Author's Note: This story deals with a somewhat dystopian version of London in which slavery, and corporal punishment of slaves, is completely legal. Said corporal punishment is included in this story (in the very first chapter, in fact) with semi-graphic description of pain, bruising, and, potentially, blood. I tried not to go overboard in the whump but…let's just say there are people out there ready to abuse those they have power over and Jack does not have an easy time of it. The potential for sexual abuse is also alluded to, but not included beyond some creeper being overly handsy. Slaves can be ordered to completely disrobe in public, as part of a punishment. This also happens in the fic but there are no graphic descriptions of genitalia nor sex.
Please note that this fic does not condone slavery; the reasons stated within the story for why slavery is 'necessary' are not reasons the author endorses. Slaves might have their needs met but they have no CHOICE in being a slave. They cannot leave slavery or advance within society. They cannot leave an uncomfortable situation to find a new owner. Some slaves might appear better off than free citizens, but the system is abusive by nature. Nor is this story meant as a depiction of the healthy expression of dom/sub relationships; if you were looking for that kind of story you will be disappointed.
Also note that slavery in this fic has more to do with class than race; one can recognize a person's slave status by the collar and slave tag locked around their neck, not by skin color. I recognize that historically slavery has existed (and in some places, still exists) based on a number of factors, including race, and that as such it can be a sensitive topic for those affected. This story is not meant to reenact historically accurate depictions of slavery, it is meant to explore an alternate reality in which England includes slavery as its lowest class. In this story, Jack is a government slave, which means he does jobs for the City like lamp lighting, or serving in government institutions, like the bank because it is government endorsed. The Banks family are free Citizens. Mary Poppins is Mary Poppins.
1.
Nine times out of ten, Jack didn't deserve the hits he got. And that one time out of ten when he had actually done the thing that warranted punishment, some might argue he still didn't deserve to be hit because no one deserved being beaten as a punishment. Certainly, it was something being protested by a small but growing number of slavery rights groups, including SPRUCE (the Society for the Protection of the Rights of the Unpaid Citizens of England). Still, despite this growing movement, Jack counted himself lucky if he went a full week without some kind of physical punishment that, more likely than not, was in no way earned. Some might seethe in resentment over the unfairness of the universe and plot revenge. Some might bow their heads to their lot in life and trudge onwards because they had been beaten down too many times to look up.
Jack wasn't really the seethe or revenge type, though, and he definitely wasn't the 'never look up' type. He didn't even resent being punished unfairly. Life wasn't fair, and when one was basically born to the slave class then the occasional government sanctioned beating was only to be expected. And it wasn't all horrible doom and gloom, not for a London City slave. There was also the government sanctioned housing that had to be at a certain standard to pass inspection, and the government sanctioned food allotment, good healthy vegetables and grains with a weekly quota of meat and fruit to keep their laborers healthy, and appropriate clothing to keep out the wet and chill and keep the City looking respectable. You can't have your lowest workers walking around in dirty rags, covered in sores and bodies twisted by malnutrition, and still have the proper appearance of a civilized nation.
England was civilized. A labor force was necessary, of course, and for that one needed a class of people to perform that labor, a class of people that the priests explained were blessed by God to be the servants of society, perhaps inferior in brain but superior in bodily strength and spiritual fortitude. Of course such servants, being naturally inferior in many ways, needed guidance and a firm hand. Much as children do. But there were rules to that sort of thing; it wasn't like the olden unenlightened times when a person could lash a slave to death for the crime of accidentally spilling a pitcher of wine at the table. And a man couldn't simply pound his fists against a slave just to relieve some pent-up stress. There were rules. The transgression must be purposeful, and the punishment had to be equal to the transgression, and never so severe that the slave would be laid low and unable to be of service beyond the single half hour given for recovery. If an implement like a lash, for instance, were to be used, the highest number of hits for an adult male within a single day was ten, and even that was usually considered excessive and rarely applied.
Slaves liked being slaves, or so people, markedly not among the slave class, told each other. What wasn't to like? A slave had all their needs met, and a number of protections from abuse of authority over them. True, the protections didn't always work, but at least they stopped the worst of it. And all they needed to give in return was a certain number of hours of labor each day; not even all the hours of a day, no more than ten by law, with half an hour break in the middle, and a day off every six weeks. They had it better than many working-class free citizens. In fact, half the people out there protesting slavery weren't protesting that slaves existed or that they were abused; they protested that they took jobs away from free citizens and had things too easy. A free citizen had to fend for themself to get food on the table and clothes on their back and a roof over their head. And sure, they had more of a chance to climb the social ladder, and striking a free citizen was against the law…but in these times who had it better? Some free citizens were currently choosing slavery for their children, that's how much better slaves had it.
