THE GALLEY SLAVE
A Young Man's Odyssey into Slavery 
Chapter 14: `Hope Springs Eternal'
Conclusion


This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years 

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)
Read all the Jean-Christophe stories at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories 

"The characters and ideas in this story are the writer's and shouldn't be used without permission.  Please respect the integrity of the story and don't any rewrite, make alterations or add photos."

Chapter 14: `Hope Springs Eternal' 

Ahead of us is the open sea. But before we move from the calm waters of the harbour and out into the choppy swell of the Middle Sea, we have to manoeuvre the Ghibli out through the angled gap between the twin arms of the defensive sea-walls. These high, stone walls both protect the city from sea attacks and provide a safe anchorage for the galleys sheltering from the winter storms. 

And clambering over the walls, like a swarm of industrious, worker ants are several hundred near naked slaves repairing and replacing any stonework damaged by the pounding waves.  

As we drift sideways from the wharf, the crowd gathered to watch our departure, farewell us with loud shouting from the men and the disconcerting ululations of the heavily shrouded women. The veils covering their faces do nothing to diminish their almost frightening sounds as they bid us a safe and profitable voyage. 

It is early morning and I sit bewildered and uncomprehending of what I must do. Above me, the overseers stride purposefully along the central walkway shouting and cursing us into action. Already their impatient whips flail our naked backs and our cries of pain are callously ignored. 

My owner, the Tripoli merchant Rashid, stands at the railing of the high poop deck and dispassionately looks down upon us; he remains silent and allows his boatswain, Osmani to get the Ghibli under way.

In front of me are the serried ranks of the naked, scarred backs of my fellow oar slaves. The layered cicatrices on those sun blackened backs tell me of the suffering endured during previous voyages. And it is a suffering that I am soon to share with them. To date my own back is relatively unscathed but I know this will soon change. Once we have cleared the harbour and turn eastwards along the coast, the drum beat will surely increase its tempo and the overseers' whips will be plied with ever increasing and savage fury.

I am panicky and unsure of what I must do and so I take my lead from my brothers in misfortune. Mechanically, they re-act to all the orders shouted to them. I watch carefully what they do and then I follow suit. I row when they row; I cease rowing when the order is given for the oars to be stilled. 

Under Osmani's expert guidance, the galley slowly noses its way through the intricate manoeuvres necessary for it to clear the protective sea-walls and to reach the open sea. Sometimes, all the oars are plied; at other times only those on either the port or starboard sides are used to turn the Ghibli's bow in the required direction. It requires great skill on Osmani's part but is a skill he has long gained from past experience.

The drum beat is irregular and is timed to the boatswain's whistle and his instructions to us. The galley glides between the two protective arms of the mole and it seems almost possible for me to reach out and touch them. Clambering over the walls are the many slaves who are employed to maintain them. An army of slaves is required to labour on them and their toil is ongoing and unceasing.

Unlike us, these wretches wear tattered, dirty loincloths but they share with us the abusive language, the cruel taunts and the whips of their impatient overseers. 

At last, we exit through the entrance to the harbour and are now buffeted by a blustery wind that is whipping the sea into a choppy swell. This is a precursor of the winter weather that will soon confine all sea-going galleys to the safety of their home ports. 

But this morning's breeze is a blessing for us. As we turn eastwards, there is enough wind to fill the Ghibli's sails and so the oars aren't required. The order is given to ship our oars and we are allowed to rest until such time as they are required. 

We are allowed to rest and I use the time to think back over the events of the past few days.

                                                                                                          >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Following the careening of the Ghibli and towing her back to her berth, no time was wasted in provisioning her and preparing her for her last voyage of the rowing season.

Immediately, we were put to work carrying our Master's trade goods from his warehouse - adjacent to our stables - and stowing them in the galley's holds. This was to prove agonisingly difficult as we were made to carry impossibly heavy loads on our straining bodies. It seemed that our overseers took great delight in overloading us until our legs sagged and our bodies were bent almost double. 

The longer serving slaves were more sure footed than either Joachim or I and more accustomed to this labour; they shuffled along in single file - one behind the other - with bovine acceptance of their fates. On the other hand Joachim and I struggled under our impossibly heavy loads and we'd barely taken a dozen steps before I collapsed to the cobblestoned wharf. 

No time was wasted in getting me back onto my feet and into line with my long suffering brother slaves. I'd barely hit the paving stones before I was beset by three burly overseers who applied their cruel whips to me with savage fury.  

