Voyage of Terror Read online

  Finally satisfied with her work Mimmie grunted.

  “Good. That’ll do you. Now go outside on deck. Get some fresh air and wait for me and the others. Then I’ll get you all hosed down. All that stale sweat off your bodies! And then you can have some breakfast. No, you don’t need to put your smock on. Leave it there for now.”

  Mimmie could have been talking to a child, her tone brisk but friendly as she turned again towards the punishment frame. Standing at the back of it, for a moment or two she let her eyes roam over the now unbolted spreads of its two occupants. As Solange’s knees and feet – held by the straps - remained clamped against the sides of the frame, her up-turned pubic flush was therefore still so delightfully displayed. With her eyes focussed there intently, Mimmie had no idea whether Lucifer’s Number One Handle could be in any way responsible for what she could see. She doubted it. But in the cavity above where the steel had so recently and cosily resided she could see that now the twin hoods of the girl’s sex had parted a fraction, just enough to reveal the soft crimson inner-folds of her slit and also a gossamer trace of silver mucous within. Mimmie could not help but smile to herself.

  The Contesse’s rear vista was a different matter. The clean, shaded sump in the valley of her bottom was seemingly no worse for the now departed Lucifer’s Number Three Handle, although the slender chain attached to the belt around her waist still extended tightly down across the length of her crease. But no longer impeded by the shank, the links had once more sprung back into place, resuming their dead-centre lie against the lowest extremity of her gully. However, despite this slender obstruction, Mimmie could clearly see beneath the links, noting how the cleft ran down smoothly to the back-peeping twin buds of the girl’s delightful sex. She saw too how the slit of her pudendum was tightly closed between its mauve puckered portals as if perhaps in symbolic token of sheer disdain. But it was the heavily-streaked crests of her bottom that were now the object of Mimmie’s inspection. Only the central scarps of her flesh remained untouched by the martinée’s cutting thongs. Mimmie studied the profusion of red lined welts for a moment before letting her fingers run lightly over the left-hand flank of the girl’s rump.

  “Now, your ladyship. I think we must deal with your poor ravaged buttocks now. After all we don’t want them scarred for when you next entertain some influential minister, do we?” she sniggered, beginning at once to smother the Contesse’s rump with balm.

  Placing one hand on each flank Mimmie let her fingers move in wide circling motions over the tautened crests, working the balm into the streaked skin. She could feel the thin risen welts of the martinée’s vicious tongues and she delighted in the nerve-tingling sensation to her fingertips.

  All the while the Contesse held herself obstinately rigid in her debasing posture, not granting the wardress so much as the merest utterance of either complaint or appreciation. Keeping silent and with concealed disdain she struggled to concentrate her mind on the plan-in-hand. It even gave her some gleeful consolation to harbour such secret notions and the safe knowledge that this wicked wardress might soon, per chance, get her comeuppance. Fate would take its course, Marie-Chantal had no doubt. If her destiny was to turn onto a friendly path once more …

  “Very well, my dear Contesse. I think you have learned your lesson by now. I hope so!” Mimmie’s sharp tone interrupted her thoughts. “I’ll release you both now. Then go outside and join Fleur. I’ll hose you down together. The officers and crew on the bridge always enjoy that!”

  Mimmie giggled delightedly before beginning with the unstrapping, first with Marie-Chantal, then Solange, the chains falling away and clanking to the floor as the wardress unfastened each chain in turn before starting then on the straps, fussing over the sweating bodies that could scarcely wait another second to stretch themselves in their sudden freedom. All the while the Table of Correction seemed almost to resonate as the tension of the frame and its occupants was finally released.

  ***

  Marc Bouvier looked out from the window of the wheelhouse onto the deck below. At the other end of the bridge both Labastide and Duval were also looking out. From time to time the captain glanced sternly back at the helmsman at the wheel as if to ensure that the man’s concentration on the compass needle was undeterred by the unfolding scene below.

