by Merry Farmer
“Down there wi’ ye. Go on.”
A violent shove between her shoulder blades sent her flying to her knees. Elisabeth grunted in pain as she was hauled back upright and propelled across the deck towards another narrow doorway and a short flight of steps leading back down into the bowels of the ship.
“Why…? Where…?” She grabbed at the rope which served as a handrail of sorts.
A vicious blow to the back of her hand loosened her grip. Screaming, pleading for help, Elisabeth was dragged by her hair along the short, narrow corridor to the door at the end. Her assailant booted the door open and threw her bodily inside.
She landed on her knees again, her head throbbing, her ears ringing. She clutched her hand to her chest. Waves of pain threatened to engulf her, and she was convinced he had broken several bones.
“Get yer clothes off, bitch.”
What?
Numb, confused, near dizzy with pain, Elisabeth could not comprehend what he might mean. She remained where she was, her injured hand cradled against her.
The man responded by landing his boot in her ribs. Elisabeth collapsed onto the floor, groaning, sobbing, momentarily paralysed by sheer terror.
He meant to murder her. She had no doubt of it, none at all. In desperation, her breath coming in shallow wheezes now, she started to crawl away.
Rough hands seized her and hauled her back onto her feet. She would have slithered to the floor again, but he rammed her against one of the bulwarks, and with one brutal tug he tore the front of her gown from her. No longer able to fight, barely able to breathe and convinced she was about to die in any case, Elisabeth put up no further struggle when he continued to rip her clothes from her body.
Naked and barely conscious, she would have slid to the planks beneath her feet, but he lifted her bodily and flung her onto the narrow bunk.
“Spread yer thighs, bitch. I mean to have me a bit o’ rich white tail.”
“No, please…”
Another vicious blow to her jaw silenced her protests. She tasted blood, and one eye was almost fully closed, but still she watched in horrified fascination as he unfastened his filthy breeches and pulled out his engorged cock.
The man was not tall, she observed, now regarding him properly for the first time. But he was heavy set. His features were ruddy, his greasy hair fashioned into several plaits. His lips curled back in a lecherous sneer to reveal just two blackened teeth set in otherwise empty gums. His eyes were cruel, greedy, a muddy shade of grey.
A ridiculous and irrelevant thought flittered across Elisabeth’s dwindling consciousness. This ugly, hateful visage was the last face she would ever see in this life. When he grabbed her knees and forced them apart, she closed her eyes, resigned to the inevitable.
An ear-splitting boom echoed about the tiny cabin, and the vessel shuddered.
This is what it is like, then, to be raped…
On that final thought, Elisabeth sank into oblivion.
Chapter 3
“Perfect.” Will Falconer viewed the damage to the slaver’s vessel with approval. The forward mast lay drunkenly across the deck, her sail trailing over the side. “Fire again, and remember, aim for the masts, not the hold. We want to bring those poor devils out alive.”
Moments later, the guns beneath his feet roared again, and this time took out the two remaining masts. Their quarry was dead in the water.
“Prepare for boarding.” Will drew his own sword and leapt up onto the rail of his ship, the Falcon, in readiness to be the first to swing across and land on the deck of the stricken vessel. His crewmen took up positions on either side of him, and Will’s second-in-command, a huge freed slave known to all as simply Hercules, heaved on the wheel to bring them in close. The moment he judged the distance to be leapable, Will hurled himself across the space between the two vessels. He grabbed the rail of the other ship and hauled himself over, to be met by a rabble of crewmen all yelling and brandishing a motley collection of weapons.
Will’s sword felled the first couple to attempt to rush him, and within moments he was joined by others from the Falcon. Pirates to a man, they were all battle-hardened and resolute, not to mention well-fed, trained, and disciplined. The battle was short and decisive. Within minutes the slave vessel was under Will’s control, her crew herded together by the ruins of their main mast and made to kneel on the rocking deck.
“I doubt there’s much cargo to speak of, apart from the poor souls down below, but check the holds anyway,” he instructed. He cast a disgusted glance at the conquered sailors. “Boot that lot onto small boats and set them adrift. One pair of oars to each boat and enough food for four days. Should get them as far as the Louisiana coast if the tides and winds are on their side. Bring the slaves up on deck.”
The trap door leading down into the main hold had already been heaved open and a ladder lowered into the murky depths. Will sauntered over to watch the release of the slaves he knew to be incarcerated in the damp, stinking prison. One by one they stumbled out of the dark and onto the deck.
Women, all of them, and a handful of children. Several were pregnant, some in an advanced state. He extended his hand to assist an elderly woman who appeared too frail to finish her climb to freedom unaided. Once the hold was emptied, he did a rapid headcount. Thirty-seven, not including the children. It had been his intention to leave a crew of about half a dozen of his men to oversee running repairs and navigate the ship to his home port of Santa Laura on Santa Natalia. There the slaves would be put ashore and encouraged to make what they could of their freedom. It was not an ideal solution to the evils of slavery, but Will was just one man, and he did what he could.
