A Glitch in Time

by April Hill

  The captain put back his head and roared with laughter. "Good heavens, yes, madam! If I could have but found a man, or a damned shipload of randy men to take the nasty shrew off my hands. She married me for my estate, you see, and when it was stolen from me by the blackguard Dunwiddie, she quite happily declared me dead in the courts and took to his bed, to protect her new investment."

  "Mrs. Dunwiddie is your wife?" I cried.

  "No, madam," he said patiently. "While it is true that she fucks young Dunwiddie when he is at home and not out stealing things, he hasn't yet been fool enough to marry the bitch. Despite a good deal of evidence that he emerged like a snake or a crocodile–from a cold-blooded egg, the older woman who lives with him is his mother–as dotty as he is crooked."

  "Oh. Well, then, I am terribly sorry for your misfortune, Captain, but neither my husband nor myself is any relation to either of these infamous and dreadful Dunwiddies. I swear it."

  "Perhaps not, but I believe that your dear husband is Lord Anthony Philip–Dunwiddie's partner in the filthy trade he pursues, which would make you the Lady Margaret, a woman apparently guilty of no crime other than uncommonly low morals, and very bad taste in husbands."

  "No," I cried in frustration. "Surely, you must see that all of that is a terrible mistake, as well! We are not Dunwiddies, and we are also not this Lord Anthony and Lady..."

  "Then just who in the name of God are you?" he bellowed.

  I sighed. "That is a very long and difficult story, I'm afraid."

  "As your bad luck would have it, I have a good deal of time on my hands, Lady Margaret."

  "Stop calling me that," I wailed. "And how dare you believe that any woman would want to be treated in the vile manner you suggest, by a filthy villain such as you?"

  Muldoon shook his handsome head and frowned.

  "Filthy, is it? Madam, it is my practice to bathe daily in rainwater scented with limes when they are available. Pray be more precise on your choice of insults. A villain I may be, but a clean and pleasantly fragrant one, weather and provisions permitting."

  "Perhaps it's the smell of death about you," I shouted, infuriated by the man's arrogance.

  "Madam," he protested. (And until this day, I cannot say with certainty whether he spoke truthfully or in some manner of distasteful jest.) "I would have you know that neither I, nor my crew have spilled a single drop of blood in years. We are troubled by delicate sensibilities, you see–a weakness, perhaps, in our profession–but if you could only try to imagine what a seriously disagreeable task it is to scrub human gore and entrails from the decks of a vessel this size. Once we've stripe and robbed them, we find it much tidier to simply toss our victims over the side, and allow the sharks to attend to the rest. I daresay there are sharks following in the wake of this vessel that have grown from fishlet to twenty-five foot adult on our largesse."

  I shuddered, but detecting a small smile on his handsome mouth and a merry twinkle in his dark eyes, I then reacted foolishly to his insolent mocking tone and slapped his face, quite hard, I'm afraid. I cannot say this with absolute surety, but I believe now that he had been hoping for exactly such a response.

  "Gentleman, it seems our lady guest is no lady, and appears to be very much in need of correction. We should be remiss in our duty if we do not attend to the problem immediately. Do you not agree?"

  A great roar of approval went up from the creatures around me, and before I could make any attempt to flee, futile as that might have been, I was seized by many grimy hands. Muldoon ordered me carried bodily to the waist high, house-like affair in the center of the deck that served as both an entrance and a cover for the short set of steps leading below.

  "Over the top with her," he ordered cheerfully. "On her belly, now, and be quick about it! Tie her hands to the cleats there, and make sure her feet don't reach the deck. I'll have those damned breeches down, and if it's a woman's drawers she's wearing underneath, I'll see those to her ankles, as well. We'll all need a good, long look at the wench's ass before we decide what will do the proper job on it. There are asses, gentlemen, and then again, there are asses. Some full and well padded, and others on the too-bony side. This one seems plump enough, if I remember correctly, to take a good stout paddling with no lasting wounds other than to the owner's pride. I wish to improve the lady's manners, not cripple her unduly."

