Part 1 Chapter 1: A story to be told
"You want me to do what?!? You can't be serious," I say.
"I'm being perfectly serious. You are to write a short story about your experiences and how you came to be here. Look around you. Rebecca, Martha and the others are all doing the same. It's a family tradition. Wadi Halaf carefully preserves the story of every woman who has entered these walls."
"Your uncle is the best person to tell you how I come to be here."
"I don't mean here in Wadi Halaf, but the events that took you away from your home."
"You know full well that the judiciaries of several countries would like to do nasty things to me if I provide them with anything that could be seen as a confession," I grumble.
"Then disguise the names of those involved in events which are best left unmentioned. You aren't leaving this room until the job is done, so get on with it."
"So you want me to tell you about every man who has fucked or buggered me? That's going to be a long repetitive story."
"Well in your case you can probably skip over some of those occasions. Just write enough so that we get the general idea of what makes you the person you are."
I'm given a plentiful supply of writing material and shown to a small unoccupied desk. Then I'm left to my thoughts. I have done a lot of things in my life and hopefully I'll do a lot more before my time is done. I've made many friends, more than a few enemies, and encountered numerous others. But until now I have never written down my story for posterity. I shall certainly disguise the names of those involved to avoid embarrassing their kin, or inadvertently rake up matters which are best left forgotten.
Where do I begin my tale? I could start in November 1789, when I was born to a French father and a Spanish mother, onboard a ship moored in an English harbour. That particular set of circumstances might explain my affinity for the sea. It also gives me a claim to French, Spanish and English citizenship, although rarely for reasons which benefit me.
My father was Comte de Belleville, a member of the French nobility at a time when that was an exceptionally dangerous thing to be. Along with many other wealthy and privileged Frenchmen, his head was fair game for the excitable French revolutionaries. Slowly the troubles spread as far as the rural backwater of Belleville. One morning my father decided to flee France along with his Spanish mistress, who was nine months pregnant at the time. For reasons I've never understood, his wife, the Comtesse Angelique, stayed behind to protect the family château and lands. The indomitable Angelique had to confront sixty lusty French peasants bent on ransacking her home. Whichever version you believe about what happened, she clearly had more balls than my father.
Unfortunately my father left all his valuables behind in his haste to flee to safety. This made some French peasants extremely happy, but it meant that he arrived in England with nothing more than the clothes he was wearing. Consequently the English didn't exactly welcome him with open arms, and it was several days after the ship arrived in Portsmouth harbour before my parents were allowed to disembark. It was during the wait on board the Jacqueline when I entered onto the scene and I was promptly named after the ship.
My father's brain (and later the rest of his head) deserted him five years later when he became involved in a half-baked royalist plot to overthrow the new French government and reclaim all the nobles' confiscated property. The plot ended disastrously, and Madame Guillotine claimed my father's head after all. My mother was left destitute. Like so many women in her situation she resorted to prostitution. I received an early and very informative education in what men and women get up to in bed. More often than not, though, I'd get sent on an errand when things got interesting, although a few of her clients didn't mind me being around.
I was eight years old when my mother died. I never knew whether it was from the pox or the clap, but I suppose that doesn't matter. I found myself living on the streets of London. But the struggles of my childhood years spent as a beggar and thief aren't worth repeating here. My five years of adventures on the high seas are more pertinent, but I'm going to skip over those for now so as to avoid troubling the French, English and Spanish authorities. Those authorities will undoubtedly want to use my memoires as an excuse to do nasty things to my pretty neck. I need to be careful that a French guillotine, English hangman's noose, and Spanish garotte aren't going to be given the chance of competing for the privilege of ending my life.
So let's skip ahead to April 1817, three months ago, and explain how I come to be here. If you're good at sums then you will realise that by now I'm approaching my 28th year. The long war against Napoleon Bonaparte has ended and a French king once again rules over France. In England, those who have profited from the war are now looking for new opportunities to increase their obscene wealth. English adventurers set off for all parts of the world to rob ... ooops! I mean civilise ... the local natives of countries who up until now have been content to manage their affairs on their own. Many of the toffee nosed prigs whose families have controlled England's power and wealth for centuries send their sons off in droves to exotic places. Once there they are expected to earn glory and wealth for themselves and their family. Apparently dying of some unheard of tropical disease, or being disembowelled by angry natives, seems infinitely preferable to dying of boredom at home. Still, more than a few toffs survive the ordeal and achieve their goal by fair means or foul ... often the latter. Of course sending so many unmarried young men overseas leaves an annoying problem for the toffs ... the marriage prospects for their daughters have been reduced to a small and indifferent pool of minor gentry and social climbers.
'Young ladies of good standing required as wives for military officers and titled gentlemen serving in India and the far east' reads the headline of an advertisement in the London Times and the better quality press in Madrid, Paris and probably several other European capitals. There are notably few other details provided, other than to imply that King George III, sensitive to the demand for eligible bachelors for his nobles' daughters, has endorsed a proposal by two American gentlemen, a Captain Dickey and a Dr. Wickliffe, to transport willing young ladies to India and to arrange for appropriate marriages. Quite why any toff would entrust their daughter to a scheme endorsed by a king whose mind is known to be several cards short of a full deck is unclear to me.
Eligible young ladies interested in joining the venture need only to present themselves on the appropriate date at one of the three ports listed. The minimal eligibility requirements and the lack of any vetting process should have rung alarm bells, but it clearly didn't. Everybody assumes that somebody else has checked the credentials of the two Americans. A mad king has endorsed the proposal and that seems a good enough recommendation to the toffs.
