It was the most portentous silence Trudy had ever known. She watched, spellbound, as the podium and the chairs disappeared, the bunting was withdrawn from a hitherto indeterminate structure to reveal it as a timber gallows with starkly outstretched arm. With superb showmanship Caroline advanced to face the multitude, her arms outstretched as though in love or the acceptance of a world of sin. Dramatically, she reached for the fastening of her gown and cast it far aside. Beneath it she had been naked. She stood naked now, glorious and unashamed. She had retained her nylons, shoes and gloves. They added a shockingly erotic emphasis to her bare body.
It was Tulabe’s day! The citizens were both hysterical and awed, scarcely believing their good fortune. The President was undoubtedly the greatest man on earth if he could provide entertainment like this! The cheering was frenetic.
On the platform the players and the props moved with rehearsed precision. The scaffold was heaved into place. A hooded man in black tights, bound Caroline’s eagerly proffered wrists, positioned her beneath the end of the scaffold’s arm, and drew them high so that she must stand on her toes with hands and arms tautly tractioned above, naked for the excoriations of the whip which would cleanse Zindawba of the sins of white iniquity. The President bowed and retired. The stage was starkly held by the man in black and the white girl he was about to whip.
Trudy wanted to close her eyes, or to break ranks and fly to the rescue of a girl she loved. She did neither. A girl cannot fight a nation nor close her eyes to the most dramatic and awful scene of her existence. Her own whippings and canings paled into insignificance beside this vivid sacrifice. She watched, breathless, as Caroline allowed her quiet serenity to sweep across the multitude from side to side. And then, looking back over one shoulder to nod.
The black arm swung, a band of scarlet sprang into vivid life around the narrow waist. Caroline smiled and twisted sensuously. Once more, this time traversing the lovely shoulders with a furrow of red. The writhings of the bound beauty were sinuously sweet, her smile serene. As the blows and the weals mounted, Trudy felt certain the white sacrifice must be drugged. Or some injection . . . ! She had read . . . ! A hard shrewd blow revolved the white hips to bring Caroline’s gaze directly into focus with that of the agonised trooper. She smiled with love and recognition, tense in greeting . . .
It was then the shots came from the rooftops and the two trucks roared into the Square. Nicholas Nykobe had staged his raid for maximum effect.
Pandemonium, hysteria and panic! The crowd surging from the focal point of the attack gave Warrant Officer Ringbolt his chance for glory. His commands were crisp and clear, they too had been rehearsed! In cunningly disposed formations his troop of girls opened fire. Each one of them now thankful for the caned bottoms by which he had persuaded them to become marksmen. Their rifles snapped and cracked smartly. Bodies fell from roofs, a truck careened into a wall, its occupants leaping, then falling as the rifles snapped. The other truck wavered and turned, then blazed afire, its armed cargo dying singly as they fled before the bullets of a troop of girls. The President’s Guard, standing now and forming a square, sighted carefully as they had been taught, pulled their triggers and snapped their bolts in rapid fire.
Suddenly the gunfire stopped. There were no more targets. The W.O.’s “Cease fire” was a declaration of the cessation of hostilities. Once more the multitude, or what was left of it, became only curious. The local police came out of hiding and took custody of such raiders as had survived the troop’s prowess. The President of Zindawba reappeared on the stage, his arms raised in benediction, the sun of his benevolence shining directly upon the girls of his Guard, their rifles hot and at the ready in his service. It was almost a minute before it was noticed he stood alone.
The rope by which Caroline had been suspended had been cleanly cut by a knife.
Of Caroline herself there was no trace.
8
Torture of Tulabe
Caroline had begun her beatings with misgiving. Khalief had suggested that, since she must commence them sometime, it might as well be in this period when the absence of Trudy was a poignant loss, a loss she had protested.
“Khalief, why can’t I join the Guard too?”
“You belong to me. Even a President is entitled to some recreation.”
“Is that all I am, recreation?”
“Of course! Look at yourself!”
Caroline had seen herself in the mirror when she had stripped and placed upon her nakedness those bands and baubles which gave him pleasure. They were in the huge expanse of the mezzanine from which the terrace stretched into the sun. She was languidly serving drinks from the bar, her hands deftly denying the coercion of the handcuffs on her wrists. “I’ve seen myself—everybody else has had a look at me too. Khalief, how much longer are you going to keep me in that cage?”
“Are you in a cage now?” he asked drily. “I’d say you were a highly privileged prisoner. And the little girl . . . ? Is she not good company?” He chuckled. “I had her specially kidnapped from a Cook’s Tour for you.”
“She’s sweet but not like Trudy. She’s so scared! I wish you’d convince her she isn’t destined for something awful. She believes the very best she can hope for is the slave market.”
“Could I comfort her with rape?”
“Oh, Khalief! Just because you comfort me with rape it doesn’t mean that every girl—”
“Is a wanton?” He laughed at her grimace at his use of the word. “Before you diverted me we were on the subject of your beatings, I think they should commence.”
“I suppose they should.” Caroline sighed, picked up his glass, and proffered it on her knees. “Your drink, lord.”
“Stay on your knees, girl. You are becoming altogether too contentious.”
“Is that why you want me beaten?”
“Not really. I am remembering your mission—or have you forgotten?”
“How can I forget, lord, when you keep me in a cage!”
He surveyed her with affection. “If you mention the cage again I’ll use the cane on you.”
Caroline’s eyes widened in mock innocence. “My lovely cage, lord! Why would you do that?”
Khalief was about to speak but was forestalled.
Caroline, her eyes sparkling, fetched the cane and presented it to him on bended knee. Without a word, she positioned herself to present the inviting curves of her derriere.
Smiling, and unseen, Khalief took from a drawer a brown leather strap. Without comment he slashed it across the saucy rounds. It impacted with a truly horrific crack. Quickly, he reversed and struck again. Caroline yelped in dismay, stood erect clutching her seat, and eyed her master reproachfully.
“That wasn’t fair! You didn’t warn—what on earth is it?”
He handed her the strip of leather. “Your first beating, beloved. All sound and little fury.”
“Are you sure of that!” Caroline rubbed her bottom gingerly. “I’m absolutely on fire!” She examined the instrument of her discomfort. “What a bloody awful splat! I nearly jumped out of my skin.”
“The usual effect, I trust?”
“You have to make me blush, don’t you! Oh sure, I’m burning with lust—and just two strokes! Do you wish to help me out?”
“Rape or two more strokes? I can make them harder.”
“Don’t tease. Khalief, how does this thing mark me? I can’t see.”
“Go and find a mirror.”
When Caroline returned she knelt again and proffered the leather strap. “Darling, it’s a positive imprint on me. In the cage: d’you want me to wear ’em instead of the stars and stripes? I’m sure it would be an erection getter.”
“Not yet, unless you wish me to give you another dozen.”
She laughed it off. “Khalief, those beatings? I don’t want you to give them to me—I mean, I do want that but it wouldn’t be the right atmosphere. I’ve got to get used to being punished by a servant. You know the sort of thing: ‘My Lord and Master’s too busy to be bothered with whipping a slave girl’?”