Free Fire on Dark Water by Wendy Perriman

there was nothing more to see. The captain then pushed me up onto the forecastle deck to stand alongside the musician and trumpeted to the solemn audience, “This wee wench gave the rebels the shears that took young Walker’s life.” A murmur of disapproval ran round the men and some of the grimy mouths spat anger. He continued, “So to recompense her betrayal she’s going to entertain us.” The fiddler struck up a tune and I knew I had to dance as if my life depended on it. Because it did. Of course, this costume wasn’t very sturdy and as soon as I started leaping and skipping the ties began unwinding leaving me half-exposed. At the end of my usual routine I curtsied to the fiddler and bent to collect the items that had fallen. A murky hush descended. Not a soul moved. Then I heard the captain say, “She’ll now dance the Seven Veils.” No! I was mortified. I couldn’t no way strip myself naked in front of these animals.
    Wide, wet eyes pleaded to his better nature as my creaking voice cried, “Nay, Master! Don’t . . .” But he was already halfway up the stairs on his way back to the cabin. A magnetic spark flashed across the waist and a few young sailors toasted me with their grog while others elbowed closer. The only way I could get through this nightmare was to pretend it wasn’t me up there, so I blanked my mind, took a deeper-than-deep breath, and slowly began humming the chorus. As soon as the first veil tumbled my voice was drowned by a barrage of whoops and yells urging me on to the grand finale. But by then the fiddler had picked out the tune and no one was interested in the words. The second sheet fell. Then the third. The fourth. And fifth. By the time the sixth descended my tiny nipples were bare and the instant the seventh veil hit the deck I was swamped by a growling mass of sweaty arms and grabbing fingers. Suddenly I was on my back and someone was trying to push himself inside me. I tried to struggle, but other forearms pinned me to the planks and the fire bit my thighs so intensely it smoked out all sense and drenched me in clammy darkness.
    I ain’t got no idea how long they left me there—throbbing—bleeding—unconscious—but sometime around dawn I awoke to chattering teeth. At first I had no idea where I was until the previous day tore back through memory and reminded me why I was sleeping outside. Everything that happened after the Dance of Veils still hovered in shadow but when I tried to move there was no feeling below my hips and my cumbersome body refused to obey. Slowly I edged myself to a sitting position. I could hear the ship cracking and spraying on its endless, endless journey, the grunts and snores of the more fortunate sleepers scattered around the deck, and the night whispers of those still abroad or on watch.
    Then someone touched my shoulder—I instinctively flinched and squiggled to escape. “Lola, it’s me!” I recognized the hissing voice. Bristol put a tankard of ale in my wobbly hands and said, “Drink this.”
    He helped me down the liquid as I murmured, “What have they done to me? I can’t move!”
    His face turned away in embarrassment. The first gleam of dawn gilded his cheekbone a lighter gray before he coughed and said, “They took your . . . er . . . costume . . . as booty—I suppose. . . .” He pointed to the piece of tarpaulin draped over my lap and said, “That’s all I could find.” And then suddenly, in a squeezing roar of sensation, the feeling returned to my crushed body and with it came the pain.
    “How do you feel?” Bristol asked.
    “Bloody awful . . .”
    “Can you stand?” I tried, but collapsed in a shaky pile. Bristol put his hands around my chest and heaved with all his strength but I wasn’t no way budging. He mumbled, “Can’t do it! I’ll have to get the surgeon.”
    “No!” I didn’t want Bristol to go to that man’s cabin alone and asking for favors. But he’d already set off toward the stern. I cradled my