But what has the Dickey-Wickey venture (as the gutter press soon call it) got to do with me? I've spent the last six years living in Paris, more recently using the name of Jacqueline Lachatte. My real name is connected with some unfortunate business which I won't dwell on here. Suffice to say Inspecteur Lebranleur would like to see Jacqueline de Belleville's pretty neck cut in half with a blunt guillotine. It's an attitude which I find totally unreasonable, since the same Inspecteur Lebranleur was more than happy with me as his mistress when Napoleon Bonaparte was in charge of France. Anyway, the slow moving cogs inside Lebranleur's brain have finally connected the dots between J. de Belleville and J. Lachatte. Which means I need to get out of Paris in a hurry. Fast exits travelling light are becoming a family tradition.
The Dickey-Wickey venture smells as rotten as a long dead fish, but I'm not in a position to be fussy. This is my ticket out of France, and all I need to do is present myself to Captain Dickey of the Humphrey at the docks in Le Havre on the tenth day of June.
I slip out of Paris before the body of the late Inspecteur Lebranleur is discovered in my bed. At least he died with a smile on his face. An incompetent doctor might believe he died of natural causes while in the act of fucking one of his many mistresses. While Lebranleur's death solves one problem for me, I'm not going to wait around to find out if his death causes me more trouble. I hide in Le Havre for a few days until the Humphrey, an American flagged ship, collects me and six other young women for the Dickey-Wickey venture. The newspaper advertisement said that the young woman needs to be between 18 and 30 years of age, in good health, and educated to a level where she can at least read and write. The young woman being unmarried, a virgin, and able to speak English are implied requirements, but judging by the minimal number of questions I'm asked before boarding the Humphrey, they don't seem to be insurmountable hurdles if not. In my case, the virgin bit could have been a problem thankfully avoided.
A further stop in southern Ireland a couple of days later brings the complement of prospective brides to 32. Without further delay the Humphrey sails south, taking its cargo of young women to their future husbands. That those prospective husbands probably know nothing of the Dickey-Wickey venture doesn't seem to trouble anybody.
The accommodation on the Humphrey leaves a lot to be desired. I'm sure the young toffs expected a cabin, or at least a proper bed to sleep in. Instead we are placed in a section of the ship's hold where hammocks are strung here, there and everywhere for us to sleep in. I suspect I'm the only one here who has previously slept in a hammock; a result of my five years at sea on board the Spanish privateer Zafiro. Ship's 'boy' was a disguise I couldn't get away for more than a few months once it became clear that nature was bestowing me with a decent pair of tits and a well rounded arse. But sailors are a superstitious lot and I retained my honorary male status for years. Sadly my seafaring days are becoming a distant memory, but I haven't forgotten my lessons in seamanship.
The delicate young ladies from England's upper crust are not backward in pointing out the Humphrey's deficiencies in comfort and facilities. Their complaints are duly noted by Dr. Nathaniel Wickliffe, and then completely ignored. The iron grill confining us to this part of the ship's hold is going to remain locked ... apparently for our own protection. To hear Wickliffe talk, you would think the crew of the Humphrey are sex starved animals who would ravish every one of us given half a chance. I for one would be happy to let them try. Wickliffe's smooth words seem to satisfy many of the women, but not all. That the other part of the hold is fitted out as a slave ship sends a shiver up my spine. As much as I wish otherwise, I have a foreboding that we are in deep shit ... really deep shit.
It surprises me how long it takes for those prissy young toffs to wake up to the fact that the whole Dickey-Wickey venture is nothing but an elaborate scam. We have effectively volunteered to sell ourselves into slavery, or at best as hostages for ransom. Although I always had the intention of jumping ship before it reached India, I strongly suspect that the Humphrey was never going there anyway. Intuitively I guess that North Africa is our destination. Of course, I keep my opinion to myself. No point in causing panic before absolutely necessary.
The seriousness of our plight on board the Humphrey must have finally dawned on Lady Catherine Barrington. As soon as we pick up the last of the hopeful brides from Ireland, Lady Catherine is quick to point out that she's the eldest daughter of a duke, and distantly related to King George III. Consequently Catherine has no hesitation in appointing herself as our spokeswoman and leader. She gathers her cronies around her and between them they form a committee. For my part, I sit by the fresh water barrel and quietly listen to the committee's deliberations. Catherine talks and the rest of the committee simply listen. There's no debate, just a monologue. I've obviously over-estimated Catherine's intelligence since she's only interested in complaining about the Humphrey's lack of amenities. I give up listening to her prattling and swing into my hammock.
"How do you do that?" asks a red haired lass with a lilting Irish accent. I remember watching her struggle into her hammock last night. Despite her difficulty, she was considerably more graceful than most of the others. I suspect that more than a few women gave up in disgust and have been sleeping on the deep wooden shelves around the hold. I wonder how many here realise that those shelves normally house scores of African slaves being shipped to America.
"I've slept in a hammock before," I reply. "Do you want me to show you how to climb into yours?"
"Yes please. I'm Molly by the way," she replies.
"Jacqueline," I reply, climbing out of my hammock. "My friends call me Jackie."
I show Molly the trick to clambering into and out of a hammock. My demonstration soon attracts the interest of several of the others and before long I'm helping a dozen or more with the task. It at least enables us to introduce ourselves and get some idea about our fellow travellers. By the end of the day I've spoken with over half of the women and I know something about most of the rest.
I knew from the outset that not all the young women onboard the Humphrey are like Catherine and are from England's upper crust. At least half are daughters of newly rich industrialists, or 'tradespeople' as the toffs like to call them. There's no love is lost between them and Catherine's cabal of snots. I soon realise that our group is even more diverse when I learn that Annie, Katie and Molly are ladies maids eager for better life; Connie is a bishop's illegitimate daughter; Lisette is the daughter of a French diplomat; Elena is a Spanish grandee's niece; and Helen is an earl's unwanted step-daughter. And then there is me, the only orphan among us, although I suspect that's not the only thing which makes me different from the others. My formal education has been varied and intermittent, but the challenges of staying one step ahead of the authorities have added an abundance of knowledge and skills to my repertoire. For now I shall continue my disguise as a French mademoiselle.
