Chapter One

 

 

Captain Labastide spat disdainfully over the bridge railing before closing the wheelhouse door again. It was hot and tomorrow would be hotter. Barely five hours out from Marseilles the ship had already settled into its familiar pitch and yaw, a motion that was at once both gentle but somehow sinister. It was as if the “L’île St Joseph” knew its unwilled destination.

Beneath his feet the steam-piston engines rumbled and shuddered as the screws cut a white fluorescent wake astern.

“Steer two seven zero,” he growled at the helmsman. Squinting into the sun, he turned then to the fresh-faced second-officer. The young man was so full of unknowing innocence, not fit for a ship such as this, Labastide considered.

“Ring down for three-quarter speed, Bouvier, and maintain course for an hour.”

“Aye, Captain!” His tone was so absurdly enthusiastic.

The beauty of the distant shimmering horizon offered no solace. Not for Labastide’s soul. Neither, he reflected ruefully, for the tortured souls under his command. Below in the forward Number One hold it would already be sweltering, even with the fans full on. He tried to imagine the sweating, glistening skins of the newly loaded human cargo. In less than two weeks the women would reach the dreadful landing quay of Port Cayonne, having by then lost a quarter of their bodyweight, fearful, dejected, but wiser than before.

Yet the voyage would scarcely be more than a mild foretaste of what the poor wretches must surely endure. The penal colony of St Laurent de Maroni was a lifetime away. Hell-on-earth was its rightful reputation. Only the youngest and fittest of female convicts were ever sent there. Only the strongest and most resourceful ever came back to the motherland still retaining any of their remaining youth and femininity. Thirty of them were aboard - Labastide knew from the manifest - as well as nearly a hundred male prisoners. Kept separated and housed in Number Two hold - aft of the amidships accommodation and bridge - these miserable wretches attracted neither his sympathy nor any vestige of interest for him. Soon they would be little more than emaciated walking dead-men, fodder for the jungle timber-camps, fodder for the mosquitoes and malaria.

The women, on the other hand, were altogether another matter. A brief surge of lustful anticipation filled his loins. So many images danced into his vision. Madame Latour would, as ever, see to it that discipline would be enforced and …

Duval interrupted his contemplations. The wiry figure of the chief-officer almost burst through the wheelhouse-door. From the smugly wicked expression on his weasel-like face Labastide knew instinctively that the man could scarcely wait to report to him.

“We’ve a cargo of spectacular beauties aboard, Captain, for a change. At least, several of ‘em are like fresh-faced young angels, plucked from heaven itself! Not like them usual old prunes we get aboard. One or two’ve got bodies on ‘em like as could make a man spurt his load just by look’n at ‘em! Delightful peachy little breasts and neat curvy butts! And you wouldn’t guess what!”

“Spit it out, you hopeless piece of dogshit!” Labastide said under his breath without any particular rancour, his eyes focussed on the far horizon and trying to ignore Duval’s excitement.

“It’s that Contesse De Louvois bitch! You know, the one that crooked all those rich bigwigs in that phoney Panamanian Bond scam. Remember? She even took two ministers to the cleaners. Bankrupted one of the silly bastards! Twelve years she’s got for it, six hard labour and six paroled-banishment.” Duval gave a nasty high-pitched cackle, eying the captain with amusement and keeping the best until last.

“But that’s not all, Captain. The bitch is twice as dishy as the papers made out. Got boobs on her like friggin’ pumpkins – and ‘er figure’s like some friggin’ storybook goddess! God! Can you imagine all them old lags with their tongues lolling out, ogling her while she pounds laundry on those washboards in the sun - sweat running off her quivering tits and all! Doesn’t bear thinking about! What a waste! Her butt’s just mouth-watering, just waiting to be…er … waiting …” Duval glanced suddenly at the young second-officer and grimaced before continuing in a whispered conspiratorial tone.

“I tell you, she’d eat that pipsqueak for breakfast if she just so much as flashed her cunt at ‘im!”

“What else, Duval?” Labastide feigned disinterest, his tone flat.

Duval was not to be put off.

“Well, she’s as cool as a stick of spring asparagus. Already got two of the younger pretty ones eating out of the palm of her hands. Mimmie says she’s already planning to start a mutiny about conditions down there. Saying things like she’ll complain to the Governor and all that shit when we arrive. Makes out she’s still got powerful friends. Baaah! If you ask me she’s either slept with every fuck’n minister or bankrupted ‘em! But with an arse like that …”

“Is Madame Latour certain of these facts, Duval?”

“But of course, Captain! Mimmie’s already preparing the Table of Correction in the fo’c’sle. Her first customer for this voyage! And, no doubt, she’s got her eye on the two young un’s as well. They’ll soon enough learn of our Mimmie’s little pleasures!”

