‘White Slavery’

For King and Country

Special Edition
A Novel by Ian Quartermaine

(C) IQ Inc. 1993. 2004. 2009.

Edited and Packaged by Jake Anthony

3
Original painting by Peter Bailey
4
5
 ‘White Slavery’ - For King and Country -
is one of a set of six stand alone stories in four
books, each with subtle links to the others.
Each tale has the author Ian Quartermaine’s
fast moving, brutally frank, pull no punches,
extremely graphic writing style.
A true account of life in the British Navy
at a time when the might of self styled
‘Great’ Britain’s armed forces
had conquered more than half the globe,
‘White Slavery’ perhaps gives reasons why such a
small nation managed to pull off such a feat.
NB. This novel contains extremely explicit
scenes of torture and the sexual abuse of a child.
Do not purchase if you are of
a sensitive disposition or emanate from
a sheltered personal background.

Connecting ‘reality’ books in this series:

‘Sleepless in Bangkok’
‘From Other Worlds’
‘Cybernaut’

6
 The Author: A much travelled journalist and copywriter,
Ian Quartermaine settled in South East Asia
during the late nineteen eighties.
Grateful for the yin yang insight which his Oriental ‘education’
provided, helped bring a broader cultural perspective
to his written work.
These days Ian travels the world extensively,
but looks back with interest on his sojourn in Siam.
With generations of ancestors having served in the British
Navy above and below decks for hundreds of years,
gave Ian Quartermaine a greater understanding
of life at sea in times past.
This has been combined with his personal knowledge of
the real life locations depicted in this tale of the sea.

The latest hard hitting novel from

Ian Quartermaine:

‘Siam Streetfighter’

7
WHITE SLAVERY was practised in Britain in times past just
as much as black slavery was in America It was not race that
decided your fate, it was class. Those ‘pressed’ into the service
of the British Crown, fared the worst.
Britain’s maritime power during the sixteenth to nineteenth
centuries is the stuff of legend. The Spanish Armada, Battle of
the Nile, Trafalgar, invoke images of a daring epoch when Bri-
tannia ruled the waves. Sir Francis Drake, Sir Walter Raleigh,
Lieutenant Fletcher Christian, Captain James Cook, Rear Ad-
miral Horatio Nelson, later Lord Nelson, recall an age of chiv-
alry in a swashbuckling era.
How naval supremacy was torn from the grasp of other
nations, crushing and colonising more than half the globe in the
process, is a more complex story than that usually narrated in
tales of the sea.
Great Britain’s maritime might was purchased not only
through the intellect and valour of the officer classes, but more
predominately through the blood, sweat and tears of those be-
low decks.
‘Amistad’, ‘Roots’ and other stories based on historical
events, suggest that only those of black ancestry suffered under
the cruelty of slavery. In reality, bondage, serfdom and the press
gang were forms of slavery for white people, with brutal and
barbaric treatment an integral part. Freedom of choice or lack
of it, was more dependent upon which class an individual be-
longed to rather than race. The working classes, particularly those
in the service of the Crown, suffered as much under cruel mas-
ters and unfair laws as did the Negro slave.
With a ‘whodunit’ thread woven into the fabric of the nar-
rative, ‘White Slavery’ - For King & Country - essays the afflu-
ence and arrogance of the British ruling classes and how they
viewed the common seamen. From below decks, how the aris-
tocracy were seen through the eyes of two young boys.

8
 Detailing an existence far more brutal than tales of the sea
would usually have us believe, sexual abuse of young boys and
the harshest physical punishment were common place.
Historically accurate, this novel details how ‘Great’ Brit-
ain really gained its empire.

9
 Published by IQ Inc.
International licencing enquiries:
publicrelationsiqinc@hotmail.com
www.iqincmedia.com

(C) IQ Inc. 1993. 2004. 2009.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reprinted

or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, except for brief extracts for the purpose
of review, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN 974-88460-2-4

Initial Print: March 2004.

Special Edition Pressing: November 2009.
E-Book: 2009.

About IQ Inc.

A group of actors, writers, graphic designers and intellectual

property licencing executives combined in an informal relation-
ship to write, mentor other authors and package hard hitting,
edgy, real life projects as books and movies. The controversial
and successful book ‘Sleepless in Bangkok’ was the first. ‘White
Slavery’ - For King & Country - is the second. This ‘Special
Edition’ is the ninth project in this series of ‘reality’ screenplays
and novels. Many other outside-the-mainstream projects will
follow. Watch out for ‘Sleepless in Bangkok 2’.

