Chapter 1: The Ladybird

“Do you think we’ll ever get to see the world outside of Wadi Halaf again?” asks Julia while we are lying side by side in her bed.

Hassan may not have wanted thirty two young women deposited into his harem at Wadi Halaf, but he’s not going to simply set us free. The deal struck by Hassan’s uncle with our kidnapper Nathaniel Wickliffe involved a large amount of money. How much money is a closely guarded family secret, but it is money that will be recovered from the ransoms paid by the wealthy relations of those of us who have wealthy relations. However, like me, Julia has little prospect of someone paying the ransom demanded for our freedom. Which means that for us, the alternative to a life spent behind these luxurious prison walls is for Hassan to sell us in one of the slave markets in Salé. I can’t say that either option excites me.

“I refuse to believe the rest of my life will be spent as a slave inside a harem,” I reply. “I’ve escaped from worse situations in the past.”

“Really?” says Julia with a hint of disbelief in her voice. “Have you escaped from slavery before?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” I reply. “A kind of escape, anyway.”

“How many different kinds of escape are there?” asks Rebecca, who is listening intently to Julia’s and my pillow talk.

Our conversation reminds me that A’isha has instructed me to write a story about that particular incident. She’ll be expecting me to get on with the task this morning so that I’ll be finished in time for our dancing practise this afternoon. I’ve enjoyed Julia’s naked body snuggled next to me overnight. Julia is inexperienced in the art of sex, but she at least responded in kind to my roving hands massaging her tits and teasing her cunt and clit. I took things slowly last night. While nobody inside the harem seems to mind us having sex with one another, I feel we should at least keep the noise down. Julia gets very vocal when I arouse her, so I might have to consider shoving something in her mouth to keep her quiet. But that’s something for tonight since it’s time for us to set about our daily tasks before Samed starts encouraging us with his cane. I complete my morning ablutions and grab something to eat before settling down to write my story.

It’s April 1808, and my situation is as dire as a dire situation can get. I’ve surrendered myself to my hated enemy, the pirate Eduardo Pardal in order to save the crew and passengers of my ship from being murdered by Pardal and his crew. Pardal locks me in irons and ties me to the mast of the Estremadura the moment I step on board his ship. I’m kept there for days while we sail west to the island of Martinique in the Caribbean. On arrival, Pardal sells me to some local merchants who aren’t too bothered about the questionable legality of selling a white woman as a slave.

However the whole sordid deal does Eduardo Pardal no good. While he is negotiating my sale, his ship is caught at anchor by an English frigate and the pirating career of Pardal and his crew comes to a sudden and violent end. I only learn about Padal’s demise some weeks later since my attention at the time is focused on my own immediate future.

“Are you sure you can pass her off as a mixed-blood, Jedediah?” asks one of the merchants. “You know the penalty for trying to sell white women into slavery.”

The man’s comments illustrate the double standards of both the French and the English. My natural olive brown skin has become darker from my time spent tied to the mast of Pardal’s ship on the way here. At first glance I could be taken for a Mulatto ... a half-caste of mixed European and African descent. Which isn’t an uncommon feature in these parts, being the consequence of white plantation owners regularly fucking their black slave women. That makes me prime meat for the local slave markets. What would make a purchaser suspicious, however, is that my bone structure and facial features expose my almost pure European heritage.

“She’s got black hair and her skin is brown enough to pass her off as a mixed-blood. She’s pretty enough that any plantation owner is going to want his dick between her legs without worrying too much about whether she’s white or a Mulatto.”

The air of confidence displayed by the man calling himself Jedediah isn’t mirrored by his actions. There’s no dragging me off to some slave trader’s compound before putting me on an auction block for public sale. My slide into slavery is through private viewings and backroom negotiations, the details of which I never find out. The secrecy spares me some of the humiliation associated with public slave auctions, but that’s about all. I’ve known fear many times in my life, but this is one of the few occasions when I’ve been terrified. I literally feel sick.