Or so shouted the apple vendor, with many other words, all of them derogatory, after demanding Jack be beaten to the full extent of the law by a passing police officer for the crime of stealing a single apple.
"Worthless delinquents, the lot of you. Think you're so above us in the Slump. Should go back to when slaves knew their place and that was under any free Citizen who raised a fist to them, no talk of rights and this bleeding-heart idea that slaves shouldn't have to handle a bit of pain. I say if some illiterate dung shoveling lamplighter don't know his place, it's us rightful free Citizen's place to show him. I work hard for my wares, and I don't ask for no handouts, neither. Thieving rats, the lot of you. Should all be horse whipped!"
Jack, despite being a slave, was perfectly free to argue back. He was also prudent enough to look down submissively instead and apologize with repentance he didn't feel for 'accidentally' knocking one of the man's apples out into the street. Because it was his right to use his voice but there were unspoken rules. And the three lashes he was about to receive would sting quite a bit less than the ten the apple vendor was demanding.
Still less of a punishment than what the free Citizen child he'd thrown the apple to would have received if caught stealing. Certainly no one would beat the child. At best, just lock her in the pillory for a couple of hours, and there's no saying she wouldn't get a bit bruised up in the process, for all that outright beating was forbidden. Anyway, a bruised pride doesn't leave visible marks, and there's no way to go through something like that unharmed. At worst, if the child had enough transgressions against her, she'd lose her own freedom for quite a bit longer, either to public service or to jail…or to slavery.
The world wasn't fair, but that didn't mean Jack couldn't tip the balance a bit. And at least this time the transgression Jack was being punished for was real and not a flimsy excuse to exercise a sadistic nature on those who couldn't defend themselves, or a way to get back at an uncanny voiced thought or perceived slight to his superiors. Honestly, most beatings Jack received were a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time when someone noticed something missing, or broken, or not properly cleaned. And if a citizen asked you if you were at fault, when you are a slave, you always said 'yes'. Yes, because someone was at fault and you protected your fellow slaves. Yes, because a 'no' might be considered a lie and the punishment was worse. Yes, because it was easier to bow your head, take the punishment, and move on with your day rather than drag your feet and make a little deal into a bigger, likely more painful one.
'I can read, actually, a good sight better than you, I'd imagine,' Jack didn't say, nor, 'It's folk who go around wanting to stomp over those smaller than them as deserve to be whipped a great deal more than those who do your dirty work for you.' Nor even, 'Being a leerie is the best part of my day, actually,' because he couldn't see how 'lamplighter' might be deemed a derogatory word. And he definitely didn't say, 'And if we have to shovel a bit of muck like you off the street, how much better the streets are for it'.
The police officer looked rather put upon and bored as he dragged Jack over to the whipping post, a small crowd following, thankfully not including the apple vendor who had to be satisfied that justice was happening without being a witness to it; he could not guard his remaining apples and watch the punishment enacted. His voice still followed them until they rounded the corner to the nearest stockade. It was at a road crossing and was fancy enough to include a post and no less than three pillories, all currently unoccupied. Jack was pulled along to the post, much to his relief; he'd had the bend over in the pillory style beating a time or two and it was always worse than the standing kind. Not that the post was fun.
"Shirt off," demanded the officer in an official, slightly bored tone that made it clear this was all just a job to him. Jack still couldn't quite hold back the wince; there was a limit to the number of lashes but a lot of creative ways to make a beating better or worse, and bare skin was always worse than covered. Implement chosen also made a rather large difference. This officer seemed the sort to use the most official instrument; a small leather lash that stung and bruised but rarely welted unless hit too often on the same spot. Other implements Jack had known included a policeman's baton, a variety of canes, a variety of straps and lashes with a numerous 'enhancements' including knots or beads (anything purposefully sharp was forbidden of course, but what counted as 'not sharp' allowed for some things that could and did draw blood), paddles that ranged from humiliating to sadistic, and, on one occasion, an actual bull whip. Multi-tailed whips were allowed, but each tail counted for one hit. A cat-o-nine tails, for instance, could only be used a single time against someone who had no more than one hit already and so was generally not chosen.