10
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Deepest appreciation to
Ernest and Rene
Ian Smart
Peter Bailey

11
 ‘White Slavery’
For King and Country
Special Edition
A Novel by Ian Quartermaine

(C) IQ Inc. 1993. 2004. 2009.

Edited and Packaged by Jake Anthony

15
1
Flogged Around the Fleet
A strong breeze from the Solent blew salt laden air into
the faces of the crew, standing to attention on an oak
built warship of one hundred guns. The squawking of
grey and white gulls flying free above the ship, con-
trasted dramatically with the grim silence of the crew.
The subject of their unfaltering attention was the
torn and bloody back of a sailor who had just been
flogged. Unfaltering, because any man failing to witness
punishment would quickly take the flogged man’s place.
“Dismiss ship’s company,” the officer of the watch
said in a genteel voice, his words almost a request to the
bosun rather than a command. Aristocratic in manner
and wealthy beyond the crew’s wildest dreams, his el-
evated position aboard ship could have enforced the or-
der with withering word or dramatic deed, officers hav-
ing the power of life and death over the ranks.
16
 Fastened to a small triangular scaffold tied to a
bulkhead, two seamen untied the apparatus with the
prisoner attached and lowered it over the side of the
warship, to a longboat below. At a command from a
young bosun, a dozen sailors heaved at the oars. Ex-
pertly steering it away from the side of the great war-
ship, the small craft ploughed through the rough waters
of Spithead towards the next ship of the line.
A young marine musician no more than fourteen
years, did his best to hold fast by jamming his feet against
the boat’s timbers. Once secure, he commenced tapping
a rhythmic pattern on his snare drum.
A passenger in one of a procession of small boats
that followed, played the melody to the Rogue’s March
on a penny whistle. The plaintiff refrain joined with the
young marine drummer’s paradiddle.
Stripped to the waist and tied to the triangular scaf-
fold, his back slashed to the bone from five dozen lashes
received on the man o’ war the longboat had just left, a
seaman no more than twenty five years, looked resigned
to his fate. A leading hand, even younger than the bo-
sun, sat facing the prisoner.
In bright red tail coats, white breeches with brown
shoes below, side arms strapped to their belts and mus-
kets in their hands, a marine sergeant and a private sat
fore and aft of the dejected prisoner. Taking no satisfac-
tion from the painful fate of their charge, having been on
the wrong end of the lash themselves in the past, both
were glad, very glad, they were not in his place.
Droplets of rose coloured water trickled down the
17
condemned man’s shoulders, snaking a trail to the waist-
band of his trousers. A combination of his own blood
and the salt spray which flew up as the long boat hit the
waves - plus the remains of a bucket of sea water thrown
over his back after the ordeal on the last ship of the line
- increased the man’s torment.
“His back’s an awful mess,” the leading hand said
with a sick look on his face. He sat just a yard away
from the flogged man so had no alternative but to view
the bloody mess from close quarters.
“Why should you be surprised? He’s just been on
the receiving end of five hundred and forty knotted weals
of the individual strands of the cat o’ nine tails,” the
young bosun replied. “The dousing of salt water that
followed didn’t help. It’s standard procedure after flog-
ging a man. Supposed to stop infection. Trouble is, the
salt acts like stinging nettles being inserted into the
wounds. But infection is an unlikely problem for a man
sentenced to be flogged round the fleet. Very few sur-
vive the maximum possible sentence.”
“Flogged round the fleet. What’s his tally gonna be
then?” the leading hand asked.
“Too much for him to stand,” the young bosun
replied. “In this poor cunt’s case it’s a total of eleven
thousand, eight hundred and eighty cuts from the nine
tails of the cat during each of the five dozen adminis-
tered on the twenty two ships laying at anchor today. I
worked it out. I can read and write too,” he said with
pride.
“To survive that, a man would need the courage
18
of a God or the constitution of the Devil,” the leading
hand added, rather poetically. “Don’t fancy this one’s
chances, looks too weak.”
Despite the restless sea, the craft moved steadily
forward through the waters of Spithead, at the narrow
entrance to Portsmouth Harbour.
A heavy wave caught the longboat as it hove to
against the giant timbers of the second man o’ war to be
visited that morning, throwing the scaffold with the half
naked man tied to it, into the sea.
For what seemed an eternity for the submerged
prisoner as he gasped for breath, a violent tug on the
rope attached to his scaffold hauled him out of the swirl-
ing, ice cold water.
“Would have been a blessing to let him drown,”
the leading hand said to the young bosun, both having
burst into action to haul the scaffold with the prisoner
attached, up from the drink [*].
“But then we’d have taken his place for losing the
man,” the young bosun confirmed as he helped his jun-
ior oppo [**] attach the scaffold to the line that dropped
from above.
“Cut the gossip below or you’ll follow the prisoner
onto the punishment grille,” an arrogant young midship-
man on the second ship of the line, shouted.
“The prisoner is secured, sir,” the young bosun
yelled.
“That’s better, warrant officer,” the young mid-
shipman replied in strangulated-vowels typical of the ruling
classes in England.
19
 The condemned man cried out as two sailors on
the second warship hauled the portable scaffold up the
side of the ship, the swell from the sea dashing man and
scaffold against the timbers, each and every movement
adding to his agony.
“I’d hate to be in his place,” the leading hand on
the longboat said from the corner of his mouth, so he
could not be seen talking by the young officer above.
“Shut your cake [***] or you’ll be on punishment
roster and I’ll probably be downrated because of your
indiscipline,” the young bosun said, grimly. “I’ll beat
your bastard skull in when we get off duty.”