His natural calling was piracy, and he was damn good at it, even if he did say so himself. Will Falconer had amassed wealth enough to last for several lifetimes. He and his men made a better than good living which was why the disreputable bunch of thieves and cutthroats remained loyal. Even when he required them to expend their energies on attacking vessels such as this one where the material rewards were thin to non existent, they did not complain overmuch. Several of his crew were, in fact, slaves he had freed, and their enthusiasm for this task far outweighed any lack of interest on the part of their colleagues.
He had not known that the cargo would consist only of women. Had there been males on board, they would have been useful in providing extra muscle to see the ship safe to Santa Natalia, under the guidance of experienced sailors. Women might be able to help, though he would need to leave more crewmen with them, probably, along with Hercules to supervise and guarantee the safety of the freed captives. He sighed. Such was life.
Will had grown up in New Orleans, largely oblivious to the miserable existence of the slaves he saw all around him. His own background was privileged, and his father did not choose to own slaves himself, so Will did not witness the horrors at close quarters. This changed when he found himself incarcerated for piracy and treason and sentenced to hang. He was able to call on the good offices of a friend of his father’s, no less a personage than the Governor of Louisiana, to get him off the hanging charge, but still he found himself sentenced to years of hard labour, another form of slavery.
It had not been to Will’s liking, and he had escaped within six months. However, the experience never left him. He had known firsthand the hopelessness, the abject misery of forced labour, and the perils of being at the mercy of others who had not the slightest concern for his welfare. It was a life he would not subject a dog to, let alone a human.
And he was, at least, a criminal. There were those, including himself if he were being honest, who felt there was an element of just deserts about his own incarceration. That was not the case for these slaves. What had defenceless women and children done to justify herding them into the bowels of a ship, then selling them like cattle?
Will was no crusader, and he did not consider himself a good man especially. Certainly, the captains and owners of the vessels he waylaid and robbed would not subscribe to su
ch a view. He was wanted in several states along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico and did not expect to avoid the hangman if he again fell into the hands of the authorities. He made it his business, therefore, to reduce the risk of such an eventuality by the simple expedient of being the best buccaneer on the high seas.
He supposed there were other pirate captains who would also aspire to such a lofty claim, but Will had yet to meet one who he felt could back up the boast.
So, he continued to ply his trade of piracy, theft, and the occasional abduction and ransom, though of ships rather than people. He did well enough, neither he nor his crew had any complaints, and these occasional flirtations with philanthropy helped to keep life interesting.
“Hercules,” he called to his second-in-command who had remained behind on the Falcon, “select ten decent sailors and report to me over here.”
The man nodded his shaved head and disappeared to do his captain’s bidding.
Will leaned on the rail, observing the bewildered milling about of the freed slaves. They would need a while to become reorientated, he supposed. Some of them had never known freedom and would have no notion what to do with it. There were people on Santa Natalia who would help, and he was convinced it was an easier adjustment to make than going the opposite way would be.
Will shrugged. He would wait long enough to issue his instructions to Hercules, then be off in search of richer pickings. He did not hear the small woman who approached him, would have missed her entirely had she not clutched at his sleeve. He turned, bent lower to hear what she was saying.
“White lady. He take, he hurt.”
White lady?
Will scanned the captives. There was certainly no white woman among them. “White woman? Where?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not know. That man, he take. He hurt.” She was pointing at the individual who Will had assumed to be the master of this vessel because he was keen to issue orders to his men, not that they were in any position to obey him.
No harm in asking. Will strode over to where the man still yelled abuse at the pirates, pointing out what lowlife scum they were. Will considered that a bit rich, but he was not here to argue.
“You had a white woman among your slaves. Where is she?”
“Fuck off,” came the succinct response.
Will delivered a blistering uppercut to the man’s jaw. He reeled back to be caught and helped upright by his crew. Will considered hitting him again, but frankly, did not consider the slimy individual worth the effort. “Get him onto a boat. I do not want to clap eyes on him again.” He strode back to where the small, black woman awaited him.
“He bad man,” she announced. “Very bad.”
Will had to agree. He was keen to get underway again, but it would not take him many minutes to do a search of the ship, and he would not consider his work here done unless he at least did that.
He jumped down into the hold first to satisfy himself that no stray female, white or otherwise, had been left behind. That settled, he made for the narrow door leading to the cabins, storerooms, and galley.
The galley yielded nothing, and the storerooms even less so. He would have to leave supplies with Hercules to ensure the crew and their guests did not go hungry on their journey to Santa Natalia. He could only assume that it had not been the intention of the original crew to feed their captives. Will wondered how many would have survived the ordeal.
The only other door down here was locked. The captain’s cabin, no doubt. Will placed his booted foot against the planks and kicked hard. The wood shattered, and he stepped inside.
Holy fuck!
At first, he thought she was dead. The woman lay, naked, her legs splayed, across the bunk. Her features were unrecognisable due to bruising and swelling, and likewise her torso. Her hair, which appeared to be a bright shade of red, was matted with dried blood, and fresh, too, seeping from a wound which looked to be new.
Jesus, that vicious bastard.