  The second-officer had had a restless night. Those vivid images of debased nakedness had danced before his eyes with unremitting starkness and potency - giving his troubled mind not a single moment of peace. His sheltered Christian upbringing could never have prepared him for anything like that. Those perverse bolts so obscenely placed; the sight of the beautiful Contesse’s streaked and smitten rump displayed in such abject brazenness; the whimpering girl tethered so ignominiously to the wall-rack with her youthful neck almost throttled by a vice-like collar of steel-coil … and that wicked bar down her middle. It was all too much for his conscience - too much guilt to bear, even that now he struggled to quell any lingering lustful thoughts.

  “Open the valve!” he heard Duval shout down impatiently.

  The Latour woman was standing there with her hands on her hips beside one of the female prisoners who had been summoned from the hold. The rather stocky convict-girl was holding the end of a heavy fire-hose, which was directed towards the far end of the deck. There, just in front of the foc’s’le, the three naked waiting figures were lined up expectantly, the so-abused young women now released from the dreadful punishment chamber and standing there in their humbled nakedness.

  The two younger girls were clasping their arms across their breasts as if trying to hide their nakedness. But by contrast the Contesse stood there calmly erect, holding herself in an almost passive dignified posture, arms at her sides and her chest thrust out defiantly, showing the splendour of her torso in all its graceful beauty. There was even a strangely tolerant smile on her lips, her eyes focussed on the fire-hose but showing neither fear nor consternation.

  “Don’t turn round, girls. Stand and brace yourselves!” He heard the Latour woman call out.

  There was a sudden swooshing noise from the hose and it bucked in the convict’s grasp. A solid spurt of water shot out, becoming more powerful at every fresh surge. The wardress was shouting now and gesticulating at the convict girl, pointing at the three hapless women. Bouvier heard Duval’s evil laughter as the jet of water turned towards the three women, almost blasting them off their feet as it engulfed them.

  For at least a full minute the fire-hose played on the women, a sheet of cold sea water seeming almost to cover them entirely, making their skins sting painfully under the onslaught.

  “Now turn around, dears! Backs and arses to the water!” Madame Latour shouted loudly.

  Rather raggedly the girls turned, reluctantly immersing themselves once more into the wavering icy jet, their shoulders cowering under the blast and shivering uncontrollably.

  “Now bend down. Keep your backsides facing me! That’s right. Lower, Fleur! Bend right over. You too, Solange. Touch your toes!”

  Bouvier glanced over at Duval. The chief-officer was almost doubled up with wicked glee. Labastide was staring almost vacantly, his eyes glazed over strangely as if he too were somehow fighting some internal conflict, perhaps realising the dangerous threat of damnation to his soul. It was at that precise instant that Bouvier knew that he would help the Contesse. He had no idea how, or what she wanted him to do. But he would help anyway. On some pretext or other, when perhaps he was alone on his watch - the captain and chief-officer safely in their cabins - he would find a way to slip away down into the hold. He knew that the dreadful Mimmie slept in a partitioned-off section of it, and he knew too of her late-afternoon hours off-watch. Even that wicked bitch had to sleep. It would be then that he would slip away from the bridge, leaving the helmsman alone for not longer than a few minutes.

  He would need to be careful, having no desire to have his career cut
short and being dismissed in disgrace. But neither did he want his soul condemned to everlasting purgatory. If in some small way he could help those poor girls escape from their miserable existence his conscience would at least be halfway relieved, his tormented soul redeemed … at least for this voyage. As soon as the round-trip was completed he resolved to find another berth aboard a merchant ship engaged in a more wholesome trade. He had never for one moment supposed that a convict transport-ship - in the service of France - could be seeped in such depravity and moral corruption. His youthful naivety was fast receding, even now as he looked down on the deck again.

  The fire-hose had been turned off. Madame Latour was standing grinning as she watched the three naked women, bedraggled and dripping over the deck as they shook themselves dry. Trying to regain their composure they shivered uncontrollably, their skins glistening in the morning sunlight. Yet even now the Contesse somehow still retained a modicum of her stoic dignity as she helped her two companions hesitantly and stumbling towards the hatchway down into the hold.

