Ten Days of Despair

The characters belong to the creators of Tales of The South Seas.

Thanks to rann for all her help.

This story is set during the episode of The Locket. Some lines of dialogue have been taken from that episode and used in this story.

Caution: this story contains violence and cruelty.

What could turn a proud spirited woman into a pitiful shell in such a short time?

Prologue - The jail at Matavai

Lieutenant Morlais smiled broadly as he glimpsed Miss Reed in his worst cell. The smell of mould and rot radiated from the cot which the haughty woman scornfully ignored. Her sleeves were blackened by the grime of the manacles that she had worn since her arrest on Rarotonga.

It had been a hellish few weeks while she had been on the loose. She had made fools of the whole constabulary and most particularly of himself. He had heard the guffaws of laughter when the scheming temptress had arranged an escape from under his nose by seducing a young sailor aboard the Rattler. Things had gotten even worse when it was discovered that the brazen wench had forged her own release papers and for a time had paraded around the streets of Matavai. The citizens of the town may not have said anything to his face, but he knew what was whispered behind their hands as he passed. He overheard the ridicule from the men working on the docks or after they’d had a few drinks at Lavinia’s. She had embarrassed and shamed him; and her cutting comments at his expense left him feeling angry and vengeful. No more considerate treatment for Miss Reed. This time she would be transported by a military ship. Sent away in chains in full view of the townsfolk. Then blessedly, she would be gone from his jurisdiction and with any luck his life would return to normal.

Isabelle perched on the driest corner of the straw pallet. Her back was ramrod-straight, chin raised in defiance, but within, her mind raced feverishly in a dozen directions. She smiled bitterly in recognition of her desperation. Like a rat in a maze –that’s what her thoughts were like – a hopelessly trapped rat running from one dead end to another. She’d come close to finding answers on Rarotonga. So close but before she could find them she was arrested.

Despite the rumours, Marcel had never told her where the gold coins were buried. But once she found the second picture in the locket she’d figured it out on her own. Now she had to get rid of the locket. If she couldn’t use it to find the treasure, damned if some prison official, or worse still, that lowlife Mason would. But what would she do with it? Should she hide it in this cell or could she use it somehow? The only man she figured she might be allowed to see was the preacher. Could she parlay that contact into escape or rescue? What could she say to sway Reverend Trent? She’d heard he and Grief were friends though it seemed unlikely. Was there some way to get him to pass a message to David Grief? If anyone could figure out the clue, he could. But would he even try?

Admit it, she told herself, she’d torn her chances with the Rattler’s captain when she had double-crossed him following her escape from his schooner. If that wasn’t bad enough, she’d later set an ambush and stolen the black pearl from him. Ah, but the way he had kissed her on the dock at Moorea… Surely, he was still attracted to her. If she could just get through to him… She could picture it so vividly in her imagination. He would sail up on the Rattler and save her… somehow. For she knew with certainty, if she went to the Makemo penal colony she was a dead woman. She knew too much to survive.

Somehow she must make Reverend Trent speak to David Grief. Perhaps that handsome young guard would take a message. She propped herself up against the damp stone wall and tried to make herself comfortable enough to fall asleep sitting up.

Day 1 – Aboard the Louis D’Or

The sergeant-at-arms on the military transport ship Louis D’Or eyed the female prisoner as she clumped along the gangplank, awkward in her leg-irons but proud, head held high. She was a looker, the kind of woman that grabbed a man’s fancy just so she could cut him to ribbons later with her mocking words. But for two days aboard this ship, she would be under his command and control. For once there was a faint whiff of interest in this usually dreary tour of duty. He might come by her cell later to see if she was … comfortable.

Isabelle winced as she raised the spoon awkwardly to her lips. The broth was tasteless and sour-smelling. Her wrists were sore and chafed where the roughly cast metal wore at her skin, her ankles little better. Though she had not worn the leg-irons as long as she had the manacles, the motion of walking had torn the skin from her ankles before she had even boarded the ship. But worse than the discomfort was the mingling of apprehension and futility that came from being able to do nothing while her dreadful fate crept closer with every league the big ship travelled. There were a few other prisoners sentenced to imprisonment as well and they slumped dejected in their cells. They were all being borne relentlessly toward the gates of hell. ‘Through me is the way to eternal suffering. Abandon all hope…’ Marcel often used to quote those lines. He told her it was from something the Italian poet, Dante, had written.

Ah Marcel, such big ideas he’d had. His mysterious manner the day he’d drawn her close to him and whispered, “You’ll see, Isabelle. We’ll go away. I’ll get the money and we’ll live the good life. It will be grand.” Perhaps she had never loved Marcel, but at that moment her heart had been taken by his kindness and his need for her. Though she had become his mistress in order to escape the drudgery of indentured labour, she had grown fond of the marine official who was so besotted by her. In her own way she missed him. Marcel was a dreamer and a fool but he had been good to her.

What a magnificent dream he’d had - so soon destroyed. He was dead - murdered- and she framed for the crime. Marcel had given his life for those gold coins; by rights they should belong to her now. Marcel would have wanted that. Instead that slimy bastard Mason would be spending the gold while she wasted away and died in a tropical hell-hole.

