“You’re infatuated with a nigger?”
“James! Khalief’s your friend too! Don’t call him that!” Her protest filled another silence. Wearily, she tried to explain. “It’s simple really. Any decent white man—you . . . ! I can twist you, prey on your chivalry, make you feel a bastard if you’re the least bit brutal. I could talk myself out of your chains, or these handcuffs, or a whipping. With a few tears I can make you do all sorts of things . . .” She shook her head and sighed. “It’s not that you’re soft or decadent or any of that nonsense. It’s your background, schooling, religion, society. White men just don’t beat their wives!”
“Is that all you want of life, to be beaten?”
“You know it isn’t! The difference is that Khalief can do all these things without feeling a trace of guilt or making me feel brutalised. Sure, I can sweet talk him just as I can you. We play it as a game to see how far I dare go. When I go too far he does the things to me you wouldn’t really want to do, and from him they’re real, terribly real.”
“Hell, Caroline, any man can—!”
“In Africa my punishments are authentic. In the U.S.A. they’d have to be simulated. I know you’d try, but—”
“What d’you have to be punished for!”
“If you don’t know, then I can’t tell you.” She made a gesture of helplessness. “Just because I’m a woman, I guess.”
“So I employ a coloured major-domo whose chief duty is to discipline my wife?”
“James, you’re bitter. I understand that. But your joke . . . don’t you see! It pinpoints the whole thing. Your hired whipmaster would be working to your instructions: no spontaneity, no feeling . . . I expect he’d get an erection because I was naked, and because of what he was doing to me, and I’d hate it! I’d hate it terribly.”
“Maybe it would cure you?”
“No. It would be irrelevant.”
In silence they surveyed the battleground of James Dexter’s defeat. But he was still fighting, his eyes feasting on his captive, his voice reflective.
“If it had been my money instead of Khalief’s that saved Dowling? If I’d hung onto you . . . ? We’d have been O.K.”
“But you didn’t, did you! You sold me down the river.”
“Aren’t you being unfair?”
“Can you imagine my feelings when I woke up on that bed, spread out and tied naked, and there, staring up between my legs, the biggest black man I’d ever seen!”
“I knew he wouldn’t harm you.”
“I know it now, but I didn’t then. I was petrified.”
“You’ve certainly made a good recovery—”
“James, stop! No postmortems. Let’s stay where we’re at. Give me back to Khalief and retain his friendship. You need him. He’s your road to fortune. And besides, you like each other. If this crazy republic holds together he’ll make you richer than Dowling or any of them.”
“I want you.”
Caroline’s heart warmed to the primitive statement. She lay back, hunched and spread her knees and held out her arms. “Come, darling, Khalief won’t mind—even if he knew.” She giggled roguishly. “And bring a cushion or something . . .”
With a growl of defeat he threw aside his clothes.
Trudy was girlishly grateful she was not to be flogged. She knew that had he suggested it she would have said yes without a qualm. She was in that happy euphoria when a girl feels only nobility in complying with her lover’s requests, no matter how painful or how outrageous. But Nykobe had pointed out that her day as a sacrificial display piece tied to the posts would be arduous enough. She glowed and basked in his concern.
They had laughed at her confessions. Each had contributed to the script which she must memorise and deliver with feminine spontaneity for the edification of his subjects and the furtherance of his Cause. Trudy could take nothing about this crazy place seriously and saw no disloyalty. She would have done the same for Khalief Abhad. Though this was an admission she prudently kept to herself. What she was now enduring was bad enough. She was outrageously naked before a thousand eyes. She was compelled to stand for what would probably be a great many hours, and the soldiers had tied the thongs around her wrists with an overzealous severity. On top of this, and pending the oratory and her ‘confessions,’ the populace was encouraged to mount the platform, examine her female parts, ask questions, or read her a homily on white feminine behaviour. Nykobe’s guards below kept an alert eye for lecherous hands—mauling the exhibit was forbidden. But the tied and helpless girl still had to endure a good many sly prods and piercings she could have done without.
Two or three hours of the morning passed before interest waned. The crowd lost its density. Trudy’s visitors became desultory, and amused. They were of all kinds and in all garbs. The Arab influence was well represented. It was, of course, wholly male, its hawk-eyed assessments of her attributes causing her to wonder if they were potential customers for Mr. Saud.
She had seen the holy man among the crowd, his jubbah and kaffiyeh setting him apart, receiving deference. He was old and angular, his eyes fierce above his beard. He stood before her, taking stock, in no hurry to be gone. His words, when they came, were clear and concise. He emphasised them by clasping her head in taloned hands: no doubt in an effort to convert her innocence to the one Faith.
“Don’t blink an eyebrow, you silly little twit. I am slipping keys within your hair, they are gummed to stick and not be seen. They will release you and the troop when you are in the truck. There will be two men only. Overpower them and drive back on the same road until you meet us. Blink if you understand.”
Trudy blinked.
Warrant Officer Ringbolt drew his jubbah more closely about his frame, muttered a verse from the Koran in excellent Arabic, and went his way. He did not look back.
It was minutes before Trudy again took heed of the probing eyes and fingers. She stood, bound to her posts, in a mental whirl of excitement. The troop was not forgotten, it was not yet dispersed. Hope flared, and with it an anxious apprehension about the bits of metal in her hair. She could feel their presence. Could others see! She longed to touch and rearrange but the ropes denied her hands. Overriding all else was the calm authority of Ringbolt’s voice. Warrant Officer Ringbolt was dealing with wogs and had things well in hand. He was solid competence. His fierce anger at the captivity of his cherished troop rubbed off on the captive girl. Revenge would be sweet indeed!
She thought of Nykobe. Her feeling for him was unchanged. African politics were not to be taken seriously and, as far as she was concerned, had nothing to do with a black leader and a white girl. When he mounted the platform to make his speech he stood before her, briefly. His voice was for her alone. “You will be put back on the slave coffle, beloved child.” He winked. “It is best the people see you put to a profitable purpose. I repossess you in Botswalla.”
Trudy understood. If Moghata was to be abandoned to the advancing Zindawban army, Nykobe’s strength would hold the fortress of Botswalla, still further inland. Presumably Mr. Saud was fleeing there also with his recent purchase. Trudy beamed up at her lord and whispered not to worry. She would be a very good girl and would not mind the chains.
Mr. Saud stood ready beside his truck with his tally and his pencil. His coffle of nude pulchritude must be intact. He was not going to be shortchanged by a single girl. His maidens were lamentably helpless. Between the hands cuffed at their back and the collar on their neck they moved with caution. Boxes had been provided as steps for them to mount into the vehicle that would take them to their ultimate and hopeless slavery. The driver and one guard helped their fleshly cargo by hoisting arms and hips and whatever else came handy. Mostly it was a firm and knowing grip between the legs. When the tailgate was latched, twenty helpless girls were under the stern eye of a Saud henchman. Mr. Saud nodded, satisfied. The driver went to his wheel, the motor roared.