"Hands on the post," was the next command, once Jack's shirt was removed and neatly laid over a nearby pillory, Jack shivering in the cold morning air. There were a few jeers from the crowd, the most embarrassing being appreciative whistles, as if Jack were getting unclothed for their eyes. One of the hazards of public punishment and not something the policeman even seemed to notice, let alone put a stop to. Jack obediently held the post and allowed the manacle to be latched; it wasn't even locked on, more a formality to stop the slave from squirming away. A safety precaution really; even someone skilled with the lash could accidentally do real damage if the slave moved too much.
"Three lashes to…" the police officer paused in filling in the entry in his book to tug at Jack's collar to read his ID, "City Slave 556021, Jack London, first lashes of the day, minimum penalty for the infraction of theft, note that theft appears accidental, at the complaint of John Swindle…" That was with a squint, as he was now reading off his previously taken statement from the apple vendor. Jack had to work hard not to snicker at that mispronunciation of John Swanson, the man's actual name. Swindle suited him better, in Jack's opinion.
This was all lawful and above board and documented, of course. Not a man beating another man. A person in authority giving authorized punishment for an observed offence. The police officer would note it in his book, later file it with his station and a report would be sent to the City for Jack's own file, and the officer would latch on three beads to Jack's collar so anyone who saw him would both know he'd done something to merit punishment and to ensure no punishment was given beyond ten lashes within the day.
Which wasn't to say he couldn't be punished further, just that the punishment could not involve applying additional lashes beyond the ten. People are nothing if not creative when it comes to such things.
And if sometimes people miscounted when applying punishment, there were other unspoken rules. The law, for some, was not so much 'what am I allowed to do' but 'what can I get away with', and who would notice one or two extra bruises? And who would believe a disgraced slave who complained over a rightful authority?
This authority, at least, seemed to be a by the book sort. If he'd wanted to give more than three, he would have assigned more than three; three was the minimum not the maximum for Jack's transgression.
And then, all conditions being met, the officer unhooked his lash from his belt, a pretty standard implement Jack saw at a glance though possibly on the heavier side. Jack tried not to react too obviously to a sight he saw at least once a week if only to not give the crowd the pleasure, but there was no way to get around the fact that this would be unpleasant.
And then the officer was walking around to Jack's back and ordering people to stand back. Of course; couldn't accidentally hit a free Citizen. There was a slave or two in the crowd as well; no one Jack knew, not City slaves. They didn't leave the crowd but they did look away, not out of pity but as one of those unspoken rules. You don't watch, unless ordered to and even then only if not watching will make it worse for the one beaten; stay to offer support but look away to offer the only privacy allowed in the circumstances and allow your fellow slave the dignity of taking the beating however well or badly they take it without observation.
And then, as Jack tensed for the first lash (the officer so by the books he even announced 'first lash' before raising his arm), the situation got worse.
"Wait!" cried a very alarmed, very young voice. And Jack closed his eyes tight and willed for that child to not be who he thought it was. He opened his eyes. It was. It was the child he'd thrown the apple to. The child who, along with looking half-starved and too young, was still innocent enough to protest what was about to happen. "Wait, don't, please, I can…I can give…"
"You can go home to your mama," Jack ordered, loudly and harshly before the child could finish the sentence. Because the child was still holding the uneaten apple, of course she was, barely visible wrapped up in her skirt unless you knew to look for it, like Jack did, and likely she thought this could all be fixed if only she gave it back. It wouldn't. Jack would receive the same punishment either way, and if things went badly she'd be punished too for her honesty. She looked about to cry.
"Get home, girl," Jack went on, loudly and with as much contempt as he could manage, because better she hated him and thought his punishment deserved, than thinking it was all her fault. Better she not watch at all. Better she didn't end up locked in the pillory or worse. "I don't need no tears on my behalf from a snot-nosed gutter rag like you."
"Here, don't speak to a Citizen like that," growled the crowd, because the child was a free Citizen, for all she was half starved and dressed in rags. No collar adorned her neck. And the child looked determined, as only a free child could be, and tearful, which just might save her from herself because she looked ridiculously pitiful and innocent like that. What she did not look, though her eyes had widened in surprise, was offended. Which somewhat terrified Jack.
"Here, another lash, then, for your cheek," the officer at Jack's back growled, not sounding quite as bored anymore. Jack had been right to bite his tongue in the face of the apple vendor. The officer was one of those old-fashioned types who didn't like people getting above their station. Yes, he would do things by the book and think himself fair and just; he would also most definitely think a man actually deserved pain in response to words. Jack could hear the sound of leather being twisted between his hands.