“Is she a virgin?” asks one prospective buyer as he paws me like a piece of ripe fruit.

“I doubt it,” replies Jedediah. “Does it matter? Look at her. You can’t tell me that some man hasn’t rammed his cock in her all holes before now.”

I’m under strict instructions not to say anything in case my accent betrays my origins. Jedediah wasn’t too specific about the consequences of my disobedience, but I doubt that I’d like whatever punishment he intends to dish out. I’m too downcast to resist and I meekly put up with being prodded and poked by the handful of exclusive clients invited to examine me.

“Does she have a name?” asks another client.

“Buy her and she’ll answer to any name that you like,” laughs Jedediah.

“Why is there a tattoo on her cunt?” asks another.

“Her former owner had a fetish for tattooing his slaves. A pussy on her pussy. Quite apt if you think about it.”

Hmmm. Jedediah might have guessed the ‘pussy on her pussy’ bit correctly, but it was my choice to be tattooed there during a rather pleasant stopover in Jamaica several years ago.

“What about her arse?” asks one client. “Can she take a man’s cock in her arse?”

“Take a look if you like.”

I’m made to bend over and display my bare arse for the client. He takes his time in his appraisal and he’s not too gentle about it. Only Jedediah’s intervention stops the man from shoving his cock in my arse.

“Good and wide,” muses the client. “Bet she’s been buggered many times in her life.”

I don’t know the details of the negotiations between Jedediah and Raoul, the client who eventually acquires me. I’m just glad my buyer isn’t one of the clients who has been roughly handling me earlier. As it turns out Raoul has bought me on behalf of his employer, a plantation owner on the far side of the island. As slave overseers go Raoul isn’t unnecessarily harsh or cruel, but he’s experienced enough to make sure that I’m never given the opportunity to escape. The heavy shackles Pardal had put on me are replaced by lighter ones provided by Raoul, but they are just as effective at restraining me.

“What’s your name?” asks Raoul as I walk behind his horse along a dirt road leading away from the town of Saint Pierre.

“Jacqueline,” I reply, seeing no reason to antagonise Raoul by being surly.

“Sounds French. Your father was a Frenchman then?”

“Yes. He was a Comte ... a Count,” I say.

“That figures. No matter their nationality the nobles are always dipping their wick into those less fortunate. So, do you understand French?”

“I can speak English, French and Spanish,” I reply.

“Hmm ... You might find that a useful skill on the plantation. Play your cards right and you might earn a few privileges as an interpreter. The islands hereabouts are a melting pot of nationalities, but most people will speak one of the three languages you speak.”

I don’t feel inclined to initiate a conversation, and Raoul soon runs out of questions. The road winds its way around a hill before passing several plantations. Most are sugar plantations, but according to Raoul, some owners are gradually switching to producing coffee. I know nothing about growing coffee, although I’ve sampled drinks made from coffee a couple of times. The toffs seem to like coffee, but I don’t think it’ll ever be a popular drink.

Eventually we arrive at our destination. It’s a large plantation called La Coccinelle, the Ladybird. The slaves working in the sugar cane fields pay no attention to us as Raoul rides up to the main house with me following behind. After days being confined to the mast of Pardal’s ship my feet are unused to so much exercise. They ache from the long walk from Saint Pierre but fortunately I’ve no blisters.

“Wait here,” says Pardal as he leaves me standing in an outhouse next to what appears to be the kitchen.

Those working in the kitchen briefly look at me with curiosity, but they otherwise ignore me. I would sit down and rest my feet if I had the courage. But my normal resilience seems to have deserted me recently and I don’t seem able to shake off the malaise which has affected me ever since I surrendered to Pardal.

“Mistress Brigitte will see you now,” says Raoul from the doorway.

I follow Raoul into the main part of the large house. I’ve been inside a few plantation houses during my time sailing around the Caribbean onboard the Zafiro, but La Coccinelle is very different from most. Usually the furniture and decor reflect a masculine taste but this one has a much more feminine look and feel about it.