Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 12

Chapter 12

The rain had ceased, the tent was hot and steamy. One of the slave minders had fastened back the entrance flaps, bathing everything in bright sunlight. A slave, polishing the vet’s tools, hummed Black Muddy Shore – a favourite melody from my childhood. A tear, neither of sorrow nor joy, trickled down my cheek.

A tall figure was silhouetted by the tent flaps – she was no more than a black shape in the glare, but – with a sinking heart – I recognised her as Rosa. When she appeared, a mother and baby departed, not to return. I knew instantly that she had come for me; no mother had been here for longer than I had. The next thing would be for the vet to administer some medicine to Tuerquelle – it happened every time.

“Ah, Rosa,” the vet said brightly. “I’ll just give the baby her draught.”

Rosa nodded impassively, but made no remark. The vet hunted through her bottles, selecting – as I knew that she would – the blue one with the yellow label. Approaching, she applied the flask to Tuerquelle’s lips. My daughter coughed, spluttered and then was asleep.

Without a word, Rosa nodded in the direction of the tent flap. It was as clear as a spoken command so, picking up Tuerquelle, I followed her. Several weeks had passed since I’d been outside, my legs wobbled as I stepped. Although sunny, it was less warm than I expected – I clasped Tuerquelle more closely.

Without glancing back in my direction, Rosa stepped briskly. I broke into a trot to keep up with her. Our way took us through a company of laughing warrior girls, their spear tips and breast plates gleaming in the bright sunshine. I was worried that Tuerquelle might be hurt in brushing their sharp weapons – and concerned, too, lest I lose Rosa in the crowd.

“Make way for mummy slave!” shouted a sergeant.

“Just look at Berenice’s milk bottles!” a soldier said, laughing.

Her companions joined the laughter. It was not until later in the day that I thought to connect the remark with Berenice Blackheart’s reputation for drinking nothing but slaves’ milk. As yet, it hadn’t occurred to me that anyone but Tuerquelle might drink mine. Spears, swords and daggers were removed from our way, but following Rosa was taking all of my concentration.

Beyond the soldiery, I was just in time to see Rosa turn sharp left without a glance in our direction. Breaking into a run, I followed her into a narrow alleyway in this city of tents. She strode straight towards the tent at the end of the alley. Slowing my pace, at last, I followed her through the flaps.

Leaning on a stout post by the entrance, I was glad to rest. The hurried journey across the camp had tired me. Apart from the post, the only furnishing was a work bench on the far side of the tent, littered with objects I couldn’t identify. A woman in a white coat smiled at us – I took her for a vet.

“This must be Tuerquelle,” she said, glancing at a sheet of paper.

I opened my mouth to speak, but – realising that the question was not directed to me – said nothing. By way of response, Rosa merely nodded. She in the white coat reached out to take my baby. Supposing this to be a further medical check, I placed Tuerquelle in the woman’s arms.

Rosa produced a length of slender chain, ran it through the rings of my bracelets and secured it to the post against which I had been leaning. The last time I had been held in such a way had been as a torment subject. The natural assumption was that I was about to be whipped. I braced myself for the first lash, but it failed to land.

Opening my eyes to look about, I saw that neither woman had a whip – and neither was paying me any attention. Tuerquelle whimpered and then yelled – in spite of the drugs. I struggled to see what the white coated woman was doing to my baby, but could make nothing of it. Alarmed, now, I was shouting – although I’ve no idea what my words were – and pulled at the bracelets until my wrists started to bleed.

Rosa held me – presumably to restrain my violence. I found myself weeping in her arms. She stroked my hair with unexpected tenderness. My mouth was filled with the salty taste of blood.

She in the white coat spoke to me for the first time. “Don’t worry, dear, I’m just tattooing Tuerquelle with her name and number. We don’t brand babies. Still – always best to restrain the mother.”

Tuerquelle’s cries had subsided, once more, into whimpering. Shying away, now, from my daughter’s discomfort I thought – for the first time – on Whipfelle’s slave mark. It had a very different look from my brand, and those of my fellow bondlings. I had found it curiously pretty. She must have been tattooed in her infancy.

