A whistle indicated that departure was imminent.
“Free me of this hideous impediment!” said Cornhair, shaking the coffle chain with her braceleted hands.
The girl before her put her head down, and shuddered.
The official, he earlier remarked, with the white uniform and the ringed tablet, now approached.
“We have a schedule to meet,” he said.
“You are the loading officer?” asked the first guardsman.
“Yes,” he said.
Almost at the same time another officer, in a blue uniform, that of the pier administration, approached.
The two guardsmen apparently recognized him, for both deferred to him, stepping back.
“What is going on here?” asked the newcomer.
“I gather the slave is disruptive,” said the first guardsman. “She claims not to be a slave.”
“Unfortunate,” said the man in the blue uniform.
“For the slave,” said one of the guardsmen.
“The papers on this lot are all in order,” said the fellow from Bondage Flowers. “They have been reviewed, and certified.”
“I have the certification confirmation here,” said the fellow in the white uniform.
“Then all is in order,” said the fellow in the blue uniform.
“Certainly,” said the loading officer.
“I am not a slave!” said Cornhair.
“Check with the pier officer,” suggested the fellow from Bondage Flowers.
There were then two blasts on the departure whistle.
“Hurry!” said the loading officer, anxiously.
“I am the pier officer,” said the fellow in the blue uniform.
“Sir!” begged Cornhair.
The pier officer then fixed his gaze on Cornhair.
“Sir?” she said, putting her head down.
“Are you aware,” he asked, “of the penalties for a slave impersonating a free person?”
“No, sir,” she whispered.
“It is a capital offense,” he said.
Cornhair was silent, shivering, her head down.
“I am sure,” said the pier officer, “you are intelligent, as well as beautiful. I am sure, too, you know the law, and what you are. I am now going to ask you a clear, simple question, and I require a clear, simple answer. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Cornhair.
“Think carefully,” he said. “And answer with the absolute truth.”
“Yes, sir,” said Cornhair, not daring to raise her head.
“Are you a slave?”
“—Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
The fellow in the blue uniform then turned away.
“You should be punished,” said the man from Bondage Flowers to Cornhair.
“Forgive me, Master,” she said.
“A slave,” he said, “is not a free woman. A slave should be invariably pleasing, and perfectly so.”
“Forgive me, Master,” she said.
“You called attention to yourself,” he said. “You were disruptive. You dallied, you made a nuisance of yourself, you inconvenienced free men, you delayed our departure. You told a lie, claiming to be free, when you knew better.”
“Please, forgive me, Master,” she said.
“Do you know why you are all front braceleted,” he asked, “though coffled?”
“No, Master,” she said.
“It further reminds you that you are slaves,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
She felt the key thrust into the right-hand cuff lock, and her wrist freed. “Left hand back, behind the small of your back,” said the man. With a jangle of chain Cornhair complied, and felt the opened right cuff strike against her back. A moment later, her freed right wrist was whipped behind her and locked into the dangling cuff. Her hands were then fastened behind her.
“How will I feed, Master?” she asked.
“You should all be whipped,” he said.
“Please, no, Master!” said more than one of the girls.
“Punish Cornhair, not us!” said another.
“She it was who displeased Masters!” said another.
“Leave her to us,” said a girl.
“We will attend to it,” said another.
The fellow from Bondage Flowers raised his whip.
Several of the girls tensed.
“Load, board!” pleaded the fellow in the white uniform.
The fellow from Bondage Towers looked about, and then he lowered the whip.
Time was short, the weather hot.
“Stand as slaves,” he said. “Stand beautifully. Stand as what you are, the most beautiful, exciting and desirable of women, women accepted for bondage, women found suitable for servitude, women found worthy of chains, women found fit for the great privilege and honor of wearing a Master’s collar!”
There was a rustle of chain, down the line, from the linkages, and the braceleting.
“Ah!” said more than one man about.
“May we speak, Master?” asked a slave.
“Yes,” said the fellow from Bondage Flowers.
“Are we to be coffled on the ship?”
“No,” he said.
“But braceleted?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“How are we to be kept, Master?” asked a girl.
“Will we have cells, or stalls, Master?” asked a girl.
“You will occupy a common slave bin,” he said.
“No!” cried more than one slave, in dismay.
“Do not fear,” said the man. “It will be washed down with a hose, once each ship day.”
“Whither are we bound?” asked a girl.
“You will learn in time,” he said. “Pigs need not be informed of where they will be marketed. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” she said. “Thank you, Master.”
“How will I feed, Master?” begged Cornhair, pulling at the light, but stern circlets which now confined her hands behind her back.
“If at all, as the pig you are,” said the man from Bondage Flowers.
“Board! Hurry!” called the loading officer, from some yards away, near the gantry.
“Move, move!” said the fellow from Bondage Flowers. “Onto the loading platform!”
Some of the lower hatchways had already slid shut. One remained open, at the seventh level.
The forty ankleted, coffled slaves were crowded onto the metal platform. The man from Bondage Flowers flung shut the gate.
There seemed something significant and decisive about that closure, rather as a new slave might find something significant and decisive in the snapping shut of the first collar on her neck.
There was a whirr of machinery, and the platform beneath their bared feet vibrated.
Cornhair, miserable, pulled again, futilely, frustratedly, at the close-linked metal circlets by means of which her small hands, captured, were held behind her back. These circlets, light and tasteful, even attractive, were designed for women. They are designed to be comfortable and lovely, and to enhance a woman’s beauty, rather as bracelets, anklets, armlets, necklaces, and such. They have one additional property, of course. That is to guarantee that their occupant will find herself helplessly and wholly at the mercy and disposal of others.
“Sisters!” pleaded Cornhair.
But she saw no sympathy or pity in the eyes of her fellow slaves. Perhaps they might have all been lashed, with the possible exception of herself, for her indiscretion. Had there been more time, perhaps the leather might have addressed itself in abundant, stinging admonitions to their defenseless softness. It is not unusual to punish a group of slaves for the fault of one. This keeps surprisingly good order in the pens and bins.
Sometimes the one whose indiscretion has resulted in the punishment of the group, say, its switching or lashing, is not herself punished. That is left to her sisters.
“We are not pleased with you, Cornhair,” said a girl.
“Forgive me, dear sisters,” said Cornhair.
“You may lie on your belly on the plates,” said a girl, “and wait for your superiors to finish, to see if you will be fed.”
“Have mercy,” said Cornhair, pulling helplessly at her confined wrists. “I am back-braceleted!”
“You can kneel and feed like a dog,” said a girl.
“Perhaps we will let you lick the pan, when we are finished. Perhaps there will be some gruel left. You may hope so, Cornhair,” said a girl.