  The captain came closer and studied my situation carefully for a moment, calculating, no doubt, the most advantageous angle, the direction of the wind, and maybe the position of the planets before beginning his part in my humiliation.

  "Yes, a paddle is the very thing, I think. Have we such a thing aboard as a good, sturdy paddle, Mr. Peabody?"

  Mr. Peabody was a husky, swarthy fellow attired in wide pantaloons he had secured at the waist with a wide sash of bright calico. Like the pirates one reads about in cheap novels, he also wore a patch over one eye, although unlike Barker's this man's patch was made of the same fabric as his sash. A ragged scar ran across the opposite cheek and at his waist he wore a cutlass.

  "Aye, Cap'n, we do indeed. 'Tis below, in my cabin, where it has lain unused since we took that Spanish countess aboard, off the bark Esmerelda?"

  "Ah, yes," the captain sighed. "A handsome woman she was, with mammoth breasts and a great, wide ass like polished ivory. How she did screech, though, as her backside was strapped. Not in the least like the noblewoman she purported to be. Breeding will tell, you know. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, of course. I was about to paddle this wench until her backside catches fire, wasn't I? Bring the paddle quickly." He sat down next to me on the little house, removed his tri-cornered hat and laid it carefully on a barrelhead. Moments later, he accepted the requested paddle from Peabody, and thanked him politely.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the device of my coming torture. It was made of wood, perhaps twelve inches long and one-half inch thick, with an oval body and a taped handle, and resembled a hairbrush without the bristles. It wasn't especially thick, and the oval was no more than five or six inches across, but as he slapped it against the palm of his hand, Muldoon winced noticeably, and I thought I heard a low chuckle, as well–though it was hard to tell from my position.

  "Now then, Mr. Peabody, be so good as to lift the lady's skirts," he said cheerfully. "And bind them up out of the way. Then, lower her drawers. I'll need two volunteers to hold her legs apart."

  The deck became alive with volunteers.

  As my drawers were pulled down to my ankles, Muldoon reached down and patted my buttocks in a very familiar way. "Hmm," he said. "It appears she has recovered quite nicely from this morning's thrashing. The upper classes enjoy excellent nutrition, you know, which enables them to heal quickly. The lady will be able, therefore, to endure a very thorough blistering today, and that done, perhaps a good switching as well, should we still have adequate light. The proper punishment of a lady requires sufficient lighting, you know, so that one doesn't strike an unintended spot, or worse yet, strike insufficiently hard. Either way, the whipping is a failure, and I wish very much for this one to be of an excellent quality. Her lover's last correction was apparently not sufficiently stern to insure the lady's respectful behavior. I shall do my best, now, to correct that oversight."

  He then turned to his crew and made the following alarming announcement:

  "Since it was I who first recognized her, gentlemen, I will grant to myself the right to begin, after which she will remain on the deckhouse roof during the coming watch, so that each of you may try your hand–so to speak–at improving the lady's rude behavior, between your duties, of course. The choice of implements will be your own, but I must insist upon certain rules. Each man will deliver no more than four robust strokes and see that he observes due moderation. He must confine his efforts to that area already so conveniently displayed. The purpose of this exercise is to leave the lady's bottom extremely well chastened and sore, not to flay her alive. With this said, however, let us be quite clear. I would have this lady
well and truly spanked, as she deserves, and should her bottom not be welted and glowing as red as an East Indian sunset, I shall be disappointed and then undertake to finish the task myself. Beyond those precautions, however, her posteriors are at your disposal, to spank or strap as each of you see fit. Now, if there are no questions, we will begin."

  "My husband, Edward, will kill you for this outrage," I screamed this over my shoulder, although from my position, bent over the low cabin with my feet dangling uselessly over the edge and my naked, totally exposed bottom already growing uncomfortably warm in the tropical sun, I must admit that my threats probably rang rather hollow.

  Muldoon simply smiled. "If the man has any sense at all, madam, he will be grateful for every bright red welt I leave upon your throbbing backside. I know a disobedient shrew when I see one, and I saw quite enough this morning to understand the trouble you no doubt give him on a regular basis. Perhaps when I meet the gentleman, I will present him a bill for services well and truly rendered, at which time he is free to take you across his lap and inspect the evidence of our diligence for himself."

