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Part 7
After a few days, they used water and even hoses to clean the bilges and hose us down. Despite the
cold water I was relieved that at last, with the build up of sweat and dirt, I was being cleaned. As I
gasped at the cold water being cast and hosed about my flesh, I wondered if this happened weekly or
whenever the stench got too much for the overseers. Either way, this mild comfort was the first that I
had experienced since my time on the wretched ship had started. I tried not to dwell on thoughts of
regret; regret that I had effectively sold myself as a slave, to be tagged at the breast and whipped like an
animal, forced to offer my mouth to these vile men. I did not realise however that worse was to follow.
I had wondered a few times at the statements made with regard to my not being ‘touched’. It seemed
that the volunteers were exempt from some of the worst depredation that was carried out on the
prisoners, as they were dragged from their positions toward the back of the ship. I wanted to protest, to
scream that they couldn’t do such things, but I knew that I would earn further strokes of the whip and
perhaps even time on that vicious horse. I had wondered what had happenend to the woman that had
been removed from the oar behind me, but did not dare ask.
At night, during the moments of silence, punctuated by moans or creaks of the anchored ship, I cried –
distraught at the realisation of what I had done, having condemned myself to a year of desperate labour
as a filthy slave under the whip, subject to the whims of the overseers. Equally quickly however,
realisation dawned with regard to my plight. I had little choice, chained as I was hand and foot. My
goal, I quickly realised, was to please them, my every action directed at having the manacles removed
from my reddening wrists, to prevent further scraping and consequent pain to my breast. How simple
the concerns of a galley slave were, I reasoned, simply to labour with backbreaking effort, while
striving to keep the overseer happy and remove the chains from my wrists. Even removal of the ankle
chains would have been a godsend, but that would not happen for a year. I had seen the bloated and
wretched ankles of the longer term slaves, and the damage that the rusted steel had done to them. I
reasoned that the marks would stay with me forever. For years, I would be reminded of my labours
when I wore sandals, or walked on the beach.
The redhead behind me seemed to have gathered some strength since her short ordeal and began to row
powerfully. At night, during whispered conversations, I learned that she was a New Zealand athlete
called Kim, who in a similar manner to myself had been convinced to join the galley for many
thousands of pounds. I learned that the operation seemed to be a worldwide network. In fact, she was
convinced that hidden cameras recorded most of the rowing on deck for the gratification of some
mysterious owner who she was convinced ‘got off’ on watching us suffer. Kim had suffered greatly
during the ordeal of rowing here yet held great hopes, since in a few short weeks she would be
released, or so she believed. She had been keeping a tally of days in her head and figured that she did
not have long to go. In the pale light before sleep as we whispered to each other in hushed
conversations, amidst the stares of the native women, I noted her thin muscled frame, the rough red
flesh on her soles and hands and the criss cross welts across her body. I tried to picture how I would
look in a year. I had no concept then, of what lay ahead.
The daily labour of rowing continued as I discovered two immediate disadvantages. I was fit and
survived the first few weeks quite well but it became obvious that rowing as a slave was completely
unlike training of any sort. My training periods before had rest weeks built in, so that my body could
undergo the physiological changes that were required as the hard running, swimming and cycling took
their toll. Here, my routine was the same each day, each week and presumably each month to come.
There were no rest and recovery weeks, only the promise of the whip if I decided to change my routine.
My naked body was decorated with welts that I had received, while my breast, though not as swollen as
before, now had a bloody red welt where the whip had struck hard days before.
Each day became the focus of backbreaking rowing, as I grunted and let the rhythm of the oar become
second nature to me. With each stroke I looked up at Kim’s pushing feet and muscled legs above me,
hearing her grunt with her new partner, feeling the spray of urine as they relieved themselves as
required. I tried not to let the thoughts of panic engulf me as the fact that I would be chained here and
subject to misuse, for the next year.
***
As the days passed, I slowly realised that Simon had been right to warn me. The soles of my feet,
subject to the daily pressure of pushing against filthy beams that formed the hull of the ship, had begun
to blister. My hands had fared a little better, Though blistered, they did not stop me rowing, the main
issue seemed to be with the sole of my upper left foot. Pushing constantly against the dirty beam with
each stroke had blistered the skin and I raised my foot up, pushing instead with the heel, gasping
desperately at times when urine from the upper tier splashed against the raw skin.
The slight change in my rowing position brought additional problems as over the next few days the
degree of rhythm that I had begun to find, slipped. The whip made short work of my slack motions as I
screeched with the burning pain of the lash. Beneath the sweat, as I rowed now, I could see that weeks
of rowing with food enough only to provide sufficient fuel, were slowly taking their toll as I became
lean and muscled. The constant brushing of the chain against my breasts even became a dull ache
rather than a repeated pain. Was I becoming a true slave? I considered the dreadful thought, numb to
the agonies, surviving just enough to pull the oar and feel the whip across my body. Ugly red welts
crossed my thighs and belly, where the overseers had encouraged me during the pull, my gasp or cry
their reward. It seemed that my aching, thinning body was now either covered in sweat or shivering
during the rest periods, the ache of the labour and the lash ever present. The training that I had
undergone for years helped, and I was fit enough to take the punishment, yet I wondered how long for.