There's minimal light in the hold, and what natural light we get is from the open hatch far above our heads. The ship's crew close and lock the hatch as soon as the sun sets. The three small lanterns we are given are next to useless. Catherine and her cronies purloin two of them and a solitary lantern is left by the night buckets placed in the corner of the hold in case anyone needs to answer a call of nature in the night. We clamber into our hammocks and do our best to sleep.
Wickliffe conducts a roll call the following morning although I'm mystified why he bothers. It's not as though any of us could wander off. Then he announces that we are to be allowed to go on deck for exercise in groups of eight. It's just my luck that my group includes Lady Catherine and two of her cronies, Dorothy and Abigail. The three of them don't stop whining the whole time we are on deck.
"What's the problem with you lot?" asks Wickliffe, obviously as annoyed as I am about the trio's constant whining.
"I want a bath," demands Catherine. "And I want one now. A warm one."
Even Dorothy and Abigail look dumbfounded at Catherine's ridiculous demand. Wickliffe is fuming and the ship's crew stop their work and watch with interest.
"Captain Dickey!" shouts Wickliffe after a few moments. "This young lady would like a warm bath. Please be so kind as to have your crew see to her request. Would any of you other young ladies care for a warm bath as well?"
Abigail looks as though she's going to say 'yes' until I grab her arm and pull her away from Catherine. She has enough sense to belatedly realise that something is wrong with Wickliffe's ready agreement to Catherine's demand. Even Catherine begins to suspect a trick, but it is too late for her.
"No takers, then," says Wickliffe. "Very well. You seven stand over there while the crew attend to Lady Catherine's needs."
By now most of the crew have gathered and are looking eager for the task which awaits them. For my part I glance around the deck, making a mental note of my surroundings. There's no sign of land on either side of the ship, but that's no surprise. We are probably well to the west of land and the regular sea lanes. The Humphrey itself is an ungainly beast which by my estimate would need a crew of twenty or more to handle her. That means that the twelve men gathered here can't be the full crew. Thoughts of escape cross my mind. There's a longboat stored between the two masts, but it would need at least six of us to row it. That's assuming we can launch it in the first place and the ship's cannon doesn't then blow us out of the water. I sigh when I realise there's little prospect of escape before we reach land. By then it will probably be too late.
"Now if your ladyship would care to undress, the crew will provide you with a warm bath," sneers Wickliffe.
"Undress? Here? On the open deck? In front of all these men?" quails Catherine.
"Yes. Now do it, or would you prefer that a seaman assists you. I'm sure there's one who will be happy to oblige."
To Catherine's credit she steels her nerves and removes her clothes. In the circumstances it's the wisest choice as I suspect any of these seamen would take other liberties and reduce her clothing to rags in the process.
"Now kneel down," orders Wickliffe. Catherine obeys although I can see that it's taking all her English stiff upper lip training to hold back her tears.
Unfortunately I'm no stranger to the depravities of this world. After my mother died I spent three years living in the gutters of London where anything goes. Running away to sea was the only way I could avoid ending up as a street prostitute, spending my life with my back against a wall, legs spread wide earning a farthing a pop. I don't regret my choices, but life has been far from easy for me. And now I must witness a young woman's humiliation as this worthless crew piss over her immaculate young body. By the time the episode is over, a few of them have added their cum to the mess covering her torso.
Finally Wickliffe allows us to rescue Catherine and take her down into the hold. I suspect those down below have heard the commotion on deck, but not the details of what happened. More than a few cry out in shock when they see the state of Catherine. It's the trigger which starts many of the women on a downward spiral of dejection and defeat.
Chapter 2: The harem
"Let's get you cleaned up," I say when it doesn't look as though Dorothy and Abigail are going to offer. I suppose such dirty work is beneath them ... or perhaps they are too deep in shock.
Annie comes over to help me. Cleaning Catherine means using some of our precious drinking water, but I don't think anyone is going to complain. Too bad if they do. Catherine at least helps, and despite her ordeal she's still holding up remarkably well.
"We need to find a way to escape," says Catherine to me. At least her degradation has made her wake up to the sinister purpose of this voyage.
"We're too far from land," I reply. "We would need to overpower the crew if we intend to escape before we reach our destination. Even if we can manage that, how many of us are able to sail this ship?"
"India is weeks away," says Abigail, who has been sitting nearby supervising Annie's and my efforts at cleaning Catherine. "The ship will need to stop to take on more supplies before we reach India. We could escape then."
"We're not going to India," I reply. "After this morning's events up on deck, I doubt any of this crew will dare to go near an English territory while we are on board."
"What?" exclaims Abigail. "Then where are we going?"
"My guess is North Africa," I reply. "Algiers. Tunis. Salé. Any one of the Barbary slave trading ports."
"But the Americans defeated the Barbary States," protests Dorothy. "The Barbary pirates are no longer a threat to Europeans."
I don't contradict Dorothy's wildly optimistic assertion. The Americans may have achieved a victory and freed many European slaves, but I doubt their actions will have entirely eliminated the centuries old trade in European slaves. The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that the slave markets in Salé, Morocco will be our destination. Reaching Algiers or Tunis will require sailing past the English ships patrolling the Straits of Gibraltar. An American merchant ship might pass an English patrol unmolested, but any English captain worth his rank would recognise a slave ship when he sees one and become suspicious. A routine inspection would prove disastrous for the Dickey-Wickey venture.