  "And then, Lady Margaret," he said grimly, "should he be unable to prove to me that he is not Lord Anthony Philip, it will be my very great pleasure to hang the bastard, and give you to my crew as a gift."

  Once again, I was unsure of whether the rogue was speaking in jest or not. I was still debating this issue when the wooden paddle descended, cracking across my bared buttocks with the sound of a rifle shot. In the next few moments, I suspect, but cannot prove, that my agonized howls could be heard by passing ships at sea.

  Chapter Nine

  Before I continue with my story, I wish to make a confession of which I am not especially proud. I am, generally speaking, rather patriotic, and quite as devoted as the next woman to king, flag and country. After that day's incident on deck with Timothy Muldoon, however, I had learned something about myself. In time of war, I would make a very, very poor spy.

  When Timothy Muldoon finally put down the wooden paddle, I had given up, in exquisite and abject detail, all of the information he had asked for and a good deal more that he hadn't. Between howls, I managed to relate to him the entire fantastic story of how Edward and I had come to be here, absolutely everything I knew of the workings of the Time Machine, and its exact location (as clearly as I remembered it). Additionally, in the hope that such cooperation might save my throbbing hindquarters a blow or two, I confessed to every single crime I had committed since the age of four. Had he asked for (and had I known) the names of all of the British spies and espionage agents on the planet, I would have gladly divulged the entire list, and the names and addresses of their mothers, children and pets, as well.

  Although he appeared to have no interest whatever in my infantile crimes, such as having poured kerosene on Uncle Herbert's prize begonias at the age of five, or having shaved the cat when I was six, he seemed satisfied, at least, that Edward and I were not the villainous Lord Anthony and Lady Margaret. (Modern research has shown, of course, that confessions under torture are notoriously unreliable, but I chose not to share this information with him.)

  As a reward for my truthfulness, Black Tim kindly withdrew the offer he had made earlier to his slavering crew–an offer to provide them access to my already rigorously paddled bottom. There was a certain amount of complaint about this, which Muldoon quickly silenced.

  "We're not savages, lads. When the real Lady Margaret and my own dear wife are finally in our hands, I promise that each of you shall have his chance to set their deserving backsides aflame. This wench is apparently not the woman we thought she was. Still, if this fairy tale she told me while having her ass blistered is as foolish as it sounds, you may yet have a go at her. Two of you go below at once, and bring up that companion of hers."

  Moments later, Edward was dragged on deck, looking desperately worried. His heartfelt relief at seeing me alive and unharmed was obvious on his face. Of course, he had, as yet, no idea at all about what I had just endured. A sense of modesty had caused me to pull up my shabby breeches and decently cover my scalded bottom.

  Muldoon wasted no time in confronting Edward with the information I had divulged.

  "This woman, who claims to be your wife, has just finished telling us a most preposterous tale, sir–of a fantastic voyage from some future world in a miraculous vehicle capable of flying through time itself. A mystical vehicle constructed of wondrous and perhaps priceless materials, hidden somewhere very near here. What have you to say about this nonsense?"

  Edward shot me a look of disbelief. "My wife is not entirely competent, and sometimes given to colorful flights of fancy," he observed, shaking his head a bit sadly. He heaved a deep sigh. "The sad truth of the matter is, her poor brain–never especially sharp, I'm afraid–has become quite addled in the last few years. My wife, alas, is raving mad."

  "Edward," I screamed. "How could you..." One of Muldoon's cohorts slapped a filthy hand over my mouth. "Shut yer gob, tart, or we'll be ripping' out that waggling' tongue of yers for good."

  Muldoon took Edward's shirt collar and pulled him close.

  "The tale was a total fabrication, then? A tissue of lies?"

  "Well, of course it was," Edward insisted. "Although I wouldn't call it lying, precisely. Her condition is lamentable, but no fault of her own. Insanity appears to run in her family."