Futilely, I tried to roll away in an effort to escape their blows but, hemmed in by their legs, I could only crouch and cover my head with my arms in a vain effort to protect myself. Mercilessly, I was whipped screaming to my feet and ordered to reshoulder my heavy load. Oh, how I struggled to pick up the heavy bale I'd been carrying before collapsing. And as I struggled to regain my footing, I could see the angry marks of the whip on my chest and belly where the lash had encircled my torso.

Loading and provisioning the Ghibli took less than two days - due in no small measure to the efficiency of the overseers' whips - and late in the afternoon of the second day, we were chained to the rowing benches. This was to prove painstakingly slow as one by one we were ordered to sit in our allotted space and wait to be chained into position. 

Aching from head to toe from my exertions, I sat uncomprehending of my fate and watched as the heavy, iron fetters were fitted around my ankles and wrists. I sat adjacent to the walkway which runs down the middle of the rowing pit and Joachim, also in his chains, sat on my left. This did afford me some comfort - unlike Joachim I wasn't tightly sandwiched between two of my fellow slaves. I gave thanks for this small blessing - I am now of a mind to appreciate even the smallest of concessions to my comfort - but I am to discover that rather than this being a boon it worked to my disadvantage.

I discovered that I and all other of my fellow slaves who sit closest to the walkway make easy targets for the overseers' whips. Because of the easy reach, our backs are the first to fall victim to the lash and our suffering is disproportionally higher than those who sit at the opposite end of the bench.  

The second disadvantage is that I am furthest away from the latrine port located at the seaboard end of the rowing bench. At first, I tried to maintain my personal dignity and endeavoured to move to the opening to empty my bladder and to void my bowels.

But this proved impossible. Theoretically, my chains are sufficiently long enough to allow me to move past my rowing-mates to the outer edge of the bench but in practise it didn't work. As I attempted to clamber over and around my oar-mates all my efforts were vigorously rebuffed by them. I was pummelled and loudly abused for my trouble and discouraged, I capitulated. 

Now like the other slaves, I just urinate and defecate in my allotted space at the oar. However, in the interests of personal comfort, I do move off my bench and squat below the oar to relieve myself. 

I also discover that time is of no consequence on the rowing bench and to relieve my boredom I study my fellow oarsmen resting at their oars until they are needed. Ahead of me, they sit in their serried ranks; their naked bodies burned black by the merciless, Mediterranean sun and desiccated by the salt-laden sea breezes and hot desert winds. 

Their nudity reduces them to the level of common beasts of burden and their hair, cropped close to their scalps, robs them of any individuality. In my mind's eye, I see them as just a herd of work beasts - similar to the team of plough oxen used by my father on his farm and appalled, I realise I am now one of their number. I am no longer a man; my slavery reduces me to their level. 

Perhaps the things that causes the most dread in me are the slaves' whip lacerated backs. From shoulder to buttocks the flesh on their backs is shredded as though cut by a blunt knife. The scar tissue of older beatings shows through the bloody stripes of the more recent ones. I wonder about their suffering and I am now fearful of discovering this for myself. Already I have felt the cruel bite of the lash but not to the same extent as these poor wretches. The thought that I will be made to suffer as they have suffered fills me with terror. Will I have the strength of character and the fortitude of body to cope?  

Acutely, I feel the helplessness of my situation. Chained to my oar, there is no escape for me. I am trapped by my shackles and I can't flee from the overseers' fury or their whips. I must sit in wretched submissiveness and endure as my longer serving fellow slaves have endured. 

I found during that first afternoon boredom is something that I must learn to cope with. The more experienced slaves have learned this lesson well and they are wise enough to put this period of inactivity to good use.  They know that inevitably, they will be whipped into action and made to ply their oars. From bitter experience, they are aware that the next rowing period could be long and arduous. Most are slumped over their sweeps and their loud snoring reverberates around me. 

However, like Joachim, my nervousness denies me any rest. I am too curious of my new surroundings and I watch as the crew work to prepare the Ghibli for her voyage. They work with quiet efficiency and leave the galley slaves to their rest. 

Late afternoon, our Master comes aboard. I'm unaware that we are to sail at first tide tomorrow morning and he has taken his leave of his family and will spend tonight on board the galley ready for an early departure.

My Master is accompanied by three youths. From the rich garments he wears, one of them is obviously a family member- I can see the haughty resemblance to my Master - and soon I will discover this is his son, Daoud. Daoud is soon to be a novice overseer and will learn the whip master's skills from his father's more experienced overseers. Daoud will hone those skills on my back and those of my companions throughout the voyage. 

