It was the whipping that the white woman remembered now, as she gazed out over the vast empty chasm below her. That was what his question brought to mind. The beginning.

She was seated on a precipice of weathered stone, overlooking a lush, but rugged river canyon. The sun was setting and a pale, thin sliver of moon still hung in the western sky. The heat of the day clung to the rock, turning the evening air balmy.

She felt a rustle and heard the man sit on the rock behind her. He had been made curious but not angry by her failure to immediately answer his question.

“Tell me,” he breathed.

She was puzzled. Most of it he already knew. Even so, she realized without shame, she wanted to tell him the tale. She had known loneliness, but not now. Not with him. Always he demanded that they share every intimacy and her story bespoke of who she was at the deepest levels of her being, then and now.   

It was the whipping, she thought again, nodding to herself. A horrible, barbaric sight that had stunned the sheltered and proper, young Victorian woman who had witnessed it. Being in truth one of her first real encounters with Africa, it seemed to mark the day her life turned from the course of a normal, chaste, settler’s wife of devout Calvinist faith, to the extraordinary fate that lay ahead. In the years that came she had come to worship different gods and believe in their signs and destinies. The whipping at that colonial port had been an omen.

The woman drew a heavy sigh and shifted her weight on the rock, trying to get comfortable. She was surprised he was asking her now to relate the events of her stained past. Like all men he seemed paradoxically absorbed and disinterested with female musings. Yet he was a man. And the world belonged to men. She sometimes thought he considered her unimportant, her life and feelings a mere triviality too insignificant to share.

But now they were alone and close. He was asking, not demanding. That was compelling in itself.

“It started with the whipping…” she said softly, repeating her thoughts. But her voice trailed off. She fell silent with sudden doubt. Had she turned to him, the face of her beloved was still visible in the gathering darkness. But she kept her gaze forward, looking back across the gorge and listening to the distant roar of the river below.

“Tell,” he whispered. Still asking.

She closed her eyes briefly and nodded. It was no longer in her spirit to deny him anything.

The moon at last fell behind the cliffs beyond the river and traces of blue fled the sky. And as the stars began to wink into life she told him the tale that spoke of who she was.

Perhaps her story could only be judged in the telling-

Chapter 1

 

Ironically, she really had no reason to be there. Had they been back home in England she, an upstanding but delicate young woman would never have been in a place like that courtyard. Nor would such a scene have occurred in front of her. It was 1842 and Queen Victoria had been on the throne only five years. It was a time when young women in the Western world, of genteel social class, were looked upon as the “fairer sex,” to be guided. Treated with mixed paternalism and respect but sheltered from the vulgarities of life. She had been an innocent young lady then, in the most refined sense.

Emily and her husband Jon were settlers; prospective farmers newly arrived in the colony. They had left their homeland, but unlike many of their day, were not criminals or refugees. They were part of a religious company of families whose faith had led them to abandon comfortable lives in lovely southern England. They had come to colonize- and build.

Eagerly they sought both freedom and order in the wilds of a far off continent, paradoxically to create another England, extending her culture and dominion even as they fled from its religious constraints.

But then, they saw no incongruity in this. They were British. What other culture worthy of God’s elect was there, but England’s? What other civilization save that of the Christian West? They were the new elect, called to live holy lives in a community set apart, spotless and cleansed of secular unrighteousness. But a community of English men and women, nonetheless, who would create a new Britannia on the sun-drenched African highlands. 

As well there were temporal considerations. The great lands of the interior were said to be the rich and fertile. The Almighty had given this vastness as their inheritance, populated it only with black savages who were little more advanced than screeching baboons. They could of course be converted to the true faith and be used as servants and laborers - or pushed aside and eliminated by righteous might. In any case, they were no threat to the superior white man. The new Albion was theirs to claim.

This day the settlers had come ashore. Emily’s husband was a representative of the company and had urgent business to conduct at the government house. She had come along, not wanting to be away from her husband in such a strange new land. They were troubled by the rumor of war and the news that Her Majesty’s government had closed the lands they had intended to take in the north.       

“Oh, Jon, we really haven’t come all this way for nothing, have we?” asked Emily as they picked their way along the bustling, filthy street. The bright African sun was oppressive and Emily, a typical Englishwoman was dressed for a mild day in London. Dark colored, long cotton dress; blouse buttoned up to her neckline and a full ensemble of feminine underthings all conspired to make the heat unbearable. Yet Emily did bear it. There was no other way for a modest young Christian wife to dress. Her fair face flushed some from the humidity and heat, but she tried to appear stoic for her husband. She did wrinkle her nose, however, at the street mud on her polished leather shoes.

