Voyage of Terror

by J. D. Jensen

  At least, that was how it appeared to the carrier of the lantern as he stood there in the silence, mouth gaping, stupefied by the incredible vista before him. Bouvier had never imagined what the captain and his repulsive ferret-faced deputy - and the frightening domineering wardress - inflicted on the poor wretches who were brought here into this foc’s’le chamber. It was a place that - although never actually having been forbidden to him – he had never before ventured into, keeping himself to himself on the bridge, or in his cabin, or supervising the guarding and welfare of the male prisoners in the second hold.

  Of course on his previous voyage on the ship the young second-officer had often heard those pitiful cries of distress coming from the sinister foc’s’le whenever the lash was being administered. From his distant vantage point on the bridge he had observed the crumpled agonised faces of both male and female prisoners as they were taken from the foc’s’le after punishment. But what he was seeing now was altogether something different, sadistic, illicit and surely unlawful. Even in the harsh cruelty of the French penal system this was something that went beyond acceptability … something of much more sinister intent. Holding the lantern higher and moving it about him, now he saw the perversely squatting figure of the young blond-haired girl against the wall-rack. Her cute frightened face was looking up at him, squinting into the light. He could see the wicked steel torque around her neck, the bar down her front and the strange paraphernalia of straps and chains that embraced her body. And peering closer he saw the brutal steel-cupped cage clamped against each of her breasts like some demonic brassiere. But that was not all. Turning again to the punishment frame his eyes were drawn inexorably to the glinting steel protrusions that peeped from the tight anal portals of both its hapless occupants, the chains hanging down freely from the ever so-desecrated feminine flesh.

  Such barbarous depravity Bouvier had never imagined. Yet even he could not prevent the brief guilty stirring of his own flesh as his shocked eyes dwelt with irresistible fascination on the twinned illicit tableau before him. It was clear that the slightly older woman – the one he knew must be the infamous fraudster, the beautiful and enigmatic Contesse de Louvois – had received a vicious lashing from the so-called martinée-whip. That was now shockingly evident by the profusion of red-lined welts across the curved glistening crests of her delightful bottom and the pinkish hue of underlying inflammation of her skin. For some naive reason he had always assumed that the frequent whippings of prisoners had always been performed on the bare backs of the wretched victims and that they were at least half-clothed below the waist to preserve their decency. Yet now he could see that – at least for the female prisoners – they were whipped not only on their bared rumps but moreover were forced to prostrate themselves on this dreadful punishment machine in a state of abject nakedness. But that was not all. If the actual flogging of this lovely creature were not already punishment enough, she had further suffered the appalling ignominy of having her most intimate passage debased by some perversely intruding rod of steel, the purpose of which troubled his mind.

  He remembered how Duval had several times referred to some obscure implement of punishment called Lucifer’s Handle but he had had no idea what that meant at the time, neither had he enquired. Yet now as he stood there surveying the shocking scene before him he realised instantly what it entailed – even if he still could not entirely grasp the precise nature of the punishment … beyond that of pure wickedness. Then, glancing again at the other blonde girl against the wall-rack, he recalled having once heard Duval joke obscenely with the captain about a punishment called ‘Tackle and Braces’. But Bouvier had never in his wildest notions imagined how female prisoners could be trussed up in such improper fashion with bars, straps and chains. The fact that all three of these women were entirely naked, deprived of even a token covering of modesty for their humbled bodies, seemed to him utterly immoral and almost inhuman.