The other two youths are obviously slaves; their nakedness and the gold collars around their necks declare them as such. They struggle under heavily laden baskets which they carry on their shoulders. I recognise one of these slaves as the young Hollander, Hendrikus who our Master had purchased along with Joachim and me. 

Unaware that he'd been bought as a present for our Master's son, Daoud, I had wondered about him and his fate. I was mindful of my former shipmates lurid tales of what happened to any comely youth unfortunate enough to fall into `heathen' hands and I had feared the worst for him. 

Still to be honest, I didn't spare him too much thought; my own dire circumstances pre-occupied me too much for me to give a lot of sympathy to other slaves. Hendrikus, like me, must now make the best of his fate. 

It is some days since I'd last seen Hendrikus and physically he hasn't changed all that much. True, his hair has been shortened and his body denuded of all other hair but otherwise his appearance remains the same as the day of the auction. And, his sleek nakedness is enhanced by the gold neck collar and matching cinch rings he wears around his genitals.

Hendrikus is subdued and his eyes reflect an inner sadness in a face that is haunted by fear and uncertainty. But from my place on the bench he appears unharmed. To my way of thinking, he is a fortunate slave who has been spared the horrors of the oars.

Even if the old seamen's tales are true and Hendrikus has been sodomised, he is still more fortunate than Joachim and me. Yielding up one's arse to a Master would be a small price to pay to be spared the rigours and tribulations of serving as a galley-slave. 

I would willingly change places with him.   

The second slave is olive-skinned with black hair and I guess him to be either an Italian or a Greek. Later, I will learn that his name is Dimitrios and that he is our Master's personal body slave and bed companion. 

Like Hendrikus his body is smooth and he wears a matching gold collar and genital band. Unlike Hendrikus he is more at ease and smiles a lot. He is obviously popular with the crew and interacts with them with an easy assurance. Our Master obviously indulges his slave and offers no objection to the friendly banter between Dimitrios and the Arab seamen. Indeed, he laughs uproariously as Dimitrios lewdly thrusts out his arse and wriggles it provocatively. His Master rewards him with a few playful slaps on his pert behind.

Hendrikus stands shyly and watches as all this takes place. He is as yet unused to the rough, vulgar ways of the crew and I wonder how long it will be before he too can interact with them as easily as his fellow slave. 

Our Master moves along the walkway towards his cabin and disdainfully ignores the chained slaves on their benches. Some have stirred - no doubt woken by the noisy interaction between Dimitrios and the crew. Master and his son pass by me and are followed by their two youthful slaves. 

It is then that I see the angry red stripes on Hendrikus's shoulders and arse. Obviously, he has been caned several times; the earlier stripes are already turning blue-black while the recent ones are more livid. It would appear that Hendrikus is being trained rigorously by his new Master and punished often.

Later Daoud, eager to take his place among the overseers, abandons his rich dress for the more practical garb of an overseer. Dressed in long, loose pantaloons and a turban, he works stripped to the waist. With youthful cocksureness - and no doubt conscious that he is the galley-master's son - he paces up and down the walkway cracking his new whip over our heads. He is practising his whip arm and is under the instruction of an older overseer who shows him the way proper method of applying a whip to a slave's back. As yet Daoud's whip is to draw first blood.

Our Master stands at the rail of the high, canopied poop deck and beams with fatherly pride as he watches his son take his first tentative steps of entering into the family's enterprises.  

As the sun sinks into the western horizon and the warehouses along the waterfront cast long shadows over the Ghibli, we are fed and watered. 

This task falls to Dimitrios and Hendrikus and it sets the pattern for the rest of the voyage.  And as his first duty as a novice taskmaster, Daoud is assigned to supervise both young slaves as they dole out our food and water. With his chest puffed up with peacock pride, he loudly supervises them as we are given our meagre ration of hard black biscuits, a handful of dates and water. 

The water, euphemistically referred to as `slave wine' is bitter to the taste and does nothing to quench my thirst. I have already learned that vinegar is added to the water we drink to disguise its stagnant taste - larger amounts of vinegar will be added the further we progress into our voyage - together with a small amount of olive oil. 

Our staple of hard, black biscuit isn't easily digestible; hence the addition of dates as an aid to our digestion. And the olive oil is seen as necessary to keep us regular and to purge our bowels. 

After we have eaten, we are left to rest while the crew cook their evening meal on small charcoal stoves. Soon the smell of spicy goat meat stew permeates the evening air and tantalises me with its savoury aroma. My stomach rumbles and I am tormented by the thought that such food is now denied me. 

As dusk gives way to night time darkness lamps are lit and now their flickering, golden glow castes dancing shadows on the naked bodies of the slumbering slaves. And watching over us at all times are two overseers whose task it is to ensure that none of us engage in forbidden sex. 