“Do you think we’ll be allowed to trek to the interior?” she asked.

“I… I don’t know,” replied Jon nervously. “We’ll see what the commander has to say, then we’ll talk to the other brethren and see what they want to do, I guess.”

Emily sighed. It was her husband’s usual indecisive manner. She had no idea why the other settlers had elected him as their spokesman. She suspected it was because he was young and of a constitution easily controlled by some of the more assertive men of the group. But in any case she loved Jon dearly and was glad to see his pride in assuming an important position within the elect.

As fate would have it, their party of settlers had arrived at the African port at just the wrong time. The frontier had been closed due to unrest among the tribes of the interior, particularly the formidable Ndebele and Zulu, who were warring with each other, as well as the Boers and other smaller black tribes. The colonial government simply did not have the manpower to protect the immigrants.

But Jon and Emily had few options. They and the other settlers in their group had only just disembarked from a six-month voyage. They had no money for a return passage and their provisions were limited. They had expected to claim land soon after arriving in Africa and had no other means of support. The small purse that their settler’s party had pooled was needed to buy wagons and a little more food. Beyond that they had to live off the land.

Jon turned down another street, searching more or less aimlessly for the government building that administered the colony. The town they were walking through was not only dirty, it was rough, intimidating in the way of towns that bordered wild lands. The people here were mostly white, British, but this was not England. That fair, green isle was a world away, in more senses than one.

Nearly naked black natives also roamed the streets. Mostly young women wearing little more than bead drops around their waists which covered only their sexes - and that imperfectly. They seemed utterly unconcerned about their near nudity and Emily, who had seen few blacks in her sheltered life was fascinated by their jet, ebony skin and Negroid faces. She was repulsed by their immodesty, but was also struck by the savage dignity about them. Their dark, bare breasts sprang and bounced proudly on their chests as they walked, chattering with one another in their heathen language. A strange feeling came over Emily. Inexplicably, she suddenly wondered what it would be like to be one of those women. So free and uninhibited with her body. It was shocking, so unlike her own culture and mores. Yet the unashamed exposure of skin seemed strangely appropriate in this exotic land. 

The black men were even more impressive to the young English wife. They wore little more covering than the women, though they were often richly adorned with trinkets and regalia that Emily supposed was some indication of rank. All of them, even the older men were handsomely muscled and physically well built. They seemed so savage and wild, so utterly alien to her own genteel society and experience. Yet, there was a dignity about them as well, a bearing that was hard to reconcile with her previous impression of blacks as ape-like sub humans. She wondered what life was like for them. Did they think as she did? Did they have families? Did they have marriage, culture, institutions? Or were they the primitive throwbacks that the European men said they were?

Emily quailed slightly and drew near Jon as a fearsome looking warrior strode by, accompanied by a black woman who walked a step or two behind him. The young white wife could see the power in his frame; his bulging shoulder muscles, his sinuous limbs and superbly toned loins. She wondered if he and his woman had relations the same awkward and tentative way she and Jon did. Or was he as wild and passionate as his persona?

Emily caught her breath, suddenly shocked at her own thoughts. This was not the sort of thing a young woman of quality thought about. She closed her eyes and tried to dismiss such ideas from her mind. The heat must be affecting her, she reasoned.   

At last at the end of the dusty thoroughfare they saw the low walled compound and the Union Jack, hanging listlessly from a pole in the still, humid air. A sentry was posted at the gate and directed them to the administration building.

“Bugger the bloody niggers,” shouted an irate man who was leaving the office just as Jon and Emily entered. “We’ll take into the interior anyway, we will. With or without the Queen’s bloody gentleman army. We’ve got guns and men for it…”

Jon turned to see his wife flush at such coarse language. During the voyage from Portsmouth he’d cringed whenever Emily overheard the sailors and their salty talk.

The administration building was stone and retained some of the morning’s coolness. It was a welcome relief from the street and Emily took a seat on a rough-hewn wooden bench in the lobby. The colony clerk’s office was busy and crowded. Several more hard-bitten characters with foul mouths were vocally protesting the official ban on moving into native lands. Even now, Emily was surprised to hear such language in an office of Her Majesty’s government and sat blushing in the corner, unconsciously moving closer to her young husband. 