Increasing desperation led Isabelle to survey the men-at-arms who patrolled the brig. Most appeared disinterested or cowed, likely fearful of the hulking sergeant that seemed to be in charge down here. He was a big brute, with bushy brows that shaded his deep-set eyes. His bulky body had likely once been impressively muscular but now had begun to run to fat. That he was still strong and violent was evident by the deference shown him by the other soldiers. Old scars on his cheek had set his mouth into a crooked line which gave him a perpetual smirking expression. The whole intimidating effect was set off by a two day growth of dark beard and a general air of carelessness about the condition of his uniform and his person. Isabelle shuddered to think that he might be her best chance for liberation. Perhaps aware of her direct gaze, he turned his insolent leer her way, clearly taking in every aspect of her appearance. She met his eyes, smiled fleetingly in a way she knew would be provocative, and then turned away.

Aha, thought Menard, she was willing. All her fancy ways meant nothing when she was looking for escape or a favour. Like many other women before her, so desperate to avoid their fate. They’d pretty much do anything if they thought they could avoid the penal colony. He must be careful, though. After getting caught by the lieutenant in an awkward situation with a female prisoner a few months ago, he had been placed on report. He’d have to wait for a time when no-one would be around the cells.

Isabelle had fallen into a restless sleep and was disoriented for a moment as she felt something poking at her shoulder. She awoke to see the sergeant-at-arms dim in the darkness outside her cell, his rifle barrel extended to push at her again. She rose to her feet and neared the cell door.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she murmured in a low voice.

“Don’t play innocent with me, girl. You were looking at me. I know what you want,” he grunted, startled on closer inspection by the beauty now evident beneath the prisoner’s grime.

“What’s your name, sergeant?” Her voice sounded very sexy, Menard decided .

“Raoul.”

”I’m Isabelle.”

“Yeah, I know. Gonna serve a life sentence at Makemo for murder. What a shame.”

“Maybe you could help me out with that.”

“Why should I?”

“There’s money…”

They all had money, these women, or said they did. Did they think he’d give up a good career in the French navy for their lies?

“Is it here?”

“No, of course not. But I can get it.”

“What have you got for me now, huh?”

She reached through the bars and touched a hand to his chest, bringing her body closer.

“Just a promise, Raoul. There’s a reward in it for you if you can get me out of here.” She ran her hand along his shoulder and through the hair at the back of his head.

He moved like a striking snake, reaching through the bars to grab her waist with one hand while pinning her wrist in an iron grasp with his other hand. With a swift, practiced motion he twisted her arm behind her so that it was bent in an unnatural position, the manacles pulling her other arm across her body. The painful pressure kept her on her tiptoes, breasts crushed against the steel bars. Suspended in this position against the likelihood of having her shoulder dislocated, Isabelle was helpless to prevent his lips descending on hers and greedily, roughly kissing her. As she pulled her head away from his, he gave her arm a cruel twist causing her to gasp in pain. He kissed her again giving her lower lip a savage bite, before backing away slightly to savour her response, searching her face for fear. Isabelle fought to control her panic, meeting his eyes as blood oozed from her lip, slid down her chin and dripped onto her blouse and the sleeve of his uniform.

One look at the hungry menace in the man’s eyes and Isabelle realized she had badly misjudged her situation. She gathered breath to scream for help. In that instant, Menard switched his grip, clapping one hand over her mouth, the other gripping a handful of the material of her blouse. With a sudden motion, he extended his arm, pushing her backwards, off-balance, then jerked her back toward the bars. Only Isabelle’s quick reactions allowed her to raise her manacled hands and twist her head so that her arms and the side of her head took the brunt of the contact with the steel bars. Her twisting movement also tore Menard’s grip from her face. Little more than a sharp yelp escaped her before he replaced his hand on her mouth and turned her away from him so that her back was to the bars, his arm a vice around her neck, preventing any air from entering her lungs. She struggled, feverishly trying to pry his arm away from her neck, her attempts to shout muffled by his big paw clapped over her face. Desperately she clawed behind her head searching for a vulnerable target - an eye perhaps. She briefly fought with frenzied strength but in minutes her struggles became feeble then ceased. Her hands lost their grip and fell limply to her side.

Menard was unaware that Isabelle’s cry had been heard on deck. One of the guards had jumped from his position outside the companionway that led to the hold and peered below to check the situation. When he saw that Menard was not in danger, he quickly returned to his post, anxious not to be spotted by the sergeant. His furtive movements caught the eye of the officer-on-duty who walked closer to question him. The guard’s nervous manner made the lieutenant curious enough to enter the hold. There he saw his sergeant holding a sagging female prisoner with one arm as he groped beneath her blouse with the other. The lieutenant was furious.

“Sergeant-at-arms Menard!” he shouted.

Menard jerked away from the prisoner and stood to attention. Isabelle’s body slid unchecked down the bars into a careless heap on the cell floor.

“Yes sir.”

“Report to your quarters and remain there until I send for you.”

“Yes sir.” Menard left the hold at a march, fear for his career holding sway over his anger at the hell-cat woman for making a scene and his fury at whoever had betrayed him.

Lieutenant Caron looked in disgust at the prisoner in the cell. The women convicts were always trying to seduce the soldiers and often this was the result – rape, a beating, sometimes death. He turned to the guard.

