Vagabonds of Gor

9 The Barge

"Move ahead," said the fellow in the bow of the small rence craft.

I struggled forward, pressing against the water, up to my chest, stumbling, pushing through rence, the rope on my neck going back to the small craft. My hands were now manacled behind me. For the purpose of comfort, I much preferred this to rope. That thoughtfulness had not been, of course, the motivation of my captors. Rather they wished, now that my hands were not in view, to be assured as to my continued helplessness. Perhaps rope might be worked free, or slipped, somehow, unseen, beneath the surface. The metal, on the other hand, would hold me well. I did not object. I, too, were our positions reversed, would presumably have taken similar precautions. I did not know who held the key.

My head went briefly under the water, and then, coughing, I struggled again to the surface. There are many such irregularities in the bottom. Rence cut at my face. I spit water.

"Move! Pull!" I heard behind me.

I turned my head to the side, that the rope would draw against the side of my neck. I struggled to tow the small craft. It was hard to paddle now, being heavy, the rence soaked with water. I had been put before it, the rope on my neck, this morning, wading, that it need not bear my weight. In this fashion it might last another day or two.

"Hurry, pull, lazy sleen!" I heard. The bow of the craft came beside my shoulder, the rope dropping back in the water. The fellow there thrust out, striking me in the back with the paddle. I stumbled. I regained my balance. I then struggled ahead again, through the rence.

I nearly cried out. Something under the water, moving, had touched my leg.

Nearby was a barge, one of the larger craft in our makeshift flotilla, carrying perhaps fifty men. It was poled by ten men to a side, working in shifts. Some other fellows, with their helmets, cast water out of it. Other men clung to its stern.

I could not see far from the water, but there were men and small boats, rafts and such, all about.

I was not the only fellow in the water. There were many there. Most of these fellows were in long lines. In this fashion, the first fellow can mark out footing for those who follow and each man can keep his eye on the fellow before him. Too, a small craft would normally bring up the rear of such lines.

A rence craft floundered near us, settling in the water.

"Pull, sleen," ordered the man behind me.

Again I struggled to move the small craft forward.

"Had I a whip," he cried, "you would move faster!"

"Leech!" I said. "Leech!" I could feel it on my back. It was large. It may have been what had touched me in the water. I could not reach it with my chained hands.

"Help!" I heard. "Help!"

I turned about and saw a fellow several yards back, to one side, his eyes wild with horror, lift his hands. "I cannot move!" he cried. "I sink!" He had sought a shallower course. There are many such, here and there. The water there had come only to his knees. But as I watched he had sunk to his waist.

"Quicksand!" said another fellow.

A spear was extended to the first fellow and he seized it, eagerly, desperately, the water now about his neck, and was drawn free.

"Stay in line!" chided an officer.

But the fellow, I think, uttering accessions, covered with sand, needed no further encouragement. He swiftly, gratefully, took his place in one of the long lines.

The loss of men to quicksand was rare now, given the lines, in the first days in the delta over two hundred men had been lost, in one case an entire platoon. Several others, unaccounted for, may also have been victims of the treacherous sand.

"Move," called the fellow behind me.

"On my back," I said, "I can feel it! A leech! Take it off!"

"You can be covered with them, spying sleen," snarled the man, "for all I care."

"I ask that it be removed," I said.

"Do not fear," said the fellow. "They are only hungry. When they have their fill, they will drop off."

"Here is another," said a fellow wading near me, holding up its wet, half-flattened, twisting body in his hand. It was some four inches long, a half inch thick.

"There are probably a great many of them here," said the fellow, dropping it back in the water.

I shuddered.

"Do not approach the boat," warned the fellow behind me.

I shuddered again. I felt another such creature on my leg, high, in the back.

"Ho, hold!" cried a man, high on a platform, set on the bow of one of the barges. He could, from that coign of vantage, look over the rence. "There!" he cried. "A covered barge, ahead!" An officer climbed up beside him. He shaded his eyes. "Yes, lads," he called down. "A barge! Not one of ours! We are on them now!"

There were cheers, from perhaps a thousand voices.

"Forward, lads!" cried other officers. "Forward!"

Men pressed forward.

I could hear cheers from far behind me now, so swiftly had the word spread through the rence.

"There," cried the man behind me. "The pursuit draws to a close. The vengeance of Ar is at hand!"

My neck was sore.

"Now soon, sleen," gloated he, "will you see your Cosian masters beneath our blades!"

I stood unsteadily in the water. I could feel the leeches on my body, one on my back, another on my leg. Then, shuddering, I felt yet another. It was fastening itself near the first, on my back.

"Pull," ordered the fellow behind me.

Again I drew the craft forward, straining against the rope, it cutting into the side of my neck.

The sun was high overhead now.

We made little progress, it seemed, in closing the gap between ourselves and the alleged barge ahead. From time to time it was sighted again.

The men of Ar, in their boats, and wading, after a time, began to sing. The marsh echoed with their songs.

"What barge is that?" I asked, suddenly.

It, gliding by, poled by several men, seemed an apparition in the marsh. It was purple, and gilded, its bow in the graceful shape of the neck and head of a long-necked, sharp-billed gant, its stern carved to represent feathers, It had an open, golden cabin, covered with translucent golden netting. The poles propelling the craft were golden. Such a vessel made a startling, unconscionable contrast with the meanness, that wretched, ragged, numerous miscellany, of other craft about. Certainly it belonged not in the delta but in some canal or placid waterway.

"She wants to be in on the kill," said a fellow.

"She?" I said.

"Ina, Lady of Ar," said a fellow.

" 'Ina'," I said, "that could be the name of a slave." Such names, 'Ina', 'Ita', 'Tuna', 'Tula', 'Di', 'Lita' and such, are common slave names. They, and many such names, are worn by hundreds of women in bondage. Earth-girl names, such as 'Shirley', 'Linda', 'Jane', and such, are also commonly used as slave names. One girl, of course, may, from time to time, have many different names, according to the whim of her master, or masters. She is a domestic animal, to be named as the master pleases.

"That is no slave," said a fellow.

"No," laughed another, perhaps ruefully.

"That is Ina, Lady of Ar," said a man, "attached to the staff of Saphronicus, a political observer, said to be a confidant of, and to report to, the Lady Talena, of Ar, herself."

"Where is the barge of Saphronicus?" I asked.

"It is back there, somewhere, doubtless," said a man.

"Doubtless," I said.

"Other vessels pass you," said a man.

"Pull!" ordered the fellow behind me.

Again I put my weight against the rope, once more moving the sodden craft forward.