fingertips using the edges of the handkerchief
and then put away his snuffbox.

"You are a very pretty woman," he said, sticking his left
hand underneath the handkerchief and then squirming somewhat
in the chair. "And I should know. I have seen a good many
fillies in my years."

"Thank you, Sir Michael."

I blushed. Should I have said that? Should I have thanked
him? In the end I had done so because the compliment was
genuine, if very improper. But everything I was doing was
improper. Even the fact that Sir Michael had locked the door
was improper. If any of the servants happened by...

"Now," he said, looking at me carefully through his
eyeglass. "I want you to try and forget that I'm here. You
will hear my voice, but I want you to pretend that it's your
own thoughts that you're hearing, that I'm not in this room
with you at all. Can you do that?"

"I don't know," I answered honestly, my heart beating fast.
"I can try."

"But you'll be truthful with me. Whatever I ask, you'll
answer me honestly?"

"Yes."

I'll do it for you, James. You are my friend. I'll answer
you truthfully, whatever you ask. But I don't know whether I
could be as honest with Sir Michael.

His hand was moving steadily underneath the cloth. I watched
it rise and fall, rise and fall. "Are you in love with
William?"

I drew in my breath sharply. I don't know what I was
expecting, but I wasn't counting on him asking me about
William. It wasn't right for him to ask or for me to answer.
But I had promised.

"The truth now," he insisted.

I hardly mouthed my answer. "No."

"Have you ever loved him?"

That same movement of my lips. "No."

"Then you have a lover?"

I shook my head.

"Would you want a lover?"

I shook my head, and then remembered my promise. "I don't
know," I mumbled. "I shouldn't."

"An imaginary lover, perhaps. A man who comes to you in your
dreams and whispers sweet promises of love and of a life
together in paradise."

He waited. I realized it was supposed to be a question.
"Maybe. But it won't happen."

"You think not? But he is here, within this room. There is a
man who loves you greatly. He can see you right now."

Standing so close to the fire I was becoming very hot. I
could feel it through my dress and my clothes. What was
James, Sir Michael, saying? I wanted to step away from the
fire and cool down, but when I tried it, he made me return
to the spot I had just vacated.

"I can't see him," I murmured, playing along and looking
around the room.

"No, you are wrong," he contradicted. "You certainly can see
him. Seeing is not the problem; it's speaking that is the
problem. You can see, but you can not talk to him. And if
you did, then, then he wouldn't be able to hear you. Do you
understand me, Sarah?"

I shook my head. I didn't understand at all.

It was so hot by the fire. It was becoming difficult for me
to concentrate, to hear what James was telling me. "Your
lover has dreams too. In fact, he is dreaming right now. He
is asleep and in his dreams he is searching for you. Sarah,
you must find him. He is there, somewhere in your dream,
just as you are present in his. He is searching, ah, there
he is. He has found you. He can see you now, touch you even,
but in your dreams there is no noise, he exists in a world
of silence. He cannot hear you, or the fire, or even what I
am saying to you now. Do you understand me now?"

This time I nodded. I wasn't sure that I did understand, but
it seemed the right thing to do.

"So you can speak quite openly," James suggested. "You can
speak with complete honesty. This lover of yours won't hear
anything of what you say."

"No."

James leaned forward, too eagerly. "Do you love him, the
lover in your dreams?"

"Yes." I was beginning to understand. "Yes," I said again,
more eagerly. "Yes, James. I love him very much. More than
ever he'll know."

He smiled. "Then you must show him how much you love him.
Otherwise he will pass on and be gone forever. You must
declare your love to him now. You must show him not only
that you love him, but also how much you need him."

"Help me," I begged. "Show me how."

I was burning.

"It is easy," he explained. "You must undress. You must take
off everything. You must do it slowly, sensuously. Your
dress and your petticoats."

I was watching the hand under that large white handkerchief.
Slowly, methodically it moved up and down. "You must do it
in front of him, while he watches. Your pink corset and your
silk stockings."

