Xavier left Timmy, moving quickly backward. He heard a soldier on his periphery shouting at him, but he ignored it. The slave, a pitiful wreck of skin and bones, was on all fours. “Don’t whip him,” Xavier called out to the soldier who stood behind the slave and was raising his whip. And then, from behind, he heard the harsh crack of a lash, and an instant later it burned across his bare back. Xavier grunted.
Another whip cracked, pain seared across Xavier’s shoulders, and this time he was driven abruptly to his knees. Gravel, dirt, and shells dug into his bones.
“Stop it, stop it!” he heard Timmy screaming shrilly.
Xavier was but a few yards from the slave who remained on his hands and knees, apparently without the strength or will to get up and go on. Their gazes met. The slave was a Spaniard of indeterminate years, perhaps middle-aged, and he regarded Xavier blankly. Thick white hair fell into his unfocused, hopeless eyes. “I’ll help you,” Xavier said.
The Spaniard stared at Xavier as if he hadn’t heard him—as if he didn’t even see him.
Xavier pushed himself to his feet. The effort hurt his back, but he refrained from crying out. He half turned and then regretted it as he heard the whip again. Before he could duck, the lash razor-cut his shoulder and his cheek. Xavier inhaled sharply, biting the inside of his own cheek.
Kadar came forward. “Get back with the others.”
Xavier straightened, not touching his face, which was bleeding. “He cannot make it. He is too weak to walk, much less work. He needs a doctor urgently.”
Kadar stared at him, his black eyes unblinking. “Get back with the others.” His tone was far calmer than before.
“If you won’t send him to a doctor,” Xavier said, knowing Kadar would not, “let me help him. I will carry him the rest of the way.”
“He is going to die. Leave him. We can replace him immediately. Get back with the others.”
“I want to help him,” Xavier said quietly—firmly.
This time, Kadar was silent.
Xavier turned to go to the slave, who remained on all fours. He heard the whip and tensed, but was unprepared nevertheless for the searing pain as his back was flayed yet again. Xavier knew that this time Kadar had delivered the blow himself, and he did not look back. He walked unsteadily forward.
The whip hissed and seared the skin off of his back again.
Xavier jerked, willing himself not to fall. It felt as if the whip had cut deeply into his flesh like a finely honed knife. He heard Timmy scream, the sound soblike.
Xavier inhaled, trembling, but stepped forward. The whip cracked, louder now, and this time the force of the lash and the brutal, burning pain sent Xavier to his knees. For a moment he could not move, blinded by both his tears and the pain.
“Cap’n, Cap’n,” Timmy wept.
When his eyes had stopped tearing, when his vision had cleared, Xavier turned his head to look over his shoulder. Kadar regarded him as dispassionately as before. If Kadar’s intent was to be cruel, Xavier could not discern it. Slowly Xavier pushed himself upright. Tensing his entire body for another agonizing blow from the whip.
No whiplash sounded, or came.
His heart pounding wildly from the unpalatable combination of fear, dread, and determination, Xavier bent down for the Spaniard. “Let me help you,” he said softly.
The slave stared at him now, and where before his eyes had been blank and lifeless, now they were wide, astonished.
Xavier put his hand under the man’s armpit and lifted him upright. The slave was so weak that he collapsed against Xavier, and he almost fell over. His entire back was on fire, burning hellishly. Every movement exacerbated his agony.
He turned, half carrying the Spaniard. Kadar watched him, but did not wield the whip. As Xavier and the slave hobbled toward the tightly grouped captives, Tubbs came forward, quickly reaching for the Spaniard from the other side. Still no whips cracked as they joined the group of watching, waiting slaves.
“You shouldn’t,” the Spaniard whispered as the entire mass of humanity was pushed and propelled forward. Someone moaned. Whips sounded, flicked at their legs, driving the captives on.
“I am dying. I want to die,” the Spaniard said.
Xavier looked at the Spaniard, the injustice of life in Barbary overwhelming him, infuriating him. “You will not die,” he said.
The Spaniard closed his eyes in utter, abject weariness. “I am too tired to live.”
“Nonsense,” Xavier snapped.
Then, whisper-soft, the Spaniard said, “Thank you.”