“Go in there and see if there is anything that can be done for her.”

The private unlocked the cell door and crouched closer to the woman on the floor. He turned and called out over his shoulder. “She’s breathing.”

“Leave her then. Put some water in the basin.” He wheeled and left.

The young guard was touched by the sight of the beautiful woman, pale and unconscious, blood spattering her face and blouse. He glanced to see if anyone was watching, then he gathered her up and placed her on the cot. He patted her cheek a couple of times to see if he could rouse her. Seeing no sign that she was responding, he poured the contents of his canteen into the basin, left the cell, locked it and returned to his post.

A short time later, Isabelle’s disturbing dream crystallized into the even more frightening memory of her recent struggle. Had she been raped? She sat up quickly, looking wildly around. Partway down the corridor a prisoner noticed that she was awake. His low voice carried in the night stillness.

“You’re lucky, lady. The lieutenant come down and caught Menard. Maybe good luck for all of us; looks like the sergeant most likely won’t be down here for the rest of the trip. So, we’ll be in good shape when we get to Makemo. Ain’t that great?” He laughed cynically.

Isabelle sat back in short-lived relief. That had been a very narrow escape. But now with the sergeant gone, she’d lost the chance - probably her last chance - for escape. The guards would be doubly careful now that she didn’t get away.

If only David Grief were aboard the Rattler right now, sailing toward her, the swift schooner overtaking this hulking transport ship... There was no real chance of that, little hope that her locket would make any impression on Captain Grief. Maybe someday, he’d find the hidden photo and figure out its significance. By that time, Mason would already have found the hiding place and dug up Marcel’s money and she’d be long dead, buried in a lonely prison graveyard.

But still, it was a hope to cling to. David Grief always seemed to appear every time she needed him (or needed something that he had). He had appeared magically on Matavai’s front street when she was looking to escape prison the last time, popped like Neptune out of the ocean when the ship-wrecked captain of the Malahine was near death from fever, lay there beautiful and still when she had stolen the black pearl from him and sadly, he had stood before her like an avenging angel on the dock in Moorea to take the pearl back from her, dashing any hopes of financing her escape. God knows, she needed a knight in shining armour to rescue her now.

But why would the sea-captain bother about her anyway? Even if he was infatuated with her, he must be convinced by now she was a murderess as well as a thief, not the kind of person worth risking a jail sentence or his life for. What kind of romantic fool did she think Grief was? For pity’s sake she was in the hold of a military transport ship. What was David going to do to save her – take on the French navy? Despite her fanciful dreams, Isabelle understood that Grief was no superman. She pulled her handkerchief out of her sleeve, dipped it in the basin of water and dabbed it at her throbbing lip. Her spirits had never been so low in her whole life.

Day 2 - Makemo penal colony

The prisoners stood in a line on the wharf blinking as they emerged from the gloom of the hold. The warden of the penal colony walked along the row, picking out Isabelle Reed easily from the faded figures around her. So this was the prisoner that Mason was so eager to question. She certainly was a beauty. He could see how she could have manipulated the marine official into stealing the gold coin shipment. Pinnette didn’t have the guts to carry it out on his own, but he was an easy touch for a beautiful woman. She even looked like the type to have poisoned him. He had assured his old business partner, Mason, that it wouldn’t take long to get her to spill her secrets. A woman’s spirit didn’t last long on his island where back-breaking labour, grim living conditions and liberal use of the lash quickly brought prisoners to a state of cowering obedience.

As he approached the woman, he examined her closely. Though she held herself proudly, there was a certain haunted quality about her; she avoided his eyes. It appeared that she had run afoul of someone in the last day or two; her lip was cut and swollen. All the better - fear and physical pain were tremendous allies to a man seeking information. The warden had become an expert in the use of corporal punishment and deprivation to insure obedience and to extract information from the prisoners. It helped him to maintain a smooth money-making operation here on Makemo. He would instruct the guards to take special measures with this one.

The prisoners were led through the gate of the prison and lined up in a large reception area, their manacles and leg irons removed as they were ordered to strip and dress in the clothing that identified them as prisoners of Makemo - rough grey cotton singlets and trousers for the men and smocks for the women. The chains were placed on wrists and ankles once again and they were frog-marched to their cells, any hesitation or stumble greeted by a rifle-stock or baton across the back. The male prisoners were imprisoned two to a cell, but Isabelle was shoved into a cell that was otherwise unoccupied. Filthy grey bedclothes were crumpled at the end of the cot.

“You missed supper,” the guard offered. “Sleep good. It’ll be an early day tomorrow. Work’s gotta get done before it gets too hot.”

Day 3

The next day was more painful and exhausting than she had ever imagined. The prisoners were roused at four in the morning to a meal of bread and sweetened tea then taken in a wagon to work in the cane fields. The work was difficult for everyone, excruciating for her. It seemed as if she were singled out for all the hardest tasks. At the end of the long hot day, she was trembling with exhaustion. She followed her fellow prisoners to climb aboard the wagon that would take them back to the prison. As she mounted the step, a guard grabbed her arm and pulled her back down.

“Pick up those machetes,” he directed. She picked up the tools and turned to place them on the wagon.

