The Captain

CHAPTER 20

“Have you been kept waiting, Flora?” asked Emon.

“We are dreadfully sorry,” said Rigg, “but we were unexpectedly busy.”

Flora, naked in her cell, chained by the wrists to a ring, kept her head down.

“We had to process a girl,” said Emon. “The papers, prints, measurements, everything.”

“She was a beauty,” said Rigg, crouching down and unlocking the slave cuffs which held Flora’s small wrists in their clasp.

“Was she more beautiful than you, that is what you are wondering, isn’t it?” asked Emon.

“No, Master,” said Flora.

Flora had heard the woman cry out, doubtless as she was marked.

“Stand up,” said Rigg, rising to his own feet.

Flora stood up.

“I am to be shipped?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“As I was informed?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Rigg. “You know the address and the world.”

“But who will be there?” she moaned, as Rigg took her arm in his grasp.

“You will be there,” said Rigg, conducting her from the cell.

“And your master,” said Emon, closing the cell door behind them.

“May I speak?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Rigg.

“Have I been sold to a new master?” she begged, as she was being led along the hall.

“It is possible,” said Rigg.

“We do not really know,” said Emon.

“You will learn soon enough,” said Rigg.

They stopped a moment.

The heavy door to a processing room was open.

A cleaned iron, among others, hung on the wall, together with chains and collars. The brazier, as she could see, was still hot. There was a table in the room, on which was a miscellany of objects, papers and writing materials, pads, sponges, measuring tapes, and such things. This table was large enough and sturdy enough to support a considerable amount of weight. Flora remembered what that table had felt like, its rough texture, on her back, and belly.

To one side there was a pile of discarded clothing, what appeared to be leel.

On the floor, near the brazier, doubtless where a woman had been knelt, there was a considerable amount of shorn hair.

Rigg closed the door.

“Was she, Master?” asked Flora.

“What?” asked Emon.

“More beautiful than I?” asked Flora.

“You are both quite beautiful,” said Rigg. “It is only that your beauties are quite different.”

“You would both be held for late in a sale,” said Emon.

“But is she more beautiful than I?” begged Flora.

“I do not think so,” said Rigg.

“No,” said Emon.

“What is her master like?” asked Flora.

“Be pleased that you do not belong to such a man,” said Rigg.

“You would be in no doubt as to your slavery in his hands,” said Emon.

“My master, or he who was my master,” she said, “is such a man.”

She remembered him, with indescribable emotions. He was the sort of man before whom she could scarcely muster the strength to stand. How often she had dreamed of him! How often she had desired to serve him selflessly, to touch him timidly, to love him in any way she could. He was the sort of man before whom a woman is at best a pleading, abject slave. He was imperious, powerful, uncompromising, the sort of man who will do precisely what he wishes with a woman, and from whom he will get exactly what he wants, and more. He was the sort of man before whom a woman, even when free, feels an almost overwhelming impulse to kneel and perform obeisance. She wanted to kneel before him, to belong to him, to be governed, to be broken, to be crushed in his arms, to be mercilessly ravished, to be put to his purposes, to obey, to find herself helpless, to know herself wholly a woman. He was to her many things, power, nature and master.

“Here is the box,” said Rigg, indicating a small, sturdy metal box, with bolts and locks.

“It is so small,” she said.

“Get in,” said Rigg.

She crouched down and crept into the box. The door closed behind her. She turned about, quickly, frightened, as bolts were thrust into place. She pressed her hands against the metal door from the inside, and peered through the tiny, rectangular, thickset grille, at eye level, as she now knelt. She heard the key turn in locks. The key itself was taped to the top of the box. There was a slot at the bottom of the box, now bolted shut, through which a shallow pan might be slipped.

“Please!” she begged, as Rigg prepared to affix the shipping label to the box.

She strove to read the label which he, briefly, showed to her. It was hard to read, through the grille. There was the address and the world on the label, which were as she had been informed, and the name of the shipping house, of course, with its address, and its world. The shipping charge was reasonable, and calculated by weight, as she was cargo. The contents were slave, female, house name “Flora,” brown hair, brown eyes, one hundred and ten pounds in weight. As one could see then, the freight charge in her case would be comparatively slight.

“The van is here,” said a man.

Rigg affixed the shipping label to the outside of the door.

“Wait,” said Emon.

A wire was twisted about, through two staples, one on the door of the container and the other on its body, in such a way that the door was tied shut with the wire. Two small, red, disklike blocks of wax were then placed on each side of the wire, about its twisted closure, the ends of the wire then protruding below the disklike bocks, spreading, something like an inch on each side. These tiny plates of wax were then, with a match, heated and fused together, thus the door could not be opened without breaking this closure. Emon then, with a small hinged tool, rather like a pair of pliers, pressed together, firmly, the sides of the still-warm, soft, platelike closure, formed from the two fused red disks. He then removed the tool. The blocks were now better shaped and fused, and on each side of the small, platelike closure there was now an imprint.

“That is the virgin seal,” said Rigg.

“Yes, Master,” said the girl.

“It will protect you on the ship,” said Emon.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Do not forget the slave flower,” said Rigg.

“No, Master,” said the girl.

“Farewell,” said Emon.

“Farewell,” said Rigg.

“Farewell, Masters,” said the girl.

In a moment two handlers had entered the house and, lifting and tilting the container, placed it on a dolly.

Within, the freight, terrified, wept.