Jacqueline de Belleville Pt. 01

Forward: The adventures and misadventures of Jacqueline de Belleville during the era of the French revolution and the Napoleonic Wars (1789-1815). Life isn't kind to Jacqueline, but she's a survivor whose intelligent mind and friendly disposition more than makes up for a constant lack of money. Of course, having a body men are willing to die for certainly helps.

Chapter 1: A story to be told

"You want me to do what?!? You can't be serious," I say.

"I'm being perfectly serious. You are to write a short story about your experiences and how you came to be here. Look around you. Rebecca, Martha and the others are all doing the same. It's a family tradition. Wadi Halaf carefully preserves the story of every woman who has entered these walls."

"Your uncle is the best person to tell you how I come to be here."

"I don't mean here in Wadi Halaf, but the events that took you away from your home."

"You know full well that the judiciaries of several countries would like to do nasty things to me if I provide them with anything that could be seen as a confession," I grumble.

"Then disguise the names of those involved in events which are best left unmentioned. You aren't leaving this room until the job is done, so get on with it."

"So you want me to tell you about every man who has fucked or buggered me? That's going to be a long repetitive story."

"Well in your case you can probably skip over some of those occasions. Just write enough so that we get the general idea of what makes you the person you are."

I'm given a plentiful supply of writing material and shown to a small unoccupied desk. Then I'm left to my thoughts. I have done a lot of things in my life and hopefully I'll do a lot more before my time is done. I've made many friends, more than a few enemies, and encountered numerous others. But until now I have never written down my story for posterity. I shall certainly disguise the names of those involved to avoid embarrassing their kin, or inadvertently rake up matters which are best left forgotten.

Where do I begin my tale? I could start in November 1789, when I was born to a French father and a Spanish mother, onboard a ship moored in an English harbour. That particular set of circumstances might explain my affinity for the sea. It also gives me a claim to French, Spanish and English citizenship, although rarely for reasons which benefit me.

My father was Comte de Belleville, a member of the French nobility at a time when that was an exceptionally dangerous thing to be. Along with many other wealthy and privileged Frenchmen, his head was fair game for the excitable French revolutionaries. Slowly the troubles spread as far as the rural backwater of Belleville. One morning my father decided to flee France along with his Spanish mistress, who was nine months pregnant at the time. For reasons I've never understood, his wife, the Comtesse Angelique, stayed behind to protect the family chateau and lands. The indomitable Angelique had to confront sixty lusty French peasants bent on ransacking her home. Whichever version you believe about what happened, she clearly had more balls than my father.

Unfortunately my father left all his valuables behind in his haste to flee to safety. This made some French peasants extremely happy, but it meant that he arrived in England with nothing more than the clothes he was wearing. Consequently the English didn't exactly welcome him with open arms, and it was several days after the ship arrived in Portsmouth harbour before my parents were allowed to disembark. It was during the wait on board the Jacqueline when I entered onto the scene and I was promptly named after the ship.

My father's brain (and later the rest of his head) deserted him five years later when he became involved in a half-baked royalist plot to overthrow the new French government and reclaim all the nobles' confiscated property. The plot ended disastrously, and Madame Guillotine claimed my father's head after all. My mother was left destitute. Like so many women in her situation she resorted to prostitution. I received an early and very informative education in what men and women get up to in bed. More often than not, though, I'd get sent on an errand when things got interesting, although a few of her clients didn't mind me being around.

I was eight years old when my mother died. I never knew whether it was from the pox or the clap, but I suppose that doesn't matter. I found myself living on the streets of London. But the struggles of my childhood years spent as a beggar and thief aren't worth repeating here. My five years of adventures on the high seas are more pertinent, but I'm going to skip over those for now so as to avoid troubling the French, English and Spanish authorities. Those authorities will undoubtedly want to use my memoires as an excuse to do nasty things to my pretty neck. I need to be careful that a French guillotine, English hangman's noose, and Spanish garotte aren't going to be given the chance of competing for the privilege of ending my life.