  The full realisation of what he, Marc Bouvier - in the infancy of his career as a ship’s officer - was unwittingly a part of, now suddenly dawned upon him in all its stark reality. When at first he had been posted to a penal transport-ship his heart had sunk. He had dreamed of getting a berth on some luxury ocean liner, but nothing could have prepared him for this sordid duty. The whole thing was entirely debauched, even though he could not contain his feeling of being guiltily enthralled at the girls’ naked and debased proximity. All three of them were, after all, sexually appealing. And they were exhibited here before him, unwillingly flaunting their forbidden flesh in all its wanton glory. What man, he asked himself, would not have been aroused by such an erotic - if immoral and licentious – scene? In the harsh glow from his lamp he had also seen the glinting pool of wetness on the floor, not at first knowing the nature of its source. Then he had seen how the open thighs of the girl on the lower tier were soaked, a lazy vapour hanging over her as small rivulets slid down to the pool below. Then as realisation came to him he felt at once the burning shame of his own self-consciousness, knowing how unwittingly he shared now such turgid intimacy with these poor oppressed women.

  He swallowed nervously, suddenly hearing the blonde girl over by the wall-rack give a little whimper, her eyes looking pitifully at him as he turned again towards her, relieved to shift his shameful gaze.

  “Oh p-please let me out of this … I can’t take any more … really I c-can’t …” she pleaded, near to tears.

  “I … I ... er … c-can’t. I’m n-not allowed to,” he stammered idiotically, realising how immature he must have sounded. “You poor things,” he could only add feebly, his words trailing away in the impure atmosphere.

  He stood there feeling completely stunned and impotent. One half of him wanted desperately to flee from this chamber of misery, the other half stricken with a kind of lusting paralysis that made him unable to drag his eyes away from the illicit scene.

  Now a voice that was surprisingly calm and somehow full of subdued dignity spoke to him from the front of the Table of Correction.

  “Sir … my name is Marie-Chantal de Louvois. I am sorry to have to make your acquaintance from such an unfortunate position. As you can see I’m unable to formally introduce myself in the … er … usual manner that polite social etiquette dictates. My humble apologies for that, Sir. Also for what you have witnessed here this night.”

  The Contesse had craned her head round towards him as far as the torque allowed before she continued in a mild everyday tone of voice. “From what I can observe of your youthful face, Sir, you appear to be a decent young man and you seem to be rather shocked by what you see … if you don’t mind me saying?” Her voice was subdued, as if her posture affected her speech.

  “Er ... no, Madame … er … I mean Contesse. What you say … being shocked, that is … yes, I am. I think it’s …” His words trailed off uncertainly again, his face covered with fresh embarrassment.

  “Well, it must be rather shocking for anyone civilised to come face to face, as it were, with a poor lady’s exposed bare bottom … and one that is as badly beaten as mine is. Not to mention that … steel thing, whatever its purpose is … sticking out so obscenely. A gentleman has a right to be embarrassed … encountering such extraordinary unsightliness! You have my sympathy, Sir.” Her neck strained even further round in the torque to look at him quizzically.

  “Oh no, Contesse …” he hastened to protest, momentarily tongue-tied. “I mean yes … er … yes I AM embarrassed and shocked, of course … but … er … I don’t think…I mean it’s not unsightly at all. That’s to say.” Again he let his voice trail away, his discomfort plainly obvious.

  For a moment the Contesse was silent, only looking round at him in the half-light with a sort of wistfully benevolent smile. Her demeanour was such that she could have been at some Parisian society luncheon, he thought with astonishment.

  So this was the enigmatic beauty he had heard so much about. There was no denying her
charm and charisma, even in the extreme perversity of her debasing predicament, her rump thrust helplessly back at him … yet brazenly so, as if almost proudly confident in her own graceful beauty. She was truly an enigma, her stature undiminished by her naked prostration, the very essence of her persona seeming to mock the cruelty of it all.

  He found himself at once thrilled and oddly elated to be in her presence, hearing the sweet undulating tone of her voice, his eyes spell-bound at the vision of her thrusting spread. He marvelled at how the natural beauty and the taut contours of her rump were somehow strangely undefiled by the evil metal bolt, as though its impure intrusion even enhanced the erotic vista before him. Despite the cold guilt that nagged at the tendrils of his conscience, the illicitness of being so near her thrilled him to the very core of his being, drawing him in, her voice mesmerising him with every spoken word.