“Don’t put them down. You carry them back. Start walking.”

A wave of anger cut through her fatigue. Her glittering green eyes stared at the man’s impassive face. “What for? It’s just as ea…”

Air exploded from her lungs with a whoosh as a rubber truncheon thudded into her back with stunning force. She dropped to her knees when a second blow struck the back of her legs. A couple more blows had her cowering in a pose of obeisance, like a Muslim at prayer. The beating paused as the guard looked up at the commandant. The colonel was delighted by this turn of events. With each arrival of new prisoners, he liked to make an example of one of them, to show the rest that he would tolerate no impudence. Usually it was the strongest or most defiant man, but a woman would do admirably. That would show the prisoners that no-one would be favoured. As well it would be a first step in ‘softening up’ the Reed woman so when he began the interrogation, it would yield results quickly. The blow of the rubber baton, though painful in the extreme, drew no blood and did little long-term damage. He liked to keep his workers obedient but still capable of doing a full day’s work. No harm in pushing the limits with this one though. It wasn’t as if a scrawny thing like her was going to be a good field-hand anyway. Besides, unless she gave Mason the information he wanted, she wouldn’t be around for long. He nodded at the guard to continue the punishment.

Isabelle had not known that she could endure so much pain and not pass out. It seemed to go on forever, blows raining down on every exposed part of her huddled body. She began to believe that she was going to be beaten to death here in this isolated cane field.

When the guard had delivered twenty strokes with the truncheon, the warden gestured him to stop. All that could be heard for a moment were the muffled sobs of the beaten woman. While the new prisoners looked on with wide eyes, the long-timers were apathetic, merely resentful that their dinner was delayed.

“Get up and pick up those tools!” the guard bellowed. It took a little while for the prostrate figure to rise. Not quickly enough for the guard who kicked her in the ribs. Her body buckled and she collapsed once more into the cane stubble. At the guard’s snarled threat, she scrambled up quickly, gathering the machetes in her arms. “Now walk.”

Isabelle stumbled after the wagon as quickly as she could, fearful that another blow awaited her if she was seen to be dawdling. By the time she returned to the camp, the stew served for supper was gone. She methodically chewed the dry bread that remained and finally was forced to dip it in her tea to make it soft enough to swallow.

Her time at the table was brief as soon all the prisoners were marched back to their cells. She lowered herself gingerly to the stinking cot and tried to find a position that allowed her tender back some relief. Fear and misery brought tears to her eyes and kept the healing power of sleep at bay. Isabelle hoped that soon she would get used to the back-breaking work in the cane fields. Physical labour wasn’t new to her; she’d worked hard most of her life. She just had to make sure she did exactly what the guards said. To distract herself from her discomfort, she tried to create a fantasy world to take her away from the dank drips, the snores and the muttered dream talk of hundreds of captive souls.

In her imagination she spent the stolen coins a hundred different ways –sometimes on clothes and finery, sometimes on expensive jewellery, other times on a beautiful house. She would have a cook to make her fine meals, and there would be lots of guests. And horses, she would have horses. Maybe she would start a business that would make her even richer. She’d buy that beautiful sailboat and order Captain Grief around. Soaring away in her imagination, she slipped into sleep.

Day 4

The next day followed the same pattern as the one before. She was singled out for the heaviest loads of cane, the longest treks to deliver it to the wagon, and received regular beatings for every imaginable infraction. Isabelle was the last person to leave the field at the end of the day staggering back to the barracks burdened with an armload of tools which could easily have been placed on the wagon. She didn’t argue any more; she realized that in this place the guards were all-powerful and the prisoners were at their mercy. She returned to the mess-hall barely able to stave off exhaustion long enough to eat the evening meal –a dismal plate of bread, stringy boiled mutton and tea. The bone-tired prisoner was returned to her cell, her back bruised and tender, her wrists and ankles torn and raw, her face reddened and chapped by the sun, her feet tender and blistered from the ill-fitting shoes she had been issued. Thirsty from her prolonged exposure to the sun Isabelle craved a drink of water but there was none. Too weary to even think, she curled up in a miserable ball and tried to imagine her rescue. Try as she might, she didn’t seem to be able to picture it any more. She was past hoping for that; all she wanted was to stop hurting.

Day 5

Another day in the cane fields followed the others with painful monotony. She did her best to keep up with the others, to do what the guards asked of her, but she never seemed to be able to do things right. She knew better than to get angry; all she wanted was to make them happy. But she was so tired and the work was so hard. Despite her servile attempts to gain their favour she still endured a steady rain of blows that no amount of pleading would avert. She fell asleep as soon as she collapsed on her pallet that night, unaware that on the following day at Makemo, her situation would become far worse.

Day 6

Mason’s sloop sailed into the port at Makemo that afternoon. Deposited on shore, he strode to the prison office, impatience and anger infusing his very steps. He could not believe that this trip was even necessary. Damn Pinnette! Why couldn’t he have spilled his guts before he died and saved all this waste of time? Mason and his men had been digging for weeks now. He had been positive that the stolen money would be at the base of the Norfolk pine tree. They had dug a circle to a depth of eight feet in the immediate area then chose other spots that had seemed likely. Nothing. It would take forever to dig up the whole island. No, his best bet now was Pinnette’s whore. The stupid fool must have told the bitch the hiding place or maybe even given her a map. He was going to have the location of the treasure out of her even if those were the last words she ever spoke. Actually the way he had it planned, they would be her last words.