"We must keep everyone occupied and active, or we'll not be in a fit state to take any chance of escape which may come our way," I suggest to Catherine's committee the next day.
It doesn't seem the time to add that a fit and healthy girl on the auction block is likely to attract a better quality of bidder. Dorothy and Catherine both agree to my suggestion and they decide to start a daily routine of exercise and activity. Although there is a notable lack of enthusiasm, most of the women at least agree to keep to the proposed routine. We mustn't let the crew think we are beaten, even if we have little hope of escaping the Humphrey before our destination.
Connie, the bishop's daughter, has decided prayer is her, and our, best hope of salvation. Caroline and Martha join her in what becomes extended periods of religious devotion. While none of the other young women join them, we all leave the trio in peace to do what they think is right. I certainly can't offer a better solution at the moment.
Our routine gradually restores some spirit into our group. We make a pledge that if any of us escape, or are set free, then they will never cease to help secure the release of those remaining captive, no matter how long it takes. Our journey seems to take forever. Two weeks after departing Ireland the ship comes to a halt and the anchor is dropped. It's the middle of the night but my keen senses wake me to the change. A short while later, I hear the longboat being lowered over the side.
As soon as the first light of day brightens the sky, we are assembled on deck and our waists locked to a long chain known in the slave trade as a marching chain. I notice the ship's longboat has gone, and the normally ever-present Nathaniel Wickliffe is nowhere to be seen. Some of the crew must have left in the longboat with Wickliffe.
The handful of crew who remain onboard keep a very close watch on us even though they have us firmly locked in the marching chain. There is a moment of panic when someone speculates that the crew have chained us like this as they intend to dump us over the side of the ship to drown. But clearer heads prevail. If they were going to do that, then why bring us all this way and do it in full view of a city full of people. The crew are simply taking precautions in case one of us decides to jump overboard, or we all try to capture the ship in desperation.
I look around at the harbour and city. I recognise it at once. Salé, Morocco; the westernmost port of the Barbary Coast. Salé is definitely not a place for a young woman to go wandering around alone. It's not that safe for a ship's boy either, as I discovered to my cost when the Zafiro once called here during my seafaring days. Even if we weren't in the marching chain, a leap over the side and a swim for shore would be a case of jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. Conversations soon break out along the whole length of our coffle. Captain Dickey walks over to us and commands silence.
"In an hour you will be off my ship and good riddance", he snarls.
But it's not an hour, or two, or even three. The sun is rising higher in the sky and the already warm morning is turning hot. We are at least moved under a hastily rigged canvas shade and allowed to sit down. Later, we are given water and food. Wickliffe's continued absence is making Captain Dickey and the crew very nervous indeed.
It's early afternoon before the Humphrey's longboat draws up alongside the ship. Wickliffe and a podgy middle aged man dressed in a djellaba, the traditional full length robe worn by both men and women in these parts, come aboard and go onto the quarterdeck where a very annoyed Captain Dickey is waiting. While we can't hear all of the conversation, we gather the Dickey-Wickey venture has run into problems and the middle aged man is offering a solution.
After much haggling a deal is struck although precisely what it is remains a mystery to us. We are returned to the hold and released from the marching chain. Speculation is rife, but even the crew don't seem to have any idea about what is going on. We can hear a lot of activity around the ship during the rest of the afternoon and evening, but we see nothing. In the middle of the night I hear the longboat being hauled back on board, followed a short while later by the unmistakeable sounds of the ship under sail. I initially assume that the ship is moving to a nearby dock so that we can be unloaded in the morning, but after a while I realise we are taking a longer journey.
"What's going to happen to us now?" whispers Julia from the adjacent hammock to mine.
I have been putting off thinking about that. I've been dreading anyone asking. I take a deep breath and am about to nervously answer Julia's question when Lisette speaks out.
"Unless some miracle happens it seems likely we will be marched though the main street to one of the slave markets. The market owner will write our names and details in a book. After letting prospective buyers examine us for a few days they will put us on the auction block and sell us."
I don't know how many of the others are awake to hear Lisette's words, but the collective gasps from around the hold suggest that there are more than a few. It isn't only what Lisette said, but the matter-of-fact way she said it. Anyone listening would have thought she was describing a Sunday walk in the park.
"We had better pray for a miracle then," says Connie.
If what actually happens counts as a miracle, then it's a tiny one. We are once again marched onto the ship's deck the next day, where I realise that we are no longer in Salé. The Humphrey has anchored in the mouth of a river, out of sight of any habitation. The river could be part of a delta of the Bou Regreg, the large river which flows from the distant Atlas mountains to the sea at Salé. Or it could be another river entirely. My knowledge of this region's geography is sketchy at best.
We are chained into groups of five or six women and ferried in the longboat, one group at a time, to a rickety wooden wharf on the south bank of the river. There we wait for several hours under the shade of some trees. Finally three covered wagons come trundling along a nearby dirt road. We are told to board the wagons and make ourselves as comfortable as possible. None of us have any idea what is going on, but at least we've been spared the indignity of being marched in a coffle through the streets of Salé. Perhaps the peace treaty between America and Morocco has resulted in the sale of white slaves being less public.
Captain Dickey and his crew are clearly happy to get us off their ship as quickly as possible. Once we are all onboard the wagons, Wickliffe hands Captain Dickey what appears to be several bags of gold. Presumably his share of their ill-gotten earnings. The captain and the longboat crew return to their ship. The wagons promptly set off to wherever we are going, so I can only assume that the Humphrey departs shortly afterwards.
The convoy of wagons stops a short while later and a large basket of fresh bread is put on the floor between us along with several pitchers of water. We quickly share this unexpected bounty between us. No telling when the next meal might arrive.