  “Under any other circumstances I’m sure we could have been friends, Mister?”

  “… Bouvier. Marc. I’m the s-s-second officer,” he stammered. “I’m … er … pleased to make your acquaintance, Contesse.”

  “Marie-Chantal, please, Mr Bouvier … Marc. I’m hardly in a position to be formal, don’t you think? My companions … my sisters-in-distress … are Solange – underneath me on this dreadful punishment contraption. And Fleur – over by the wall - and so horribly trussed up in what I believe your senior officers call ‘Tackle and Braces’. Such a preposterous punishment, don’t you agree? And so rotten to do it to a young girl.” The Contesse turned away, silent again, her body shifting in its straps, making a tiny jangling sound.

  “Er … yes, Contesse. I agree. Such terrible cruelty,” he muttered absently, looking about him before finally adding, “But … I’m really sorry … but I can’t do anything. Really I can’t. If I were in charge aboard this ship then I’d …”

  He stopped, realising the futility of his words, knowing that he would do nothing, the shame of his lack of courage hot within him. He looked down guiltily again, first at the shining twinned domes and their central bolt and then beneath them at the opened, equally plugged spread of the silent, wide-eyed girl on the lower tier, the wetness now all but evaporated in the heat.

  “I’m really sorry,” he repeated uselessly.

  The Contesse craned her head round towards him again. The sad pleading smile on her lips seemed to strike at the very heart of his conscience.

  “Could you not try to help us? Not now perhaps. But if the opportunity arose … later?” Her words hung in the gloom.

  An idea had come suddenly to her. The “L’île St Joseph” was due to call at the Port of Casablanca to take on supplies for the penal colony. This she knew. The habitual schedule was that sometime during the night the ship would sail into the bay and anchor there to await a loading berth in the morning. Jacques and Anton had found this out while Marie-Chantal was still in the Prison of St Lazarre awaiting trial. If all went according to plan Jacques would arrange for a small decoy boat loaded with bales of straw - soaked in diesel oil - to be set on fire to act as a temporary diversion.

  Jacques’ theory was that the crew and guards of the “L’île St Joseph” would be distracted long enough for Marie-Chantal to make good her escape from the hold and then to dive over the ship’s side as silently as she could. Another boat with Jacques onboard would be waiting somewhere off the starboard stern of the ship to pick her up. She was a strong swimmer and it was hoped that it would take them under an hour to complete the mission, returning in the darkness to a deserted beach a mile or so along the coast.

  The only flaw in the plan was that neither Jacques, Anton, nor herself had any precise idea how she was to escape from the hold. From the best information gleaned by Jacques – this after having spent several unwanted evenings plying sailors with drink when the penal transport-ship had been docked at Marseilles a few weeks back – the fore-deck of the “L’île St Joseph” was not fenced in. Only the aft deck where the male prisoners were allowed to roam freely during daylight hours was enclosed with wire fencing. Evidently it was not considered that the female prisoners posed any threat of jumping overboard. In any case there were always at least two guards on watch. Moreover the foredeck was directly beneath the bridge and in full view of the officers and navigating crewmen, so the women prisoners were always under observation. However not one of Jacques’ inebriated sailors had been able to tell him any detail of the Number One hold beneath the deck in which the women were caged at night. The one sailor who had still been sober enough to give any detail had only been able to tell Jacques that there were steps that went down into the hold, and that the hold comprised a long steel cage with one door. As far as the sailor knew, the door was kept locked at night and only “that dreadful butch-wardress woman from hell itself” kept the key. And she slept in a separate compartment at the front end of the hold, he thought.