The fact that ‘Mimmie’ Latour was herself a convict – still serving out her debt to France in her parole period – did nothing to detract from her status aboard the ship. As wardress of the women’s hold her authority and power were unquestioned. She had already served four years in the penal colony sewing canvas shrouds for the daily toll of corpses. Now she was serving her final four ‘paroled-banishment’ years, preparing her young charges for the life that she had so recently left behind. Nevertheless Labastide kept a keen watch on her activities, both from the perspective of curbing her excessive zeal, as much as for his own entertainment. Soon it would be time for an inspection, but he would let Duval’s itchy palms sweat for a little longer.

“I’m going below for a drink, Duval. I’ll ring up when I’m ready to make my rounds.”

If the chief Officer glared at him, Labastide neither knew nor cared.

 

***

 

In the upper ‘tweendeck of Number One hold the fans overhead whirred and clattered monotonously. The heat was oppressive. Here and there little whimpers could occasionally be heard from the hammocks that swung in gentle rhythm to the ship’s motion. Otherwise there was only the rumble and juddering of the hull for company.

A heavy metal grille ran along the middle and length of the hold, although the door grating was open. There was scarcely a need for locking it. The only exit was the iron steps that reached steeply up to the hatch above. This in turn led out onto the open foredeck. During the mornings the women were allowed to wander freely there. It was there that they were fed and watered and once daily they were hosed down, naked, scarcely bothering to cover their nakedness, their torsos glistening in the sun as they dried. It was a spectacle much looked forward to by the crew – and by those few male prisoners lucky enough to glimpse the proceedings through the metal barrier of the passageway that led to the after-deck.

Madame ‘Mimmie’ Latour surveyed the swaying hammocks with interest. The sun was still high although there was only a dusty shaft of light penetrating through the open hatch. Apart from that, there were several oil-lamps hanging from welded brackets along the wall but the place was gloomy, adding to the discernible misery of its atmosphere.

“You there! Contesse! Is that what they call you? Get out from your hammock and look sharp, my dear, if you please! There are lessons aboard ship that they probably didn’t teach you in First Class - and which you, my dear Contesse, must learn!”

Contesse Marie-Chantal de Louvois raised herself and stared almost curiously at the large voluptuous wardress before shrugging her shoulders and lowering herself unhurriedly and quite gracefully to her feet. For a few moments she stood there, entirely naked, hands on hips, her proud, magnificent breasts thrust out almost defiantly. Her legs were long and shapely, her thighbones set so widely that the narrow indent of her waist was gloriously accentuated. Her whole stature was altogether exquisite Mimmie thought, letting her eyes travel slowly up and down the girl’s brazen nakedness. This notorious and impressive creature could not have been past twenty-six or seven, yet she had an air about her of cool assurance – not a trace of fear on those beautiful features.

“What should I call you?” the Contesse asked simply, her voice as sweet as sugarcane, but with a vaguely imperious edge to her tone.

“You call ME ‘Madame’, is that clear? And I call you Marie-Chantal or de Louvois or whatever I bloody like to call you!”

“Yes, Madame. Have I done something wrong? Already?” There was almost amusement in her voice as she stood there watching Mimmie with twinkling eyes.

“It’s mutiny to talk with the other girls about conditions here. You’ll find worse when you get to St Laurent, my poor dear. There you get the guillotine for such subversive chatter. Here you only get the whip - and a few hours of discomfort in the fo’c’sle. So think yourself lucky!”

“Oh, the whip? I’ve never incurred the misfortune of being whipped before. It will be … er … a whole new experience for me, if that is what I’m to get.” She spoke casually, almost nonchalantly, still no trace of fear.

Usually the mere mention of ‘whip’ was enough to instantly blanch the face of any convict-girl and for a moment Mimmie was taken aback by such brazen cheek – or was it bravado? She was not sure. Either way the insolent smile would soon enough be wiped from her pretty little face.

“Insolence is punished here as well, my dear. But at the moment let us deal first with your crime of mutiny. The captain will want to pass sentence formally.”

By now several pairs of eyes were peeping warily from hammocks, ears listening fearfully. The two girls in the hammocks on either side of the Contesse’s were saucer-eyed, nervously darting between the naked celebrity-prisoner and the heavily built wardress.

“I only remarked that it was too hot down here and that I couldn’t breath properly and that the food was filth and that the hammock was rough on my skin …”

“Oooh, rough on your skin, is it just?” Mimmie mocked. “Well there’s a notion! By the time I’ve finished with you, my poor dear little Marie-Chantal … your skin will be even rougher, I fancy. Now, put your smock on and follow me to the fo’c’sle, your ladyship!”

***

 

On deck the sheer brilliance of the sun made her screw her eyes shut. The planking seemed to scorch her bare feet as she walked as gracefully as she could, keeping a pace or so behind the wardress. It was deserted, or so she thought, until she saw the waiting figures of two men just beneath the awning at the forward end of the deck. She realised instantly that the thickset man must be the captain, the other puny ferret-faced man one of the officers. But Marie-Chantal de Louvois was not to be cowed in their presence.

“Good afternoon, Captain. I’m told I’ve offended you, Sir – and that I’m to be punished … er … whipped for my sins. Is that so?”