Our Master doesn't allow sex between his galley slaves and even masturbation is strictly forbidden. Slave sex involves effort on the part of the participants and robs them of their energy - energy which he requires of us to keep his oars moving. 

Sleep eludes me for the first few hours. My overwrought mind conjures up thoughts of tomorrow's horrors. I am lost!  My brain screams out my questions to whatever entity controls our destinies.

Why? Why me? What have I done to deserve this? What heinous sins have I committed which condemn me to the nightmare existence of the galley slave? 

But my questions aren't answered nor will they be. Within the remoteness of my inner being, they will endlessly repeat themselves like a litany without response.   

I am a galley slave! But am I condemned to plying my oar until merciful Death releases me?

Tonight, I am at my lowest ebb; I have reached the nadir of my existence. I have been abandoned to my fate!  Is there to be no redemption for me?

Worn out by my inner turmoil, I finally fall into a fitful sleep. My sleep is haunted by bitter-sweet vistas of England's green and rolling countryside. The horrors of my situation fade from memory and temporarily I am transported back into the loving care of my parents and the peaceful, rural life of a simple farm-lad.

How I wish that I had stayed at home and worked on my father's farm!

                         >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

As light penetrates the gloom on the eastern horizon, I awake to the cruel realities of my new life. The loud booming of the tambour, the abusive shouting of the overseers and the sharp pain of their cruel whips searing across our backs stir me and my fellow slaves from our fitful sleep into alert wakefulness. 

Quickly responding to their commands, we man our oars and take instruction from the boatswain's shrill whistle. 

Slowly, under Osmani's guidance, we manoeuvre the Ghibli from the inner harbour out through the protective, twin arms of the fortified mole and into the Middle Sea. 

As we turn eastwards along the coast the weather is kind to us. Temporarily, we are to be spared the agony of the oars and a stiff wind fills the galley's lateen sail driving us forward at a goodly speed. 

In time, I will come to appreciate these occasions when the weather gods smile on us and grant us a reprieve from rowing. But such occasions will be rare. 

Dejectedly, I gaze around me. On our port side is the limitless expanse of sea and skies while on our starboard side is the distant, hazy shoreline of Northern Africa. It beckons me with a false promise of freedom. But it is an illusory beacon of hope. Beyond the coastal fringes and stretching into infinity, is the vast, impenetrable Saharan desert; itself a shifting, ever changing sea of sand. 

The African shore taunts me with visions of a freedom that can never be for I am held a captive to the sea. I sit in thraldom to it, chained to my Master's rowing bench.

The Middle Sea holds me in grim bondage just as securely as the strongest chains or the stoutest dungeon. There are no avenues of escape open to me. I am doomed! 

And yet buried within me there is still a tiny spark of hope which glows faintly in the darkness of my torment. It is the spark of our common humanity that encourages us to live, to struggle and to survive. It will sustain me in the early years of my servitude as I vainly hope for rescue. 

Several times in my first years as a galley slave, my hopes will be raised as we are pursued by Christian ships and the prospect of recue becomes a tantalising possibility. But always those hopes will be cruelly dashed as we are driven inexorably under our Master's whips to outrun his pursuers. 

With straining muscles and lungs at bursting point, we will respond to the whips of our overseers as we evade rescue. Of cruel necessity, we'll bend our backs to the oars and row ever faster with every ounce of strength we can muster from our tired and aching bodies. 

Our brute strength will prove too much for our would-be rescuers and we will easily outrun them. Their slow, lumbering vessels will be no match for our oars and they will be left wallowing in the sleek Ghibli's wake. 

On those occasions, I will feel the desolation of an opportunity lost and cry bitter tears of despair as our captors rejoice at their deliverance. Their exultant cries of victory will drown out my rasping, ragged breathing and deep seated sobbing. 

At first, I will survive and wait for the next opportunity. But with each lost opportunity, my hopes will diminish just a little more until that day dawns when I lose all hope. 

That day, the floodwaters of my despair will wash over me and snuff out forever the tiny ember that had given me such hope. 

Then, the long years of my bitter servitude will stretch before me as unpredictable as the vast, limitless sea that surrounds the Ghibli.

And just like those lost souls consigned to eternal damnation in Hades fiery pits, I have been condemned to an earthly Hell from which there is to be no deliverance. 

And written large in my mind will be the words.

"Abandon all hope for ye have been cruelly forsaken!"

This is to become my credo and my epitaph.

End.

You can access all the Jean-Christophe stories by joining the archive group at 
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories 





    