[*] The drink is a slang term British sailors use to de-

scribe the sea.
[**]. The word oppo is a navy term used to de-
scribe a fellow seaman on the same watch or mess. This
also means friend or mate in some respects.
[***] Cake is a slang term for the mouth: an open-
ing where the occasional luxury of cake is consumed.

20
2
A Social Event
On the deck of the second ship of the line anchored in
the choppy waters of the Solent, the small triangular
scaffold with the prisoner attached was hauled up the
side of the great oak vessel and dragged across the deck.
Two sailors commenced fastening it to a wooden deck
grille secured to a bulkhead.
The crew, an ill matched mix of volunteer and
pressed men, stood facing the prisoner. As an example
of what to expect should they similarly contravene Mari-
time Law, their position on deck gave no alternative but
to observe every brutal detail of the imminent punish-
ment at close quarters.
On the small poop deck above the main deck, the
captain and his officers were assembled. Looking as if
they had gathered to sip cocktails at a royal garden party,
at some palace or aristocrats’ mansion, their appearance
21
was in opposition to the barbaric ceremony about to be
played out.
A young midshipman spoke quietly to an older
colleague. “Why is everyone so immaculately turned
out?” he asked.
“You really are new to shipboard life,” the older
boy said in a superior tone. “Better learn fast or you’re
likely to be on punishment roster yourself. Not a flog-
ging of course, just a jolly good caning from one of the
ship’s warrant officers. As an official punishment or-
dered by the Lords’ of the Admiralty, rather than at the
whim or discretion of a ship’s officer, we are obliged to
turn out in full dress uniform. Almost makes it into a
social occasion,” the older boy remarked, with an arro-
gant air.
“Is that why officers’ wives are allowed to attend?”
the younger midshipman enquired.
“I suppose so. Not everyday that so dramatic a
flogging takes place,” the senior boy advised with an
almost bored expression.
Dressed in their finest hats, dresses and carousels,
a group of officers’ wives politely jockeyed for position,
to obtain the best viewing point against the rails. There
they would more clearly be able to witness every sordid
moment of the barbaric spectacle that was about to take
place.
The captain’s manservant carried a silver tray laden
with a decanter of Madeira wine and matching crystal
goblets. His assistant, a young cabin boy, poured the
wine and handed it to the ladies.
22
 “Fine wine and all. They certainly are acting as if
it’s a social occasion,” the younger of the two midship-
men observed, taking care to speak discreetly, so as not
to draw attention to himself.
“The wine is in case any of them feel faint,” the
older of the two midshipmen stated. “Should they be
overcome by the brutality of the coming event, the wine
will help them recover their spirits.”
Standing to attention on the poop deck overlook-
ing the crew, a platoon of marines were equally resplend-
ent.
“Is that why the marine guard is so splendidly turned
out?” the younger midshipman asked.
“God, you do ask a lot of questions,” his older
colleague replied. “This being a court martial offence,
they received a particularly stringent inspection this morn-
ing. Now shut up or we’ll both be on punishment ros-
ter.”
“Oh good, I think it’s about to start,” one of the
officers’ wives said in a light-hearted tone.
“Scaffold secured bosun,” one of the two sailors
shouted, who had dragged the apparatus with the pris-
oner attached, across the deck.
Silent and grim faced, the crew stood to attention.
The two sailors who had taken charge of the small trian-
gular scaffold when it came aboard ship, joined the crew
in the front rank.
Without emotion, having carried out the task more
times than he could remember, the master at arms, a
tough looking man in his late forties, jammed a piece of
23
leather between the prisoner’s teeth. He spoke softly to
the prisoner as he did so.
“The leather bit will ensure you don’t bite your
tongue off when the cat o’ nine tails recommences tear-
ing into your much lacerated back. You poor bastard.
The stockings between your lashings and your arms will
prevent you tearing the flesh from your wrists. It was
not a good idea to desert your ship. Better to have been
hung than flogged round the fleet. You are being made
an example of to deter others who might wish to avoid
serving in His Majesty’s Navy.”
Having completed his small part in the ceremony,
