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The Submission of the Widow Cavendish

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TheLimey

TheLimey

Magistrate
This tale takes place in rural Alabama, prior to the Civil War. As such, a certain word may be found in the text.

The Limey
 
The Submission of the Widow Cavendish

Part 1 - A Day in Court. (Rural Alabama, 1859)

It was unfathomably early when I tried my horse to the hitching rail on town, but there was already signs that today was going to be the busiest this sleepy place had seen for quite some time.

The tavern on Main Street was already open, and I hurried over, managing to catch one of the last free seats in the place, even if I had to share my breakfast table with two other gentlemen, both of whom I vaguely recognized.

I doffed my hat, and simply said 'Sirs, if you don't mind my sharing with you?'

One of them nodded, whilst the second, an older Gentleman, with ornate whiskers, looked at me a moment. 'By your accent, Sir, I surmise you are the Englishman who has the holding on the far side of the creek.' The last word sounded more like he had said the word 'crick'

'Indeed I am Sir. John Richards, at your service'

'Sheriff Calhoun, Sir, and this is Nate Roberts.

I shook both their hands, then we settled down to the plates of ham and eggs that had been placed before us.

'I take it, Mr. Richards, that you are here for the trial of the widow Cavendish?'

'Naturally.' I waved a hand at the busy tavern. 'I wager that everyone else in here is as well.'

Roberts spoke up next. 'Can I ask you, Sir, what you think of the case?'

I paused, and took a sip of the coffee that was in front of me. The widow Cavendish was, like me, not from the area. Unlike me, she was a Northerner, or as they had it around here, 'a damn Yankee' She had married a local whilst he was in the army. They had settled down here, and not long after the marriage, he had died, leaving her the farm and the problems that came from being a damn Yankee in Alabama, a damn Yankee who had been caught red handed helping escaped slaves.

'Do you mean to find out if I am an abolitionist?'

Roberts started to protest, but I held up my hand. 'No sir, it is fine to ask. I do not own slaves, that is true, but I also feel that I should not force my views on my neighbours.'

In truth, I farmed enough to provide for fresh vegetables and such, but I often was away, making my living as the agent of a number of commercial concerns in Britain.

The Sheriff spoke up. 'I feel that is fair.'

The Sheriff soon made his apologies and left, understandable on that he was going to take a part in the trial today, and I left soon after. It was going to be a hot day, and I hoped I could get a seat by one of the windows on the court room.

Unfortunately, I was too late, and found that the only place I could find to sit was well out of the desultory breeze that blew in. Indeed, it was not too far from where the widow would be stood herself, in the dock.

It seemed like an age before the Judge walked into the courtroom, and after the usual rigamarole of standing, sitting and such like common to most courts the world over.

I didn't hear the announcement to bring out the prisoner, but I heard the hissing and whispering as she was walked to the dock. I wasn't certain what I was expecting, but I didn't expect to see a pretty, young brunette in the dock when I looked up.

She was, at most, in her mid twenties, and even with the rather severe black clothing they had allowed her for her court appearance, I could see that she was quite the beauty, even accounting for the slightly disheveled look of someone who had been in jail for a few days. What was noticable were the metal cuffs at her wrists, chained to each other, and to a chain that went around her corseted waist. I could not help but think what she would look like in if the chains were the only things she wore.

When asked, she gave her name, Laura Cavendish, and her age of 27, and stated that her dwelling place was the Cavendish farm, which seemed to be further down the creek from my own holding, and therefore closer to town.

There then followed a full reading of the case against her, and frankly, it was damning. Escaped slaves a female and two males had been found hiding in the barn on the Cavendish land. Mrs Cavendish had protested her innocence, that she wasn't responsible for the slaves being there, but letters had been found in the barn in Cavendish's own hand, to be used as an introduction to the next person down the line who would help get the fugitives to the coast, and then onto a ship.

Presented with the letters, Mrs Cavendish had confessed that she had helped others as well. All of this was laid out in the evidence, and as the defense had no way to rebut the confession, she was rapidly declared guilty as charged.

The Judge harrumphed his way through the evidence, pronounced that the verdict was quite simply one of guilty, and then asked Cavendish if she had anything to say before sentencing.

I sat up at this. I had seen a set to her jaw as the verdict was announced. Here was a woman going to go down swinging.

