Chapter 1 - Torture

Ife stared into the sunlight bouncing off Richard Whistler’s polished footwear. His sword and flintlock pistol gleamed. A silk garment buttoned beneath his overcoat—nothing like her burlap smock. Whistler’s trusted overseer, Eban, and son Philip stood along the beach beside their ponies. Ife huddled with the captives in the shade of the big palm tree. Omotola stood just behind her—their bare soles dug into the sand.

The trembling fellow, his backside exposed, lay face down in the sand. His chains clinked as he folded his hands.

Whistler stood between him and the other captives. “We stand in witness today before this here escapee,” he announced. “This man chose to dismiss himself before his services expired and henceforth shall be administered punishment.” 

Whistler nodded to Eban and his bullwhip popped across the shackled man’s back. Painful whimpers muffled by the wind. Whistler nodded and Eban thrust his whip again. Ife recognized the thunderous crack, but until that day, she had never seen the flesh tear open. 

The crowd flinched at every snap. Whip lashes echoed across the bay. Claws ripped into the tethered man’s back.

Whistler raised his hand. Lashings paused. The accused pressed his forehead into the dirt and prayed, blowing sand with each ragged breath. Then Whistler pointed at three men standing near Ife and said, “You there. Relieve yourselves upon him.” 

The men eyed each other. Whistler pointed at them again and shouted, “Lower your trousers and relieve yourselves upon the offender!”

When the men didn’t move, Whistler gave Eban the nod. He whipped at their feet. They sprang from the ground as sand dusted their ankles. Ife stepped back and nudged her mother's waist. 

“Ah the devil! Go on. Do as I say,” Whistler shouted.

One of the three men, trembling, lowered his breeches and pissed on the shore next to the bound man. But soaked earth and clumpy sand was not what Richard Whistler had in mind.  

“No, no, no,” Whistler said and pushed him forward mid-stream, directing it onto the tortured man’s backside. Wet heat splattered on his mangled flesh. Curses whispered.

“Silence,” Whistler said with his hands on his hips—his conquering stance. 

Ife stood on her toes, having never seen such abuse until that day.

Eban and Whistler's son Philip looked upon the treatment with unfazed expressions. When the man pulled up his trousers, he dropped his chin to the ground, hiding his damp eyes.

“Now you two,” Whistler pointed. 

When the men near Ife didn’t move, Whistler drew his sword. The crowd flinched again. Omotola’s hands cupped around Ife’s shoulders.

“Do it!” Whistler shouted, pointing his blade at the two men. 

The two men stepped forward and untied their drawstrings. More gasps from the crowd. Some couldn’t watch. Ife froze. But when one of the taunted men failed to produce a stream, Whistler said, “Damn you! Leak upon this offender or I’ll cut it off.”

The man with the shy bladder winced and bent his knees and jiggled himself, valiantly attempting to produce on command. But he couldn’t. 

Whistler raised his drawn sword, took a deep breath, stepped toward the crowd holding the sword up as he crept. Ife held her breath. But Whistler turned around and walked back to the saddles. Ife let out her breath.

“If you shall not piss upon him,” Whistler said, re-sheathing his sword, “Then you may deliver further lashings.” 

Whistler retrieved the bullwhip from Eban and brought it over to the man with the dry bladder. The crowd covered their mouths as the Englishman pointed at the soiled shackled soul still shivering upon the sand, his knees curled to his chest.

“Go on. Strike him.”

The shirtless man clutched the bullwhip and gave his fellows a mortified look. 

“What the devil! Do as I say. Strike him!”

He thrust the whip at the victim’s back who groaned under the snap. More skin peeled open. Tiny prayers rose from the crowd around Ife. Another pop tore away his flesh. Ife looked up at her mama. But Omotola said nothing and pursed her lips.

“Again,” Whistler shouted. “Strike the offender!”

The whip delivered another crack and Ife recoiled in unison with the crowd.

“Again,” Whistler commanded. 

But suddenly the man pivoted and whipped the leather at Whistler, snapping the Englishman's chest and ripping his undershirt. The captives surrounding Ife bellowed—a sudden outcry—“Oh!” some of them burst while others sucked wind through their tightened lips.

Whistler drew and fired his flintlock. Ker-Ack! The bone-rattling explosion pierced Ife’s ears. She covered them. The gun smoke wrinkled her nose. Philip and Eban drew the rifles from their saddles. And the man, still holding the bullwhip, buckled. A stream from the wound led to a pool in his navel, his bare chest spackled, and he coughed red lying on his back struggling to breathe.

The crowd wiped their eyes. Ife uncovered her ears. Screams erupted. Even the toughest old man among them moaned aloud, “An evil deed!” 

“‘Tis a shame,” Whistler said amidst the commotion. Then he mounted his saddle and rode away. His son and Eban followed close behind. 

The crowd rushed around the fallen man and held his wound. They cradled his head and told him, “Take wind, child. Do not let go.” He lay in the sand still gripping Whistler’s whip—his teeth painted with blood. A wave receded. They lamented, saying to him, “Sleep now, child.” 

Others wiped the torn flesh of the defiled shackled man. He sobbed while they covered his nakedness with borrowed smocks. Ife could not look away. Not another word was spoken. Hums filled the void. And Ife wept.

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