Captain Labastide had never before laid eyes upon such an exotic creature. Duval had not exaggerated one bit. Labastide could not help but notice how his chief-officer was struck suddenly rigid as the girl stood there calmly before them, a thin pouting little smile on her lips. Labastide himself felt momentarily lost for words. This impressive female was undoubtedly as brave as she was beautiful and foolhardy. He even noticed that Mimmie was strangely subdued.

Labastide gave a curt little bow, realising that it was not even mockingly done.

“Indeed, Contesse. I fear that from what Madame Latour has told me, that is indeed correct. I cannot permit mutinous talk onboard my ship by convicts, as I’m sure you will appreciate. We have our rules - silly though they may seem to you.”

For a moment the girl said nothing, watching the two men impassively. Then her face spread into a dazzling smile. Even in her flimsy inelegant grey-serge smock she looked as glamorous as if she were wearing an evening dress, Labastide considered admiringly.

“Well, Sir, at least I’m glad to make your acquaintance even in such unfortunate circumstances.” Then turning to Duval she added primly, “… and yours too, Sir, of course.”

Duval was speechless, his jaw dropping.

“This way, Marie-Chantal.” Mimmie impatiently broke the spell, gesturing at the doorway into the fo’c’sle. For a second she glanced warily at the two officers before following behind her charge.

The bare metal chamber narrowed to a sharp point ahead of them, the walls sloping away to its peak. A single naked light-bulb hung from the low ceiling, giving a stark cold light onto the interior of the place, which smelt of tar and paint. Set into the walls were several metal racks and hanging from them were various straps, belts, chains and other paraphernalia. For a moment Marie-Chantal studied them curiously, her head tilted to one side as if working out their purpose. She was aware that the two officers were standing behind her so close that she could smell the musty staleness of their uniforms.

“Am I to be strapped to the wall with these … things?” Her voice was steady enough, although perhaps with just the trace of a quiver at the end.

“No, my dear. You’ll be strapped to THIS!” Mimmie gestured towards the centre of the room, a note of wicked triumph in her voice.

A sort of raised steel box-frame stood there in sinister isolation. It resembled a small rectangular, double-tiered table, one tier positioned above the other with a gap of some eighteen inches between them, the lower tier only several inches above the floor. The topmost tier, which was no wider than twenty inches across, consisted of horizontal grid-bars stretching from one side of the frame to the other in such a fashion that it looked rather like some perverse metal washboard. There were a number of leather straps fixed to the side-beams at both ends and near the middle section. The four sturdy legs of the frame were about two and a half feet high, bolted to the floor. These were welded onto a series of support struts and triangular plates to the two horizontal platforms, so that that the whole apparatus was entirely rigid.

The only concession to its cold uncompromising starkness was by virtue of the leather pads on either side at the edges - about halfway along. These pads were fastened to the grid-bars and there were two more at the back-end of the platform. Here and there at intervals were a number of solid rings inserted into the steel side-beams and also at the very centre of the middle crossbar. The bottom tier was more of a mesh grid rather than bars across its width. In the same way as the upper level there were also a number of steel rings along the sides and again at each end, but none on its central plain.

Although the precise working nature of the frame was not at once apparent, its purpose was at least entirely clear to Marie-Chantal. For several moments she studied the red-painted contraption almost dispassionately, even if her tongue momentarily licked the dryness of her lips.

“I take it that I’m to … er … mount this … platform?”

“When you’ve slipped off your smock first, yes.”

For just a fraction of a second the business-like tone of Mimmie’s voice was betrayed by just a hint of a guilty tremor to it. But she instantly regained her composure, commanding the girl:

“Then you get on and kneel on all fours. I shall do the rest for you.”

“Am I to take it that I’m to get myself naked - in front of these two gentlemen?” Marie-Chantal looked horrified, but Mimmie wondered if she were not feigning her shocked disbelief, mockingly so.

“Not only that, my dear, but you will be WHIPPED naked in their presence. It’s standard procedure for all sentenced male or female offenders on this ship, isn’t that so, Sir?” Mimmie Latour turned to the captain.

For a second Labastide was flustered, feeling his rising lust. When finally he answered his voice was husky.

“Er … yes … those are the regulations.” His eyes momentarily caught the girl’s before he added in a clearer voice, “I’m afraid so. My sincere regrets, Contesse, but I cannot bend the rules for you. You understand?” He shrugged.

At that moment there was a sudden snort from Duval before he blurted out disdainfully:

“From what we hear about you, lady, you’re no fuck’n stranger to taking your knickers off in men’s presence anyway. I reckon you must’ve shown your bare arse and tits to more men than I’ve had hot garlic escargots!”

Marie-Chantal’s eyes flicked almost lazily to the ferret-faced officer, holding him in what could have been a teasing gaze from beneath her eyelashes, seemingly unabashed by the crudeness of the remark. Then, without taking her eyes from Duval’s face and scarcely hesitating for a moment she hitched up her smock with an exaggerated little flurry of movement before slipping the coarse garment over her head and letting it fall to the floor. Now she stood there naked and brazen in her poise, still fixing Duval with an almost provocative twinkle in her eye, her head cocked cheekily to one side.