Jon took her hand in his and tired to smile reassuringly. Once again he tried to force down the resentment and distrust that he felt when Emily was around other men.

At eighteen, she was the epitome of an English Rose; chaste and modest, poised, religious and very loyal to her husband. Fair haired and gray eyed, she was petite, yet stunningly proportioned. And still, even after a year of marriage he was rather… well, rather afraid of her beauty. She was so dignified, so pure, that he sometimes felt he was sullying her with his presence. A ridiculous notion for a husband, he knew - and he had expected the feeling to wear off after they had been married and become intimate. It hadn’t.

Jon continued to be, if the truth were told, more than a little intimidated by Emily’s charms. His own sexually repressive upbringing didn’t help. Incredibly, he still had not really seen her naked. He had felt her soft inviting body of course, in their married bed, but her modesty and his inhibition were such that lovemaking, when it infrequently occurred, was done in the dark. A secret thing that they like many of their contemporaries were ashamed of. Sex among the religiously proper was veiled with shame, an ugly, groping thing to be performed blindly and stoically to facilitate procreation, but certainly not to be discussed between husband and wife. There was something frustratingly missing in the tentative relations of their marriage bed, but neither Jon nor Emily would dream of speaking of it.

The repression ingrained into Jon had another unfortunate effect. He could manage an erection only rarely. Emily was far too inhibited to touch his penis and he was ashamed to stroke it while she was beside him. His shame and embarrassment would overcome the feelings that her beauty had inspired and he would remain          flaccid, becoming even more ashamed.

Compounding everything was Emily’s habit of never talking while performing the chore. Jon also never spoke. Yet his basic drives seethed away unabated and away from their shared bed his passions burned.

Jon’s insecurity had also made him paranoid about his            wife. Emily was chaste and totally loyal and he knew it. But his unreasoned doubts literally ate him from the inside. His guilt became yet another barrier to performance.   

Now, standing literally at Africa’s door, he had the strangest foreboding - a premonition that the woman he loved could not survive here and that the die was cast. In bringing Emily here he would lose her, but how he did not know. A moment later he smiled grimly and dismissed the ridiculous thought.

At length a colored servant called them and they both stepped into an office. A uniformed white man rose from behind an ornate desk and extended his hand.

“How do you do, I’m Captain Oliver Teal. I’m the Queen’s authority in this colony, pending the assignment of a Consul. Please, have a seat.”

“Jon Robinson. And this is my wife, Emily. We’ve only just arrived.”

The officer nodded and frowned. “Yes. At the worst possible time, I’m afraid.”

“Captain, I represent a group of settlers. We have charter papers from London, but now we’ve been told the interior had been closed,” said Jon. “Some kind of nonsense with the blacks?”

“Not nonsense, Mr. Robinson, a war. And a very serious one. Some of my men have just returned from a reconnaissance along the river. The conflict is spreading to other clans and to the farmers as well. Several white settlements have been attacked. And all of the tribes are very restless.”

“Why… why don’t you punish them?” asked the young man. “Clear out the filthy wretches.”

“They are very numerous and fierce, Mr. Robinson.”

“But they’re only savages. Surely British arms…”

The captain smiled faintly and shook his head. “Mr. Robinson, have you ever been in the army?”

“Why, no… I…”

“No, indeed,” said the officer softly. “If you had, you would know it is not a simple matter to track a cunning and determined enemy who greatly outnumbers you and roams over a vast wilderness that only he is familiar with.”

“They’re still savages, Captain. They don’t have the white man’s intellect or ingenuity.”

“They are intelligent enough to keep us on this side of the river,” said the captain. “And no one who meets them in battle ever afterward questions their bravery. You and your company would do well not to underestimate them.” Teal frowned again. He could see the arrogance in the young man’s face. Arrogance in Africa could kill. “I have explicit instructions,” continued the captain. “Under no circumstances am I to risk any force beyond the river boundary. Settlers are restricted to mapped sectors of the valley.”

“But captain, the good land has already been settled there, by the Boers,” Jon burst out indignantly. “We’re well armed and in a party of eleven men…”

“Mr. Robinson I know that once you leave here, ban or no ban I cannot stop you from heading into the interior like the other fools. But I’m telling you that to do so would be a mistake,” he glanced at Emily, “especially with women. Your eleven men are not sufficient and Her Majesty’s forces cannot help you past the river.”

