Chapter 66: Galley Slave

I never made it to camp, at least not for a fortnight, and in fact, I was back on the water almost at once, much against my will. A Redcoat patrol gobbled me up and sent me, with my arms tied behind me and my belt and weapons as displays of my rebellious intent, down river where I was made a galley slave. Now I know that sounds odd and unbelievable, but that is what we were, galley slaves. Only it was not a galley but a barge and none of us were chattel slaves. In fact the one slave in the boat was the foreman or overseer, and he was a mean and cantankerous heathen if I ever saw one.

He smacked me down on my bench, cuffed my ear, told me the man that used to sit there was feeding the fishes and manacled both my right wrist and right ankle to the bulkhead. Then, standing up before me like some sort of lord, he buckled on my heavy belt and big bayonet, slapping his wide belly, clawing as his bulging codpiece and glaring down at me. Most of my fellow rowers, I found out by nightfall, were what some called "King's passengers," the sweepings of the British jails, mostly in London, who had been shipped to the colonies in the 1770's. They were serving out their terms and many hoped for a better life while some told me they intended to get back to London and the various trades they knew as soon as they could.

Our work at long, thick oars was to heave the big barge from a riverside bank where muddy iron ore was dug downstream and across the river to the smelters where it was processed. Going down river, heavily burdened, was not so bad, but rowing that square-nosed boat upstream, even empty, was mighty hard work and brought out our lord and master's whip on a regular basis.

We called him, "Ebony Tom." His teeth shown like ivory in his shining, black face and his yellowish eyes seemed to reflect evil when he was angered, which was most of the time. We ate one meal a day and got water at the end of each trip. Moving our bowels was done in the river either early morning or after the last trip near sunset, but we usually urinated where we sat and endured the stink. We slept, slumped on our bench and leaning back against the hull, under a scrap of canvas if we were lucky, and while I did see two or three pairs of men bugger each other now and then, most of us relieved our sexual needs with our hands. There were twenty of us on that nameless barge, ten to a side with a walkway down the midline where our overseer bellowed out the stroke and kept us bending our backs.

Two days of that work was more than enough for me, and I had whispered discussions of mutiny and escape with my fellow rowers well into the night. "Impossible" was the conclusion. I soaked my bleeding hands in the river and hoped for some stroke of luck or change of fortune.

"Ye die toilin' or ye serves the time," said the big red-headed Welshman across from me. "It's better'n the mines," he said, "damn'me it it ain't."

On the third day when we delivered out first load of ore to the dock, some well-dressed gentry stood on the boards above us, including a fine-looking woman in a dark violet dress. I noted her at once and felt my member tremble. They looked us over, pointed, laughed and choose me and Welshman with the curly red beard for whatever it was they wanted. We were both unchained, had our hands tied behind us and were helped ashore none too gently. Once we were upright, I could see that the redhead and I were about the same size, big men for those days. In fact, Robert's chest and shoulders made mine look puny, but then he had been rowing for almost two years.

They loaded the two of us into the back of a canvas-covered wagon and hauled us off to a big house up on the hill and dumped us into an unused shed of some sort that smelled of long-dried chicken dung. They untied our hands, manacled our ankles with an extra-long chain, brought us some food and then locked us in, still wondering why we had been chosen and what we were chosen for.

It was not until the next morning that we found out. The local grenadier company and the nearby Hessians had both produced a champion of some sort, and big Robert and I were to face them, fight them for the amusement of a Saturday outing by the fanciest of the Tories and the local military nabobs. A number of women, including some of the overdressed mistresses of those trading with the British and their frilly friends, were expected to be in the audience. All this we learned while slurping up our breakfast gruel with our smiling guard.

"At least we won't 'ave to fight each other," Robert said with a grin at me. I nodded, glad he would be pounding someone else with his oar-hardened, ham-sized fists. We enjoyed a day of leisure, ate well, rested and admired the women who occasionally passed by, trying to peek at us without being noticed. There were some true charmers as well as several highly painted harlots spending the weekend in the country for this affair. We did not see our opponents. Roistering went on well into the evening.

On Saturday, they brought us buckets of water, told us to doff our shirts and wash ourselves as best we could. Then we sat and waited, the usual military drill. When the sun got high in the sky, they fetched us to the pitch where we would do combat to amuse our betters. It was a bowling green I suspect, well tended and grassy. Robert and I were led out to the center where three thick posts had been installed. One ankle was freed and the other was linked to a post by perhaps six feet of chain.

"Bear baiting'," Robert said loudly as they padlocked his chain about the post.

"No surprise," I told him. We both then sat and leaned back against the pole to which we were fastened, wondering what would happen next and discussing the possible reasons for the third post. The big poles were set in a triangle about twenty feet apart so we could not touch each other. I may have dozed, but I am sure we sat out there for an hour or more before the crowd began to gather, some with parasols and folding chairs, and we got a look at our opponents.