After two hours on the dirt road we spot a small hill ahead, on top of which stands an old fort. The driver doesn't complain when we move closer to the front to get a better look over his shoulder. He points to the fort and says something to us in Arabic, which none of us can understand. While I'm relieved we are not being taken straight to the slave market, this fort has all the appearances of a gloomy prison.
The heavy wooden gates are already open as we cross over a dry moat and between the two towers either side of the gates. I see a cannon mounted on top of each tower, but neither looks as though it has been fired in years. I notice a few armed men patrolling the battlements, but I cannot tell whether they are to keep prisoners in or uninvited visitors out.
If I had thought this place looked gloomy from the outside, then the inside shows me how wrong first impressions can be. Inside the fort is a small palace with three beautifully decorated buildings standing on three sides of a huge courtyard. The wagons stop in the courtyard. The drivers unfasten the tail-gates and we are helped down from the wagons. We gather together and look nervously around us. Wickliffe and the middle aged man who came aboard the Humphrey disappear into one of the buildings. Meanwhile, two huge men and a slender young woman walk towards us from one of the other buildings. It is the woman who speaks first, in flawless English.
"My name is A'isha and these two men are Samed and Mustafa. This place is known as Wadi Halaf and it is owned by my brother, Hassan. We had only a few hours notice of your pending arrival, so we are not fully prepared for so many of you. You look as though you could all do with a good bath. Go and wash yourselves before our evening meal. Mustafa, remove their chains, and Samed, escort them to the baths. I will leave you now to continue making preparations for your accommodation. Follow Samed's orders and he will show you where to go and what to do."
Without further ceremony A'isha walks off into one of the buildings with the look of someone with a lot to do and very little time to do it in. Without saying a word Samed guides us towards one of the buildings and down a long beautifully decorated corridor. I glimpse at the murals on the walls and see that they are very old and very ... erotic. Rebecca and Julia are walking beside me and they too have noticed the murals. Rebecca is blushing and doesn't know where to look.
"Look straight ahead and ignore the pictures," I say light-heartedly to Rebecca. I don't follow my own advice however and by the time we reach the end of the corridor I too feel a bit flushed.
The corridor opens into a large room where there are no less than three cascading pools, fed by a small waterfall at the top of the smallest pool. Samed is clearly a man of few words; in fact, no words at all as far as I can tell. He points to the soap and towels and indicates where we should leave our clothes. He turns away and closes the door behind him.
Although we are virtual strangers to each other, the events of the last two weeks have created a bond between us. A few of the women remain aloof, but the majority of us are soon splashing about in the pools naked. We take turns to scrub each other, and for the first time in ages I feel really clean. Our cavorting goes on for some time before we settle down to relax on the large cushions scattered around the pools.
"What is this place?" asks Martha.
"We are in the harem of this palace," answers Lisette.
All of a sudden we come back to reality. As luxurious as our surroundings are, there is no escaping the fact we have been sold as slaves and are sitting in the harem of our owner. Our sudden feeling of dread is only made worse when Helen discovers that all our clothes have been taken.
It is at that moment Samed and Mustafa walk into the room carrying three bundles. Those of us nearest the door quickly move away from them and cover our nakedness with our towels. Neither Samed or Mustafa pay us any attention though, seemingly unaffected by the presence of 32 naked nubile young maidens. Well, perhaps not all of us are maidens, but that's beside the point. The bundles are placed on the table in the corner of the room and Samed cuts the ropes holding each bundle together. Out spills an assortment of clothing and slippers.
"Be ready in an hour," says Mustafa.
Ready for what? Both men leave the room before any of us can think to ask them. We go over to the table and we quickly realise we are expected to select some clothing and slippers. They are all very pretty and I suspect they are of various styles commonly worn within a Moroccan harem. For the moment we put aside our fears as we embark on a frenzy of sifting through clothes. Only an hour, and so much to choose from!
The choosing process soon becomes a free for all, and the clothing may easily be ripped. Lady Catherine suddenly takes charge of the situation.
"Stop! You're going to damage the clothes. Let's sort them into sizes and styles so we can each choose something that we like and which will fit us."
Within 10 minutes the clothes are sorted into six groups laid out across the table and nearby cushions. We have sorted the clothes into three sizes and two basic styles. The two styles are quite different, one consisting of revealing silk tops, skirts, and trousers and the other containing much more modest styles made of decorated white muslin. Catherine calls for us to stand in a circle with her in the middle. She closes her eyes and spins round several times before stopping and pointing to ... Helen.
"You first Helen, and choose quickly or you forfeit your turn."
With a quick squeal of joy, Helen promptly chooses a beautiful white dress with a sequin waist and a pair of slippers. She quickly puts them on and replaces Catherine in the centre of the circle. The game continues with Catherine being the sixth one to choose, and the first to prefer silks. I am next to last and I find my choice limited to a silk outfit. I pick out a nice halter top and billowy trousers. There are no slippers left in my size but I manage to trade my larger pair with Dorothy as she had picked a size too small for her. There are a few silk items left over, which we gather into a single pile and leave on the table.
While this is going on Ruth has discovered an area behind a screen with combs and mirrors. There are wash basins and toilets there as well. We use our remaining twenty minutes combing our hair and preparing ourselves for whatever it is we need to be ready to face. A'isha appears at the end of the hour. She is dressed in silks very similar to those I wear and I must say she looks very attractive and graceful as she walks across the room towards us. She smiles and seems relieved that we are, in fact, ready. If it hadn't been for Catherine she may well have walked in on 32 squabbling young women and a lot of torn clothing.
"Come, our meal awaits us and I will answer your questions while we eat," says A'isha.