  Since the moment the ship had left Marseilles Marie-Chantal had been trying to work out her actual plan of escape from the hold itself. She had not been particularly concerned because the grille-door to the cage was often left unlocked by Mimmie. But certainly during the night she did lock it and the hatchway onto the deck itself was also locked. All this Marie-Chantal knew by her constant furtive observation. What troubled her most was the uncertainty over the actual timing of events and to know roughly what time of night the ship was expected to drop anchor in the bay.

  It was obviously crucial that she could get onto the deck at the precise time that Jacques would set the diversionary decoy-boat alight. But the biggest worry of all was if there were to be any change or delay to the ship’s supposed schedule, or if Jacques’ and Anton’s carefully researched information was incorrect or out of date. However there was no point in dwelling on it. She could only concentrate on her part of the plan – the escape from the hold at the precise time of the diversion.

  She had pondered this for some time. Now, the appearance of this young officer had suddenly offered a heaven-sent opportunity of help - if he could be persuaded to fall under her spell for long enough. Even in her general discomfort and the slowly dissipating agony of her lash-ravaged bottom her mind was nonetheless alert and calculating, making itself dispel her silent fury and her mortifying degradation. Forcing herself to remain calm and oddly dispassionate she willed herself to ignore the unnatural and constantly nagging expansion inside her. All the while she could feel her flesh settling around the turgid steel of intrusion, accommodating its alien hardness as though it were somehow consciously intent upon forging a cosy bed of cunning permanence within her.

  But her mind was as hard as any steel. Since childhood she had taught herself all the tricks of survival, learning how to make her mind float above unpleasantness, discomfort or pain, but to remain actively alert for threats and danger, and always to seek a pathway out of trouble. When her poor gentle father and mother had been faced with ruin as a result of corrupt men in high places, Marie-Chantal had herself gathered up the reins of survival … and even vengeance. Certainly she had learned ruthlessness and the art of deception and manipulation. She had learned quickly how to get her way with men; how to make herself appeal to their lust for her beauty, letting them take advantage of her apparent innocence; how to ingratiate herself and take from them what she wanted, all the while displaying that sweet graceful charm and good nature that was her blood and flesh and birthright.

  How many times had she lain with men in the wake of her pretended passion, smiling with false encouragement at them, their pasty corpulent bodies sweating from their depleting lust. Always that lingering coldness remained in her abdomen after the crudely withdrawn limpness of their flesh and in the aftermath of their selfish grunting ineptitude. Her nakedness and degradation were only weapons. Any display of vulnerability was no more than a deceptive ploy, and if her heart had been made as hard as stone, so had her mind hardened with unwavering determination. Now, in her temporary adversity, she would not a
llow herself a single moment to wallow in despair or for any dismal thought of failure. Tensing every muscle of her body she suddenly braced her spine, making it curve inwards, forcing the vertebrae to stand out like delightful knots along her back. Now thrusting her rump backwards more prominently again so that its cleft widened a fraction further, she gave a final and seductive little wiggling movement.

  She saw at once how his jaw dropped open, his eyes as if stricken again by the pure illicitness of the sight before them. Now her voice came like honey.

  “We only need just a tiny little bit of help, Marc. It wouldn’t be dangerous for you. I promise. We would never betray you. It would be a secret between us forever. And you would always be in our debt … and our affection. You know that what they’re doing to us is wrong … immoral and cruel. Please …”

  At that precise moment the metal door clanged open and Mimmie Latour was standing there, her eyes at once darting to the second-officer.

  “Can I help you, Sir?” She was watching him shiftily, uncertain as to the reason for his presence. “Is something wrong with one of the prisoners, Mr Bouvier? I was just coming to do my rounds … to check on them.”

  “Er … no, Madame. Nothing. Er … I was just inspecting ‘forad. The captain wanted me to inspect the anchor-chase in the bow … and as I passed I thought I heard a noise below,” he lied.

  The wardress stared searchingly at him for a moment or two. Then, as if she had made up her mind as to the possible motive of his being there, a thin mischievous smile appeared fleetingly across her lips.