Isabelle endured another unending day of back-breaking labour and constant persecution. Her muscles almost seemed to be adapting to the brutal demands of the work, but her raw wrists and ankles caused her constant misery. Her fantasies were no longer of rescue. Now, she dreamt only of moving freely - running, swimming, riding a horse. She experienced a deep longing to walk around without chains dragging in the dust – a simple pleasure she’d once taken for granted, one that she now realized she would never again experience.

As she finished her meagre evening meal and the other prisoners were escorted back to their cells, the guard jerked her away by her elbow, towing her toward an area of the prison she had not yet seen. Isabelle felt a lurching terror in her gut. Where was she being taken? She was being pulled along faster than she could stride with the leg-irons. In trying to keep up, she tripped and fell to her knees. The resulting lurch caused the metal to dig deep into the tender flesh at her ankles. Isabelle couldn’t stifle the gasp of pain. The guard was pulled up short as she stumbled; angered, he grabbed a fistful of hair to urge her to her feet and back into motion.

Soon they were at a lower level of the prison lit dimly by torches; implements of torture neatly stacked on a table bordered by two rough chairs. The bare wall was marked by a line of sconces holding flickering torches. A pair of manacles dangled suspended from chains bolted into the stone. Seated in one of the chairs was a man she had hoped never to see again - John Mason.

“Isabelle.”

He stood up formally as if greeting a guest and pulled the other chair out so that it faced his. The guard pushed her closer so that she was between the chairs facing her antagonist who stood just a few feet away. Mason gestured at the chair behind her. “Sit down.”

The guard withdrew to the door as Isabelle continued to stand, swaying yet too stubborn to obey his order. His smile still frozen in place, Mason shoved her hard. Off-balance she landed heavily on the chair. His fingers reached out to grip the chain joining her manacles. He jerked it toward him, bringing Isabelle to her hands and knees. His foot stomped down, pinning the chain to the floor. Slowly her tormentor pulled his chair forward and sat down, his face almost level with hers. He leaned forward to speak. She could feel his breath on her forehead and dropped her head to avoid his hated presence.

“You have something I need. Tell me where the money is, Isabelle and things will go easier for you.”

“I don’t know where the money is.” Isabelle bit off every word. She sat back on her haunches and looked up at his impatient visage, anger smouldering in his folded brow and reflected in the working of his mouth as he chewed his lip. She absorbed the energy of that anger and felt a response deep in her gut, the first emotion other than fear and hopelessness she had felt since being beaten on her first day in the penal colony.

Mason continued, his voice full of quiet threat. “Oh, I think you do. You had Pinnette wrapped around your finger. He probably stole the coins because of you.”

Isabelle raised her head and her eyes sparked an icy green in the flickering torchlight. “That’s a lie and you know it. You were his partner in the theft. I know you were responsible for his death, and for framing me for the crime. So I’m not giving you anything, Mason. Not a thing.”

A look of pure anger crossed Mason’s smooth face. He raised his booted foot from the chain and placed it deliberately against Isabelle’s throat, using his toe to tilt up her chin. With a sudden extension of his leg, he sent her sprawling violently backward. The chair, overturned by her flying body, clattered off into a corner. Prevented by her chains from bracing herself, Isabelle landed awkwardly on her back, her head striking the stone floor hard enough to make her ears ring. Mason stood to loom above her.

“Tell me now, Isabelle, while you still can.”

A quiet voice could be heard behind the threatening figure. It was the prison warden, Colonel Mills.

“Easy, Mason. She’s no use dead.”

“She’s no use if she doesn’t talk either.”

“She’ll talk. She gets the lash tomorrow. It shouldn’t take long. It usually doesn’t.”

Isabelle lay there for a minute, her gut twisting with a terrifying realization. Her treatment at the prison was not just random cruelty. Mason knew the colonel - well from the looks of it. The lash! Oh god, she was a dead woman; no doubt now. Abandon all hope… She bit her lip to keep herself from begging for mercy.

She was taken, sometimes running awkwardly, at other times dragged along the stone floor by her manacled wrists, back to her cell. She caught on now to what was going to happen - it didn’t matter how strong her will was; Mason was going to have his answer. She’d give it to him sooner or later. And no-one would save her – not Grief, not anyone. Eventually as she lie staring at the ceiling the cold stomach-churning fear faded, overcome by a shroud of exhaustion. She fell into a twitchy slumber.

Day 7

The nightmare continued the next day. Hotter than all the other days so far. Isabelle actually collapsed, and was out for a short time until shaken and slapped back to consciousness. After supper, when the other prisoners were returned to their cells, Isabelle was dragged to that awful room deep in the prison and stood there in dread as the meticulous commandant gave orders for her to be flogged. The guard dispassionately pulled her shift down to her waist and placed her in the manacles with her face to the wall. She stood there filled with humiliation and terror, shivering in the icy dampness. The cool tones of Colonel Mills politely asked her if she would like to tell him anything. She swallowed convulsively. Unwilling to say a word for fear she would blurt out everything to this unfeeling stone of a man, she steeled herself to silence.