The way he was looking at me, staring at me. I felt so naked
with him looking at me like that. How did he know what I was
wearing? "You must not hide anything, the very opposite. You
must delight in showing him your vulnerability. Your cotton
chemise and your white drawers."

His hand was faster. He was sweating. God was I hot. "Only
when you are entirely bare may you approach him, touch him,
hold him. There will be no need for words, for explanation.
You will reach out to him in the universal tongue. He will
understand, he will know what to do. Trust me."

Yes. Of course. "Do it, Sarah. Show me. I want to see how
much you love this man."

My hands were shaking. I could barely control them. Sir
Michael was pumping his cock furiously under the white
handkerchief. My face was flushed with arousal and need.
Carefully, delicately, I began to unfasten the buttons of my
gown.

"God, Sarah," James gasped. "William is such a lucky guy. If
I had met you first..."

"Then you would have done nothing. You are not free, James.
You are betrothed."

Neither of us had spoken.

I pulled off the gown and laid it upon an empty chair.
Underneath, I was wearing a white satin petticoat cut low
about my bust. James was immediately much taken with the
frills about my bosom.

"I would have broken my engagement," he panted.

"Nonsense," I contradicted, pulling at my petticoat. "You
have honor, James. You will marry Molly, and you will make
her truly happy."

Something was happening underneath the handkerchief, and
being a married woman I had a very good picture as to what
this might be. James pulled the cloth down over his cock
like a sock or a glove, permitting me to conjecture as to
the beast beneath.

Reaching under my shift I grabbed hold of my drawers and
pulled them over my thighs, my calves and then finally my
ankles. "Please," I begged, teetering on first one leg, and
then the other. Damn. My drawers had become tangled in my
shoes. This wasn't very ladylike, but at last they came
free. "Please," I pleaded a second time, pointing towards
his handkerchief. "Please use these."

James hesitantly took my drawers and lifted them to his
nose. Dear God! What heavenly madness! He's smelling my
aroma, sensing its warmth and pondering where it was
created.

"I want to fuck you," he growled. His voice was so low and
deep, it made me shiver with anticipation. I could feel how
much he meant those simple words.

"I know," I whimpered. Dear God, were we going to do it,
after all? Was he going to make me go all the way? Was I
actually to be an adulteress?

"I shouldn't," he groaned, pulling off his neck cloth and
throwing it to the floor. "It isn't right. William is my
friend. And Molly, poor Molly. I'm promised to Molly."

Of course. Molly. I was forgetting Molly. How could I take
my revenge on poor Molly too?

I bent down, my titties almost falling out of my corset, my
perfume washing across him, my fingertips just managing to
touch the cloth upon his lap. I kissed him softly on the
cheek, and then whispered in his ear. "Please, James. Carry
me upstairs. Please, I need you. Will you take me to bed?"

He kissed me tenderly, then watched me continue to undress.
It didn't take long. I had only my stays and my chemise to
remove. I did it proudly, boldly, and then stood still for
him to feast his gaze upon my naked body. I luxuriated in
his attention. I could feel the warmth of his stare on every
exposed inch of my skin and it was such heavenly bliss.

He lifted me to my room. Perhaps the servants saw us,
perhaps not: I didn't particularly care. It was a sweet
morning, a long morning in which we made each other
exquisitely happy.

But we didn't fuck. For Molly's sake. And neither of us
spoke a word.

That evening, William told me with great uncontrolled rage
that Sir Michael had filed bankruptcy proceedings against
him that morning and that I should prepare my valise.

I cast him a weak enigmatic smile. "Yes, William."


******


I sat on the bare deck in my bare feet, watching as my Negro
ate the stale bread that I had brought. He glanced up at me
occasionally. I saw that he was curious, suspicious, and
yet, yes, thankful too.

I offered him some water from a tin cup. It was thick and
the surface was covered in green slime. He had to strain it
through his teeth as he drank, and yet he was so grateful to
receive this meager gift. He smiled and nodded and when he
did that, those dark eyes sparkled with life and hope. His
overflowing gratitude made my heart ache, because I was just
so helpless. I wanted to reach out and comfort him, to ease
his pain, but there was so little that I could do. I knew
that whatever I did, however I helped, the end would remain
the same: they would still hang him when we reached the
Indies.