  ***

  It must have been well past midnight when Marie-Chantal felt the rumble of the engines cease and the hull beneath them stilled. Only the ventilating fans above still whirred monotonously, undisturbed by the ship’s arrival, the heat as oppressive as before. After a minute or so there was a deafening clatter and clanging, reverberating the length of the stifling hold as the anchor-chain rushed from its compartment somewhere on the other side of the nearby bulkhead - not far from where her hammock was slung.

  “We’ve arrived, Marie-Chantal. We must be in Casablanca.” Solange whispered nervously from the next hammock, the excitement almost tangible in the foetid air.

  The Contesse de Louvois did not at first reply. She was listening intently to the sounds on the deck above, trying to make out everything that was going on and hearing the clamour of rushing feet on the ceiling of the deck overhead.

  “Yes, we’ve arrived. We must get ready. Be very quiet. We mustn’t disturb Madame Latour.” Marie-Chantal’s voice was icy calm, no hint of nervousness or fear. On the other hand she could see Fleur’s frightened glittering eyes looking back at her in the semi-darkness. So far there was no indication that the wardress was anything other than fast asleep in her compartment beyond the cage, but they could take no chances. The venture was already perilous enough.

  Marie-Chantal felt slightly guilty at having had to use Fleur as a decoy. But there had been no alternative. Earlier that afternoon the poor girl had played her part well in the deception. No actress could have done better. When she had gone sobbing to Mimmie’s compartment, begging to have more healing-balm massaged over her breasts, it had been then that Marie-Chantal had crept quickly over to where the wardress kept her keys. Her heart was almost in her mouth as she lifted the spare key from one of the hooks beside the closed door.

  From several days of furtive observation Marie-Chantal knew that there were two keys to the cage-door. It was taking a big enough risk to take one of the keys, but an even bigger risk that its absence would go unnoticed. Yet there had been no alternative. The mission had been a crucial and hazardous one, but in the event it had been safely accomplished, although not without several heart-stopping moments. Even though a number of startled inquisitive eyes had looked out from their hammocks, not one of the women had so much as muttered any protest, let alone raised the alarm. They were like silent complicit conspirators but too frightened to participate in the actual crime itself. However, there had been - perhaps - an added incentive for their silent acquiescence. Solange’s stern and watchful presence had been a useful deterrent. After all, the convicts knew of her reputation as a knife-wielding murderess, and they suspected that she might have a knife hidden somewhere in her clothing. Marie-Chantal had been quick to take advantage of this fallacy, making use of a sharp piece of metal that she had found on the floor on the first day at sea. Giving it to Solange she instructed her to keep it under her smock and to poke it provocatively against the fabric from time to time so that it looked no less menacing than any dagger.

  “It’s just to frighten anyone off, Solange. Don’t worry, you won’t have to use it, but try to look a bit threatening all the same. We only have one chance to get out of here, remember. So please be convincing. If any of the women look as though they might be about to shout for help … although I can’t imagine they would … then just sort of look menacing and advance towards them.”

  Solange had looked rather unhappy at the prospect but she had solemnly nodded her head in agreement, suddenly screwing her face up into a realistically menacing grimace. They had both grinned with amusement, releasing their tension for a moment. Marie-Chantal reached out and gave her friend a quick affectionate pat of reassurance.

  “It’ll work. Don’t worry. We’ll soon be freed.”

  Yet despite the confident promise of her words she was far from convinced herself. There was still so much that could go wrong – so many things that depended as much on luck as planning. Most crucial was perhaps whether Jacques was already on his way with the two boats. Perhaps he had been delayed? And what if the ship had not actually anchored in Casablanca bay at all? Certainly it had anchored somewhere, but she had no way of actually knowing that they were in Casablanca. And then there was the problem with Fleur. She had eventually stammered out that she couldn’t swim more than a few strokes. This had been a most daunting and unforeseen setback. She had therefore had to be reassured by both Solange and Marie-Chantal that the two of them together could keep Fleur afloat for long enough to get to the rescue boat. She had seemed very frightened at first, but had finally agreed bravely, although gulping back tears of anxiety.