“Sir, what you say may be true – but my conquests were … after all … always gentlemen of quality.” Her eyes shone defiantly now.

Then, her lips curling insolently at the corner, she quickly swivelled on her feet towards the platform before even having time to see Duval’s dumbfounded expression turn to thunder, his face flushing angrily. Labastide could hardly contain his smile. This charismatic young woman truly had spirit, he reflected wryly. Her flogging promised to be yet more entertaining than anything he had ever witnessed before.

Mimmie Latour stood there patiently, secretly enjoying the girl’s insolent haughtiness. How she wished she might have had a pretty girl like her – and one with such pluck - as her companion during her four long years in the penal colony’s sewing-workshops.

While these verbal exchanges between the Contesse and the officers had been going on Mimmie had meanwhile selected a thick leather belt from the wall-rack. Her hips rolling with exaggeration, she strode back to stand beside her charge, holding the belt conspicuously in her hand and letting it swing back and forth so that the girl’s eyes were immediately drawn to it.

“Before mounting the Table of Correction - as we call it - I must first put this on you. We don’t want you falling off and injuring yourself, my dear!”

For a second or so Marie-Chantal studied the black leather implement as if fascinated by its construction. It could almost have been lovingly stitched together by a skilled craftsman. The width was almost the span of her four fingers. The middle part of its length consisted of two separated strands of leather fixed to one another by several large studs at the two points where the belt became a single strand again. Between these separated strands three heavy brass half-circle rings had been inserted so that they ran freely, their freedom only impeded by the studs. At one end of the belt were two sturdy buckles - as if perhaps one alone were insufficient for the purpose. The other end was divided into two separate forked-tails, each containing a line of punched holes.

Marie-Chantal nodded slowly as though comprehension had dawned but gradually upon her.

“I see,” she said simply, although not entirely seeing the precise intricacy of the manner of her coming shackling. She let her eyes alight again on the so-called Table of Correction, which seemed as if to eagerly await her.

Mimmie stepped over to stand close beside her before passing the belt around her waist, all the while marvelling at the trim neatness of it. Adjusting the belt carefully she gave it a hefty tug, making Marie-Chantal utter a tiny gasp of surprise. Then Mimmie roughly fastened the two buckles as tightly as she could - just over her belly-button. For a second the naked prisoner was pitched jerkily forward towards her. The girl’s pert nipple-buds almost brushed against Mimmie’s face, the delightfully curved mounds glistening under the ceiling light. Finally the wardress leaned down and slid the brass rings around the belt, positioning them carefully so that one was above each of the girl’s flanks whilst the third ring was positioned just above the base of her spine and some three inches from the dipping crease of her globes.

“We’re ready to proceed, Sir.” Mimmie gave a final tug at the belt, her eyes momentarily sweeping over the girl’s magnificent torso. Now for the first time Mimmie’s nostrils detected that unmistakable scent of fear radiating from beneath the girl’s armpits.

“Very well, Madame Latour,” Labastide croaked, his lustful anticipation nearing its sating. “I will formally pronounce sentence.”

Stepping briskly in front of Marie-Chantal he cleared his throat nervously. His vision was at once entirely occupied by the magnificence of her breasts and he felt his hand tremble ever so slightly, wanting to reach out and touch the velvety roundels below her nipple-buds.

“In the name of the … er … Republic of France and according to …”

“… What about the other two little bitches she was conspiring with?” Duval suddenly interrupted peevishly. “They need their fat little butts lashed, too!”

Labastide seemed to ponder this remark for a few seconds, all the same glancing disapprovingly at Duval. Labastide was impatient for the flogging of this marvellous creature to get under way. He wanted no other diversions – not at least for the moment, now that his lust was forcing a growing hardness at his crotch.

Turning to Mimmie he gruffly ordered, “All right. Get the two other culprits up here, Madame. What are their names?”

“Fleur Dupont and Solange Gillard, Sir. They’re both only twenty, I believe, Sir, but they were warned about conspiring with mutineers.”

Labastide grunted, nodding reflectively.

“Well, Mister Duval, I think we shall be lenient with them on this first occasion. After all it was the Contesse who was mutinous by her own admission. I shall give the Dupont and Gillard girls the benefit of any doubt. But I think some token punishment is called for, I agree.”

He turned again to Mimmie. “They can witness the Contesse’s flogging - as an example to them both. Each of them can spend the night ‘in tackle and braces’. All right?”

Duval brightened. “Seems a fitting-enough punishment, Captain. The bitches can get a taste of what’ll come to them for stepping out of line.”

Labastide nodded curtly, gesturing at Mimmie. “Perhaps you’ll see the Contesse safely into her position first - before you fetch the other two young women.”

“Yes Sir!” Mimmie turned to Marie-Chantal. “You, my dear! Get yourself onto the Table and look sharp for the captain.”