“I’m all right now,” I said. “I won’t make a fuss, but please can I comfort my daughter as you work?”

“OK,” the tattooist replied. “Bredders[1] hold their babies to their breasts as I work – so why not you? But no funny business.”

Rosa unlocked my chain. Without pausing to rub my sore wrists, I hurried to take Tuerquelle and place her on my breast. The tattooist continued with her work, my daughter clamped her jaws hard upon my nipple but showed no other sign of discomfort. Slowly, the letters of Tuerquelle took shape followed by Berenice Blackheart’s sign and the number 23474.

Could Berenice’s slaves really have had as many as twenty-three and a half thousand babies? I was astonished by the number until I realised that it must include the former persons enslaved by Berenice and her troops. With this reflection, I was surprised that the total wasn’t larger. Perhaps some of Berenice’s subordinates enslaved under their own marks[2].

“Good girl, Tuerqui,” the tattooist said. “It’s always much easier for me – and for baby – when the mother helps. Mostly, they won’t – apart from the bredders, of course. The others can cut up very rough – that’s why we have to chain them.”

The work was done at last. Tuerquelle was sucking happily, almost asleep, with no sign of distress. I gazed upon her tattoo, surprised to find myself pleased by it – even proud. It was perfect in almost the same way as her tiny hands and feet.

Lifting my eyes from Tuerquelle’s thigh, I saw that Rosa was tossing her head in the direction of the tent flaps. Tenderly enfolding my daughter, I rose to my feet. I took a pace toward the exit before turning to smile at the tattooist. She smiled back, it would have been lovely to kiss her.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Thank you, Tuerqui… I wish… Well, apart from the bredders, you’re the first mother to thank me – ever.”

I broadened my smile, then hurried after Rosa. She waited at the end of the tented alleyway regarding me with an expression I couldn’t read. Against my expectations she didn’t stride away immediately. Even more unexpectedly, she spoke to me.

“I hope you didn’t scrape your wrists too badly.”

“Uh, Rosa, you…” I was going to add the word spoke, but it seemed a stupid thing to say. “That is, not too badly, thank you – they’ll mend soon enough and…”

Already she was striding away and I had to run to catch up. Our way took us past a chain of perhaps fifty untrimmed he-slaves tended by warrior girls, rather than by drivers. One of the soldiers poked at a lad’s genitals with an empty scabbard while her companions roared with laughter – even the sergeant, whose duty was surely to halt the unseemly display. Rosa strode onwards without seeming to notice the troops or their charges.

We crossed one of the main thoroughfares of the camp just ahead of a troop of cavalry. The girls and their horses were alike bedecked with splendid white and scarlet plumes; their armour gleamed in the sunshine. Mud, churned by the passage of oxen and heavy carts oozed between my toes. The smell suggested that beast muck was mingled with the mud, and both Rosa and I paused to wipe our feet on the grass at the far side of the road.

Again, I was surprised when she broke her silence: “That’s why I try to avoid the main roads. Bloody cattle.”

“Yes – it’s horrible – you’d think…” my voice trailed off – Rosa was already striding rapidly down the side street.

Tightening my grip on Tuerquelle, I trotted after the slave minder. Without a glance in my direction, Rosa turned left, then right, then left again until our zigzag course brought us to a long low tent. Inside, about sixty female slaves – each accompanied by a child or two – worked on a variety of tasks. The children ranged in age from infancy to perhaps seven or eight.

A woman with untidy hair said: “Bit of a whiff of cow’s doo-dah, lovey. Wipe yer feet outside, there’s a good girl. You can leave babby with me fo’ a minute.”

Reluctantly handing Tuerquelle to her, I paused until certain that she was holding my daughter properly. Then, stepping outside, I sat down and took fistfuls of grass to my feet – this time carefully cleaning between the toes. Rosa’s haste had not permitted me do so at the cross roads. I suppose that she failed to take into account that my bare feet took longer to clean than the soles of her boots – or that my hands were occupied with a baby.

