| Excerpt:
Nothing
could help her now. Perhaps if she swallowed her
pride
she
could
beg for mercy… Her mind
caught the thought, beg for Mercy. Only yesterday she would have smiled at
it. Today it was a meaningless play on words. Today she knew that to beg
would accomplish nothing, except perhaps to amuse the grim captain.
And how
could she beg? Only by falling on her knees before him and holding up her
hands in supplication. She could not speak, nor could she write any plea.
The slate that had hung at her waist since her eleventh year was gone. She
had hit a pirate with it, broken it on his head. He had merely guffawed,
pushed her aside and continued his slaughter.
In the past
she had hit more men than one with it, men who believed that because she was
dumb she could not carry tales of stolen kisses. This pestering had not
lasted long, once they learned she could write. And now her slate was gone,
though the small cloth bag of chalk and rag still hung from her belt of
plaited worsted. She could write on the bulkhead…
She heard
heavy footsteps in the passage beyond the door. Jedediah came into the cabin
with a wooden bucket of seawater, which he dumped on the table. He left
without looking at her or speaking to her. However she heard through the
door as he mumbled, of all things, “You needs a clean shirt.”
He was
answered by a cold sharp voice, which Mercy recognised. “More than a shirt.”
She stood
quickly and wiped the tears from her face with her bound hands. The captain
would not have the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Not yet. Her
fingers trembled on her cheeks. She bunched them together in her skirt,
straightened her shoulders and stared ahead. She saw surprised that the
light through the horn windows was dim. The long terrible day approached its
end, though that was no solace. Men did things under the cover of darkness
they would not dare, in daylight.
But she
decided, I will live through this. I will not fight. I will not give
him the added pleasure of subduing me. I will give him the least pleasure
possible, by submitting. I will survive.
Excerpt ©
Monya Clayton
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