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Part 4
My first sense was the smell. It got worse, even as my bare feet descended the creaking wooden boards
that led onto the rowing deck. I gagged, unable to cover my mouth, the cuffs still pinning my hands
behind my back. The wood of the deck was slimy underfoot, as if the filth that I could smell had
somehow made its way onto the dark timbers. The light was extremely poor, but I could discern shapes
as my eyes eventually adjusted. As I cleared the end of the stairwell, I gasped.
The light from outside illuminated that part of the deck. Added to this, the effect of the sun shining
through the oarports created points of light across the bodies of the assembled women. I had been
brought onto the bow of the vessel, not at the stern where the cabins that I had seen from the dock had
been. I could never have been prepared for the sight that greeted me as my eyes began to adjust to the
gloom.
The first thing that struck me were their backs. Most of them were darker skinned, locals I reasoned. A
few were pale white, but all were sweating and clotted with grime, then covered with red welts from
the whip. Many of the heads had been shaven, though all were bowed across the thick wooden oars,
which had been pulled in from the water.
There were two levels of rowers. Something which I should have noted from outside, but which had
not been immediately obvious. A catwalk divided port from starboard. As I slowly walked along it, the
horror of the conditions began to sink in. The women in the lower tier sat on a rough bench, maybe
half a meter wide with scarcely ten centimetres length for their buttocks, so that their rear ends hung off
the back of it. Judging by the condition of them, I guessed immediately that the rowers simply went to
the toilet where they sat. I grimaced, tried to hold back the bile building in my throat. A river of slurry
ran beneath the lower tier, with some of the rowers letting their heels dip in it. I noted too, that their
ankle fetters were fastened as I had suspected, a length of rusted chain running between each ankle and
under the catwalk. The heads of the women on the lower tier were at the height of my waist as I walked
slowly past them.
The women in the upper tier seemed to have a much better life, though they too had seen their share of
the whip. The bench here was longer, so that two women might sit and ply the oar, which was much
longer in their case. Their benches were staggered so that as I walked, I passed a lower tier, then higher
tier, then lower again. They pushed their feet against a horizontal timber, which was supported via an
upright at the deck, the rowers on the lower benches must have moved beneath this as they pulled,
looking up at the filthy legs and feet of the upper rowers. I noted with horror, that the women on the
upper tier had little option but to urinate, and worse, onto the legs and feet of the rowers below. A
white woman, on the upper benches, coughed and gurgled noisily as I walked past. Her body bore the
scars of the lash, her hair had perhaps once been shaved, but now was matted and longer. Welts
decorated her naked back, thighs and breasts. Her body was coated with the grime and slime of the
work, the back of the bench coated with waste. I wanted to be sick.
I hadn’t noticed the wooden spikes that coated part of the deck. The men guiding me barely felt them in
their shoes. I winced as I walked across them, ducking to avoid the large wooden contrivance which
was suspended from the ceiling. As I reached the end of the spike portion, they noticed my discomfort.
“We attach the yoke to rowers, make ‘em stand there for a few days. Makes them obey.”
“S..Stand on the spikes?”
“Yes,” the overseer whispered from behind me. “Row well, and you won’t have to find out what it’s
like.”
“Oh this one will be on the horse I dare say,” the rugged man who had chained me chuckled.
I continued to walk. Row upon row of rowers extended into the darkness, some wearing wrist manacles
that had been nailed to the oar. Many of the whiter…volunteers seemed to have these. I noted also that
few of the newer women seemed to be in the upper tiers. I judged that the lower benches must be some
kind of rite of passage, a method of breaking those that might fight back. I grimaced, noting the empty
bench ahead on the right, on the lower level. There was a grille on the floor nearby. I tried not to think
of what conditions might be like down there.
I stared forward, noting a large dark woman sitting at a drum, but my attention was quickly diverted to
the poor creature in agony behind her. She was a local, perhaps in her forties, her body lithe and
muscled from time at the oar. Despite her dark flesh, I could still see the marks that the whip had left
on her breasts and belly. She wore a thick wooden yoke, which held her wrists and neck in place above
the terrible wooden instrument which she sat astride. The dark wood sat on four sturdy legs and was
triangular in profile, so that her thighs were separated by it and her pussy was forced to straddle the
apex of the wood, which, far from being dulled or flattened, formed a perfect apex. I stopped, staring.
