1719

It seemed the whole island had come to see the hanging. Men and women, young and old, slave and free, all congregated at the docks. Many fanned themselves with palm leaves, or sheltered beneath cloth awnings.

There had been no standing gallows on the island previously. One had been constructed for the purpose of hanging Captain John Bell and what was left of his crew. The Navy had trounced them, sinking the pirate’s ship and killing many of the crew in the process. Captain Bell would hang alongside the ten survivors of his crew, the cabin boys having been merely flogged and branded on the face for their part in the piracy.

“You are the first men to be hanged on this island,” the island’s governor informed them, as the pirates were noosed by two volunteer executioners. “We will remember the day as one of the hottest midsummers recorded, but history will not remember you wretches.”

Half the crew was drunk, several were near-dead already from their battle wounds. Captain Bell glared at the Governor and the crowd. He held his head high, even as a rough hempen collar was placed around it. Sweat drenched his back, though from the heat and not fear. John had known it would come to this someday, either a noose or a cannon or the embrace of the sea. At twenty-nine, he had lasted longer than he’d bet as a child.

“Have you any last words, before your souls are consigned to the fire?” the island’s priest asked.

Captain Bell spat on the priest and bellowed “I curse this island and the damn Spaniards who rule it!”

The Governor motioned, and the two carts beneath the makeshift gallows pulled away. The pirates swung into empty air, legs kicking frantically. They groaned and moaned like the damned they were doomed to be.

Captain Bell stepped off the cart, heaving a great gasp of air as he did so. As he thrashed and danced, some musicians nearby struck up a tune on their fiddles and drums, a crude mockery of his and his crew’s plight. Some of the more energetic islanders began to dance at the front.

As John dangled he thought of his mother, a petty thief who’d ended her life in much the same way – hanging on the Tyburn Tree in England for the crime of stealing a bolt of cloth. John had gone to see her off, all of thirteen years old but determined to honor his mother in what little way he could. When a man beside him and turned and said what a fine way it was to spend an afternoon, watching a whore writhe in the air, John had gritted his teeth and agreed, and stolen the man’s money purse when he was not looking. The money had bought him clothes and kit sufficient for a Captain seeking ship’s boys, and John had left the shores of his homeland.

Now, kicking above island sand, watching couples dancing beneath him, the sun blistering his brow, a rough rope choking him bit by bit, John had but one misgiving.

He had not struck that man for his insult. John’s mother had been many things, but she had been no whore. Even at thirteen, John ought to have answered the insult with a fist, or better yet a knife, and consequences be damned. It would have made no difference in the long run, either hanged at Tyburn for defending his mother’s meager honor, or hanged now for piracy.

As darkness overcame him, John’s mouth twisted into a grimace of regret.




1821

Charlotte blamed the heat for it. Everyone knew the summer sweltering mad men go mad and slaves go madder. The hot-blooded creatures were incensed by the weather.

Why Edward had brought her to this vile place was beyond her. Charlotte came from a family of dutiful daughters and proud land-owning men, but as their fortunes declined she had been obligated to marry a planter. Edward was a man of new money and no significant family name, making his fortune in the Americas. The Caribbean, it turned out. And unlike many of his fellows, he had preferred to have his wife life with him in the wretched place. Charlotte had suffered in silence, sweating through her clothes, chastising the house slaves for hovering around her like so many stinging flies. Worse, Edward was a distant husband. They had bonded only during the punishments of the slaves.

That had been a fine day, when Charlotte had discovered she had quite the knack for reigning in the men and women Edward owned. Edward had looked at her with renewed interest when she had taken up a whip and thrashed a kitchen girl for insolence. He’d taken Charlotte to bed then and there, in the afternoon, and Charlotte was certain he had made a child within her.

It was her belly she pleaded with now, to the merciless black faces surrounding her. “I am with child,” she insisted, gesturing to her belly.

One of the women prodded her stomach. “I can feel nothing,” she sneered. “You lie, mistress. Nothing in there but cakes and meats. No baby.”

“I know it is there!” Charlotte wailed. She was drenched in the swear of fear and summer heat, the night no cooler than the day had been, when the slaves had risen up and killed the overseer and taken her Edward from her side.

“Master Edward, he come to you every night, eight, nine month? No baby. Master Edward, he come to my sister, my daughter, me, every morning, and we have plenty babies.” The woman laughed. “Mistress Charlotte, you never have baby! Master Edward, he say you no feel as good as us, when he in bed with us, like this?” she moved her hips back and forth obscenely. “He say we feel much better. He say you cold, no move, like dead fish.”

The crowd laughed and jeered.

They turned her around and she saw Edward dangling from a branch of a large tree. Hands tied, eyes bulging, mouth gaping and dripping drool, he was very dead. His trousers had been yanked off, and his … his member had been cut from him, leaving a bloody gash behind. Charlotte shuddered in horror.

“Master Edward, he dance so good. How will you dance, Mistress Charlotte?” the woman shoved her forward into the waiting arms of many men.

Charlotte was bound, hands behind her back, and a noose was tugged around her throat.

“You will all die!” she shrieked. “The Governor will send troops, soldiers, you will all die far worse than this!”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” the woman shrugged. “But we will get to see you and Master Edward die first.”