Well, at least, I thought, I can get him there. That in
itself would be an accomplishment. The corpses of three more
slaves had been tossed over the side that morning, dropped
into the churning briny waters by two of their own kind. The
sailors now considered the hold cursed and would no longer
go anywhere near it.

There had been no service: no memorial or any offering of
prayers. It had been an almost insignificant event, remarked
on by no one. But in my heart I offered a quiet word of
remembrance to these poor creatures whose suffering had been
so mercifully concluded. It had been a man and two women
that had died. I wouldn't have known, except that I asked
Major Brindley.

God only knows what conditions were like down there. Mrs.
Brindley might be prepared to enter the hold, but I was not.
My role was here, up on deck.

Perhaps, I thought, I ought to consider my Negro as blessed
in that he had the elements to house him rather than that
hellhole in the hold. If only the elements had not been so
hostile of late. The sun roasted us during the day, and
during the night, I could feel his frozen misery, hear his
soft groaning. Each night as I lay lashed into my bed, I
would stare into the blackness and I see him shivering
pitifully, alone and yet not alone, up here on deck.
I couldn't help reflecting, as I watched him eating. It was
strange, we were each slaves in our own separate way, he and
I: he to the white man, and I to William. Perhaps that was
why I felt a strange camaraderie to this exotic creature
that ate my bread and drank my water. Perhaps it was also
why I was so attracted to him.

"Of course, you know that I'm married," I said. He didn't
understand me, I knew that, but it helped to talk. "It's
marriage, but it isn't a real marriage; not really, not
truly."

I had with me a small piece of apple pie wrapped in muslin.
I had stolen it earlier from the galley. I unwrapped it with
a generous smile, and offered it to him, to my Negro. He
reached out and took it in his strong black hands, and
thanked me with his warm brown eyes.

"William treats his dogs better than he treats me," I
confided. "You would understand that. I know you would. You
understand what it's like to be shunned and mistreated: to
be treated as nothing, even worse than nothing. He fusses
over those dogs and gives them such affection and love. But
not me. He's never loved me like that."

I carefully folded the muslin into four, and tucked it away
in the sleeve of my dress. "I could never respect him," I
said sadly. "Not now. He beats me with my marriage vows,
whips me. He makes them into a heavy burden that I'm forced
to carry like a leaden balloon. Is that marriage? No it's
not, not at all. I trusted him. But now I'm just a
possession that he can order to submit, to love and most
important to him, someone that he can order to obey."

Of course, my Negro didn't respond apart from making native
noises, but it was a comfort to be able to talk, to have
someone that I could confide in.

I leaned forward and touched him softly on the arm. I was so
pleased that he didn't pull away. "There's something I would
like to do," I said confidentially, "Something, I hope you
won't mind, something I want to try."

My dreams had been changing of late. It's so difficult to
understand why we dream the things that we do. James had
disappeared entirely. Perhaps he was no longer looking for
me in his own dreams, perhaps he was becoming used to Molly,
or perhaps the distance between us was now too great: I
don't know. What I do know is that my Negro was making the
odd appearance, usually just before I awoke. And in these
dreams he spoke to me, he comforted me, he never pushed me
faster than I was prepared to travel. And when he spoke, it
was always in English, a language that he had mastered very
well.

I held my breath. Did I have sufficient courage? Ever since
we had set sail, everyone had kept repeating to me, over and
over, that Negroes aren't actually men in the real sense of
the word. Okay, so if it was acceptable for me to watch
Negroes mating that first day, then what could be wrong with
a little voyeuristic activity today?

My fingers stroked his chest, traced a line down towards
that sorrowful piece of sackcloth. His hand caught hold of
my wrist, preventing me from touching it. He was suspicious.
"Please," I begged. "I just want to wash it."