She leads us further into the harem and we enter a large area with low tables and cushions. On the tables sit a variety of dishes and juices which represent the first decent meal we have seen in ages. We follow A'isha's example and take a plate and help ourselves to modest portions of whatever takes our fancy. I bravely resist the temptation to pile my plate high. We sit on the cushions and promptly devour our food, returning to the table several times for more food and drink. Samed and Mustafa stand like sentries by the archway. A'isha patiently waits until our feeding frenzy eases.
"Let me tell you a bit about where you are and then I'll answer your questions," says A'isha. Without waiting for a reply she continues. "This place is know as Wadi Halaf and is owned by my brother, Hassan. In former times Wadi Halaf was fort guarding the borders of Salé. My great grandfather was a famous corsair and with his treasures he converted this fort into the grand house you see around you. This building is the old harem, although until your arrival today parts of it haven't been used for many years. Tomorrow you will be shown around those parts of the house you are permitted to enter. Now I will answer your questions, but please say your name when you ask as I don't know any of your names yet".
"I'm Dorothy. What's going to happen to us? What does your brother intend to do with us?"
"Tomorrow you will be formally admitted into the household. We will record your names and assess your skills and attributes to see what duties you may best perform. We will also make a physical examination of you. As for your second question, I'm afraid I don't know. My brother is away on business in Rabat. As far as I'm aware he doesn't yet know my uncle Rashid has purchased you in his name. I think he'll be in for a surprise when he returns later tonight."
"And what will our duties consist of, might I ask? Oh, I'm Catherine."
"Well Catherine, there are many domestic duties to be done in a house this size. This meal you are enjoying did not fall from the sky. The rooms and the corridors must be kept clean. For those who are good at embroidery and needlework, there are tasks that need those skills."
"And what our our virginity. Is it our fate to wait in line while your brother sates his lust and deflowers us?" blurts out Ruth, trying to keep her voice steady.
In my case that isn't an issue, but it's definitely a question we would like to know the answer. A'isha looked stunned at the question and then falls about in a fit of laughter. Not quite the reaction to Ruth's question I was expecting.
Chapter 3: Harem slave
"Oh, I'm sorry for laughing my dear", says A'isha, regaining her composure. "But tell me your name."
"I'm R..R..Ruth", stammers Ruth, suddenly feeling very embarrassed.
"I forget you are not aware of our customs. It is true there are men in Salé who would treat their slave girls in that way, and worse, but Hassan is very content with his current concubines. If you wish to bed my brother you must first try to catch his attention and then work very hard to seduce him. Jasmina and Miri won't make that easy for you."
There is an almost visible sigh of relief from the around the room. It seems that we only need to keep a low profile and we won't get molested.
"I'm Caroline. Who are Jasmina and Miri?"
"You will meet them tomorrow, Caroline. They are my brother's two concubines."
We ask many questions over the next hour and A'isha answers them as best she can. We learn that Samed and Mustafa are the household's two eunuchs and, apart from Hassan, are the only men allowed inside the harem. While they are our rulers within the harem they are also our protectors. A'isha makes a point of telling us we must do as they tell us or they will punish us.
Our conversation continues and we learn that Hassan is A'isha's twin brother and is 25 years old. Their father had instructed on his deathbed that Hassan take over the family trading business, rather than his uncle Rashid. The business owns three ships and trades in spices, fine cloths and other quality trade goods. Like his father, Hassan has refused to become involved in the slave trade, a decision which Rashid opposes. It is Rashid who purchased us with Hassan's money, hoping to force his nephew's hand.
A few hours later we hear several loud voices from the courtyard outside. Something is going on. A'isha quickly stands up and signals that our meal and discussions are over for tonight.
"I think my brother has returned and has been informed of your arrival. I had better go to him at once before he and my uncle come to blows. I regret you must sleep in here tonight as your quarters are not ready yet. Please make yourself comfortable on the cushions. Mustafa will show you where there are blankets should you need them. You already know where the wash basins are located. You may use the pools if you wish, but do not go wandering around the corridors or leave this part of the harem. I'll see you in the morning and we'll have breakfast together. Goodnight."
A'isha leaves with Samed and we each make a bed out of cushions. Mustafa helps us prepare our sleeping space and repeats A'isha's instructions not to leave these rooms. Within an hour we are all fast asleep, although I and several others have forsaken the cushions for the floor. After sleeping on the Humphrey for over a fortnight I'm not used to the softness of the cushions.
I have always been an early riser and today is no different. I sit on the floor and look up at the sky through the high windows. It is still dark but dawn cannot be far away. The oil lamps around the room cast enough light for me to see. Everyone else is still asleep and I decide I may as well take a swim in the pools. I quietly go into the room with the pools and slip off my clothes. I float in the smallest pool near the small waterfall which keeps the pools flushed with clean water. I hear someone coming and see that Rebecca is up and about. Although all the women onboard the Humphrey were supposed to be at least eighteen years old, I seriously doubt that Rebecca is more than sixteen. But like many things, neither Dickey nor Wickliffe asked for confirmation of our age. When Rebecca comes across my discarded clothing she looks around and sees me.
"Isn't this dreamy after that horrible hold on the Humphrey", she bubbles. "And A'isha is so nice. I'm going to go exploring."
"No, wait, Rebecca," I cry. "A'isha said we were not to leave these rooms. You might get lost or caught, or both."
While I'm normally partial to a bit of exploring myself, I have taken heed of the warning both we were given last night. While we are in much better surroundings than we could possibly have imagined yesterday morning, we are far from being free to do as we like. Rebecca doesn't listen and sneaks through a door into the corridor before I can catch her. I don't stop to dress myself and I run to catch Rebecca and bring her back here. After a minute of frantic searching I find her in a small empty room off the corridor. Before I can say anything we hear footsteps coming along the corridor. We quickly duck behind some curtains hanging down the wall. The footsteps stop outside the door and we can hear someone enter the room. Fortunately whoever it is doesn't stop for long and soon leaves.