Satisfied, at last, that my feet were properly clean, I re-entered the tent. To my relief, she with the untidy hair handed Tuerquelle back to me immediately. After the session with the tattooist, I was more than usually anxious for my daughter’s well being. She stirred as I took her, but didn’t awake.

“Me name’s Katie,” said she in want of a comb, “and I’m in charge ’ere. Work ’ard and be’ave and we’ll ’ave no need fo’ unpleasantness. Savvy, ducky?”

“Yes, mistress, I understand.”

She was not, of course, my mistress – but experience suggested that most overseers like to be addressed as such. Katie’s approving smile made it clear that she was no exception. I curtsied and her smile grew broader. It gave me much gratification to have the measure of my chief overseer so quickly.

“There’s a good girly. You must be Tuerqui – and the kiddie’s Tuerquelle.”

“Yes, mistress,” I curtsied again.

“’Ow old are yer, love?”

“Twenty, mistress…” Then, realising that a birthday must have passed unnoticed in the antenatal tent, “…no, twenty-one – sorry mistress.”

“Not too good when it comes to reckonin’ numbers, eh? Not too much between yer ears I da’say. Don’t worry, lovey – I likes air ’eads – a lot less trouble all round.”

“Yes, mistress,” curtsying for a third time, but starting to wonder whether I was laying it on too thick.

There had been a time when I would have instantly and indignantly denied the slur on my intelligence. More than a year in slavery, however, had taught me a great deal of worldly wisdom. I felt certain that slaves in this tent perceived as intelligent would be watched more sharply and punished more harshly. Fortunately, from a slave’s selfish point of view, few overseers are sufficiently clever to avoid being manipulated by their charges – although, of course, I realise that this is unfortunate for the state in general.

“That’s nice, Duck. What’s yer trade?”

The question puzzled me. I thought of trade in terms of trading goods for money, merchandise or services. The last things I’d had for possible trade were fragments of bone and pebbles suitable for calendar bones – during my time as a torment subject. Merchants traded, not slaves.

“I’m sorry mistress – I’m just a slave – I don’t have anything to trade.”

“Oh give me strength! You really are dim… What I meant was… Oh, never mind, I’ll look at yer chitty.”

She started to rummage through the clutter of papers that littered her table. I could see the presumable object of her search – my slave transfer docket which Rosa had given her. For a moment, I considered pointing it out, but decided that it would be better if she didn’t suspect that I could read. Eventually she found the document without any help.

“Ah! It ’as yer trade down as a whip maker. Is that right, sweetie?”

“Yes mistress, I made whips for Cap’n Gentle – and in the antenatal tent.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what a cap on a genital is, but there’s always call for whips. I can certainly use yer… Karen!”

The person who answered to the name had a scar running from her right eye socket to her lip. She wore the star-shaped badge of a Surrey war veteran. My first impression was of a woman several years older than me. Later, I decided that she was two or three years my junior.

“This is Tuerqui – with little Tuerquelle,” Katie introduced us. “You’re to set ’er making whips. She ain’t too bright, so don’t expect much trouble.”

“Suits me missus. Tuerquelle – that’s got to be ’er first – an’ she looks a bit young t’ be in ’ere.”

“Summat wrong with ’er downstairs as well as up, I da’say. Not our business, anyways.”

Karen’s remark seemed to make sense – most of the slaves in the tent were clearly a lot older than me. Katie’s response was more puzzling, but it would not take me long to discover what she meant. This tent was devoted to mothers who were not expected to have another child, but were still lactating. The only slave younger than me bore on her thigh the name Giggli.

She might have once been well named, but was so no longer. Her baby had died and so – very nearly – had she. With plenty of milk, but no child, she had been given another baby to nurse. While she clearly loved her foster daughter, Juicelle, tears were never far from her eyes.

Inspired more by compassion than desire, I embraced Giggli on my first night in the tent. She cried on my shoulder while I kissed her hair tenderly. Slowly the kisses descended to her forehead, eyelids, nose and finally lips. The display of affection was becoming more sensuous, but still our mouths remained shut.

“A pair of lovers – how very pretty,” the voice was unexpectedly near.

