F Campbell - Margo

"My, I did knock you beautifully," Jean said. "Please forgive me. And please forgive me for the other things I'll due in the future. Now you have to stand for awhile."

It could be the severest test of all – to stand naked with her hands fastened above her head, the belt constricting her waist, the collar hot upon her neck. Once more, Margo kicked her feet. First one, then the other, as though to reassure herself of being chained. Perhaps it was in disbelief. But she could well believe this simple standing with her scorched, seared flesh still protesting could be the worst punishment of all. She did not know when it would bend. She may have to stand thus for a very long time. She could not get free. Probably she would never be free again.

Margo was puzzled by the behavior of her nipples. They should have vanished from sight, perhaps actually been inverted. Instead, they stood erect, fruity hard and larger than she remembered. They were arrogant and joyous in this painful captivity. It was as though they had a life of their own and laughed at she who was bound and could find no freedom. Perched upon her breasts, they were always free and could demonstrate their feelings as they pleased. She had no control over them. It was a fresh discovery.

Standing in dejected nudity, the neophyte realized she was already at that predicted point of cruel regret. How wonderful life might have been if she had not chosen the check! Margo knew for sure if she could get free and go back home, she would so so, regardless of the poverty which would be her lot. But she would not go home. She would stand thus and bear her chains in somber knowledge of having sold a portion of her life. There would be no men in it. No love, no babies, no nothing – except Henry Ross. And she could not be sure of him even.

Perhaps all he would vouchsafe her would be brief carnal moments of attention. Most assuredly he would never marry her. The only future she could attain from Henry Ross was the check, and that would take four years to earn. In the meantime, she could be assured only of whipped nakedness and the fruitless orgasms of girls.

Jean Evans gave Margo back her hands at bedtime. There was also a cup of coffee and a cookie, presumably all a whipped girl would desire.

She was led to a bare, austere dormitory in which the inmates slept on narrow cots. Each one of the uncomfortable structures was well anchored to the floor. Bolted to the floor beside each was a chain and shackle, but since she was already hobbled and handcuffed, they were of no use. Jean held the bedclothes high for her to enter and then tucked her in. Her last act was the most significant of all. It was to pluck the dangling length of chain from the wall at the headboard of the cot and padlock it to the link hanging from Margo's collar.

"It will not stop you from sleeping," she said gently. "It is the rule." Once more the captive maiden, on her first day at Rossland, was left alone in the darkness.

The dream was graphic. Margo never thought of it afterwards as a nightmare. It was far too clear and specific. In its own terrible way, it was too rational to be called a nightmare. She had little choice but to believe that a memory from the past – a memory no doubt sparked by her present chained condition – had contributed to the experience.

So much of it was the same as Rossland. In the vividness of impression and its etchings on the matrix of memory, she could still see the gloomy, smoky place. It smelled of sweat. Margo knelt naked on a platform.

It was low, just off the floor, but sufficient to place her in prominence.

The hollows of her knees were in some way clamped down with some sort of stocks which had been lowered across them by the Beadle and locked. Her hands had then been tied and hoisted high, until she knelt, taut, stretched and ready. The Beadle consulted his notes.

"Ten strokes Mr. Bascom, and lay them well upon this lass. She's a rebel. Her shoulders, down to the bottom of her arse. That's what it says here. Do your duty, man. And get a scream out of the slut." Margo remembered her pale voice, or it sounded pale, crying aloud for mercy. But apparently there was no mercy, or at least none heard her plea. Bascom held the thonged whip by which she would be scourged and spoke gruffly.

"Oye. Have no doubt about it, I'll smarten the lass up. But when she's had her ten, what do I do with her?"

The Beadle once consulted his notes. The notes seemed to chronicle the life and death of Margo Davis.

"She's to be indentured and sold. There's an auction today. You know what to do."

"Ye're not staying to watch, Mr. Bascom sir? Tis a pretty sight, and for sure I'll make her sing for ye."

The Beadle stopped and turned. He surveyed the stretched nakedness ready for the whip. Grudgingly, he conceded, "Ah well, what's a few minutes! You always do a good job, Bascom, and 'tis well worth watching. Let her have it!"

It was agony beyond belief. Margo screamed from the very first blow as the knotted thongs swept almost lovingly across her back. She knew there would be blood. There was always blood at whippings such as this.

Puritan mercy was harsh. In her case, it did not exist at all. She was a trollop caught kissing a man in a dark street, and then fleeing from the watch. She had been swiftly apprehended and was about to pay the price for lechery. Then, beyond the whip, lay the years of her indenture. No one could tell how good or bad they would be for her. But most certainly they would separate her from life. She would become a kitchen drab or field hand, unless, of course, she was purchased by a gentleman for his own pleasure. The latter fate was the best she could expect.

Margo Davis screamed steadily while she was whipped. She had made up her mind to strive for silence. But the many-thonged instrument wielded by Bascom's brawny arm was too much for any girl. With the eighth stroke, she fainted, but was revived by a deluge of icy salt water thoughtfully provided by a benevolent authority. At the end of the tenth lash, she hung limp, her head bowed, only dimly conscious of what was taking place.

First the chains. No maiden could stand in unseemly freedom and nakedness upon the auction block without suitable gyves. Loss of liberty was implicit in her new status. She was a slave. Strong arms carried her to the smitty, where she was greeted jovially.

"Why, lass, we'll soon have ye fixed up. Them's pretty ankles and wrists ye've got. I'll iron 'em welt so ye don't go traipsing off."

It was very simply done. She was made to kneel. Her hands were raised. The metal circlets fitted around them and beaten into shape, and then the rivets, the awful rivets by which through the pounding of the smith's hammer were flattened out to keep her captive for always, or until such time someone brought her back here to this noise some place for the smith to pound her free. Her hands suitably shackled, she was placed upon a box and her feet similarly dealt with. Then she stood erect. She was told to walk around a bit.

But when she tried to do so, she stumbled and needed the reassuring arm of her jailer. She was still weak from the flogging, but none gave aid. Since she was to be exhibited in public, it became needful to hide the shame of her nakedness. This was done with a white sheet provided by the same thoughtful authority who receive the money from her sale. In a puritan society, it was essential that all things balance and none show loss. A noose was placed around the slenderness of her neck, and she was led to an adjacent shed from which she would later be taken to the block. It was actually a huge cage in which there were others like herself, both black and white, but all similarly chained. There her whipped back was attended by sympathetic hands. Its true healing lay with time.