The Brit was perhaps fifteen stone and looked very solid, big as an outhouse. He had a ridged brow and the mashed nose of one who had fought a time or two. The German was even bigger, at least taller, with a massive chest and thick thighs. Like us, they both were shirtless but wore boots while we were barefoot. They had wrapped leather straps about their hands. Then the Redcoats led out a slight girl with flowing blonde hair. She was wearing a simple white smock, and she looked very frightened and very young, a maiden. They tied her to the third post with her hands behind her. Her head sagged, and I think she was weeping.

Then the major domo, a young subaltern with lace at his cuffs, looked about him, decided all those of importance were present, dipped some snuff, and announced the entertainment in a high-pitched voice. Although it was early in the afternoon, I believe he was quite drunk.

"Here you see," he cried, lifting the girl's head with his whip handle, "that rarest of creatures, a true wonder, a New York virgin." The crowd tittered. "She goes to the winners, but," he said with a pause, looking about, "they must use here right here, for your enjoyment as well."

The crowd applauded politely, and he bowed and stumbled. I suppose there might have been two score of them, about two-thirds men, and half of those in uniform. A knot of soldiers lounged behind them, their muskets stacked. The master of ceremonies introduced our opponents and each of them received a small round of clapping. Then he said, a bit more loudly, "No biting or gouging, men, if you please, and no quarter is to be asked or granted. Ready? Proceed." He rejoined a fluffy girl in the crowd, reclined and smiled vacantly. She put her hand on his thigh, and I turned my attention to the work at hand.

I got the oversized Brit while the big German closed with my Welsh friend. I cannot say what happened with them because I was rather busy. My opponent circled in to the point where I could barely reach him without stretching my chain and beckoned me to come to him, giving me a gap-toothed grin. I suggested that he go to hell, and after some more circling and feinting, he closed with a rush, and we traded a few jabs, elbows and kicks. He proved to be a head-hunter, aiming almost all his blows at my eyes and ears, while I hammered at his thick biceps and well-muscled stomach. He was in and out, left and right, and I, for once, was patient, saving my energy, willing to take a bruise or two in order to get in a good lick.

He knocked me down twice, and each time stepped back in a shuffling dance to let me rise before charging in again. The second time I got to my feet, I side-stepped his charge and buried a right in his belly, very low. That angered him and took some of the wind from his sails. He backed off, took a deep breath, and came in again, both hands swinging wildly. I took a hard blow to the left cheek that split the skin, spun away, stiffened the fingers of my right hand and poked him in the throat, a ploy I had never tried but had seen used in a bar fight somewhere. Things crunched deep in his neck, and one of my knuckles popped. He turned away and dropped to his knees, just out of my reach, making a very odd sound, like a racking cough. Then he trembled and fell on his face. He rolled over, his lips went blue, he spasmed and stopped breathing. I retreated to my post and glanced at the other fight.

The two of them were trading blows, nearly toe to toe, really thumping each other with blood flying in gouts, when the German suddenly butted Robert in the chest, driving him back to the post he was chained to and stunning him. Then the Hessian grabbed the Welshman's head and battered it again the thick pole until he fell, insensible if not dead, with blood flowing from his nose and ears. The victor glared at me, spat and came toward me, tightened his strapped hands and balled them into huge fists.

I cannot say exactly what happened next. Sufficient that it was a wild melee that involved kicking, clawing and many well-landed blows. I recall knocking the man down once and cursing him for rolling away from me before I could jump on him. The fight ended, as his other had, with a head butt, but this one I delivered, smashing the snarling man in the face and evidently driving part of his nose back up into his brain. He stood a moment before me, looking pole-axed, and then he crumpled as if boneless into a very large and untidy pile at my feet.

I looked over where Robert lay. He had not moved and the breeze fluttered his hair. The crowd was very quiet, and I could hear the blonde girl sniffing. "You know any of these people, girl?" I called to her when I could speak.

She turned to face me. "You're bleeding," she said.

The young officer who had announced the fight walked up to me, looked down at the dead men and said quietly, so only I could hear, "This will never do."

"I know Miss Margaret," the girl said, nodding toward the silent audience. "She's our landlord."

"You did not fight fair," the man said, spraying my face with his spittle.

"Call her," I yelled to the girl, ignoring the fop in front of me.

He had me unchained and led to the young blonde. "Go on," he sneered at me, "horse her. She's all yours."

Her lips trembled as she looked up at me. "Did you call her?" I asked, reaching out to brush back her thread-fine hair. She nodded, and a mature woman in a purple dress appeared at my elbow. She glanced at me, flinched, and said," She's one of my tenants. They made whores of her sisters I believe."

"Can you take care of her? Will you?" I asked holding her steady gaze. She was a fine looking woman of perhaps thirty-five, well-built, broad in the shoulders and hips, deep chested and narrow waisted, corseted of course. She looked like one who would do well on a horse or under a man. I recalled seeing her before and thinking the same thing.