And the girl clearly thought that unfair because she actually put her hands on her hips and opened her mouth, about to make things even worse, if not for Jack, then for herself.
One of the slaves in the crowd pulled her away, saying in a soothing manner, "There, there, little girl, don't watch and it'll all be over soon. He'll be fine, you'll see." And then other words, whispered urgently in her ear. Jack couldn't hear, but it was likely something like, 'They'll hit him anyway, even if you give the apple back, don't make his pain be for nothing.' Because that's what Jack would be whispering if things were reversed.
The crowd eyed the slave who'd dared to grab a free Citizen, but the child was only a child, and a ragged one at that, with no parent or guardian in sight to speak on her behalf. And the slave was clearly looking after her not doing anything untoward. And Jack could breathe a sigh of relief, because the child was pulled away, the child was safe, and the slave wasn't being chastised for his kindness.
"First lash," said the officer again, tone still official but no longer bored, which didn't bode well because an engaged officer was likely to hit harder than a bored one. Jack closed his eyes because he didn't want to know if the child was still watching and he didn't want to see the crowd's faces, not when the crowd was jeering or telling him he deserved worse or gleefully cheering on his pain. Not everyone in the crowd, but the vocal ones, certainly.
The lash hit and hit hard, striking his back with a meaty slap that Jack could tell took effort. And if Jack wasn't mistaken, the officer had knotted the end, pinpointing a sharp, deep pain to go along with the broader smart of the leather. The officer had skill, too, training, which was preferred because there were few things worse than someone who didn't know what they were doing applying the lash. They either hit in places that could do real damage, hit in ways that tore skin even when they were trying to go gentle, or they hit in ways that could be discredited…a discredited lash didn't count as a lash. And a lot of discredited lashes could make a beating quite a bit worse than just taking the original lashes.
Jack could appreciate the man had skill. He hit broadly and flatly, which was less likely to welt even with the knot, rather than applying all the force of the lash to the lash's tip by cracking it like a whip, or slicing as it might have if he didn't stop the swing at the moment of impact. He also had muscle and he was applying it, probably much harder than he originally intended to before Jack had spoken. Jack didn't quite cry out, too used to beatings to not know how to swallow the pain, but the first lash was always the hardest to brace for and he couldn't quite control an audible noise at the sheer force of it. The first lash also tended to set the tone for the rest. Most beatings would smart for a few hours. This, Jack was certain he would feel for days.
Jack tightened his grip on the pole and clinched his teeth and the officer said 'Two' and struck again, and then a third time and then a fourth. The officer was skilled enough, and kind enough, to not overlap the hits. On the other hand, that meant that the bruises would be spread over the whole of his back. Jack was just slowly beginning to unclench, and find the place in himself that let him push past the pain, when the officer spoke again.
"And now, one, for your cheek," and that was unfair because it was three for the theft and one for the cheek and they'd already done that. But the world wasn't fair, and Jack didn't say any of this out loud, just braced himself yet again.
This time it did cross over the previous hits, hard enough that if Jack hadn't been braced and holding tight to the pole (if his hands hadn't been latched in place, holding him up) it might have sent him to his knees. He held himself upright, though, and didn't fall, and didn't shout, and didn't curse the officer, or the crowd that watched it all happen and were glad to see it, who were begging for more.
He opened his eyes and waited for the ordeal to be over so he could go on with his day. A day which was looking up because surely this had to be the worst of it. There was always something to be happy about, even an overly harsh beating, even if it was simply knowing nothing worse was going to happen because the worst had already passed.
And he didn't look at the jeering crowd. He looked at the child, who was turned away, crying into the arms of the slave who'd first pulled her away, and at the slaves, who still weren't looking at him, giving him his space to react, but whose hands were clinched as they bit back their own words. They knew injustice when it happened, too. It helped, knowing that others disapproved, even if they all knew better than to speak.
None of the free Citizens, who were perfectly free to speak without consequence, protested.
The officer added three beads to Jack's collar. He didn't add the fourth one for cheek or the fifth one to document the final hit. Perhaps the officer was not so perfectly by the books, after all. It wasn't like the crowd was going to tell on him, and it would go worse for Jack or the other slaves if they tried. But maybe the officer wasn't so bad, as Jack somewhat maliciously thought in his head; he could give him the benefit of the doubt that he was really, really bad at maths. One had to make allowances for dumb brutes.