They pushed me on toward the empty bench. I gasped, noting now how her legs seemed bowed, as if
pulled downward. As I slowed down, closing with the bench, I noted how a wooden bucket had been
tied with thick cord to her big toes, its weight, and its contents, pulling her down onto the agony of the
wood. Her face was a picture of dull agony, as if the core of her being concentrated on making it
through the ordeal. I stared, as the men behind me laughed.
“So, you like the horse? She has the next shift to do. Another three hours. You’ll do your turn too.”
I turned sharply. “No, I don’t want to. I’ll row well ok?”
They laughed again.
“Get on the bench!”
I looked down. The narrow bench was slimy and covered in filth. Beneath it, the brown water of the
bilge, a rusted length of chain running from underneath the catwalk to the wall, still unfastened.
The end of the lash fell across the back of my knees.
I gasped and moved forward.
“Get on the bench…hurry up!”
I had no option but to comply. I moved slowly, carefully climbing down, knowing that I would have to
step into the foul bilge water. I did so, wincing at the feeling of the muddy liquid, dropping my other
foot into the water, turning as if to sit as they grasped my arms and unlocked the cuffs.
“Sit.”
I lowered myself down feeling the bench underneath me, lifting my feet from the vile liquid, noting the
wet stain on the back of the wood, left there by the previous rower. The overseer grabbed the chain, his
fingers dripping into the filthy bilge. Grasping my ankle he threaded it through one and then the other
fetter, locking the chain onto a bracket on the hull. I pushed my feet against the thick timber, watching
myself become one with the ship, my heart pounding. I hooked my toes about the wood, realising that
it would be impossible to row without my heels dipping in the filthy water. I stared forward as he
rubbed his filthy hands on my thighs, smiling.
The stink still assaulted my nostrils. I was naked, chained and isolated, seeing only a sea of whipped,
bloody backs in front of me, together with the woman at the drum and the woman in agony behind her.
I thought with horror, of how I might sit here for a year.
The oar sat in front of me, pulled toward the back of rower ahead so that I could sit down. Now, the
overseer in shorts pulled it toward me. dropping it into my lap. I grunted as the heavy timber, wet from
the salt water outside, and mired with grime, landed on my thighs. The heavy thump against my legs
forced my feet into the bilge water.
“Get used to the oar bitch, it’s yours for the next twelve months.”
As he spoke, I watched another man behind him, a thick set local, watching me intenly, the reaction in
his grubby jeans betraying his wish as he spoke excitedly in a foreign tongue. The two white men
replied, laughing as they did so.
“Looks like you’ll have to offer the mouth sooner than you think, right after the first shift at the oar.”
I shuddered.
“Do as the others do, row well and obey and get an easier time. Rebel or fight back, and you will be
punished. Understand?”
I looked up, in awe of the men standing over me, overwhelmed by events.
I heard the swish of the whip before it welted my back. I cried out,,wide eyed and twisting as the tip
curled around my belly.
“I said…UNDERSTAND!”
“Yes…YES…I understand,” I gasped, wincing, my back on fire.
“No, wait!” I said, watching as he raised the whip again, raising my hands as he brought it slashing
across my legs.
“YIAHHH!”
I pulled my legs together, watching the red welt rise on my muscled thighs.
“That’s yes OVERSEER!” he shouted.
I paused, groaning, part of me wanting to tell him to go to hell.
I didn’t see the local overseer bring his whip down across my lower back. I yelped loudly and arched
again, my mouth agape.
“Y..Yes Overseer!”
“Good,” he said quietly, moving the handle of the lash under my chin, holding my head high. I
shuddered instinctively as the leather dangled amidst my stung thighs.
“You’ll learn the discipline of the lash and row well, or else, you’ll be punished.”
Instinctively I looked at the poor wretch on the horse. He followed my gaze, before turning to me once
more.
“Obey, and you may avoid it.”
I nodded as he removed the whip handle.
“Yes Overseer,” I whispered, staring at him, a little defiance in my gaze.
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