She stood, smoothed down her skirts, then started, her voice strong, with a well bred accent that suggested a good education.

'It is customary to start with words of apology, with words of contrition. It is customary to throw myself on the mercy of the Court, to appeal to your sense of Justice.'

' I will do none of that. While you all labor under the impression that a proportion of the people on this planet are nothing but chattel, and deserve to be ground under your heels, there is no justice '

The noise in the courtroom was rising, and the Judge was trying to be raise his voice over the hubbub.

"You call yourself Americans, but this is no America that I recognize. I do not recognize this court, and I do not recognize any judgement you may pass on me. I would rather be a slave than be a part of this society!'

I could see what was going to happen next. The Judge was frantically using his gavel, crying out for order, but there was going to be next to no chance of that happening. I could see one man approaching the widow in the dock, with pure malice in his eyes.

I moved quickly, interposing myself between the two of them

'Let me get to that damm n-- lover!'

'Sit down, Sir!' I replied.

'Get out of my goddammed way!. He made to grab for a knife that was sheathed at his belt, so I squared up, and laid him out with a stiff right to the jaw. He fell back, nearly falling on the Sheriff, who was coming up the aisle, a gun in his right hand.

Maybe it was the gun, maybe it was sight of me laying out a local farmer, but the court started to quieten down, and finally, after the man I had knocked down had been dragged out, the judge was able to continue.

He started down at Cavendish. 'I have never, in all my years as a judge, seen such contempt for the laws of this great state of ours. You have come into our town, like a viper into a nest, and created uproar amongst your neighbors.'

I looked at the woman, who was standing in the dock, looking pale.

'I am therefore to grant your wish.'

There were sounds of puzzlement from some of the spectators, but I knew what was coming.

'You will be treated as an escaped slave. You will be tied to the whipping post at dawn tomorrow, to wait until Noon, whereupon you will be whipped, then taken to the edge of town to ride a fence rail along the edge of the Turnpike, to serve as a warning to those who may share your unnatural thoughts. At Sunset, you will be sold to the highest bidder, to enter the life of slavery that you so richly deserve.'

The court erupted again, but I was looking at the widow Cavendish, who, wordlessly, had slumped down into the dock, in a dead faint.
 
Part 2 - An Opportunity Offered

It took sometime before the court was cleared, as, quite naturally, the sentence provoked quite the uproar again. I waited quietly, watching as the Widow was taken from the dock by the Sheriff. She looked pale, but still defiant as she was escorted out.

Once the room had cleared, I left myself, running a couple of errands I had to do in the town, hearing the townsfolk talk about the court case. The vast majority felt Cavendish was going to get what she deserved. Others clearly expressed exactly what they wanted to do with her.

I had found my thoughts turning to Mrs Cavendish myself.

I had served some time in India as an officer in the military, seconded to the East India Company. Here, I had been exposed to, and ultimately found my own interest in, the delights of a female form when subjected to degrees of sadism. The idea of the widow Cavendish being publicly whipped was quite exquisite, and I made a note that I would need to be back in good time tomorrow to get the best view of the proceedings.

I was getting a few things packed around the saddle of my horse when I noticed the Sheriff making his way over from the courthouse.

'Mr. Richards, you have my appreciation for the deed you did in the courthouse today.' His stuck out his hand and shook mine heartily.

'It was nothing, Sheriff. It is important that justice is seen to be done through the court, and not through the actions of a mob'

He looked at me and smiled. 'My sentiments exactly. I had thought you an upstanding man, and I am delighted that your actions and words match up to that.'

He paused, then carried on. 'I have been authorized by the Judge to deputize an individual to help with the proceedings tomorrow. I need someone to witness the whipping, and also to make sure no on interferes with her during the afternoon. Can I rely on you, Sir?'

I nodded my acquiescence. 'You can indeed, Sir'

'Good, then be here in the morning by 11.' I turned to mount my horse, but turned back as the Sheriff continued, 'And bring a pistol, Sir.'

I nodded again, then rode away.
 
Loinclothslave said:
Then May I be so bold as to encourage you to write one? That’s one of cruxforums main functions, to encourage erotica! I’d love to hear your story too!
Click to expand...
You may be so bold indeed Sir. I have tried my hand at expressing my erotic thoughts but I would be embarrassed to post them. I do really appreciate that you and so many others do. A concern is also that the females in my stories tend to be women about my own age and not a young woman.
 