Marie-Chantal gave a little sigh before stretching herself almost languidly. Her chest swelled out proudly, her upturned breasts seeming to thrust themselves out to the ceiling. As if composing herself for the ordeal, she closed her eyes for a few seconds and then as gracefully as an exotic bird she took a step towards the waiting frame.

Mimmie held her arm to steady her as she climbed onto the platform with as much dignity as she could muster. The sinews and lean muscle of her long legs made delightful little pulsing waves beneath her lightly-tanned skin as she positioned herself awkwardly. Labastide’s jaw dropped, his eyes fixing helplessly onto the widening cleft of her rump. He marvelled at the broad expanse of her hips and the way her cheeks tautened as she knelt.

“Move your knees out and further forward - onto the leather knee-pads! Yes, like so. Spread your feet apart to the sides and rest them on the pads. Soles upwards. Good. Now settle yourself back on your haunches and bend right down.” Mimmie spoke in an almost gently encouraging tone. “Bend lower. That’s a good girl. Now don’t move whilst I strap you.”

Starting with the ankle-straps the wardress quickly passed them over the girl’s heels and pulled the straps tight, first one side then the other. Now she fastened the other straps over the sleek calves of her legs so that the Contesse’s knees and feet were effectively pinioned on either side of the frame. As an additional fastening on each side there was a small length of rounded black-rubber strip – less than the width of her little finger – and this was passed around the back of the prisoner’s knee and looped onto a hook on the side of the frame. Next was the torque and chain, which had mysteriously appeared in Mimmie’s hand.

This pliant twisted-metal loop was the thickness of a man’s thumb. It contained three eyelets set into either end and a chain that was no more than two feet long. She placed the torque over Marie-Chantal’s swan-like neck, bending it over so that it formed a tight oval embrace around her. Now that both ends were positioned beneath the girl’s chin Mimmie clenched them together, holding them in her fist whilst she inserted the clasp of the chain into the middle eyelets at each end. Finally she clicked the hasp shut, letting the hanging chain drop to where the ring at the far end of the frame awaited beneath.

“I’m going to lower your head, Marie-Chantal. Don’t fight it, please. Good girl!”

With that Mimmie pulled the chain downwards, forcing Marie-Chantal to bend lower until her nose was scarcely inches from the bars. Threading the chain through the ring on the bar she drew the links taut and secured them with another hasp.

“There! That shouldn’t be too uncomfortable – not yet awhile!” Her tone was still almost amiable and polite. “Now please put your hands forward and reach down. A bit further forward. Thank you. Now I shall fasten your wrists. Otherwise there is a tendency for occupants to let their hands fly back to shield their rumps – which is not desirable.”

“As you see, Madame, I am entirely at your disposition.” Marie-Chantal said quietly from the front of the frame. Her breathing was quicker now, her lungs heaving as she knelt there in her bent-up posture.

Duval smirked wickedly. Beside him, Labastide was motionless, his face the essence of concentration, his eyes focussed as ever on the deep valley of her bottom.

Mimmie stepped to the front of the Table of Correction and fastened both wrist-straps, which were bolted about halfway down on either side of the front legs of the frame. Marie-Chantal ‘s slender arms were now stretched forward, only leaving her elbows slightly bent, her elegant fingers making little squirming motions in the tight embrace of the wrist-straps.

There was a heavy silence now in the fo’c’sle. Only the distant hum of machinery and the sound of the sea swishing against the bowhead could be heard. The Table of Correction took on a gentle ringing vibration so that occasionally the clasps and rings sang out in a strange metallic melody. Whenever Marie-Chantal moved at all there was a sudden accompanying little jingle of protest.

However, the preparation procedure was not yet quite complete. Mimmie had selected three short lengths of chain from the wall-rack and was now fastening one of them to the brass belt-ring on Marie-Chantal’s left flank. That done she attached the other end of the chain to one of the rings on the side-beam of the frame. Pulling the links taut, she clipped the end into place. Going round to the other side, she repeated the procedure so that now the waist-belt was firmly secured to both side-beams of the Table, pulling the girl’s hips further down against it and forcing her to bend her knees double beneath the under-hang of her belly.

“Nearly done now, my dear. There’s just this …”

The third chain was of lighter weight than the other two. Mimmie stood with it over the girl’s thrusting bottom before fastening the end link to the remaining free belt-ring, which was still positioned just above the very base of her spine. Slowly she let the slender chain drop into the opened crevice of the girl’s outstretched cheeks so that now the links hung down dead-centre in the rift – making a little jingling sound as the loose tail-end links draped themselves over the bars beneath. Stooping low, Mimmie busied herself now in the restricted space between the girl’s under-belly and the grid-bars of the platform. Reaching under to retrieve the end of the chain – which hung vertically down from a point just below the perineum ridge that divided her two orifices – Mimmie’s hand accidentally brushed against the girl’s breasts, sending a tiny illicit pulse of shock through her arm. Fumbling for the end of the chain she grasped it finally and attached it to the ring bolted into the central bar of the platform, just below the girl’s midriff. Now with a little jerk Mimmie pulled the chain forward and taut, noting gleefully how the sudden tension made the links bite into the deep well of the girl’s crevice, pressing tight up against her perineum ridge.