I pointed to the cask of water. I didn't think that he would
allow me to remove that garment, and so I was overjoyed when
he did.

He's beginning to trust me.

I stared down at his penis. Like yesterday, it was quite
flaccid. I must be truthful: I was a little disappointed. I
thought back to what Mrs. Brindley had said about it only
becoming hard for a black bitch. Maybe she did know what she
was talking about, after all.

But, it wasn't important. I wanted to help him whether he
found me attractive or not. I might not be able to do much
to help this beast; it might yet be that he would be hanged
when we reached the Indies. However, in the meantime, I was
determined to do what I could to make his life more
comfortable.

I took hold of his loincloth and pulled myself to the cask.
My Negro was watching me, hope as ever shining bright on his
face. I clambered inside, bathing quickly and then rubbing
his loincloth hard against my own bathing dress, beating it
with water, driving out the stains and the sweat. God it was
filthy.

When I was finished, I clambered out of the cask and wrung
out of his small insignificant garment as much water as I
could.

He was still watching me. Again, I remembered Mrs.
Brindley's comment, how could I ever forget it? One last
attempt. Let me prove to myself once and for all whether or
not he could only get hard for a black bitch. It was time to
put Mrs. Brindley's mouth to the test.

My bathing dress was wet from being submerged in the cask.
It hugged my body tightly, accentuating and revealing. What
should I do? I remembered James and what I had done for him
that morning. That had worked, but how could I undress on
deck? That would be going too far. There had to be another
way.

I stood nervously considering what I should do. He was
watching. I smiled. I wasn't scared of him; I wasn't fearful
of him looking at me. I know that the water hugged my body
revealing more of my womanly charms than was proper. I
wanted to be sexy for him, to act like an uncivilized
savage.

I placed my hands over my breasts, cupping them, offering
myself, pushing them towards him. For a moment, in my
imagination I could see myself through his eyes, and I found
that I was looking at a stranger, beautiful, radiant and
wonderfully sexy.

I wasn't wearing any underthings and so my hardening nipples
were poking through the fabric of my bathing dress rather
obscenely. Could those really be my breasts under that
cloth, so clearly outlined and visible? Were those really my
hips fondly embraced by that negligible trifling? Dear God,
was that really my dark mound so clearly discernable under
the semi-transparent cotton?

If it was, then I was glad. I wanted to show off. I wanted
him to see me and desire me and lust for me the way that I
was lusting for him.

Dear God, I don't believe I just said that. His cock was
beginning to stir.

What next? I turned my back on him and bent forward,
wriggling my butt and concealing from him my own desire.

Dear God, what is happening to me? Deep within me there is
fire in my belly. What can I do? Please help me. Merciful
heavens, I'm not sure that I can control it.

I pulled my dress lewdly into the crack of my ass. I'm not
even as civilized as a savage, I thought. Look at the way
that I'm acting, I'm acting like one of William's dogs, one
of the bitches, in heat. Bent double, and with my dress wet
and sticking to me, I could only imagine what he must have
been seeing.

Yet still it wasn't enough. I was determined to go even
further, much further.

"You must show him how much you love him," I thought. That's
what James had said. "Otherwise he will pass on and be gone
forever."

I couldn't breathe. The tension was too much. What was he
thinking, my Negro? Was I just humiliating myself? Was Mrs.
Brindley right? I pulled the skirt of my dress up toward my
waist. Dear Jesus, what am I about to do? How can I actually
want to do this? Mama, papa, if you could see me now! The
skirt was heavy and wet and didn't want to come.

I was a married woman. I was William's wife. How could I act
in this way?

I hauled the material over my thighs, up to my butt and then
to my waist. I slid my feet apart, knowing that now I must
be entirely open, that bent over like this he must be able
to see everything, that he would be able to see right
inside.

This was one of the few things I could honestly give. It was
my gift to him, not stolen from the galley or demanded by a
master. This was truly, honestly, a present given from the
depths of my heart.

I stood there for several seconds, accepting his gaze. Dear
God, if only he knew what he was doing to me. But perhaps he
did: I was so wet, any longer like this and my juices were
sure to trickle across my thighs and down my legs.