So let's skip ahead to April 1817, three months ago, and explain how I come to be here. If you're good at sums then you will realise that by now I'm approaching my 28th year. The long war against Napoleon Bonaparte has ended and a French king once again rules over France. In England, those who have profited from the war are now looking for new opportunities to increase their obscene wealth. English adventurers set off for all parts of the world to rob ... ooops! I mean civilise ... the local natives of countries who up until now have been content to manage their affairs on their own. Many of the toffee nosed prigs whose families have controlled England's power and wealth for centuries send their sons off in droves to exotic places. Once there they are expected to earn glory and wealth for themselves and their family. Apparently dying of some unheard of tropical disease, or being disembowelled by angry natives, seems infinitely preferable to dying of boredom at home. Still, more than a few toffs survive the ordeal and achieve their goal by fair means or foul ... often the latter. Of course sending so many unmarried young men overseas leaves an annoying problem for the toffs ... the marriage prospects for their daughters have been reduced to a small and indifferent pool of minor gentry and social climbers.

'Young ladies of good standing required as wives for military officers and titled gentlemen serving in India and the far east' reads the headline of an advertisement in the London Times and the better quality press in Madrid, Paris and probably several other European capitals. There are notably few other details provided, other than to imply that King George III, sensitive to the demand for eligible bachelors for his nobles' daughters, has endorsed a proposal by two American gentlemen, a Captain Dickey and a Dr. Wickliffe, to transport willing young ladies to India and to arrange for appropriate marriages. Quite why any toff would entrust their daughter to a scheme endorsed by a king whose mind is known to be several cards short of a full deck is unclear to me.

Eligible young ladies interested in joining the venture need only to present themselves on the appropriate date at one of the three ports listed. The minimal eligibility requirements and the lack of any vetting process should have rung alarm bells, but it clearly didn't. Everybody assumes that somebody else has checked the credentials of the two Americans. A mad king has endorsed the proposal and that seems a good enough recommendation to the toffs.

But what has the Dickey-Wickey venture (as the gutter press soon call it) got to do with me? I've spent the last six years living in Paris, more recently using the name of Jacqueline Lachatte. My real name is connected with some unfortunate business which I won't dwell on here. Suffice to say Inspecteur Lebranleur would like to see Jacqueline de Belleville's pretty neck cut in half with a blunt guillotine. It's an attitude which I find totally unreasonable, since the same Inspecteur Lebranleur was more than happy with me as his mistress when Napoleon Bonaparte was in charge of France. Anyway, the slow moving cogs inside Lebranleur's brain have finally connected the dots between J. de Belleville and J. Lachatte. Which means I need to get out of Paris in a hurry. Fast exits travelling light are becoming a family tradition.

The Dickey-Wickey venture smells as rotten as a long dead fish, but I'm not in a position to be fussy. This is my ticket out of France, and all I need to do is present myself to Captain Dickey of the Humphrey at the docks in Le Havre on the tenth day of June.

I slip out of Paris before the body of the late Inspecteur Lebranleur is discovered in my bed. At least he died with a smile on his face. An incompetent doctor might believe he died of natural causes while in the act of fucking one of his many mistresses. While Lebranleur's death solves one problem for me, I'm not going to wait around to find out if his death causes me more trouble. I hide in Le Havre for a few days until the Humphrey, an American flagged ship, collects me and six other young women for the Dickey-Wickey venture. The newspaper advertisement said that the young woman needs to be between 18 and 30 years of age, in good health, and educated to a level where she can at least read and write. The young woman being unmarried, a virgin, and able to speak English are implied requirements, but judging by the minimal number of questions I'm asked before boarding the Humphrey, they don't seem to be insurmountable hurdles if not. In my case, the virgin bit could have been a problem thankfully avoided.

A further stop in southern Ireland a couple of days later brings the complement of prospective brides to 32. Without further delay the Humphrey sails south, taking its cargo of young women to their future husbands. That those prospective husbands probably know nothing of the Dickey-Wickey venture doesn't seem to trouble anybody.