Will swore under his breath and reconsidered his decision about not hitting the man again. He deserved to be beaten to a pulp for this day’s work. That could wait. First, he would do what he could to restore some dignity. It was little enough, but the most he could offer.
He approached the prone body and reached for a blanket, meaning to cover her.
She moaned, quietly, the hopeless, despairing moan of one about to draw her last breath.
He paused, the blanket in his hands. Will had little doubt that the woman was dying. She would not survive, but he could not just leave her here, not while she still breathed. The Falcon boasted a surgeon of sorts, Old Sawbones might be able to do something.
His decision made, Will laid the blanket beside her, then, as gently as he could, he lifted the slender body across onto it. He drew the edges around her, wrapping her as best he was able, then he picked her up in his arms and headed back up on deck.
Hercules had arrived, his skeleton crew with him. Already the first mate was yelling orders to secure the broken masts and pull in the sails. Men ran to do his bidding, and one or two women also. The first mate narrowed his eyes when he took in the sight of his captain emerging from below decks, his burden cradled in his arms.
“And they call us savages,” he murmured, wincing as he glanced at the battered features of the unconscious woman.
Will’s answering snort was sufficient to convey his disgust. “You know what to do. Repair the ship as best you can, get her moving again, and limp into Santa Laura. We’ll be waiting for you there.”
“Aye, sir. And that one?”
“I’ll take her to the Falcon for Old Sawbones to have a look at.”
Hercules nodded. Will did not believe that either of them was optimistic for the outcome.
Back on his own vessel, Will set the injured female down on his bunk. It was either take her to his cabin or have the surgeon treat her injuries out on deck. He thought the least she deserved in her final hours was privacy and a little peace.
Old Sawbones entered the cabin behind him. Will assumed the surgeon had had another name at one time, but no one remembered it now. He had served on the Falcon for the last five years, and despite his advancing years and occasional bouts of drunkenness, Old Sawbones was a remarkably competent physician.
“What ’ave we ’ere?” he demanded, elbowing Will aside in order to get a better look. “Eh, she’s managed to vex someone, that be fer sure.”
“I found her in the captain’s cabin,” Will offered, by way of explanation.
“I ’ope ’e’s in a similar condition,” the surgeon replied.
“Nowhere near. I hadn’t seen her, when I was dealing with him.”
“Pity.” The doctor parted the folds of the blanket, then turned to eye Will. “She was like this when ye found ’er?”
He nodded.
“Unconscious, an’ likely to stay that way. A mercy, really, as that ’and is broke, an’ I shall need to straighten it. She’d be yelpin’ a bit if she was awake. Broken ribs, too, goin’ by the way she’s breathin’. Needs strappin’ up tight. She’ll need ter be awake fer that as she’ll ’ave to be upright. Apart from that, there’s not a lot else ter be done fer ’er apart from lettin’ ’er rest an’ heal.”
“You think she’ll survive?”
The surgeon shrugged. “I’ve seen worse come around, an’ less perish. It’s i’ God’s ’ands. I’ll be startin’ on that ’and then.”
“Right. What do you need?”
“Bandages and a board to splint it to. There’ll be somthin’ i’ the carpenter’s store, I daresay.”
Will sprinted back along the companionway to the storeroom and quickly located a suitable length of timber. He returned to his cabin with it, then set about selecting a clean sheet to be torn into strips. Some of it would be used at once to help set the broken hand, the rest would come in for strapping her ribs in due course.
“Do you need my help?”
“No, lad. Ye can be off if ye like.”
“I shall stay,” he determined. Will dragged a footstool closer to the bunk and sat, then took her uninjured left hand in his. He held it, stroking and soothing while the surgeon did his work on her right.
Chapter 4
There were voices, occasionally. Low, deep male voices, close by, murmuring. Laughing sometimes. Mostly, she was surrounded by silence. Cool, pure, cleansing, wholesome silence, so sweet she could drown in it.
There had been din before. Raucous, angry, frightening, hateful. Cruel words, malicious violence, pitiless rage. She shuddered, wanted to weep but was too weak to even manage that. She sank back into the blessed silence and drifted off again.
Afterwards, Elisabeth had no idea how long she floated in that half alive, not-quite-dead state, hovering between the living and the hereafter, uncertain where she belonged or where she wanted to be. Ultimately, the choice was not hers. God must have no pressing need of her yet, so he’d thrown her back.
She opened her eyes to dim light and the gentle rocking of a bunk beneath her. Then, she let out a whimper, remembering.
But he was gone. The ugly, meat-fisted thug who had beaten and raped her was not here. No one was here. And this place was not the same. The bunk was larger, the bedding clean. Her head still throbbed, though, and so did her hand. She tried to lift it but could not. It was too heavy. She could not even move her fingers.
And it hurt to breathe. Each time her lungs filled, pain arced through her chest. Perhaps it would be better not to bother…
The next time she woke, the room was in darkness. No, not a room. A cabin. She was at sea, that much was certain. She recognised the rocking and shifting of the vessel, though it was nothing like the violent tipping from side to side which she had experienced in the hold.