We wait a minute and quietly move towards the door. I listen carefully and there's no sound in the corridor. We gently open the door and quickly step into the corridor and break into a run for the pools. Unfortunately we bounce straight off a very fierce looking Samed.
Samed grabs Rebecca's and my hair in each hand and frog marches us back to the pools.
"You were told to stay in here. I will not have any disobedience in the harem, so you must be punished," he growls.
These are the first words he's spoken to us and both Rebecca and I are more than a little afraid. Rebecca is near to tears. The noise has woken several of the others who come to investigate. Catherine and Dorothy are about to run to our side but Samed commands them to stay where they are. Wisely they do as they're told. Samed pulls out a thin cane from under his robe and clearly intends to use it on us.
"The punishment for disobedience in the harem is six strokes of the cane. However, since you have still to complete your formal entry into the harem, your punishment will be reduced to only one stroke each."
Tears are now flowing down Rebecca's face but she bravely stands up straight to hear her punishment.
"Please don't punish Rebecca", I plead. "She's our youngest and doesn't fully understand our situation. She'll promise to behave in future."
Rebecca quickly takes the hint and nods several times. Samed looks at us both and thinks for a moment.
"Under the rules of the harem you may offer to take another's punishment. If you agree to take Rebecca's punishment for her, then she will not suffer this time."
I agree and he signals to Catherine and Dorothy to take Rebecca aside.
Having pronounced my sentence, Samed doesn't keep me waiting. He orders me to lie on my back with my feet together and raised in the air. Thwack ... thwack ... punishment delivered. Before he leaves, Samed orders the others to leave me to suffer alone. But that doesn't stop several of them from making silent gestures of support. I've endured much much worse and I reassure them that I'll be fine. That is, once the soles of my feet stop stinging like hell.
Molly brings me some breakfast, bravely defying Samed's order to leave me alone. Nevertheless I stay in the pool while the others eat. The warm water helps ease the pain. After breakfast A'isha starts the process of taking our names and bringing us formally into the harem. Each woman is selected in what at first I think is a random order but I soon realise that the colour of our hair determines the order. Fairest first. When called, she is taken into a side room where A'isha is waiting. After 10 minutes or so the next woman is called. Once taken into the room the woman doesn't return so we have no idea what happens in the room or afterwards. My hair is black as night, so I'm likely to be the last, which suits me fine since I'm not looking forward to trying to walk.
Around lunchtime a halt is called for a while. There are still a dozen of us left by the pools. A'isha doesn't return, but Samed brings in food for us. He walks over to me and gently lifts me from the pool, hands me a towel, and places me on a cushion by a table.
"I trust you have learned your lesson and I will never need to cane you again", he says in a surprisingly kind voice. I nod quickly and sincerely hope that that will be true.
It is mid afternoon and I'm the last one by the pools. I've put on my clothes for the first time since daybreak. I've tried walking around and I can now manage a slow walk unaided, although my feet still sting. At last I'm called through to the side room where I find A'isha sitting at a desk busy writing notes. Two older women are standing to one side and Mustafa is waiting by a curtained archway. That must be the exit through which the other women have left this room.
"We will make this as quick as possible and then you can join the rest of your friends," says A'isha. "I shall ask you a few questions and then Abal and Jamilah will give you a physical examination. After that I will explain the rules of this house and tell you what is to become of you. You may ask questions at any time if you wish. Firstly, your name and age?"
"Jacqueline Lachatte. I'm 27."
"Who are your parents and where do they live?"
"My parents are dead."
"Where is your home? Were you employed before you boarded the Humphrey?"
I was working as a secretary for a French police inspector in Paris until his unfortunate death." Not exactly true, but close enough.
"What skills do you have? If you were a secretary then I presume you can read and write."
"Yes, I can read and write. I can speak French, Spanish and English fluently. I've done some singing and dancing to earn a few coppers in the past."
"Anything else?"
"No, ma'am," I say in my best your-humble-servant tone of voice. While I'm sure her brother might be interested in some of my more intimate skills, I'm not going to volunteer that information.
"Let's try that again, Jackie de Belleville", she sighs.
She reaches over her desk and hands me a copy of the English Admiralty's notice of a reward for my hide. Those damn things must be everywhere. And all over a simple misunderstanding about the ownership of a ship. The reward notice describes my features right down to my distinctive pouncing cat tattoo, which is currently in plain view through the translucent top of my harem trousers. I thought I'd convinced Rear-Admiral Rodgers in the Admiralty to help me. I should have known better than accept the promises made by a man who was more interested in getting between my legs. But Roger Rodgers seemed more genuine than most, and he certainly knows how to give a girl a good rogering. Of course, I consider myself innocent of the charges of piracy, but so far nobody in authority has shown any inclination to listen to my side of the story.
"So you're going to sell me to those bastards and get your reward?" I snap.
A'isha finds my outburst amusing.
"For the measly sum they are offering? Oh no, my dear, the value your skills are worth far more than that."
I shrug in resignation and give A'isha a quick breakdown of my various talents and skills. She writes them all in her book.
"Now, Jackie, go over to Abal and Jamilah there and let them examine you for any signs of disease. I'm afraid they must also check whether or not you are a virgin, but they will do it as gently as possible."