The accommodation on the Humphrey leaves a lot to be desired. I'm sure the young toffs expected a cabin, or at least a proper bed to sleep in. Instead we are placed in a section of the ship's hold where hammocks are strung here, there and everywhere for us to sleep in. I suspect I'm the only one here who has previously slept in a hammock; a result of my five years at sea on board the Spanish privateer Zafiro. Ship's 'boy' was a disguise I couldn't get away for more than a few months once it became clear that nature was bestowing me with a decent pair of tits and a well rounded arse. But sailors are a superstitious lot and I retained my honorary male status for years. Sadly my seafaring days are becoming a distant memory, but I haven't forgotten my lessons in seamanship.

The delicate young ladies from England's upper crust are not backward in pointing out the Humphrey's deficiencies in comfort and facilities. Their complaints are duly noted by Dr. Nathaniel Wickliffe, and then completely ignored. The iron grill confining us to this part of the ship's hold is going to remain locked ... apparently for our own protection. To hear Wickliffe talk, you would think the crew of the Humphrey are sex starved animals who would ravish every one of us given half a chance. I for one would be happy to let them try. Wickliffe's smooth words seem to satisfy many of the women, but not all. That the other part of the hold is fitted out as a slave ship sends a shiver up my spine. As much as I wish otherwise, I have a foreboding that we are in deep shit ... really deep shit.

It surprises me how long it takes for those prissy young toffs to wake up to the fact that the whole Dickey-Wickey venture is nothing but an elaborate scam. We have effectively volunteered to sell ourselves into slavery, or at best as hostages for ransom. Although I always had the intention of jumping ship before it reached India, I strongly suspect that the Humphrey was never going there anyway. Intuitively I guess that North Africa is our destination. Of course, I keep my opinion to myself. No point in causing panic before absolutely necessary.

The seriousness of our plight on board the Humphrey must have finally dawned on Lady Catherine Barrington. As soon as we pick up the last of the hopeful brides from Ireland, Lady Catherine is quick to point out that she's the eldest daughter of a duke, and distantly related to King George III. Consequently Catherine has no hesitation in appointing herself as our spokeswoman and leader. She gathers her cronies around her and between them they form a committee. For my part, I sit by the fresh water barrel and quietly listen to the committee's deliberations. Catherine talks and the rest of the committee simply listen. There's no debate, just a monologue. I've obviously over-estimated Catherine's intelligence since she's only interested in complaining about the Humphrey's lack of amenities. I give up listening to her prattling and swing into my hammock.

"How do you do that?" asks a red haired lass with a lilting Irish accent. I remember watching her struggle into her hammock last night. Despite her difficulty, she was considerably more graceful than most of the others. I suspect that more than a few women gave up in disgust and have been sleeping on the deep wooden shelves around the hold. I wonder how many here realise that those shelves normally house scores of African slaves being shipped to America.

"I've slept in a hammock before," I reply. "Do you want me to show you how to climb into yours?"

"Yes please. I'm Molly by the way," she replies.

"Jacqueline," I reply, climbing out of my hammock. "My friends call me Jackie."

I show Molly the trick to clambering into and out of a hammock. My demonstration soon attracts the interest of several of the others and before long I'm helping a dozen or more with the task. It at least enables us to introduce ourselves and get some idea about our fellow travellers. By the end of the day I've spoken with over half of the women and I know something about most of the rest.

I knew from the outset that not all the young women onboard the Humphrey are like Catherine and are from England's upper crust. At least half are daughters of newly rich industrialists, or 'tradespeople' as the toffs like to call them. There's no love is lost between them and Catherine's cabal of snots. I soon realise that our group is even more diverse when I learn that Annie, Katie and Molly are ladies maids eager for better life; Connie is a bishop's illegitimate daughter; Lisette is the daughter of a French diplomat; Elena is a Spanish grandee's niece; and Helen is an earl's unwanted step-daughter. And then there is me, the only orphan among us, although I suspect that's not the only thing which makes me different from the others. My formal education has been varied and intermittent, but the challenges of staying one step ahead of the authorities have added an abundance of knowledge and skills to my repertoire. For now I shall continue my disguise as a French mademoiselle.