As the days turned into weeks and the sole of my left foot worsened as it became swollen, I watched
women ride the horse; its ever present threat a reminder of what might happen should I falter or let the
injury on my foot detract from the efficiency of my rowing. In each case, they struggled, trying in vain
to defy the apex, their toes pulled agonisingly downward by the weight of the bucket, almost sucking
their loins onto the aching wood. Some screamed after three hours, others groaned agonizingly, barely
conscious for much of the ordeal. All screeched in pain as they were taken off and returned to the oar. I
tried to keep my feet clean though the task was impossible chained as I was to the oar with my heels in
the bilge.
***
I reasoned that I had been at the oar for a period of around six weeks when we made port. I had no idea
where in the world we were. My nights now were filled with nightmare. I dreamed that I was whipped,
made to stand on the spikes, made to ride the horse, my screams of agony filling the deck. I dreamt it
again and again, only to waken shivering and sweating in my awkward position on the bench, my
chains rattling and pulling at my limbs. In those moments, as I stared down at my thinning, filthy body
in the pale light, I despaired, feelings of utter desperation threatening to overwhelm me. In those
moments, I realised how terrible the life of a slave must have been and prayed that I might find a way
through this ordeal for which I had actually volunteered.
I used the free time to rest, lying back as far as I could beneath the filthy feet and legs of the rowers
above, moving my limbs to avoid the bodily function that took place around me. I had even got used to
these myself, simply using the bilge when I needed to, cleanliness or indeed privacy a luxury of the
free and unchained. They would wash us soon I hoped. My attempts to get Simon to release my wrist
chains had come to nothing. Indeed, my mouth had only been used twice in the last few weeks. I
reasoned the painful sore that I felt at the side of my mouth had something to do with it, but of course I
could not be sure. Galley slaves did not normally ask the deck overseer why they did not use their
mouth. Oh what had I become? A deck whore? I closed my eyes, trying not to fall into despair.
I looked up, past the stretching legs and chained ankles of the slaves behind me, toward the deck.
Someone was moving up there, I could hear footsteps and the distinctive click of heels…a woman? The
steps moved around, combined with laughing as they moved to the steps that descended down into the
rowing deck
I could hear the heels click as well as the footfalls of the overseers. I was terrified to look behind me
lest I might attract the attention of one of them and receive the lash.
“So where is Justine?”
My heart missed a beat. They were looking for me?
“Here.”
The voices were close now. Joshua, and a voice I recognised.
“Oh my God, look at the state of her back – the whip has taken its toll. I hardly recognise her, she has
lost a lot of weight.”
I gasped as I turned my head slightly.
“J..Jennifer?”
The whip landed squarely across my lower back, leaving a welt, as I screeched and shook my head.
The overseer had made the most of the room he had for the swing as I writhed in agony, the rattle of
chains accompanying my movement.
“Oh…you didn’t have to do that,” I could hear Jennifer say.
“She didn’t have permission to speak,” grunted Simon in return.
“Her back is a real mess. How does she row?”
“She is one of the best.”
“I knew she would be. She is strong and fit. Not a prisoner or in debt like the others. I knew she would
relish the challenge,” Jennifer said.
I could hear Joshua laugh now.
“Yes. It would appear my little chat with her netted us a fine slave. Her price is worth the effort.”
“I told you Joshua. She would vounteer. I told you.”
I flashed a stare at Jennifer, unsure whether to speak. She was as I remembered her, short, plastered
with make up, wearing a dress and high heels as she looked down at the naked, filthy, rowing slave
beneath her.
“Yes Clare. I’m afraid I know all about this ship. I recommended you to Joshua. How do you feel? You
have my permission to answer.”
“You…knew?” I croaked. “you knew that I would be put in chains and whipped like this, above a river
of ….of filth?”
“Yes Clare. As did you. Did Joshua not explain?”
“Not…how bad it would be.”
I was angry and defiant, covered in lashes and filth and Jennifer, who I thought had been a friend was
gloating.
Simon interrupted.
“She is a fine rower. In six months, if she doesn’t break or rebel, we have the makings of a good slave,
powerful at the oar. She was fit before she came here and will become stronger.”
“And,” he added as I glanced up. “She offers the mouth without question. The horse was enough to
convince her.”
“She has ridden?” Jennifer said, noting the look of shock on my face.
“Oh no, merely the threat has been enough.”
“Oh she must ride, and while I am here.”
I looked at her. “Jennifer. No. Why would you say that?” My voice grated, my heart pounding. “I
haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Can she be put on the horse Joshua?”
I heard myself cry out, saw Simon release his hold on the furled lash as the cruel leather dropped to the
filthy deck. I could feel his evil smile as he considered adding further stripes to my raw back should I
protest too much.
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