Startled, I turned to look into Karen’s eyes. Standing directly over us, her expression seemed to convey only lust. Ordinarily, I might have desired Karen in spite of her scar – she had long blonde hair, a pleasing figure and a face that was still almost pretty. This, however, was not ordinarily.

“If you two will just ease over a bit,” she said, “I’m sure there’s room for me in the middle.”

She was not someone a slave disobeyed – we moved over, and the pleasuring commenced. There wasn’t much pleasure in it for me, though. Karen fingered me, but everything she did hurt horribly. I’m pretty sure that she didn’t mean to inflict pain; was almost certainly unaware that she was doing so; indeed, wouldn’t have hurt me had Tuerquelle’s birth been easier.

That was the first of many couplings with the overseer. Subsequently – as I healed – they were more pleasant, but I never felt happy in lying with Karen. I suppose that was because at least a ghost of memory of our first time always intruded. Pleasing other overseers was more enjoyable – and Giggly became a genuine delight.

Apart from Giggly, the slaves with whom I had most to do were my fellow whip makers. All were much older than me, but I became close friends with most of them – especially Fundafice and Dusqui, both bondlings. Best of all, however, was a catter called Spanquelle who acted as mother to us all. When any of us needed comfort, it was to her we turned.

Karen’s scar, she boasted, was received at Abben Don, serving with Berenice’s third regiment of foot. Having witnessed the battle[3], the boast made me shudder. I felt a little better when another overseer told me that she had not served as a soldier but as a cookhouse overseer. Some said that the scar was the result of a fight over a game of calendar bones, others that it was the result of a jealous love triangle.

Even more disturbing – I was astonished to see, for the first time, slaves being milked. The full implications of Berenice drinking nothing but slave’s milk had not previously occurred to me. I watched, trembling, supposing that my breasts were about to be manipulated – and Tuerquelle’s milk squirted into a bowl. However, I was not milked on the first day, nor on the next.

In fact, I think that three weeks may have passed before the milk maid treated me as she did my fellow slaves. Having formed the idea that I was exempt from such undignified treatment, it came as a shock when she seized my breasts. Mingled with my outrage was alarm – my breasts had become swollen and painful. However, her skilled fingers didn’t hurt and, to my surprise, relieved my discomfort.

The explanation lay in our dietary supplements. They both prolonged and lactation and increased milk yield. As I produced more milk than Tuerquelle could drink, the swelling and pain increased. Soon, I needed another change of harness – and Lewis Ironhand could no longer have considered my breasts too small.

By listening carefully to overseers’ conversations – unguarded because I was considered stupid – I gathered that increasing lactation was prompted by other considerations than Berenice’s insistence on slave milk. It was considered that slave children should be weaned very late: the spices to ensure docility and other slave virtues were most effective when administered in mothers’ milk. I wondered why the milk did not have the same effect on Berenice – a matter beyond my understanding[4]. Tuerquelle was certainly very docile and, if it came to that, I had very little impulse to rebel.

Being milked confirmed my status as a domestic animal – and the little rebellion remaining within me found this difficult to accept. That is not to say that I attempted to resist – which was unthinkable. But the difficulty in accepting my milking was manifest in an inner turmoil which marred even my joy in Tuerquelle. No doubt Whipfelle would have said you bondlings worry too much – and she would have been right.

Tuerquelle was my great consolation. She was astonishingly well behaved, clearly happy and perfect in every feature. I loved her with something approaching desperation. There was solace for me in seeing that my daughter had an acceptance and inner calm akin to Whipfelle’s.

She learned to walk and talk. She turned slowly from a baby into a little girl. She received her first harness. It was a rite of passage.

We remained together, she and I, for three years – and two thirds of the fourth. Towards the end of that time, I knew that she would soon be weaned. The flow of my milk was decreasing. No doubt, my dietary supplements were being changed.

Nothing prepared me for the moment of parting – and perhaps nothing could have done so. Indeed, there was reason to think that we would remain together after Tuerquelle’s weaning. Those of us with sufficient skill remained with their children to pass on their trades. My whips were as good as the leather permitted and it seemed certain that I would be called upon to teach Tuerquelle skills for which there was always a demand.