“These black monkeys,” scoffed Jon. “We will shoot them down long before they can throw their spears at us.”

There was a knock at the door and an aide appeared. He saluted and handed a dispatch to the commanding officer.

The captain sighed and sat back in his chair. “Well… things do seem to be cooling a bit. The captain of my sortie reports no encounters with war parties or hostile groups.”

“Then we can proceed,” said Jon confidently.

“This could be merely a ruse to draw us out. Or perhaps they’re gathering their strength.”

“Or perhaps they’ve been cowed by British arms and have retreated to swing in the trees where they belong,” said Jon.

“The ban is still in effect,” snapped the captain.

“But you say things have calmed down…”

“If you’ll excuse me, I have perform the morning inspection,” said the captain.

“Sir,” said Jon formally. “As an Englishman, can you at least tell me which of the closed areas would be the safest for families?”

The captain stood silent for a moment, then sighed. “Very well, come with me and we’ll go over it. Unofficially, you understand.”

“Yes, of course,” said Jon.

“Your wife may want to stay in the compound until we return,” said the captain. “Much cooler here than on the parade field, you know.”

The two men headed out the rear door, while Emily was shuffled off by a friendly aide down to a courtyard, near a small garden by a fountain where she could sit for short time. 

She was waiting patiently and unobtrusively among the cool greenery when the soldiers brought the victim in.

At the far end of the courtyard she heard a commotion, a scuffle followed by female shouts and male curses. A black woman, freshly captured on a sortie into the bush, was being dragged into the yard by several white soldiers.

Emily thought she was the most wretched person she had ever beheld. The woman, almost a girl really, no more than Emily’s age, appeared to be totally wild. She screamed and struggled, fighting and biting with incredible strength. It took three large white men, each more than twice her weight to restrain her and stretch her out, standing within a stout wooden frame. After more struggle, they secured her arms over her head to a spar, then kicked her legs apart.

Emily watched with fascinated horror. She had never heard of a woman being whipped. The prospect seemed barbaric, but she had to remind herself that this was Africa and the woman was just a black.

Now safely chained, the native girl suddenly slumped quietly. She seemed to realize that she had lost for the moment and remained still enough for Emily to observe her closely. She was naked, except for the very brief little strings of beads that hung over her sex. These were supported by a thin leather cord around her waist. She wore no covering over her dark bottom cheeks, a fact very convenient for the soldiers who were about to punish her.

The black girl turned and looked at Emily, her dark eyes flashing with contempt. An ugly white sergeant, brandishing a whip approached the prisoner. “Now, my little lampblack slut, we’ll see if we can put a more agreeable spirit into you.”

The black girl sneered at him defiantly, but the sergeant only smiled.

The first lash landed square on her back. The black girl took it stoically. It was Emily who cried out with the savage impact of the blow. She wondered what crime the girl had committed to warrant such severe punishment.

The next stroke licked at her left rear cheek, leaving a thin line of blood. Still the girl said nothing.

When the third lash curled around her thighs, the black girl finally caught her breath with a sob. She screamed out a long curse in her own language, which was cut short by the next lash.

Emily watched, riveted with morbid captivation as the flogging continued. The black girl was crying out now, but not with the shrill screams or pathetic pleadings of most victims. She shouted with each lash, a guttural cry of pure hate and defiance mixed with agony. There was courage in her cries, but it meant nothing to the white man who was whipping her.

“You’ll spread those black legs when the men want it now!” shouted the sergeant. “You nigger bitch!”

The lashes began to draw tiny lines of blood as they fell on the woman’s rear cheeks, back and thighs. Still she emitted nothing but the defiant grunts at each blow. Once again she looked at Emily and the white girl sensed the iron will behind her gaze. It was Emily who felt fear. Fear of such courage and fortitude in someone she regarded as a savage and an enemy.

Deep inside she knew she would not have the strength to face such punishment and remain undaunted. A strange realization that this unhappy native girl was far braver than she gnawed at Emily’s mind. She realized that any civilized Englishwoman she knew, including herself, would make any compromise or capitulation under that whip. She could not endure such pain without surrender, but fortunately, she told herself, she would never have to. No one, of course, would ever whip a proper, white Christian woman that way.

The black girl was rasping and spitting now, but her face still betrayed resistance and solidarity. Still the whipping continued.