F Campbell - Chain of Jedrah

A silence lengthened. Amatar Moghere examined his five captives pensively. They found no comfort in his scrutiny.

“This is the young lady who comes from influential sources in the United States, Sire. She has a similar potential for possible advantages as has the whelp of Yasin.” Mr. Boshan seemed anxious to conserve expendable female flesh.

“I am not prepared to keep the skins of too many of these wenches inviolate for too long,” Mr. Moghere said irritably. “The other three . . . can they be available for a man’s pleasure?”

“Immediately Sire.”

Decision was swift then. “I leave for New York tomorrow,” Moghere said decisively. “I will explore possibilities. You will deal with these absurd creatures as I shall direct. I have thought of an ideal way for them to spend the time until my return. For now, put them away for the night.”

The cell was bare except for two pails, one held water. The two soldiers who had been their escort withdrew, leaving Hamid Boshan to view his prisoners dismay with an amused eye.

“You’re not going to leave us chained like this!” Rannah demanded.

“And why not?” his voice was bland.

“There’s no need. We can’t escape, that door would hold an army.”

“You do not wear the chain to hinder escape, you wear it because too many others in the past have worn it too.”

“Can’t you forget that!” Wendy demanded hotly. “There were a lot of white people who weren’t getting such a good deal at that time either.”

Mr. Boshan nodded appreciatively. “Very well then: you are chained because you look very pretty chained and because the chain will keep you most uncomfortable. For our Leader and myself this is enough.”

“You’ll take these handcuffs off us, won’t you?” Stacie felt sure she knew the answer.

“You will wear your handcuffs, and for the same reasons.”

“But we can’t do anything . . . ! We’re so damn helpless!”

“What did you have in mind to do?” Hamid Boshan inquired pleasantly.

“Well, at least you can handcuff us with our hands in front instead of behind our backs!”

“I will bid you ladies good-night.” With a fine military salute their mentor departed. His passing was heralded by substantial thuds as the bolts were shot home in the slammed door.

“The dirty sons of bitches!” Suzie summed it up for all. It was an abominable night. The floor was hard. Between the handcuffs on their wrists and the chain that linked them together they could move but little. The only virtue of their metal collars was that they were loose enough that they could turn their necks without dragging at their partners. Jane wept piteously in contemplation of her sentence with the sjambok. One by one they fell asleep striving to comfort her. Stacie was uncertain whether she too might not feel its bite.

The U.S. equivalent would have been a Prison Farm. In Narousse it was called ‘The Estate’. It belonged to Mr. Moghere as did most things in the emerging nation. It absorbed the five captives with remarkable dispatch. Under the watchful eyes of their armed and uniformed male escort they were released from handcuffs and coffle. Each was tossed a scanty slip of a sheath like garment and a ragged straw hat against the sun. They were taken to a smithy where heavy medieval irons were riveted on their ankles, the links of the chain so heavy that the heart of each girl sank in hopelessness as the hammer pounded the rivets flat upon their liberty. Hobbling awkwardly they were taken to a field and presented with a hoe.

Stacie wanted to sink to the ground and weep. Everything was wrong. There were no bright spots anywhere. The sun was hot, the field enormous, the rows of young cane waiting to be hoed were endless. At each end of the field a soldier with a rifle sat beneath a tree. A female wardress as massive in her way as the Great Man himself sauntered from prisoner to prisoner to check their work. She carried a slender, smooth and shining cane. Her manner was jocular, her English erratic. She seemed a very happy woman.

“You run any time you want, girl,” she told Stacie with a vast chuckle. “Don’t let them things on yo’ feet bother you none.”

On her next round she was more earnest. “You work damn hard, if not I whip your arse.”

Or later, as the friendship ripened: “My name’s Ermie. But you call me ‘Miss’. One thing I gets from you white bitches is respect. I can cane your cunt as well as your arse.” Ermie passed on her way laughing hugely.

Stacie assessed what she could see. About thirty girls, save for the new arrivals they were all of various shades of black or coffee. All were hobbled, all wore the same dress and hat, all worked steadily under Ermie’s watchful eye. The place was undoubtedly some sort of prison. Perhaps it was the place where girls were sent after their rejection of Mr. Moghere’s favours!

She was a millionairess hoeing sugar cane under the hot sun of an African plantation. She was nearly naked, her feet were brutally ironed. How easy to scream hysterically in anger and frustration at a fate so utterly improbable. Who in her former life would dream of her being where she was! None . . .

She supposed she had best apply herself to the punishing labour. Her hands would become blistered and calloused, her back bent. How easy it was going to become to long to offer her body to Moghere for release from pain and degradation! She wondered miserably if that day would come, and how soon. As she plied the hoe Stacie realised the virtue of the heavy chain and anklets. For the work she was doing they impeded nothing, even completely free her progress down the row would be slow and shuffling. They implacably inhibited escape, even if the soldiers and their guns were not there it would take her an hour to shuffle a mile, perhaps longer, by which time her ankles would be chafed raw. But it was their mental effect that was most potent. The knowledge there was no key was frightening, the burred rivets mocked all normal possibilities of being rid of them. And then their weight . . . ! Their weight was a constant reminder of a hopeless slavery, a servitude in which frightful punishments always hovered, and which might go on and on for the rest of her life. Her eyes brimmed.

“You ain’t do so good, girl,” Ermie’s voice held stern reproof.

Stacie looked up, startled. The wardress was pointing to a lusty weed the hoe had missed. She pulled it up for exhibit.

“I’m sorry, I’ll watch more closely.”

“Best give you help, girl. You bend over and pull up that there dress.”

Why protest! Stacie obeyed. The slash across her buttocks was cruel and awful, but it was alone. She rearranged herself and wondered if she should offer thanks for her ‘help’.

Here was another kind of slavery, grim labour and swift grim punishment with nothing to look forward to . . . ever! With deep shame, but with increasing urgency Stacie wondered how long it would be before Mr. Moghere returned. She knew she would not again choose the sjambok.

“A commendable diligence, Miss Blair.”

Startled, Stacie looked up from beneath the wide straw.

Hamid Boshan was giving her his whitest smile. Sweaty and tired she felt a million miles removed from his immaculate presence. “You are enjoying The Estate?” he enquired politely.

Sarcasm, bitterness and anger were tossed aside. Stacie’s pride went with them. Passionately she desired no fencing with words, no saving of her face. Instant surrender was her most ardent wish.

“I’ll do whatever you want.” She managed a pale smile. “I’ll be a good girl.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “A great change from yesterday!”

She prayed he would not be stubborn and make her crawl.

The frightened girl searched desperately for the right thing to say.