  Muldoon scratched his head. "I find that very odd. In my experience, a thrashing the like of which I just administered to your wife's bottom–her very comely bottom, I might add–usually elicits a truthful answer. Most women are simple, weak creatures, with little tolerance for pain, you know. I find even that the simple act of taking a secretive woman across my knee for a long and well-applied spanking is often sufficient to loosen her tongue, and to discourage any further dishonesty, I might add. On the other hand, if this wife of yours is truly mad, I have heard it said that madhouses find daily floggings quite beneficial in curing the unfortunate lunatics in their care."

  Edward nodded. "I have heard the same thing, sir. Done as mercifully as possible, of course."

  "But, of course. With the poor, raving creature secured over a leather whipping horse, I understand, so that the curative blows of a wide penitentiary strap may be wholly concentrated upon the exposed buttock area."

  "Indeed," Edward agreed solemnly. My inclination to seek a divorce immediately upon our return to England was getting a good deal stronger with every passing second. I suspected that Edward was finding this entire episode amusing, since it was not his exposed buttock area under discussion.

  At that point, Timothy Muldoon seemed to visibly relax. "Well then, my good sir, all I can do I can do is offer my sincerest apologies if my crew and I have dragged you and your unfortunate wife here for no good reason. You are quite obviously not the persons we thought you to be. I hope you will forgive the error."

  "But, of course," Edward said with a polite little bow. I was shocked beyond words at what a sycophant my husband had become, simply to avoid being hanged.

  Timothy Muldoon smiled. "So, then, your wife's tale of Time Machines and wandering through the ages is nothing more than a sad symptom of her hopeless lunacy, is that correct?"

  "Yes," Edward sighed. "I am afraid so."

  Black Tim reached beneath his velvet tunic and pulled out a familiar leather pouch. Wild Bill's parting gift to us–the coins!

  "Then tell me, sir, if you will, in what uncharted country did you acquire these curiously marked coins?"

  Edward turned quite pale.

  "Is it possible that you have lied to me? And that your wife is not quite as mad as you would have us believe?"

  For once in his life, Edward appeared to be speechless.

  Muldoon stoked his chin thoughtfully. "Well, now, I see but three immediate courses of action here," he said. "The first, hanging you, will only succeed in making you dead and thereby even less talkative. The second is to flog and torture you until you tell me what I wish to know. The thi
rd–and since you appear to be a gentleman, perhaps the most promising–would be to flog your wife again less gently, this time, and before your own eyes. After which, of course, I would allow my crew to ravage her in various unpleasant ways." He sighed. "It is a very warm day, of course, and all of these possibilities will require a good deal of exertion, but what is a man to do? All right, then, place the woman in position again, and pull down her drawers. Peabody, bring me the leather strap. I believe we have achieved as much as we can with the paddle. The strap tends to loosen the tongue fairly quickly."

  And then, to save me, Edward did something quite noble, but terribly dangerous. He told Muldoon the truth–all of it. When he had finished, I fully expected that both of us would be hanged from the closest of the Prodigal's yardarms, but I was mistaken. Timothy Muldoon sat down on the roof of the deckhouse where I had been so recently, so thoroughly, and so painfully paddled, and spread Wild Bill's coins out before him.

  "Astonishing," he cried. "And exceedingly difficult to believe. And yet, I do! The coins could be a clever forgery, of course, and your words all deception, but the woman spoke the truth. I knew it then, and believe it even more firmly, now. Every livid welt on her lovely backside gave mute evidence of the truth of what she confessed. I have not flogged, flayed and tortured my enemies for lo, these many years without knowing a falsehood when I hear it, my good man. Now, I will ask you only once, and if your words do not have the ring of truth, you will suffer thrice the beating your brave companion has already endured, and have a giant M branded on both your backsides with a hot iron, as well–to remind you of our meeting. Now, where is this marvelous machine of yours to be found?"

  I didn't give Edward the chance to botch what might well be our very last chance. I shouted out the location. I would not look in the least attractive with a giant M burned anywhere on my buttocks. Nor, I think, would Edward.