Laura1949 said:
You may be so bold indeed Sir. I have tried my hand at expressing my erotic thoughts but I would be embarrassed to post them. I do really appreciate that you and so many others do. A concern is also that the females in my stories tend to be women about my own age and not a young woman.
Click to expand...
Age is definitely not a barrier! I bet some people would love that if only for variety’s sake. Don’t be afraid to try, I bet people would only encourage you and maybe try to help with constructive guidance if you’re willing.

I’ve never been discouraged here, even if I think I’m producing dross. Unique elements (such as older protagonists) or new ideas will be most welcomed. No pressure, though, your active contributions via commenting are also seriously welcomed! Thanks for being an active part of the forums.

If you want proofreading I’d be happy to help. And there’s better proofreaders here than me, as well. Feel free to pm me if you’re so inclined.

Just remember your input, at all levels, is highly valued.
 
TheLimey said:
The Submission of the Widow Cavendish

Part 1 - A Day in Court. (Rural Alabama, 1859)

It was unfathomably early when I tried my horse to the hitching rail on town, but there was already signs that today was going to be the busiest this sleepy place had seen for quite some time.

The tavern on Main Street was already open, and I hurried over, managing to catch one of the last free seats in the place, even if I had to share my breakfast table with two other gentlemen, both of whom I vaguely recognized.

I doffed my hat, and simply said 'Sirs, if you don't mind my sharing with you?'

One of them nodded, whilst the second, an older Gentleman, with ornate whiskers, looked at me a moment. 'By your accent, Sir, I surmise you are the Englishman who has the holding on the far side of the creek.' The last word sounded more like he had said the word 'crick'

'Indeed I am Sir. John Richards, at your service'

'Sheriff Calhoun, Sir, and this is Nate Roberts.

I shook both their hands, then we settled down to the plates of ham and eggs that had been placed before us.

'I take it, Mr. Richards, that you are here for the trial of the widow Cavendish?'

'Naturally.' I waved a hand at the busy tavern. 'I wager that everyone else in here is as well.'

Roberts spoke up next. 'Can I ask you, Sir, what you think of the case?'

I paused, and took a sip of the coffee that was in front of me. The widow Cavendish was, like me, not from the area. Unlike me, she was a Northerner, or as they had it around here, 'a damn Yankee' She had married a local whilst he was in the army. They had settled down here, and not long after the marriage, he had died, leaving her the farm and the problems that came from being a damn Yankee in Alabama, a damn Yankee who had been caught red handed helping escaped slaves.

'Do you mean to find out if I am an abolitionist?'

Roberts started to protest, but I held up my hand. 'No sir, it is fine to ask. I do not own slaves, that is true, but I also feel that I should not force my views on my neighbours.'

In truth, I farmed enough to provide for fresh vegetables and such, but I often was away, making my living as the agent of a number of commercial concerns in Britain.

The Sheriff spoke up. 'I feel that is fair.'

The Sheriff soon made his apologies and left, understandable on that he was going to take a part in the trial today, and I left soon after. It was going to be a hot day, and I hoped I could get a seat by one of the windows on the court room.

Unfortunately, I was too late, and found that the only place I could find to sit was well out of the desultory breeze that blew in. Indeed, it was not too far from where the widow would be stood herself, in the dock.

It seemed like an age before the Judge walked into the courtroom, and after the usual rigamarole of standing, sitting and such like common to most courts the world over.

I didn't hear the announcement to bring out the prisoner, but I heard the hissing and whispering as she was walked to the dock. I wasn't certain what I was expecting, but I didn't expect to see a pretty, young brunette in the dock when I looked up.

She was, at most, in her mid twenties, and even with the rather severe black clothing they had allowed her for her court appearance, I could see that she was quite the beauty, even accounting for the slightly disheveled look of someone who had been in jail for a few days. What was noticable were the metal cuffs at her wrists, chained to each other, and to a chain that went around her corseted waist. I could not help but think what she would look like in if the chains were the only things she wore.

When asked, she gave her name, Laura Cavendish, and her age of 27, and stated that her dwelling place was the Cavendish farm, which seemed to be further down the creek from my own holding, and therefore closer to town.

