Chapter 1
Africa! The dark continent! Mysterious, frightening! Home to savage wild animals and even more savage people.
Barbara fell to her knees at the edge of the sea, grateful to be on land. Behind her, on the edge of the reef she could hear the crash of waves on the reef. The crash of waves and the sounds of a ship breaking up. The screams and cries of hundreds of men drowning in the surf.
The storm had come from nowhere. One moment the ship was sailing smoothly across a calm, blue sea. Then the lookout reported a black cloud on the horizon. Like a vision from hell the cloud had rushed toward them, while sailors frantically tried to reduce sail! All was in vain! The ship heeled almost on her beam ends as the wind hit! It was instantly dark! A terrifying darkness of incessant noise and violent motion.
An unknown time later there was a sharper shock than before. With a tremendous crack the foremast bent and broke, dragging the mainmast with it. The ship heeled right over, shuddering and grinding. Sailors and soldiers ran about, some in panic, some in disciplined groups trying to save the ship.
Fatima, her maid, ran up to her carrying a wooden chicken coop, still filled with wet, squawking chickens. “Hold on to this, mistress, as if your life depends on it! It really does! Let me get you out of this!” Barbara felt something plucking at the lacings of her bodice, then the heavy fabric fell free. “Get out of this dress, mistress! It will only drag you down! Quickly!” The ship lurched sickeningly as Barbara struggled out of the heavy fabric. Clad only in her shift, she was hustled to the ship’s side by her maid. With shock she realised that the woman was naked! Completely naked!
A hard push propelled her into the sea. Waves broke over her head as she clung to the chicken coop. She had a brief impression of a slender body describing a graceful arc as her maid dived into the wild sea.
Barbara staggered up the beach. The sun blazed through a break in the clouds, warming her chilled body. With a start she realised that her sodden shift was practically transparent and clung to her body like a second skin.
Barbara Campbell was nineteen years old. Four months previously she had married Major Lord James Campbell, a career army officer and heir to an earldom. The forty five year old officer had fallen head over heels for the young redhead, captivated by her flaming red hair, creamy skin and green eyes. The fact that she was beautiful and intelligent amply made up for the fact that her family was socially far inferior to his.
Three weeks after their wedding his Regiment had been given orders for India, where the native Sepoys had mutinied. With half his battalion he had set sail, leaving his young bride in the care of the maid her had assigned to her. A few weeks later the second ship, with the rest of the troops and several officers’ wives and families had followed. It was that ship that was now disintegrating on the reef.
Along the beach she saw something floundering in the shallows. Walking toward it she realised it was Mrs Captain Curran, the elderly wife of an elderly officer who would never advance beyond the rank of captain. In the strange world of the regiment Barbara, despite her youth, had been the senior wife, treated with deference by all others, even the captain of the ship. The rather dowdy Mrs Curran had been accompanied by her two very plain daughters. The one a year older than Barbara, the other a couple of years younger. Both had hoped to find husbands out in the colonies.
The woman was weighed down by her heavy dress and coat. It was a miracle that she had not drowned. She strode over to the floundering woman, dragging her from the surf and onto the sand.
There was strength in Barbara’s slender body. She had been somewhat of a tomboy, walking, riding and climbing trees. All this had left her with rather more muscle than was fashionable. Not that that had deterred her husband. It was precisely her boyish figure as well as her beauty, which had attracted him to her.
The older woman retched salt water, too exhausted to move. There were other people moving around the beach, the few lucky ones who had survived the sea. It was with relief that Barbara saw Fatima striding along the beach, dressed now in a pair of baggy trousers and a sailor’s striped shirt. She was carrying a bundle of clothing and a midshipman’s dirk.
Fatima held out the sodden bundle, a pair of breeches and a silk shirt. “I got these from Midshipman Fraser, mistress. He doesn’t need them any more.” She gave a wry smile. “ I suggest you change now. That shift does not hide anything, and there is a group of survivors coming along the beach.”
For a moment Barbara was annoyed. By rights she should be addressed as ‘My Lady’ not mistress. Right from the start this woman had lacked the deference expected of a maid. It was the major who had hired her as her maid. Barbara suspected strongly that he knew the woman before their marriage. Knew her intimately!
“That slut of a maid is no better than she should be!” Her mother had said. “A foreigner! From some strange country in the east. Look at the way she walks! No better than a whore!” Barbara smiled. To her mother anyone from outside the county was a foreigner, and therefor suspect, but it was true that this woman came from some foreign country far to the east. Circassia or some strange name. She also had rather too much knowledge of the major’s likes and dislikes.
Before her wedding day she had remarked to Barbara while dressing her. “ The master would prefer if your armpits and your mound were hairless. Your legs also. I could wax them for you.” Barbara had never heard of removing body hair. Surely that was what nature intended? But if that was what her husband to be wanted…?
The process had been painful, but she liked the result. Fatima had left a neat, short triangle of fiery hair at her groin, trimmed well back from the vagina, but apart from that she was completely smooth. Her husband was certainly very pleased on their wedding night!
Her wedding night. She had gone into it with some trepidation. Her mother had told her that it was her duty to “let him have his way with you.” That it was an unavoidable ordeal, something that had to be endured. In truth she had enjoyed it! He was clearly very experienced. He used her slim body to their mutual pleasure, although some things were strange to her. She had grown up around animals, so knew the basics of sex. She had not been prepared for some things. Taking him in her mouth had been strange and unexpected, but after the initial shock not unpleasant. Being taken in the rear was more of an ordeal, but he was skilled and patient, and in the end it was almost enjoyable. It had become more so with practice, of which she had plenty in their short weeks together.