"Well?" the officer asked then, as he hesitated to unlatch Jack's hands from the pole. Jack could have done it himself as it wasn't locked, but not easily, seeing as it was his hands being held. Jack gritted his teeth, knowing exactly what an old-fashioned sort like the officer wanted, and not particularly wanting to oblige. In the end, he wanted things over with, more.
"Thank you, sir, for correcting me," Jack said, just barely managing to not come off as anything that might earn another undocumented lash for 'cheek'. The officer unlatched him.
"You may retrieve your shirt and go on about your duties," he said, as if bestowing a favor. Getting the shirt on took a bit more time than getting it off; the sting of the lashes had yet to wear off and settle into a deep ache that would make things difficult for a day or two. At least a cursory glance at his reflection in a nearby window showed he wasn't bleeding. Of course not. Old fashioned and well-trained type like the officer would have insisted on treatment if he were.
As it was, the officer didn't even feel the need to offer the expected half an hour recovery time. If Jack didn't clear out as soon as he could, he'd likely add something about 'slothful behavior' to his report, which could come back and bite Jack later. The officer might have even considered not reporting the extra hits as doing Jack a favor; sure he could end up with more hits than the law allowed by the end of the day, but the cheek wouldn't go on his record.
The slave not consoling the child helped Jack with his shirt. Another unspoken rule. You help other slaves. Even if you don't know them from Adam. Even if, under any other circumstance, you'd be the worst of enemies. You help other slaves. Jack continued to shiver as he got his clothes back on, and if the slave thought it was from something other than the cold, he knew better than to comment. He also offered a handkerchief for his face, which was embarrassing, not least because Jack hadn't realized he'd been crying. Embarrassing to think he'd lost control so much from what might have been painful but was far from the worst beating Jack had ever experienced. Jack knew how to handle pain.
"Right sweeping bastard, that one," muttered the slave, for Jack's ears only, commiserating in the only way he could. He ran his hand over the beads on Jack's collar, silently acknowledging the injustice.
"Coulda been worse," Jack answered, aiming for something a bit more cheerful than he actually felt. No point in bringing down his fellow slaves' day; witnessing a beating could often feel as bad as getting one, even if you didn't know the one being hit. There was a sense of helplessness involved, knowing you can't stop it for them, or for yourself, and it was a reminder of all that was wrong with the world. Besides, Jack had heard stories about the lives of private slaves; it was hard to get away with a lot of abuse when the City owned you because there was too much transparency. A lot more could be gotten away with in private behind closed doors. This slave didn't look too downtrodden though. He reacted to Jack's forced cheeriness by relaxing his own grimace on Jack's behalf into something lighter. Great actors, the two of them; they could have been on stage together.
Still, the other slave couldn't seem to help but point out, "Coulda been better, too."
True, but not helpful. Still, Jack accepted the slave's comfort for what it was, and then they both had to be on because slaves don't have the luxury of long social chats in the middle of the day. Or morning, as the case might be.
Jack walked back to where his bike and tools had been left, untouched because people knew better than to touch city property in broad daylight surrounded by witnesses, and did his best to appear unaffected by the beating while under the vindictive scrutiny of the apple vendor. He saw the child watching too and winked at her.
"He should've whipped you bloody," the apple vendor muttered, clearly unsatisfied with Jack's ability to still move without blood staining his back. "Should've torn the meat from your bones."
"Have a good day, sir," Jack answered with all the cheer he could manage, because sometimes the only revenge he could have on people like that was his lack of being affected by them. He wouldn't let an incident like that ruin his day.
"He shoulda stole all your apples, Mister; I wish someone would," the child shouted. The man shook his fist at her, unable to strike a fellow free Citizen, especially when surrounded by the afore mentioned Citizens. Most of whom looked more on the child's side than his; many witnesses were in the line to the soup kitchen and they had not appreciated his comments on those who 'took free handouts'. The child was not intimidated in the least; she stuck her tongue out then ran off into the crowd, likely to finally enjoy the fruit of Jack's labor. A costly price for a single apple but, in Jack's opinion, worth it. Jack hopped on his bike and went on to finish the lights.
It really was the better part of his day, incidents like that aside. He liked being a leerie. If it were a job instead of a duty he might even have enjoyed it. He turned down his allotted lamps, because slave labor and gas were still cheaper for the City than installing new electric lights in every street of London. One day, maybe, and Jack would actually be disappointed if that day came soon. And he sang while he worked because he was determined to not spoil his good mood. And if the job was a little harder than usual because his back muscles smarted with every move… well, he wasn't lying when he'd said he'd had worse.