“Good! That’ll keep you securely chained to the Table, my dear. No chance of you falling now,” she whispered in Marie-Chantal’s ear.

“None at all I should think, Madame! I’ve been trussed like a veritable turkey. It’s even hard to breathe,” the Contesse replied almost conversationally. She had not turned her head even a fraction in the torque, her voice coming almost distantly from the front of the frame.

“Hmmph!” Mimmie acknowledged, grunting in disbelief at such casual insouciance. From her tone the girl might have been engaged in some polite social discourse at a bishop’s dinner party. Even in her naked humility and thrusting display of her opened rear she was still able to maintain some degree of finesse and decorum. It was amazing. Mimmie needed to shake off her growing admiration for this extraordinary creature and focus her mind on her task – albeit a dutiful one from which she took habitual satisfaction. Attending to the subjugation and somewhat perverse judicial bondage procedures of mainly young women - and then having to whip their outspread naked backsides - was certainly a preferable occupation to that of stitching shrouds for dead emaciated convicts.

Mimmie straightened herself and cast her eyes in a brisk professional manner around the frame, peering at the fastenings and looking out for any looseness in her strapping work. Here and there she gave a little tug at the fixtures, once making the girl give a little quiver of discomfort. Satisfied, Mimmie turned to the captain.

“She’s ready, Sir.”

“Very well, Madame. Please get the other two girls now. I will finish the formalities whilst you’re gone.”

Mimmie nodded curtly, glancing at Duval before stomping hurriedly out of the fo’c’sle door and letting it clang shut again behind her.

Labastide cleared his throat again before continuing with the unfinished pronouncement of sentence. Standing now to one side of the frame he was able to look down at the scarps of the Contesse’s cheeks from a different angle – rather more from above than from behind her.

“Where was I? Ah yes, Contesse. In the name of the Republic of France and according to Article Thirty-Seven of the Penal Code, I sentence you, Marie-Chantal de Louvois, to … er … twenty-five lashes of the martinée for seditious talk.” Here he paused, glancing at Duval who seemed almost as if he were going to interrupt. But Labastide went on quickly and in a milder tone.

“Sedition carries a less severe sentence than mutiny, my dear Contesse. If I were not such a lenient person I would have found you guilty of that – and the minimum sentence is fifty lashes! After such a sentence your backside would not have been … er … a pretty sight, Contesse. And if you permit me to say so – it IS a most pretty sight in its present condition and I think twenty-five lashes will not greatly alter such rare beauty - at least not permanently.”

“That’s … er … most generous of you, Captain. How can I ever repay you, Sir?” she replied as sweetly as she could without a trace of irony. Turning her head as much as the neck-torque allowed she smiled almost seductively at him from beneath her long eyelashes.

“The bitch is arrogant and insolent, Captain,” Duval spluttered with indignation. “She deserves a good fifty - and with the African bull-whip rather than that that flimsy and overly-lenient martinée. That’d teach her! She’s only a fuckin’ convict now – not playing her ladyship in her high-n’mighty boudoir, about to flash her cunt at some frigg’n Minister of State!”

“That’ll do, Duval. Thank you. I’ve made my decision. If you don’t wish to witness sentence being carried out, then …”

“No, no, Sir! Of course, I respect your orders.” The chief-officer interjected hastily, gulping down his silent disappointment, his face red and sulky.

Labastide nodded knowingly. His eyes were twinkling little black beads. Almost at once the door groaned open. Mimmie Latour had returned, closely followed by two clearly frightened young girls, each dressed in the familiar grey-serge smock.

They glanced fearfully around them before their eyes finally alighted on the strapped and chained figure of their aristocratic and now-prostrate comrade. For several moments they gazed in a kind of stupefied awe, their eyes growing wider at every second, taking in the details of the perverse frame and the various straps and chains and the humbling, bent-over manner of the evil contraption’s silent naked occupant.

“Yes, my dears! You see what awaits any convict who disobeys the rules. We call it the Table of Correction and your classy lady-friend here is going to be whipped for violating the code of obedience!” Mimmie watched the petrified faces of the girls with a kind of passive smugness, adding finally in a quieter almost conspiratorial tone, “And what’s more you two are most honoured. You’re going to view the proceedings as a lesson to you both.”

“Er, y-y-yes, Miss. But all we did was to … to …” The small blonde girl called Fleur started to plead.

“Shut your mouth, girl! You’re lucky this time not to be whipped as well! Let this be a lesson. The captain’s been very lenient.” Mimmie glared at the girl, who lowered her face, at once regretting her outburst.

“Yes, Miss.” She murmured miserably.

The other girl, Solange, kept silent, looking at the ground now, not wanting to draw attention to herself and perhaps thinking that she would soon awake from this nightmare. She was tall and very slim with long auburn hair. There was a noticeable tremor to her hands and her eyes seemed near to tears.

“What crimes did you two young women commit and how many years transportation are you sentenced to?” Labastide asked quietly, not in an unkindly way.