She nodded and reached up to touch my split lip. "You need a bit of stitching," she said, her eyes crinkling. I could smell her and found myself aroused. Her eyes were dark, her mouth generous, lips cracked and dry. As usual after a fight, I was erect, straining my codpiece, my member straight up against my belly, but I was trying to ignore it.

I became aware of a conversation behind me and soon was being dragged back to my post while the three dead men were carted from the field like so many bags of grain. Somebody brought me a bucket of water after my chain was refastened, and I rinsed off my face, drank my fill and dumped what was left over my aching head. The cut at my eyebrow dripped blood in my eye now and then, but my cheek scabbed quickly. My lip continued to swell until I felt lop-sided. My ribs were sore and my hands ached.

Refreshments were brought to the crowd that surrounded the pitch on three sides, and all of us waited for the second act. I looked about and found the woman in purple with the small blonde beside her. Then I heard a kind of groan and turned to see Ebony Tom being ushered to the field, wearing just his leather breeches, high boots and my heavy belt and big bayonet. He smiled at me, and I assumed that I was a dead man if they were going to let him come at me with a blade in his hand. I stood and shook myself, trying to focus my mind. I felt my member swell again as it had during the earlier fights. Then he took off my belt and sat and yanked off his boots.

"Now," the young officer squealed, waving for quiet, "these two men will be fighting for their freedom, this slave and this prisoner. One will die; one will go free and, where is she, he will get the girl over there for his pleasure, his extra reward, icing as it were, a sweet reward I'm sure."

Without waiting, Tom charged at me, smashed his head and shoulder into my chest and drove me back against the post while I tried to find a place to hit him. I kneed him, beat on his back and dug several good blows into his ribs, and he backed off and swung at my head, growling. I doubt that he had been in many fights with just his fists as weapons. We traded blows and I generally held my own, but he got madder and madder, kicking at me, spitting and cursing.

Impatience is a serious weakness. I ducked one of his wild swings, and he hit the post solidly, fracturing his right hand I am sure. I could see it in his eyes. After that it was easy. I knocked him down with a blow to the temple, dragged him back when he tried to crawl away, knelt on his chest and hammered his face to pulp. Then I stood, a bit unsteady, put one foot on his shoulder and drove my heel into his throat a time or two. That finished him.

The fight might have lasted two or three minutes.

The young officer stomped up to me again, furious. "You've killed him," he said. "This will never do." I squatted, put my back against the post and hoped they would ask no more of me that day. Purple appeared at the corner of my eye, and I pulled myself up while three men carted the big, black man's body away. My hands hurt more than anything else except my straining member.

"Over there," I said to the woman, pointing, "that belt is mine. Get the girl to fetch it, please, and hold on to it. They may keep their word and let me go."

She shook her head. "I doubt it," she said, putting her hand on my trembling arm. "Cassie and I will do what we can." She followed after the girl as two Redcoats came and escorted me back to my chicken-coop prison and locked me in with a long chain still attached to one ankle. By then my cock had subsided, and I ached nearly everywhere. My knuckles seemed on fire.

It was about sundown when the woman in violet, the small blonde girl and a black woman appeared along with a soldier carrying a musket. I was brought out to sit on a stump, and the other three watched while the black woman sewed up my wounds.

"I got your belt," the slight girl said quietly. "We hid it."

I mumbled a thank you through my thick lip.

"They are looking for another opponent," the woman said. "Most people will be here again tomorrow, expecting a better show."

"I'm sore all over, ribs, back, knees, everywhere." I watched the soldier as I spoke. He seemed disinterested in our conversation. I showed the women my swollen hands.

The woman in purple nodded. She made the word "later" with her mouth twice but did not say it aloud. The black woman completed her sewing, cocked her head to admire her work, smiled at me and the three of them left. The soldier pushed me back into my windowless shed and barred the door.

I contemplated "later" and rested. After a while I slept, curled on the floor atop the ancient chicken droppings. Much later I heard the bar being lifted and woke suddenly, fully aware of my surroundings and of my body's pains and needs.

"Hsst," said the woman, "quickly."

Carrying my chain and trying to ignore my engorged condition, I followed her ghostly shape across the dew-wet lawn, into the house and up the back stairs to the attic as quietly as I could. She crouched beside me in the gloom, wearing a dark robe over her long nightdress. "I think you'll be safe here for a while," she whispered. "When they find you gone in an hour or so, the search will probably be down toward the river."

She handed me my belt, bayonet and all. I bent and kissed her, fat lip and all. She held my face and kissed me back, very tenderly. Then she disappeared down the narrow steps and closed the door and only source of light. She left her scent behind, lilac like her daytime dress. The attic was floored and had louvered places at the eaves. When dawn came, I crawled to the back end and watched the guard discover the empty shed and shout the alarm.

A hullabaloo ensued with a great deal of scurrying and yelling. I must say I enjoyed it, and an hour or so later the slight blonde girl appeared with some food. I enjoyed that too. The girl sat beside me and watched me eat.

"Mistress Margaret thinks you're something special," the girl said.

"She's special too," I said. "Took a big chance this morning."