“Proceed,” He nodded to the enlisted man. The first lash stung along her back, the tip of the whip curling around to her side. Two more strokes moved up her back.

“The vinegar.” came the commandant’s mild tones once more. “It prevents infection.”

She felt a sponge wiped along her back, the liquid creating lines of fire wherever the lash had landed. She gasped in shock.

“Do you wish to tell me anything, Miss Reed?” Once more the words came from behind her.

“I don’t know anything.” The words were hard to get out.

“Two more. Let Miss Reed feel the caress of the lash.” Mills alerted the soldier. The next two blows hurt far more than the ones before.

“Remove the manacles!” ordered Mills. “And leave her for a moment. To recover.”

As her arms were released, Isabelle, unable to keep her legs under her, slowly sank to her knees. Colonel Mills crouched beside her, his eyes level with her face. She could smell the cologne on his clean-shaven face.

“I had him go easy tonight. The lash barely broke the flesh. I don’t want to kill you; it’s bad for business. But it’s worse for business if Mason doesn’t get what he needs. So we’ll do this tomorrow night and the next night and the night after. Not much longer than that, I’m afraid, because you will be dead by then. The lash takes its toll.” He grasped a handful of hair to pull her face towards him from where it lay against the wall.

“You see, you’re just a creature now - my creature. I can have my men flay the meat from your bones, inflict so much pain you’ll beg to die. I can do anything I wish. Have no doubt; you will be broken, piece by piece.” He released her hair and, with a look of distaste, wiped his hand on a handkerchief he pulled from the sleeve of his uniform jacket

“Save yourself the trouble, Miss Reed. Tell him where the money is.” He coolly pulled up her shift and helped her fasten it.

He sighed as he took in her silence, the mulish set to her jaw. “Not talking, hmm? Well, I’ve warned you.

Guard! Return the prisoner to her cell.”

The guard grabbed one limp arm and heaved the barely-conscious woman to her feet. Supporting her, a shoulder under one arm and an arm around her waist, the guard dragged Isabelle to her cell and unceremoniously dumped her on the filthy pallet. She cried a long time before she fell asleep, tears of humiliation and fear.

Day 8

The tropical sun blasted the cane field with overwhelming humidity. Weaker now, Isabelle was constantly beaten by the guards’ batons for slowness. The pain of the bruising and of the lash mingled into an itchy, throbbing sensation made worse as sweat ran into the thin lacerations left by the whip. Mason was in the cane field and constantly harassed her. Taunting her and threatening her as she worked, he became more and more impatient and violent. Late in the afternoon one of his brutal shoves sent her sprawling. She lay there for a moment too exhausted to move and too empty to care if she were beaten. She was so all alone. If only someone could see her degradation and take pity on her. But there were no eyes to watch as she grovelled, wretched and defeated, among the shorn stalks of sugar cane. No-one would care if she died in this place – no family, no lover, no friends – nothing to hold her to the world. No, she mustn’t think like that; she could never give up. That was the only choice left to her – capitulation or death. Isabelle would never tell Mason what he wanted to know. She would die before she told him. That would be her revenge. It was all she had left.

That night after dinner (she was actually asleep beside her plate, her meal untouched) she was roused and dragged once again to the underground room. The flogging began again. Chained with her face to the wall, her shift around her waist, she summoned the scraps of her courage in anticipation of the pain to come. The mild tones of the colonel ordered the lash as one might order fruit at the market. Tonight the whip was landing with far greater force on flesh already tender from the lashing of the previous day. Her back was swabbed with vinegar after every stripe. The fourth blow landed across her shoulders and for the first time she could feel the trickle of blood as the whip dug a deeper line through her skin to the muscle below. It was pure torment and her gasp rose to a strangled scream.

Just tell him what he wants to know. Her pain-soaked senses screamed at her. Tell him anything. Make it stop. The next stroke of the lash drove the words from her tongue replacing them with a sobbing moan. Two more cuts of the lash bit into her shoulders. Her screams could not be suppressed. The fiery pain had become a crescendo of agony. There was a pause in the torture while she vaguely heard conversation at the door. Isabelle’s entire body shivered helplessly, held upright only by the manacles bolted to the wall. Mills returned.

“Dress the prisoner. Then replace her in the manacles so her back is to the wall. Mr Mason has come to question Miss Reed himself.”

Isabelle had no strength to cover herself. She lowered her eyes in shame as the stone-faced guard roughly pulled up her shift. She sagged helplessly when fastened once again in the chains. Her unruly hair cascaded forward over her face, giving her blessed relief from the sight of her tormentors.

“Talk to me, Isabelle. I’m tired of this. I’m sure you are too.” It was Mason.

In response to her silence he pulled her head up by the hair and slammed it back into the stone wall. His rage fanned a tiny flicker of anger within her and gave her the strength not to react to his words or the pain he had caused. Maybe if she made him furious enough he would kill her and this nightmare would be at an end.

He changed his tone and began to wheedle at her.

“Why make it hard on yourself, Isabelle? Nobody can help you here.”