Barbara struggled into the breeches. They were of the finest quality, but somewhat too small. Midshipman Fraser had been only twelve years old. The material moulded to her like a second skin. The shirt could not quite close over even her small breasts, but it certainly covered more than the shift had. Mrs Curran wrinkled her nose disapprovingly. “Have you no shame, my Lady. You are exposed to the gaze of the common soldiers. No lady would wear breeches like that!”
To her surprise she found that the gathering survivors were looking to her for leadership. The only officer who had survived was a young ensign, barely more than a boy. There was a sergeant, and a petty officer from the crew, but neither of them seemed willing to take any kind of leadership role.
“We must go south,” Barbara said. “To Bagamoyo. The Captain told me about it when we passed it two days ago. There are missionaries there and it is close to Zanzibar, where we could get a ship home, or to India.”
“Mistress,” Fatima said quietly, “Bagamoyo is also known for being a base for slavers.”
“Phssst! Slavers! Why would they bother us? They prey on poor savages! Who ever heard of a white slave? In fact they have helped that nice missionary, Dr Livingstone.”
They stayed in the vicinity of the wreck for two days, collecting useful articles and food that washed ashore. Finally they started their march, forty seven men and six women, including Mrs Curran and her younger daughter, Prudence. There were also two soldier’s ‘wives’, hardened campaigners.
For two days they made good progress. The beach was firm underfoot and there were numerous streams for water. Food was scarce, but the soldier’s wives were experts at foraging and managed to find sufficient to stave of starvation. The sun beat down on them. Many had only scant clothing. Prudence had only her shift, but her mother gave her her heavy woollen coat. This was soon discarded. At first the men gazed hungrily at her young body, but soon all were too tired to care.
Barbara trudged through the sand. Ahead of her Fatima was walking strongly, her buttocks moving invitingly under the loose trousers, her full breasts moved in time with her stride. Barbara took a sidelong look at Ensign Lacey. He seemed hypnotised by Fatima’s buttocks.
Her mind wandered back to those early days of her marriage. She had wanted to ask her mother about her husband’s desires, but the old lady brushed her off. “It is not something a decent woman discusses, girl. Not ever!”
On the third morning of her married life Fatima had given her a small bottle of fragrant oil. “You may want to apply that to your behind before going to the master’s bed tonight. It will make it easier, and more pleasant for both of you. It is a recipe my mother gave me in the…” She said no more.
“Fatima! What do you mean I should apply this to my bottom? Why would I want to?”
Fatima sighed. “I assume the master is buggering you. He would be a fool not to. If you lubricate your arsehole with that oil he will find it easier to enter you and you will find it more pleasant. It is something I learnt as a girl. It seems your mother has not done her duty in training you for your duties as a wife.”
“My mother told me nothing,” Barbara said softly. “All she said was that submitting to my husband’s carnal lusts was a cross I had to bear as a wife.” Barbara was silent for a while.
“Buggery,” she finally said, “buggery? Is that not a crime, and a mortal sin? Do they not flog the soldiers for that?”
“Buggery, mistress,” Fatima sighed, “is when a man sticks his cock into your arse. You have the body of a boy, in many ways, so it is natural that you will be used like one. Where I come from it is entirely normal for both boys and women to be used that way. You English!” She spat in disgust.
She was thirsty; it had been a long time since they had found a usable stream. At least the sun was dropping toward the horizon. Soon it would be night.
Nights! Far from her wifely duties being a hardship that had to be borne with resigned stoicism, Barbara found herself thinking of nothing else. Her husband played her body like a fine musical instrument, leaving her spent and gasping, but at the same time begging for more.
Not that he confined their activities to the bedroom at night. She well remembered the day in the stables when he had said softly, “I want your mouth. Now!”
She had looked questioningly at him, her eyes flicking in the direction of the groom mucking out the bedding three stalls away. All he did was nod. She felt the wetness flood her loins as she opened his trousers and took him in her mouth. She thought he would never reach his climax as she tried not to gurgle or choke at the fat meat in her throat. She swallowed the last of his seed and regained her feet just as the groom came over to ask a question of her husband.
He seemed to give her a strange look, but went away to carry on his work. Smiling, her husband used a finger to lift a large blob of semen from her chin, feeding it to her.
She clung to him, giggling hysterically.
The sun plunged to the horizon. The survivors dug holes in the soft, warm sand of the beach for shelter. They had learned that the insects did not come so close to the sea. She slept, cuddled up to Fatima, their bodies pressed close in the chill of early morning.
The sea was like a sheet of beaten copper as they started their day’s march. On the horizon they could see the shark fin silhouettes of local boats. They all prayed for the sight of square sails, for those sails would announce a European ship.
The sun was not far above the horizon when they heard the sounds. A mournful chant was carried on the breeze.
“Praise be unto the Lord!” Mrs Curran exclaimed. “We must be near a church, with a funeral in progress. There must be missionaries near! We are saved!”
Fatima shook her head. “No! We must hide. Quickly! Hide!”
“Be quiet, you stupid girl!” Mrs Curran growled. “Look! Horsemen. Only white men ride horses.” She cupped her hands around her mouth, “Helloooo! Helloooo! Help us. We are white people!”
The horsemen turned toward them.