There then followed a full reading of the case against her, and frankly, it was damning. Escaped slaves a female and two males had been found hiding in the barn on the Cavendish land. Mrs Cavendish had protested her innocence, that she wasn't responsible for the slaves being there, but letters had been found in the barn in Cavendish's own hand, to be used as an introduction to the next person down the line who would help get the fugitives to the coast, and then onto a ship.

Presented with the letters, Mrs Cavendish had confessed that she had helped others as well. All of this was laid out in the evidence, and as the defense had no way to rebut the confession, she was rapidly declared guilty as charged.

The Judge harrumphed his way through the evidence, pronounced that the verdict was quite simply one of guilty, and then asked Cavendish if she had anything to say before sentencing.

I sat up at this. I had seen a set to her jaw as the verdict was announced. Here was a woman going to go down swinging.

She stood, smoothed down her skirts, then started, her voice strong, with a well bred accent that suggested a good education.

'It is customary to start with words of apology, with words of contrition. It is customary to throw myself on the mercy of the Court, to appeal to your sense of Justice.'

' I will do none of that. While you all labor under the impression that a proportion of the people on this planet are nothing but chattel, and deserve to be ground under your heels, there is no justice '

The noise in the courtroom was rising, and the Judge was trying to be raise his voice over the hubbub.

"You call yourself Americans, but this is no America that I recognize. I do not recognize this court, and I do not recognize any judgement you may pass on me. I would rather be a slave than be a part of this society!'

I could see what was going to happen next. The Judge was frantically using his gavel, crying out for order, but there was going to be next to no chance of that happening. I could see one man approaching the widow in the dock, with pure malice in his eyes.

I moved quickly, interposing myself between the two of them

'Let me get to that damm n-- lover!'

'Sit down, Sir!' I replied.

'Get out of my goddammed way!. He made to grab for a knife that was sheathed at his belt, so I squared up, and laid him out with a stiff right to the jaw. He fell back, nearly falling on the Sheriff, who was coming up the aisle, a gun in his right hand.

Maybe it was the gun, maybe it was sight of me laying out a local farmer, but the court started to quieten down, and finally, after the man I had knocked down had been dragged out, the judge was able to continue.

He started down at Cavendish. 'I have never, in all my years as a judge, seen such contempt for the laws of this great state of ours. You have come into our town, like a viper into a nest, and created uproar amongst your neighbors.'

I looked at the woman, who was standing in the dock, looking pale.

'I am therefore to grant your wish.'

There were sounds of puzzlement from some of the spectators, but I knew what was coming.

'You will be treated as an escaped slave. You will be tied to the whipping post at dawn tomorrow, to wait until Noon, whereupon you will be whipped, then taken to the edge of town to ride a fence rail along the edge of the Turnpike, to serve as a warning to those who may share your unnatural thoughts. At Sunset, you will be sold to the highest bidder, to enter the life of slavery that you so richly deserve.'

The court erupted again, but I was looking at the widow Cavendish, who, wordlessly, had slumped down into the dock, in a dead faint.
Click to expand...
Oh my God, I envy her. Put me in her place, fuck me all night in my cell, whip me till I bleed and again fuck me chained on the post, leave me hanging on the post bleeding and for water give me your piss. Then sell me as a slave to a brothel
 
Loinclothslave said:
Age is definitely not a barrier! I bet some people would love that if only for variety’s sake. Don’t be afraid to try, I bet people would only encourage you and maybe try to help with constructive guidance if you’re willing.

I’ve never been discouraged here, even if I think I’m producing dross. Unique elements (such as older protagonists) or new ideas will be most welcomed. No pressure, though, your active contributions via commenting are also seriously welcomed! Thanks for being an active part of the forums.

If you want proofreading I’d be happy to help. And there’s better proofreaders here than me, as well. Feel free to pm me if you’re so inclined.

Just remember your input, at all levels, is highly valued.
Click to expand...
Thanl you so much for your kind words. You have inspired me to give t a try and write a story about an older woman lke me (maybe not that old!) being subjected to a public whipping. I will PM you for advice if you don't mind.
 
lsd said:
Oh my God, I envy her. Put me in her place, fuck me all night in my cell, whip me till I bleed and again fuck me chained on the post, leave me hanging on the post bleeding and for water give me your piss. Then sell me as a slave to a brothel
Click to expand...
I will confess, this isn't where this story is going.

Now, should I do a recast, perhaps...
 
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