the master at arms retreated beneath the poop deck.
At a nod from the bosun, the first of the two bo-
sun’s mates designated to carry out the flogging, took
his place beside the prisoner.
To show respect for His Majesty the King and the
Lords’ of the Admiralty, the captain took off his hat.
Handing it to the senior midshipman, the captain exam-
ined a small sheet of parchment which the first officer
presented.
A grizzled old hand who had seen it all before,
waiting with the rest of the crew ready to witness pun-
ishment, spoke quietly to a younger member of the crew
who had not.
“This is your first voyage, aint it youngun?” the
elderly seaman said.
The youngster nodded. “Well, I’ll fill you in as to
what’s about to take place. That way you may not be so
shocked. Bosun’s mates carry out the punishment. One
24
left handed and one right, each will lay on a dozen with
the nine tailed lash before resting. From the base of the
man’s spine to his neck where his sailor’s pigtail hangs,
every square inch of his back will be fastidiously visited.
Try not to keel over or you might end up replacing him.”
The youngster looked suitably scared.
Realising punishment was about to begin, a few of
the officers’ wives started to clap. A withering glance
from the captain was enough to bring their misplaced
conduct to a halt.
Noting the prisoner was in place ready to receive
punishment, the captain addressed the crew from his
lofty position above them on the poop deck.
“Having been found guilty of desertion in contra-
vention of the Articles Of War, Seaman MacLeod has
been sentenced to be flogged around the fleet. May his
punishment serve as an example that mutinous acts will
not be tolerated in His Majesty’s Navy.”
Completing his short discourse, the captain nod-
ded in the bosun’s direction. “Ensure your men lay on
the second five dozen with enthusiasm or they will take
his place once sentence has been executed. Do your
duty, bosun.”
“Ay captain,” the bosun gruffly replied, and sig-
nalled to his right handed mate that punishment should
begin.
The man removed a red handled cat o’ nine tails
from its scarlet coloured baize bag. Flicking the coils out
towards the deck, the right handed bosun’s mate loos-
ened the thongs to ensure an even spread. A well made
25
west countryman who’d worked his way up to a higher
position on the lower deck, where unless he mutinied,
struck an officer or failed to administer punishment with
maximum vigour, would be less likely to be on the re-
ceiving end of a flogging himself, drew the thongs of the
cat o’ nine tails through his rough fingers.
The ageing seaman provided the youngster stand-
ing next to him with more unasked for information. “The
bag containing the cat o’ nine tails is scarlet in colour so
that any vestige of blood will not show up when it’s
replaced in its red coloured container. Every detail of the
punishment ritual has been thoroughly planned and will
be executed in strict accordance to maritime procedure.”
Again, the newcomer to the ship looked suitably scared.
But the elderly seaman had not finished. “Steel
yourself laddie, what you are about to witness may bring
up your breakfast. An experienced bosun’s mate will
ensure that every strand of the nine knotted tentacles
strips the skin wherever they fall. After six strokes accu-
rately placed, the prisoner’s back will be red raw. From
twelve on, the flesh will resemble butcher’s meat.”
The old man stared at the frightened youngster
standing next to him. “Are you going to be all right?” he
asked. With considerable uncertainty, the youngster nod-
ded.
“Best be prepared or the shock might cause you to
fall out of line, then you’ll be punished yourself. After
watching or being on the tail end of the barbarity you are
about to witness in the service of the Crown, many men
go insane. The British Navy has its own lunatic asylums
26
as a result. Bet you didn’t know that.”
Steeling himself before commencing his part in the
barbarous ritual, the right handed bosun’s mate hesi-
tated. But only for a moment, before launching his nine
knotted flail through the air.
As the nine strands of the first stroke of the second
five dozen lashes to be administered that day, bit their
way into the open wounds of the previous sixty, pain
raced through the condemned man’s nervous system
like an electric shock. Simultaneously, the force of the
blow pushed him forward, pressing his chest hard against
the holes of the wooden grille to which he was fastened.
“One,” the master at arms called out with minimal
enthusiasm.
The victim cried out softly through the leather gag