As the days lengthened, and Windrush YD 729 became Drizzlemoon, I was content with my lot. Now, I scarcely heeded my milking – it had come to seem natural. Tuerquelle was rather more than three and a half, not yet weaned. I was nearly twenty-four and three quarters – as yet unaware of the course of history shaping beyond the confines of our tent.

One afternoon, a muscular pack slave placed a cask of wine on Katie’s table. It was not, of course, for we nursing mothers – but our overseers lost little time in descending into drunkenness. I wondered what was going on – Berenice never drank alcohol, and didn’t usually encourage her subordinates to do so. A foreboding began to cloud my happiness, sensing that something so far from the normal routine could signify nothing good.

When the overseers’ talk solved the mystery, it seemed to have nothing to do with me. Vanessa Venom, Berenice and Nadine Next’s chief enemy in the Nine, had died[5]. Sylvia Sneak, a supporter of Berenice and Nadine, had been elected in her place. This left our mistress in a much more powerful position – and she had much to celebrate.

The following day I learnt that some of Berenice’s bondlings had taken advantage of their overseers’ drunkenness to attempt an escape. Of course, none of them were from our tent – but I was amongst those sent to witness the punishment of a slave boy. Proceedings started with a lady in a dark blue robe lecturing us on the morality of the matter. She said that when slaves absconded, they were stealing their mistresses’ property – then continued at length on the wickedness of theft and virtues of obedience.

The lecture complete, there followed the most thorough whipping I had ever seen. When the whips were laid aside, I thought that, perhaps, his punishment was done – but it proved only the first stage. The climax was a very slow and clearly extremely painful removal of his entire genital organs. It would have been a relief to avert my eyes, but we had been ordered not to do so, and none of us cared to disobey.

While it was, and remains, my belief that slave boys should always be trimmed – there is a world of difference between a quick, merciful excision and the torture I witnessed that day. My only comfort was that Tuerquelle was not required to be present. Only bondlings had to observe the punishment. Not only would a catter not abscond – but most, like Whipfelle, would not wish to accept personage were it offered to them.

Two days later, working at our whips, Spanquelle said: “Henrietta Heartless is back in the camp.”

“How do you know?” Fundafice asked.

“Cheryl the milkmaid told me. She’s seen Henrietta – demanding a breakdown of milk yields, or some such. It doesn’t bode well for us.”

Preferring not to contemplate what Henrietta’s presence meant for us, I said: “I suppose the bitch is back because Berenice spent too much on Sylvia Sneak’s election.”

“Well – obviously,” said Fansibelle, “and I don’t expect Vanessa Venom’s death came cheap[6]. But what I want to know is how’s Henrietta going to make our lives miserable this time? If you ask me, some of us will be off to auction.”

“I didn’t hear anyone ask you,” said Dusqui, “and I was glad when Tuerqui changed the subject.”

“Closing your eyes won’t make it no better,” Fansibelle muttered.

Three days later, an overseer I hadn’t previously seen spent half the day in our tent. She observed our working and our milking – and made notes in a large red book. A week later, Henrietta Heartless appeared with what seemed to be the same book and spent twenty minutes or half an hour with us. She seated herself at Katie’s table, with Katie standing to her left.

“Fliti,” Henrietta said, glancing at the open page.

“Fliti!” repeated Katie “up here for her ladyship’s inspection!”

Fliti hurried to the table. Henrietta gave her a cursory glance and scribbled something. Then she said another name, Katie repeated it, and a second slave hurried forward. So the process continued – I think we were being called in the order that we had arrived in the tent – most of the slaves received Henrietta’s brief inspection before my turn came.

At last, Henrietta said: “Tuerqui.”

Katie called: “Tuerqui! Hurry it up!”

I hurried to the table. For just a second or two, I felt Henrietta’s cold appraising stare. Then she made a hurried note, undoubtedly settling my fate – be it personage or the blesh butcher. My hands trembled when I returned to the whip making.

For the next two weeks, everything in our tent returned to normal: perhaps Henrietta had decided to make no changes to the way we lived. I told myself that was quite possible – surely Berenice made a reasonable profit from our occupations. And, even if the others were to be affected, why shouldn’t I be secure? There was always a demand for whips.

