His wife was in her middle years, too, a properly plump matron with a round face and a pale complexion, with fair, greying hair under her Turk-style head covering. She was forced to watch her husband burn, before they made him watch her suffer. They stripped her, found her too round and withered to rape in a chorus of catcalls and boos, so she was slit open, belly and womb, and filled with searing-hot hearthstones.
The youngest son, who'd traveled with them to safe Venetian Spalato, on a safe Venetian ship, was about twelve. The pirates sliced his genitals off, then took him by wrists and ankles and heave-hoed him in the air- once, twice and thrice-and caught him on the points of a dozen swords.
Lewrie was forced to watch, seated like visiting royalty on one of the logs near the central fire-with Dragan Mlavic his regal host to his right-defenceless and closely watched by two Serbs at his back.
Mister Howse was already on his knees, spewing and weeping, but straddled by an angel-faced teenage pirate who kept pulling his head up so he must watch their entertainment through raging, howling tears.
Leutnant Kolodzcy sat erect, his nostrils pinched and his eyes slit, but giving no sign that this spectacle affected him. Spendlove was to his left, clutching his stomach, a hand to his mouth, his every breath a rasping sob. "Albanians," Kolodzcy whispered as the next victims were led in, knowing them by their desperate pleas.
Husband and wife, both young this time… a dark-haired son in his sixth or seventh year, a nursing infant in the woman's arms. Not for long, though. Pleads and prayers turned to shrieks as they tore the babe away, dashed its brains out on a rock, eviscerated it and discarded it in the leaping flames of the main fire, raising a great howl of victory… of revenge, which drowned its mother's disbelieving wail. She was worth raping, so they took her, a half dozen of them, in front of husband and surviving son. "Have Serb baby now, da?" Mlavic chortled, nudging Lewrie once more like a racetrack tout. "Keep to see… take baby, raise a Serb. Alive that long, then…" He shrugged. "Boy baby. Greet him… 'Hail, little avenger of Kossovo,' ahaha! Grow up, be Serb warrior."
"You're a dead man, Mlavic," Lewrie hissed, turning his head to glare at his merry host. "Swear t'Christ, you're a dead man!" He would have said more, but a guard behind him laid hold of his head to turn it back to the "games." "All our ships will hunt you down…"
The young Albanian lad leaped on the first Serb to rise from his rape, as he was retying his trousers. A full dozen infuriated pirates sprang up to rescue their comrade-and beat or slice the boy to bloody offal, while the brutal rape went on and on, another dozen queuing up for their turn on her.
The father-howling and out of his mind with grief-was stripped of his trousers, shoved facedown and spread-eagled. A man with a wood-chopping axe stepped forward, prancing round his victim to the catcalls and approving whistles of the crowd. Standing on the husband's pinioned shoulders, he raised his axe, teased the crowd with a practice swing or two-he knew what played well with this audience-and hacked the heavy axe-head into the crack of the man's buttocks, splitting him open as high as his waist. They pegged him down after that- so he could bleed, and scream… and beg for death as a mercy.
But there would be no mercy. They let him lie, finding it very funny, and moved on to other amusements. There were shouts from the discontented, so Mlavic called an order, and more women were dragged into the fire circle. Two of them in the front were flung to the dirt, their dresses thrown up, and assaulted right off, so the men in line didn't have so long to wait on the gibbering-mad Albanian woman.
"Dhey choose," Kolodzcy whispered from the side of his mouth, just loud enough to hear. "Cull de old, ugly… for murder. Odders, Mlavic says to auction off, vatch-against-vatch, gunners, sail-tenders… mates. Or indiwiduals, heff dhey enough plunder. Dhose vill liff a few hours more."
"I'll kill the sonofabitch!" Lewrie grated, though his vow came out more a strangled sob. "If it's the last thing I do, swear t'God I will. Never seen such a… never dreamed people could…"
"Ve match high cards, sir," Kolozcy muttered, his cheeks aflame in a face gone a pasty, deathly white. "Vinner hess pleasure."
"Do we get near cards again…" Lewrie whispered bleakly. By this point, he doubted Mlavic wished a single living witness. Was he saving them for last? Could he be that stupid, to think that sometime before midnight Knolles wouldn't send a boat ashore to find out what was keeping them? Was Mlavic hoping for that, so he'd have even more hostages to bargain his way out with? Andrews, Midshipman Hyde, eight or nine hands off the cutter, too? Knolles might waver, once. But if Mlavic threatened to keep his prisoners even longer, sail away, still holding them… didn't he know that Knolles would inform Charlton, and the squadron would hunt them down and destroy them? Or was he capable of thinking that far ahead; thinking at all? "Drink, Captain!" Mlavic hooted. "Be too pale! Brandy bring colour to cheeks, ahahah. Drink… Dragan order! Good show? Like my games? You live, you tell world Serbs fight holy fight. Drink. Or Mirko cut you… a little," he wheedled, looking back at a guard.
One of the silver chalices was shoved into his nerveless hand, some brandy sloshed into it, over it, onto his breeches. He gagged as he looked into it, feeling the keen razors-edge of a knife beside his throat; seeing his wavering reflection so filled with fear; seeing for the first time how craven and helpless he looked, no matter his fight to mask it.
And, admitting to himself for the first time that he was about to completely unman himself, should they turn their attentions to him; sure he'd scream, grovel, plead, curse God then beseech Him. Offer up wife, children, good friends, anybody but himself for a minute more… "Drink, Captain. Is good for you." Mlavic snickered. "To your death, Mlavic," he said, though turning to bestow on that hulking hirsute brute a glare that could have slain all by itself. "To your long, slow, agonising death… soon," he hissed; then drank.
God! he prayed. Don't hear much from me, do Ya? Just help me kill him, let me stick a knife in the bastard and know I've sent him t'Hell, that's all I ask. Ev'ry last mother-son of 'em! That's holy, ain't it? He means t'kill me first, though… can Ya help me go like a gentleman? Spit in their faces? Not shit my breeches?
He took another sip. It seemed to calm his shudders. He took a third, then a deep, quaking breath; found the wherewithal not to cry out or flinch when Mlavic clapped a huge paw on his shoulder, laughing at him and thinking him thoroughly cowed.
"Good, good!" Mlavic cruelly teased. "Make new man. We sell women now. You want buy woman, ahaha? We sell you. But cost much guineas!"
"Fuck you," Lewrie said with a snarl, through a taut, deadly grin. "Go fuck yourself… with bloody bells on!"
Kolodzcy coached from the far side, actually blushing! "Ah, aye… the Serb way, thankee," Lewrie jeered, turning to Mlavic once more. "Fuck your mother. Or did the monkeys wear her out?"
"Brandy good for you, have much courage," Mlavic cooed, not the slightest bit insulted. "You may die well! 'Blood-ey bells on,' hah. I like!" So did Mirko and the other guards, once he'd passed it on.
"Doing it again, sir. Rowing people, when you shouldn't. Like that time on the beach at Toulon?" Spendlove warned.
"Can't help it, Mister Spendlove," Alan confessed. "When it's all I have left, I like insulting people."