Fleur volunteered immediately, “I’ve got three years hard labour, Sir, and three years paroled-banishment in the Colony. I worked as a dressmaker and my employer accused me – falsely, Sir! – of stealing dresses and selling them, Sir. But I never … I swear …”

“Shut your mouth, prisoner!” Mimmie glared menacingly, instantly silencing the girl.

“And you, my dear?” Labastide turned now towards Solange.

For a second or so the girl did not reply, but becoming aware of Mimmie’s impatient eyes glaring into hers she stammered finally:

“I … er ... er …knifed my b-b-boyfriend, Sir.”

Her voice almost broke with emotion and she quickly averted her gaze shyly from him. Then as if supposing that some greater explanation were required she added dejectedly and almost in a whisper, “He wouldn’t leave the other girls alone, Sir.” Tears brimmed in her eyes.

“What’s your sentence?” Labastide persisted gently.

The girl gulped back fresh tears.

“Ten, Sir. Five years hard labour and five years of paroled-banishment. I’ll never … never be able to t-take it all, Sir. I know I’ll just die …,” she whimpered.

Then she began to weep so pitifully that even Mimmie stayed silent, not admonishing her and not wanting to intrude upon her girlish grief. However, finally making her face revert to its hardened uncompromising glare of matronly displeasure, she commanded brusquely:

“Stop blubbing, girl! The captain’s not here to listen to your pathetic pleadings! Stand up to attention when you’re spoken to! Pull yourself together, you snivelling little worm!”

At that point there was a brief jingling of chain-on-metal and a quiet levelled voice came from the front of the Table of Correction.

“Ten years DOES seem a very long time for knifing a faithless boyfriend, wouldn’t you say so, Captain?”

Instantly several pairs of eyes whipped round to stare at the Contesse. Her head was half-turned towards them in the torque, her expression mildly defiant but not disrespectful. With a little grimace she shifted her body so that it strained momentarily against her straps, making the chains rattle again. She was smiling pleasantly, lifting her eyebrows quizzically as if expecting a reply.

“God, what courage in adversity,” Labastide thought to himself again. Despite the Contesse’s humiliating posture and the dreadful anticipation of her coming thrashing this splendid creature could still look graceful, defiant and composed. Besides which she could even dare to make further dangerous and possibly seditious comments, conversing freely as if engaging in some free forum of discussion. Even Mimmie was taken aback by such recklessness, her face almost shocked but oddly sympathetic. The wardress had clearly never encountered someone like this before amongst her reluctant charges. Mimmie Latour clearly had a heart of sorts, after all, Labastide thought absently.

Barely three years ago this large domineering-looking woman had been picked out from the other paroled convicts to serve as convict-wardress on the ship, not only because of her imposing thickset stature but also because of her seemingly cold ruthless and emotionless demeanour. Now Labastide was seeing another side to her. He wondered vaguely whether she would wield the martinée on this beautiful enigmatic creature with her usual harsh and skilfully applied delivery. In St Laurent de Maroni she was notorious, her reputation fearsome. Known as ‘Madame La Flagellatrice’ (the whip-lady), those female convicts who had been acquainted with her attentions on the outward voyage-of-misery spoke of her in feared tones. It was said that even during the returning ‘repatriation’ voyages at the end of their sentences some of the freed women – being in a premature state of joyous exuberance and waywardness - still sometimes encountered Mimmie’s discipline, sometimes spending the duration of their homeward passage ‘in tackle and braces’ and with their backsides raw from the final attentions of the judicial regime – or at least Mimmie’s interpretation of it.

Labastide cast a long penetrating look at the still-turned face of the Contesse.

“I think it would be best for you, my dear young lady, if you would be mindful of your own affairs and not those of the Republic. The girl …your friend …has been sentenced by a proper court of law and so, I believe, have you …”

“This high-and-mighty bitch takes the fucking biscuit!” Duval exploded suddenly with blustering indignation. “Give her ten more lashes for impertinence …”

“THANK you, Mister Duval!” Labastide pinned him with a withering look before turning again to the wardress and gesturing at the two young girls. “Tackle and brace these two and then proceed with the sentence on the Contesse, Madame!” Labastide commanded gruffly.

“Very good, Sir! But … er …wouldn’t you wish for one girl to witness the punishment from the lower tier of the Table of Correction?” Her eyes had narrowed slyly.

“Good idea, Madame. Er … what about the tall one - this one, Solange – to go under the Table?”

“Yes, Sir!” Mimmie turned briskly towards the girl and pointed at the lower tier of the frame. “You! Strip and go and lie on your back on that!”

Solange was clearly perplexed, her ever-wider eyes darting nervously between the wardress and the naked strapped form of the Contesse. It seemed bizarre. For a second her eye caught the Contesse’s but she only returned a somewhat wistful smile of resignation, as if reassuring Solange that everything would be all right after all.

“Go on! Stir yourself, girl! The captain hasn’t got all day!” Mimmie snapped.