I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to look. I had to
know. Did he find me attractive? Could I do for him as much
as he was doing for me? I turned, standing, holding my
skirts.

My spirits soared. He was sat on that horrible stool with
his cock erect and throbbing. He wasn't touching it or
manually helping it to grow. It was all, that thing,
entirely down to me. I smiled at him, looking down happily
at his erection, and handed him his loincloth. He accepted
it, returning my smile.

You are wrong, Mrs. Brindley, and so are you Lady Caroline.
He finds _me_ attractive; he wants this white bitch that I
have become.

All day long I fantasized about that cock. But it wasn't the
cock, not in itself; it was what it implied. This
heavyweight beast found me sexy.

While Lady Caroline and Mrs. Brindley were bathing, I found
myself a quiet corner, down below in the smell and the
darkness, and I played with myself until the ache had
subsided.
It was a beginning. We couldn't talk, this Negro and I;
there was such an impossible divide between us. But this, it
was a start, something that I could work on.

Later that morning, William spoke to me and I didn't hear
him at all. At the time I was feeding him porridge. I had
made it for him especially.

He could barely swallow it because his throat was so
constricted. His limbs were also numb. He was feverish and
his skin was blistering. He was the merest shadow of the man
that had boarded this ship.

"I'm dying, Sarah," he whimpered laughably, reaching out and
grasping my wrist. "I know it, Sarah. I sense it."

"Nonsense," I contradicted, shoveling the reddish cereal
into his unaccommodating mouth with my free hand.

"It's true," he insisted between mouthfuls. His strength was
certainly ebbing away. His grasp on my wrist was wonderfully
weak.

"I keep seeing things," he sobbed. "Peculiar things. Omens.
There is a man with a black cowl and a sharp sickle. He
stands over there in the corner, by your curtain. Look.
Sarah. Please. Can't you see him? He never leaves me alone.
When you're here he shuts up, but when you're gone he won't
keep quiet. He keeps me awake and he laughs at me and tells
me such terrible things."

"William, you're imagining it," I said unsympathetically,
glancing impatiently towards the corner. "There's no one
there."

I tried to force a final spoonful of porridge down his
ungrateful gullet. But he wouldn't take it. There was fear
written all over his face: such fear. I had no doubt but
that he really could see this fiend.

"We'll talk about it later," I said, pulling myself to my
feet.

"Don't leave me, Sarah," he pleaded, sobbing pitifully.
"Please don't, please don't leave me alone with him. You
don't know... You can't imagine... When you go, if you leave
me, then he'll start to say things, evil things. He won't
let me alone."

My heart was hard. William had made it so. I mumbled my
apologies and pushed myself into the corridor. The whale oil
lamps were flickering weakly, casting shadows that flowed
backwards and forwards with the heaving of our creaking
ship.
There was a bucket at the far end of the corridor. It was
half full of water. I wanted to wash William's plate. I had
to get out of that room. It was so small, cramped and
depressing. I pulled myself along the corridor, passed Lord
Edward's room and then the Major's.

I could hear voices inside each of these rooms. The Major
and Mrs. Brindley were talking softly; Lady Caroline was
being rather rude to Lord Edward.
I got to the far end. It was seawater, of course, that was
in the bucket, but that would do. Washing the plate gave me
a chance to breathe, a chance to be alone.

When I got back to the State Room, I found William crying
uncontrollably, delirious with fever, shouting with wide
open eyes at his imagined ghoul.

I offered him some water and rinsed his flushed face with a
towel, but my mind was elsewhere. Imagine; I could have so
much power over an African savage!

"They lied," I whispered to William. I didn't care what he
knew now, whether he might piece together the pieces. I
didn't expect him to answer; his throat was too sore. I
kissed him gently on his unshaven cheek and spoke softly
into his ear. "It's true, my love. It hardens for a white
bitch as easily as for a black one."



End Of Part Two


The Ignominy Run
by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com)
January 2000

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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