“I don’t know… anything.” She choked out the words. She was stunned by a backhanded blow across her cheek, something hard making contact with her eyebrow. Once more she could feel the seeping of blood from an open wound.

“You’re lying.”

Stubbornness alone made her speak. “Why would I lie?”

“You know why, Isabelle. Because you know where the money is buried. Don’t tell me you don’t. Marcel would have told you everything.”

“I told you …I don’t know anything.”

The spent victim gathered her last reserves to brace herself for the next blow. For some reason, it didn’t come. Then mercifully, she was released from the chains and returned to her cell.

She lay there for hours, the throbbing needles of pain in her back preventing exhaustion from claiming her. Tears trickled down her face to dampen the foul bedding beneath her. Each time she thought she had reached the absolute depths, she discovered that there was even worse suffering and degradation beyond. She didn’t think she could summon the courage to defy Mason again and she was sure she would beg for mercy if Mills threatened her once again with the lash. She had nothing left. All she wanted was to walk free without the leg-irons, to die that way if she must. Ride away on a horse, wild and free. Maybe when she died her brother would be there on the other side. He had loved her once. But he was dead. Marcel had loved her once, but he was dead. Soon she would be dead. Maybe then she would be free. Eventually, her clouded thoughts became mere wisps and she slept. And for the first time since Isabelle was imprisoned at Makemo penal colony, she dreamed.

She stood against the rough poles of the paddock gate. Over by the water trough, the herd of horses grazed in the bright sunlight, the mares shadowed by their foals, tails flicking the flies from their bodies. One horse, a tall sorrel with a white blaze, looked up from grazing and turned his handsome head to the woman at the fence. The breeze lifted his long pale mane even as it swept tendrils of sun-lightened hair across the face of the watching woman. The horse took a few tentative steps then broke into an easy gallop, its graceful shape moving fluidly through the long grass as it sketched a curving path toward her. Isabelle climbed to the top rail of the fence. She would ride him, bareback, across the field and far away. She stepped off the rail.

The scene faded and darkened into chaotic, frightening snatches of harsh words and constant pain.

Day 9

Another stifling day in the cane plantation. At least Mason wasn’t there. She noticed that her beatings seemed slightly less vicious than the previous day. That seemed to be the sole aim of her existence now - to try to minimize the pain she endured each day. How had her world diminished so quickly? How long had she been here? A week? No, six days. Less than a week in this godforsaken prison and she was grateful to her captors just to be beaten less often. Through the long hot morning she found herself craving for release from the pain and terror and humiliation – found herself wanting to die. She was so ashamed of herself. Thank god David couldn’t see what a pathetic weakling she had turned into. What had become of her pride?

At around noon, word came out to the plantation to send all the prisoners back to the camp for a medical examination. Prisoners who worked in the building and in the closer fields had already been checked by the doctors, but Isabelle still was in a line of almost two hundred prisoners, standing for an hour outside the main building broiling in the afternoon sun. The column shuffled forward a few feet at a time until finally she was inside the building. All her strength was now directed to the effort of keeping herself upright. Her head spun from sun, fatigue and thirst. If she fell she would be beaten. She would be beaten tonight. She would be lashed tonight. There was a good chance she would die tonight.

Lost in her morbid musing Isabelle had missed the movement of the line and was beaten on the back of her legs for the infraction. She stumbled forward without even opening her eyes. Eventually she was at the head of the line, yanked forward by the guard and pushed unresisting into the doctor’s makeshift examining room. She stood there swaying with exhaustion, eyes downcast.

How strange! The doctor’s voice sounded so much like someone she had once known - she must be delirious. But that voice, it seemed so familiar. She opened her eyes to see the pity-filled eyes of David Grief.

Oh, it was such a precious dream; she couldn’t let it go.

“Help me. Help me.” She pleaded to the apparition.

But the spirit was flesh and blood. It supported her sagging body and smoothed the hair from her battered face. It talked to her in David’s voice, telling her to shush. She tried to focus, roused by the crazy notion that it might actually be him. Could her hero have ridden once more to her rescue?

David Grief was deeply shocked by the condition of the woman before him. Was it only ten days earlier that she had boarded a ship for the penal colony? Isabelle clearly had not just been worked hard but also terribly abused. It was obvious that she had been beaten and mistreated; cuts and bruises were visible on her face and arms. She had lost weight since he had last seen her – perhaps as much as a stone. Her face was gaunt and pinched; dark hollows underscored her luminous eyes. His gut heaved when he saw the pain and bewilderment reflected in their green depths. David held her upright, her thin figure clad in a grubby stinking smock.

Anger and pity rose within him at the sight of the broken figure lolling in his grasp. He’d started out on this crazy mission because of a nagging conscience. When he’d found out Isabelle Reed although a thief and a liar was not a murderer, he knew he had to find some way to free her. Mauriri and he had thought their ruse of being doctors to be quite a clever scheme. Now it was personal; how could they have done this to her? He had to get her out of here. But a deep unease gripped him. Would she be able to do her part in their plan for her escape?

Isabelle raised her head. Her enormous green eyes tried to focus on him.

“I can’t believe you came.” Her voice was husky with emotion. Tingeing her tone was the budding of the impossible comprehension that her suffering might be at an end.

“Yes, you can.” He tried to share his confidence with her, to give her strength.