as the lash tore into his flesh yet again, the first stroke
sweet and agreeable compared to the second.
The time between each stroke seemed agonizingly
long yet the next came too soon, as the blood soaked cat
o’ nine tails cut relentlessly into the seaman’s flesh, driv-
ing its flails deeper into his defenceless body.
Unswerving in his duty, the right handed bosun’s
mate flogged his victim with all the strength he could
muster, so as not to find himself strung up to receive
similar penalty, soon after.
The master at arms counted the lashes as each
was laid on with a will, reminding the prisoner how much
longer he had to suffer such agonizing pain.
In between each stroke, the man regulated to ad-
minister punishment cleaned the tails of the cat so as not
27
to clog them with flesh and deaden the effect.
Pausing to rest his arm when the first dozen had
been counted, the right handed bosun’s mate stood be-
hind the wooden punishment grille, allowing his left
handed companion to lay on the second of the bag of
four yet to be administered.
The left handed bosun’s mate brought the thongs
of his own cat o’ nine tails back behind him before thrust-
ing forward from the opposite angle, spreading the strands
across the man’s flesh in an almost artistic pattern.
“Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen,
eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty one, twenty two,
twenty three, twenty four,” the master at arms torpidly
called until the second bag of twelve was complete.
Instantly the left handed bosun’s mate stepped
aside, allowing his right handed colleague to recommence
striping the tormented sailor from the original angle.
By the time the fourth dozen had commenced on
the second ship of the line to be visited that day, the
prisoner felt that his whole life had been lived in a blur of
torment and pain, and any pleasure in the past was a far
off dream.
During the final bag of five, the prisoner’s internal
parts ruptured and he lost control of his bladder, urinat-
ing on the scrubbed deck of the immaculately turned out
ship. But the cat o’ nine tails continued to rip into his
lacerated body until the last stroke of the sixty on this
ship of the line, was laid down with the same force as
the first.
Punishment complete, a third bosun’s mate played
28
his small part in the punishment plan by throwing a
bucket of seawater across the sailor’s shoulders. The
salt in the water infiltrated into the prisoner’s open flesh
and he screamed.
The sight of the torn and tattered mess of fat, blood
and broken skin that now constituted what remained of
the punished man’s back, caused the younger of the
two midshipmen to faint.
“Take the midshipman’s name, lieutenant,” the
captain said in an imperious tone. “He will kiss the gun-
ner’s daughter tonight. Punishment for falling out of line
without permission.”
A young officer’s wife spoke to an older compan-
ion as she heard the captain’s order. “What does that
mean, kiss the gunner’s daughter? I didn’t know women
were allowed on board ship, let alone a young gel.”
“You silly goose,” the more mature woman re-
plied. “Kiss the gunner’s daughter means that the young
man will make contact with the three sisters - triple strips
of rattan cane bound tightly together. He will bend over
a cannon and receive twelve strokes across his bare back-
side from the strong arm of one of the bosun’s mates.
Husband tells me warrant officers take pleasure in lay-
ing it on with maximum force, in return for all the pastings
they had to endure when young. Rather perverse, don’t
you think?”
“Oh golly, wish I could watch,” the younger woman
said. “Does it hurt much?”
“Worse than having a baby,” the older woman
replied.
29
 Not drunk yet - it being so early in the morning -
but still suffering the adverse effects of the previous
night’s binge, the ship’s doctor stepped out from behind
the overhang of the poop deck to make a cursory ex-
amination of the prisoner’s torn flesh. Believing the ashen
faced man to be still alive, he nodded to the bosun.
The bosun instantly gestured towards the seamen
in charge of the makeshift pillory. “Unlash the scaffold
from the bulkhead and lower it and the prisoner over the
side.”

30
READ OTHER HARD HITTING, GRAPHIC,
CONTROVERSIAL ‘REALITY’ NOVELS
FROM
IAN QUARTERMAINE

‘’White Slavery’ -
For King & Country

‘From Other Worlds’

‘Cybernaut’

‘Siam Streetfighter’

COMING SOON
‘Sleepless in Bangkok 2’ -
Return to the Triangle

The following can be purchased

on-line as E-books or Paperbacks:
www.iqincmedia.com
387