“You m-mean I must lie under … underneath her? On that lower platform thing?”

“Exactly so, my girl! That way you can observe your lady-friend’s painful ordeal at close quarters. With your face just beneath hers you’ll be able to clearly see how her ladyship’s snooty demeanour will quickly turn to yelps and pleading cries of agony! It’ll be a good lesson to you both. Meanwhile your cute little friend Fleur will have a good view of both of you from her position in what we call ‘Tackle and Brace’, over on the wall rack. Now get going, my dear!”

Fleur and Solange exchanged fearfully glances. Then together they looked over at the Table of Correction, their eyes once more seeking out the Contesse’s gaze, as if wanting more reassurance.

“I should do as they tell you, girls. I’m sure it won’t be too bad. Just be obedient and everything will be fine. I’m sorry I got you into this.” Marie-Chantal’s voice came softly across to them in the silence of the chamber.

“We don’t need to hear a word from you, Contesse,” Mimmie said sharply. “You’ve already got them into enough trouble.”

Marie-Chantal only gave a winsome little smile before turning her head away to the front again, resigned to her punishment, shifting herself in her bonds so that they gave a little jingling rattle.

There were so many questions but Solange instinctively realised it was pointless to ask anything more. The big wardress was waiting impatiently, her eyes staring intently at her, willing her to obey. Fleur was lost in her own misery and terror. What did ‘Tackle and Brace’ mean? Whatever it might entail, would her ordeal be any worse than being placed in this perverse looking box-frame contraption and being strapped to it just beneath its other top-tier occupant? Solange had no idea. But at least it seemed that she and Fleur were to escape a flogging. And the very notion of being flogged on her naked posterior – and moreover in front of two lusting men - was altogether too much to contemplate.

For a moment she thought back to that dreadful night in her small dingy Paris apartment. She had never meant to stab Jean-Claude – not seriously. When he had slumped to her feet, bleeding from his chest, that terrible expression on his face had mirrored her own utter astonishment. She remembered how then the kitchen knife had fallen from her hand, clattering to the floor, and how she had screamed out in anguish, her love at once flooding back to replace that now-forgotten rage. Her attempts to stem the blood had been in vain and it was then that the prospect of the Guillotine had suddenly loomed before her eyes. But later – in the grim Paris prison of St. Lazarre - her lawyer had told her that for a Crime Passionnel she would escape execution. Instead she would face transportation to Devil’s Island. Of course that had struck terror in her heart. Every Frenchman and woman knew of the terrible reputation of the penal colony. But not for one moment and not in her worst nightmare had she imagined having to face the prospect of being strapped up to some bizarre punishment frame and being forced to witness the naked flogging of another woman strapped to the same frame - and just above her.

Yet it was preferable to being in the Contesse’s humbling and debasing position. Solange marvelled at how this extraordinary woman displayed such composure and courage in the face of such wickedness, and whilst waiting so calmly – almost patiently – for her own whipping to begin. Furthermore Solange found it almost thrilling and flattering to be counted as a friend of such a notorious and enigmatic woman as this Contesse Marie-Chantal de Louvois. It had been both a national scandal and a sort of cause célèbre - a welcome source of cynical amusement in countless ordinary households. It fascinated Solange to think that this graceful aristocratic woman had not only been the mistress to men-of-power, but had even managed so cleverly to take them all for a ride. She had also become a near figure of admiration by an adoring proletariat, whilst at the same time having been so hated by the governing establishment. Under any other circumstances Solange would have delighted at all these notions, laughing quietly to herself at the thought of such awesome feminine achievement. But all she could do now was to mumble feebly at the glaring wardress:

“Yes, Miss.”

She took a few faltering steps towards the frame.

“I said strip! You too, Fleur! Now!”

“Yes, hurry yourselves, you pair of bitches!” Duval snarled hoarsely, the lust already making his face glisten with sweat.

There was the briefest of pauses before both girls slowly began to lift their shapeless baggy smocks over their heads. Simultaneously both garments fell to the floor and the two girls stood there stark-naked, their faces bowed demurely and crimson with their shame - cowed under the impure gaze of the two ship’s officers and the impatiently waiting wardress.

Mimmie moved briskly forward and took Solange roughly by the arm, propelling her to the rear of the contraption. For a second the girl looked down onto the Contesse’s gaping rear cheeks, noting how their tautened scarps seemed to descend so smoothly into the soft abyss of their valley. It was only the thin chain that ran so tightly against the bed of its fissure that concealed the velvet sump underneath. It was the first time that Solange had ever observed such a strangely exotic vista of intimate feminine flesh. Despite the tremor of her own fear that gripped her she found her whole body at once overcome by a momentary little frisson - neither quite of lust, nor yet of shame, but of some unknown feeling of illicit kinship that her mind was unable to define.

“You’ll have plenty of time to gawp at your lady-friend’s anatomy once you’re strapped in beneath her!” Mimmie sneered, watching the girl’s eyes. “Now, crawl onto the platform and look lively, girl!” she commanded, pushing the girl down onto the lower tier.