As he explained his scheme for her to ‘play dead’ from disease, he watched her teeter on the edge of collapse sobbing as she tried to gather her wits together. He had planned to make her look as though she were feverish by pouring water on her forehead. But, overcome by thirst, she greedily drank the water as it sluiced down her face. She was barely able to sit upright, continually slipping if he didn’t brace her. He worked to overcome his disbelief and horror. How could this confused sobbing creature be the cheeky adventuress who had dared to stick up Van Gelt and take his treasure map at gunpoint? She had left Matavai less than a fortnight ago! If only they had more time. Isabelle needed more time. Even though she’d agreed to his plan David wasn’t really sure she’d understood what he’d said.

She gasped and choked as he called for the other doctor to come in. Things were moving far too quickly for her foggy brain to take in. Isabelle fought to maintain control of her runaway emotions. She ought to have known that the other doctor would be Mauriri. He too looked shocked and stricken when he saw her. He turned to confront the dumbfounded prison warden about the conditions in the prison. Fear of an investigation by the governor quelled whatever suspicions or objections the colonel might normally have voiced. Isabelle gathered all her strength to take in the scene before her. All she wanted to do was cling to David Grief and plead for his protection.

Isabelle’s role in the deception was simple. She needed to look ill and then she needed to die. It took all her courage to play her part; she dare not say a single word aloud for fear she’d give the game away. Within the hour, her manacles and leg-irons removed, she lay on a clean pallet in a cell far removed from the rest of the prisoners. When Captain Grief whispered a farewell warning she breathed words of agreement, desperate to show him she could do what he asked of her. It took everything she had not to scream in panic as he walked out of her sight. Her dread of being forsaken again was almost overwhelming.

Isabelle lay alone with her thoughts, with the nervous faltering reawakening of hope. She had been so alone in this awful place, so removed from any kind of comfort. First her life had shrunk to a scrabbling struggle for survival. Then Isabelle had been pushed much further – till, broken by terror, pain and helplessness, she was on the very brink of surrender. Her will to live had been well-nigh extinguished.

But he had come for her. For her! For a time she sobbed with the release of buried emotions, then, after, she pinched herself for fear that this whole interlude might be just a dream. The first soaring rush of excitement and relief was betrayed eventually by the weakness of her injured body. At the last she fell into a slumber so deep, so profound, it wasn’t far from the sleep of the dead that David had asked her to feign.

Day 10 - At sea

In the morning, the doctors visited the isolated cell to check on the condition of the prisoner. A short time later Isabelle Reed was declared dead, another victim of Oroya fever. The prisoner’s body was removed in a coffin and transported to the doctors’ schooner for burial at sea. Hidden aboard the Rattler a young woman waited, shaky in her haste to sail away from Makemo. Hope for a new life had been reborn.

Epilogue –a few months later- on Moorea

Isabelle Reed looked across the paddock at the herd of horses cantering and bucking, filled with the lively spirit of spring. She stood with one booted foot on the lowest rail, her forearms resting on the top rail. Dressed in the oversized shirt and breeches she wore for riding, she tapped her palm with the riding crop she held in her other hand. Shaking her wind-tossed curls out of her face, she looked at the herd with her keen horsewoman’s eye. Isabelle needed to purchase more mares and colts to build up her livery business. Her blossoming relationship with Roger Addison was going to get her the capital to make this new business venture a successful one, she just knew it. She had come to this ranch on Moorea after hearing that the horses here had good bloodlines and were well-trained.

She looked with pleasure out over the herd in the paddock. Isabelle loved the sight of fine horseflesh. There were mares, foals and a few geldings grazing in the shade. For some reason, her eyes were drawn to a tall sorrel gelding at the edge of the herd. His creamy mane tossed with the breeze, his long forelock lifting off his blazed face. He wheeled and burst into a brief gallop, finishing with a couple of crow hops of mischief. For some reason his fluid actions awakened in her an elusive memory, a sense of freedom so powerful it hurt. Isabelle had not come here with the intention of purchasing a grown Thoroughbred-cross, but somehow she knew that she must buy that horse. She would ride along the beach on him, fast and free. She pointed to the horse.

“That gelding over there got a name?” she asked the owner.

“We call him Dante.”

The end

A/N
Torture is still a present-day issue. Though abolished throughout the world in the late 19th century, its practice has increased in recent years as governments take controversial and brutal measures in their attempts to combat terrorism.

Apparently given enough time and the right conditions almost anyone can be broken. The interrogator’s greatest weapons are physical pain, deprivation of food and sleep, and his or her own skills as a questioner.

“Torture (corrupts) those involved in the terrible contact between two bodies, one having all the power and the other having all the pain, one that can do what it wants and the other that cannot do anything except wait and pray and resist.”

“Torture is, of course, a crime committed against a body. Torture is also a crime committed against the imagination. Or rather, it presupposes, it requires, it craves the abrogation of our capacity to imagine others’ suffering, dehumanizing them so much that their pain is not our pain. It demands this of the torturer, placing the victim outside and beyond any form of compassion or empathy, but also demands of everyone else the same distancing.”

Quotations taken from an essay based on a speech by Ariel Dorfman about the issue of torture.

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