There's minimal light in the hold, and what natural light we get is from the open hatch far above our heads. The ship's crew close and lock the hatch as soon as the sun sets. The three small lanterns we are given are next to useless. Catherine and her cronies purloin two of them and a solitary lantern is left by the night buckets placed in the corner of the hold in case anyone needs to answer a call of nature in the night. We clamber into our hammocks and do our best to sleep.

Wickliffe conducts a roll call the following morning although I'm mystified why he bothers. It's not as though any of us could wander off. Then he announces that we are to be allowed to go on deck for exercise in groups of eight. It's just my luck that my group includes Lady Catherine and two of her cronies, Dorothy and Abigail. The three of them don't stop whining the whole time we are on deck.

"What's the problem with you lot?" asks Wickliffe, obviously as annoyed as I am about the trio's constant whining.

"I want a bath," demands Catherine. "And I want one now. A warm one."

Even Dorothy and Abigail look dumbfounded at Catherine's ridiculous demand. Wickliffe is fuming and the ship's crew stop their work and watch with interest.

"Captain Dickey!" shouts Wickliffe after a few moments. "This young lady would like a warm bath. Please be so kind as to have your crew see to her request. Would any of you other young ladies care for a warm bath as well?"

Abigail looks as though she's going to say 'yes' until I grab her arm and pull her away from Catherine. She has enough sense to belatedly realise that something is wrong with Wickliffe's ready agreement to Catherine's demand. Even Catherine begins to suspect a trick, but it is too late for her.

"No takers, then," says Wickliffe. "Very well. You seven stand over there while the crew attend to Lady Catherine's needs."

By now most of the crew have gathered and are looking eager for the task which awaits them. For my part I glance around the deck, making a mental note of my surroundings. There's no sign of land on either side of the ship, but that's no surprise. We are probably well to the west of land and the regular sea lanes. The Humphrey itself is an ungainly beast which by my estimate would need a crew of twenty or more to handle her. That means that the twelve men gathered here can't be the full crew. Thoughts of escape cross my mind. There's a longboat stored between the two masts, but it would need at least six of us to row it. That's assuming we can launch it in the first place and the ship's cannon doesn't then blow us out of the water. I sigh when I realise there's little prospect of escape before we reach land. By then it will probably be too late.

"Now if your ladyship would care to undress, the crew will provide you with a warm bath," sneers Wickliffe.

"Undress? Here? On the open deck? In front of all these men?" quails Catherine.

"Yes. Now do it, or would you prefer that a seaman assists you. I'm sure there's one who will be happy to oblige."

To Catherine's credit she steels her nerves and removes her clothes. In the circumstances it's the wisest choice as I suspect any of these seamen would take other liberties and reduce her clothing to rags in the process.

"Now kneel down," orders Wickliffe. Catherine obeys although I can see that it's taking all her English stiff upper lip training to hold back her tears.

Unfortunately I'm no stranger to the depravities of this world. After my mother died I spent three years living in the gutters of London where anything goes. Running away to sea was the only way I could avoid ending up as a street prostitute, spending my life with my back against a wall, legs spread wide earning a farthing a pop. I don't regret my choices, but life has been far from easy for me. And now I must witness a young woman's humiliation as this worthless crew piss over her immaculate young body. By the time the episode is over, a few of them have added their cum to the mess covering her torso.

Finally Wickliffe allows us to rescue Catherine and take her down into the hold. I suspect those down below have heard the commotion on deck, but not the details of what happened. More than a few cry out in shock when they see the state of Catherine. It's the trigger which starts many of the women on a downward spiral of dejection and defeat.

Chapter 2: The harem

"Let's get you cleaned up," I say when it doesn't look as though Dorothy and Abigail are going to offer. I suppose such dirty work is beneath them ... or perhaps they are too deep in shock.

Annie comes over to help me. Cleaning Catherine means using some of our precious drinking water, but I don't think anyone is going to complain. Too bad if they do. Catherine at least helps, and despite her ordeal she's still holding up remarkably well.