The examination takes only a couple of minutes and the women confirm what I could have told them. Sailing the seas with a shipload of lusty Spaniards isn't conducive to a maiden hanging onto her virginity, although in keeping with my honorary male status, it was only my arse which they buggered. Don't be mistaken, I enjoyed the years I spent sailing on board the Zafiro. The crew looked after me and they were certainly a happy crew. Nor do I mind that Inspecteur Lebranleur and Rear-Admiral Rodgers took their fill of my other holes when the opportunity allowed.
"One final question," says A'isha. "Why did you volunteer to take Rebecca's punishment this morning?"
"Rebecca is young and I doubt if she's suffered a punishment stronger than a few harsh words in her life. I, on the other hand, have been caned, whipped, chained up and a lot more, so what's one more caning to me. Besides, there didn't seem to be much point in two of us suffering when Samed was happy that his justice was served by punishing only one of us."
"And you are no stranger to sex," observes A'isha. "Has a man ever forced himself on you?"
"No" I reply. "Not that there haven't been men who have thought about it. But any man who has tried to ravish me without my consent has died in the attempt. And before you ask, I don't like killing people, but I will do so when necessary to protect myself and my friends."
"I see," says A'isha, although I doubt that she really understands. "Please sit down over there Jackie and listen carefully. If anything I say is unclear you may ask any question you like. Once you leave this room, however, you formally enter the harem under your new name, Zakiyah. Your status will be that of an odalisque in my brother's household. You will be bound by the rules I'm about to describe."
So I'm not even allowed to keep my own name. Well, it won't be the first time I've switched names. I nod and pay attention to A'isha.
"Firstly, this building is the harem and it is the sleeping quarters for all the women living in Wadi Halaf, both slave and free. Most of the rules of the household are for your protection and well-being. They apply to everyone here, including me.
"You may now go anywhere within the harem and the private gardens in the atrium, dressed, or not, as you like. However you must never ever go into the courtyard and beyond without wearing the djellaba you'll be given shortly. For the time being, you must let Samed or Mustafa know if your duties require you to leave the harem, and how long you will be absent. You must return by the stated time or send word if you are likely to be delayed.
"You may enter the kitchens in the building opposite, but the soldiers' barracks at the rear are strictly out of bounds. You may only enter the central building, where my brother conducts business, in the company of Samed or Mustafa, and only if you are ordered to go there. Similarly, all women in this household may only go outside the main walls of Wadi Halaf with my brother's permission, and with an escort."
A'isha quickly tells me the rest of the household rules which cover routine matters such as cleanliness, work and meal times and a code of conduct within the harem. Any transgression will result in six strokes of the cane for minor infractions, and death for more serious crimes such as trying to escape.
To my surprise she details my legal rights as well. I hadn't for a moment imagined I had any rights, but it seems that Hassan is required to ensure that I am fed and clothed, and he must provide any medical attention I might need. A'isha also details the circumstances under which I may be granted my freedom, although none of those seem likely to happen anytime soon. I didn't think until afterwards A'isha hadn't told me how I will be able to complain to anyone who would care in the event of my rights being abused.
Finally A'isha gives me some paper and a pen and tells me that I may write a letter to whomever I wish saying that my freedom may be gained by paying a ransom in gold within six months from today. Failure to pay the ransom may result in me being sold to whomever will buy me. The intermediary who will conduct negotiations for the size of the ransom will be none other than that scumbag, Doctor Nathaniel Wickliffe.
It doesn't surprise me that Hassan has no need for the 32 young women his uncle acquired, but I'm relieved that he's decided to try and ransom us, rather than sell us in the slave markets straight away. If nothing else, it will keep us together for a while longer. I don't bother writing to anybody since none of my friends have access to the kind of money which would buy my freedom. The English Admiralty's reward is clearly not enough.
"Why can't I keep my own name? I don't like being given a slave name?"
"The name Zakiyah isn't being given to you because you are a slave," replies A'isha. "It's to protect your real identity from those outside of the harem. The English Admiralty's reward notice means people may be hunting for you in these parts. This harem is a good hiding place, but its security isn't foolproof."
"Hmm ... You have a point. What duties am I to perform?" I ask.
"That is for my brother to decide and you'll be told in the next few days."
I have no further questions for the moment and A'isha signals Mustafa to escort me to my quarters where Rebecca, Sally, Molly and I are apparently to share a dormitory with an insatiable concubine named Miri.
The door takes me into another part of the harem which is built around a square garden about twenty yards on each side. A verandah runs around the circumference of the garden. There are rooms opening out onto the verandah and I discover some of them are dormitories; each capable of housing up to eight women. Several of the dormitories have been hastily reopened to accommodate the 'Dickey Wickey girls', a name for our group of thirty two which seems to have appeared out of nowhere but is now in common use among us.
I take the opportunity to continue exploring. Inside each dormitory there are internal doors which link each dormitory to its neighbours, some via a small room containing basins and toilets in between each dormitory. There are other rooms opening off the verandah like the one I have just left.
Four short corridors at each corner of the verandah connect to the main harem corridor which wraps around the inside of the thick exterior walls of the harem. The baths and several other rooms, including the one in which we spent our first night at Wadi Halaf, connect to the main corridor at the northern end of the harem. Midway along the western leg of the main corridor is the main entrance to the harem. The only other exit to the harem is a small corridor leading to Hassan's bedchamber. Needless to say both doors are securely locked. Any attempt at escape will need to be well planned, especially as death is the penalty for failure.
This is to be my home and my prison for the indefinite future. I promise myself that I'll make the best of my situation. I feel strangely relaxed. For the first time in ages I don't need to be on constant alert for danger. Perhaps Wadi Halaf might not be such a bad place after all.
The next morning A'isha sets us all the task of writing a story about ourselves. It seems a strange request but I've no desire to feel Samed's cane on my feet, so I'm doing as I'm told.
[End of part 1]
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