  “When you dive in, just let yourself come up to the surface and we’ll take you from there. Nothing to it.” Yet the nagging doubt remained and Solange had glanced at the Contesse with renewed apprehension.

  However the biggest uncertainty of all was the hatchway onto the deck. Although she knew that it was most usually kept unlocked, there was no way of verifying this. But already lucky fate had played its part earlier in the late afternoon.

  It had been a real boost when Marc Bouvier had quite suddenly and silently appeared at the grille-door of the cage. Somehow Marie-Chantal had always thought that he would come. She knew that his troubled conscience would get the better of him eventually. Her devastating charm had worked on him better than any witch’s curse. She had smiled at him alluringly through the grille, making tears come to her eyes as if to finally seal his complicity. He would, he said, see to it that the hatchway was kept unlocked. Furthermore he had offered to try to keep the attention of the officers on the bridge diverted to the other side of the ship. She had thanked him, reaching out through the grille and tenderly touching his face.

  “If ever we meet again, Marc …” but her words had trailed off, her lips trembling - she sensing his own turmoil and emotion brimming over.

  Then he was gone. That had been an hour or so after Fleur’s return from Mimmie’s healing ministrations in her compartment. The girl had looked distinctly unhappy and flustered as she came back into the cage, her lovely blonde hair all dishevelled. As the wardress locked the grille-door she had grinned wickedly at the girl and then at the Contesse, as if challenging her to say something. Then, when Marie-Chantal had only remained silent, turning away from the wretched woman, Mimmie had stomped off back to her compartment with a smug smirk all over her face.

  “That bloody bitch had me on her bunk … and … and she … well, put her … her hands all over me. Not just my b-boobs. And …”

  Fleur burst into tears then and Marie-Chantal had had to spend several minutes calming her down and reassuring her.

  As Marie-Chantal lay in her hammock still going over all these things in her mind she heard a sudden shout from overhead.

  “Fire! Boat afire on the starboard side!” Although from down in the confines of the hold the cry s
ounded almost distant it was clear enough.

  She sat up immediately, scarcely believing her ears, every nerve in her body at once alert.

  “Now!” she breathed urgently to the other two girls. “It’s now or never!” Almost falling from her hammock she dashed to the cage-door, her bare feet scarcely touching the ground.

  Fumbling with the key she opened the grille, the sound of creaking metal suddenly loud in the gloom. However what was more worrying was the clatter of running feet on the deck above. Surely the echoing noise would wake the wardress and all the prisoners.

  “Come on, hurry!” her voice was husky, unable now to conceal her anxiety as she frantically beckoned her two companions.

  The other prisoners were waking restlessly all about, looking out of their hammocks with sudden bleary-eyed apprehension. Knowing what she must do, Solange turned towards the interior of the cage, her would-be knife thrusting against her smock. Standing there for a moment in the doorway she looked menacingly at one or two of the women who had begun to climb down from their hammocks.

  “Get back. Don’t make a sound!” she hissed.

  Marie-Chantal was already on the steps up to the deck. She could see that the hatch was closed above her but she had expected that. The question was whether it was unlocked. Hastily scrambling up to the top - Fleur right behind her and almost knocking into her - Marie-Chantal gingerly tried the hatch. It shifted slightly, a draft of air and noise immediately flooding through the crack. She breathed a sigh of relief and peeped out cautiously onto the deck.

  Sure enough there was a noisy commotion over on the other side. Several sailors were staring out over the railings, shouting and gesticulating. The flood-lights had been turned away from the deck now and out over the bay, the smell of acrid burning already drifting with the breeze. The sea was calm, like a glittering sheen of blackness stretching away into the distance, a somehow comforting half-moon low over the water.