When a messenger came to summon a dozen of us from the tent, I assumed – or perhaps merely hoped – that we were being taken to the vet. It wasn’t uncommon for us to be inspected. Henrietta knew that an unhealthy slave is an inefficient slave. Veterinary examinations soon pay for themselves.

I left the tent for the last time, believing that I would be back within the hour. Perhaps it was better thus – at least my joy in Tuerquelle remained unclouded till the end. All the same, I would have preferred parting from her with more than a hasty kiss and half a dozen words. It was to be a long time before I saw my daughter again.

“Mummy’s got to go now, darling,” was all I said.

The messenger handed us to the care of itchy-handed overseers – too ready with their whips. At first, they seemed more nervous than we slaves. Then it was clear than we were passing the familiar veterinary tent – and that this was no check on our health. Turning a corner, we halted to join a queue at the flaps of an emerald green structure I hadn’t seen before.

The green silky fabric could only house a person too important to do us any good, and but one name suggested itself. My fellow slaves were obviously as nervous I was, one or two them were sobbing. Our overseers hurried back the way we had come, leaving us in the charge of two guards identically armed. Each had a sheathed sword, a halberd in her left hand and a whip – ready for use – in her right.

Fixing upon Tuerquelle in rising panic, I had an almost uncontrollable impulse to run back to her. However, return was clearly impossible – not only were our guards well armed, but there were plenty of other soldiers and overseers about. Nor had I forgotten the fate of the poor would-be runaway slave boy, and preferred not to discover what would happen to a she-slave. I remained with the other slaves, shuffling slowly towards the tent, as fresh arrivals took their places behind me.

The sun was shining, but a large bank of cloud was approaching, borne on a stiff breeze. I shifted my foot to avoid a primrose which was faring better than the trampled grass. Overhead, small but noisy birds were mobbing a hawk. One of our guards flicked her whip in my general direction, but it didn’t make contact.

[1] Bredder: One bred into slavery. The meaning is similar to catter, but was a word used by persons and having no pejorative sense. Bredders made the best slaves and were valued by slave owners. Another difference between catter and bredder is that the former included those enslaved as children, the latter did not.

[2] It was exactly so. During the White Isle campaign (Glarehaze-Thunderhead YD725) Berenice’s troops enslaved over thirty thousand persons – but only about twelve hundred of them were enslaved under Berenice’s mark. Tuerquelle must have been tattooed just after that campaign.

[3] See Chapter 7, where – for whatever reason – Tuerqui does not identify it as the Battle of Abben Don.

[4] Numerous sources aver that Berenice’s chief reason for drinking slave milk was to quiet a fury which might otherwise have led to a fatal heart attack. According to Berenice’s admirers this fury was the result of her having the soul imperial. According to her enemies, it was the consequence of drugs she took. The matter is discussed in any of the major biographies of Berenice, and need not concern us here.

[5] In fact, at the behest of Berenice and Nadine, Vanessa Venom had been slowly torn to pieces and her flesh fed to slaves. This put the remaining six of the Nine into such fear that there was insufficient opposition to prevent the election of Sylvia Sneak, Berenice and Nadine’s puppet. It also created a conflict within the Nine that would lead to the fall of the Surrey Democracy.

[6] Fansibelle was exactly right. It seems that Berenice took the entire expense of killing Vanessa. Sylvia Sneak was not wealthy by the standards of Surrey politics and was able to fund only a little of the bribery and intimidation necessary for her election – leaving most of the expense to Berenice and Nadine. The accounts of both women survive and make it seem that Berenice paid about twice as much as Nadine. This is, however, misleading as Nadine and Berenice had different accounting practices. Berenice’s election accounts, for example, do not include the use of her own troops – Nadine’s do include this expense. It is likely that Berenice paid three or four times as much as Nadine. Sylvia Sneak’s shortage of money was one of the factors to facilitate her acting as Berenice and Nadine’s puppet. She lacked the financial means to act independently.

For chapter 13 click
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2007/01/of-bondlings-and-blesh-chapter-13.html