Three men heaved on the other end of the rope, hoisting Charlotte into the air.

She screamed, and wailed, and then gurgled as the noose began to choke her. Her legs kicked out, stretching down to the ground, but it seemed so far away now. Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, as she had on her wedding night, as if to prevent this awful thing from happening.

Unwillingly, her body began to contort and thrash in an undignified manner. Her hips bucked like she was riding a horse, and her feet kicked and flung her through the air, back and forth. Charlotte’s neck was nothing but pain, tight and constricting.

“Why you not move like this in bed with Master Edward?” one of the slaves jeered.

“Now she moves like fish on the hook!” one of the women laughed.  

Charlotte’s eyes fluttered open. Try as she might, she could not keep her mouth closed. Her tongue flopped out, a vulgar display she could not prevent.

One of the slaves was before her now. Bare-breasted, she turned to reach for something. Charlotte saw the marks on her back and remembered now, the first time she had punished a slave properly with her own hand. The slave turned and held a whip aloft. The other slaves cheered and laughed as the slight girl circled around, spinning the whip in the air. Charlotte could hear it, but no longer see it.

CRACK.

Charlotte jerked in the air, pain slicing down her back and over her shoulder. She had no breath left with which to scream.

CRACK.

Charlotte twisted in the air. She saw the kitchen girl now, eyes shining in the torchlight.

CRACK.

The whip landed across Charlotte’s breast and belly, spinning her back around to face the front.

CRACK.

To Charlotte’s utter humiliation, she felt warm wetness building between her legs. She needed to relive herself, but dozens, it seemed hundreds, of eyes were upon her.

CRACK.

Charlotte soaked her skirts and legs like an infant.

The slaves all saw. They laughed and pointed. They said things in their vile languages Charlotte could not understand.

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

Charlotte sobbed without sound, soaked wet from sweat, blood, and her own refuse. She prayed for mercy, for an end to it all.

After fifteen grueling minutes, Charlotte died.




1950

“It is time, sir.”

He calmly rose, and nodded. The President allowed the young man to shackle him, hands behind his back, and lead him from the quiet prison cell.

“What day is it, young man?”

“Monday, sir.”

“And the date?”

“The first of August.”

“Ah,” the President nodded. “A good day for a holiday.”

“Sir?”

“I assume that this will become a holiday, for the new island. The first of August, the Day of … Freedom, perhaps? Of Revolution?”

“I do not know, sir.”

The President braced himself before the door was opened. The roar of the crowds, jeering and jubilant, was a horrific mixture to his ears. He had not realized how truly hated he was, until that moment.

“Why not the firing squad?” he asked, again, as the young man pushed him purposefully up the steps to the waiting noose. “I was a soldier.”

“And now you are a President. A deposed President. They say you must hang, for all to see.”

An undignified death to shame him into the afterlife.

He stood tall and proud as the noose was placed around his neck. He noted his successors nearby, some leering triumphantly, others looking mildly disgusted.

“It will be you here, soon enough,” he warned them. “A month, a year, the people will turn on you as well.”

“Never.” One snapped.

Others looked more doubtful.

“You have given them a taste for blood on this day, how soon will they be hungry for it again?” He closed his eyes. “I am ready. Do it now.”

A lever was pulled and the platform beneath his feet creaked and fell. He plummeted after it, not very far, but far enough. The noose jerked against his throat, wrenching his head back at an uncomfortable angle.

As he dangled there, legs weakly twitching, he wondered at the spectacle he made. He imagined generations of school children all over the world finding a picture of his execution, memorizing his name, his position, his date of death, his final words. They had been good ones, at least, he was sure of that.

August 1st 1950, the day they hanged the island’s President.

Drool slid from his lips onto his elaborate jacket. He was too lost in his thoughts of the future to notice.




2017

She just didn’t understand. Maybe Ashley was a little hungover from the night before, but nothing was making any sense. Sure, ok, they’d all had a lot to drink last night, but this was a resort, right? Parties were what it was all about! They were even still in their outfits from last night – Calvin in swimtrunks and a shirt, Julie in a bikini with a little skirt wraparound, and Ashley in her bikini.

The judge droned on and on about laws and drunk driving and “danger to the community.” Ashley yawned and hoped whatever fine he was going to slap them with could be processed quickly and she could get back to the beach with her friends already. They’d already wasted so much time being cooped up in that jail cell. The handcuffs on her wrists hurt, but at leas they were cuffed in front of her body so she could scratch her nose.

Suddenly, something was happening. Calvin was yelling and Julie was crying and Ashley felt like she’d missed something important.  

“Wait, what?” she asked.

One of the prison guards sneered at her. “You’ll find out soon enough, American trash.”

“You can’t talk to me that way!” she snapped.

“I can, and I will.” The guard put his hands on her, leading her with the others out of the courtroom. “If you’d like to make an official complaint, you may do so after your sentence has been carried out.”

“Sentence?”

They were outside now, blinking in the noonday sun. It made Ashley’s hangover ache even more.

“Can I get some water? My head is killing me.”

The guard laughed. “The American trash wants another drink, how surprising,” he pulled a bottle from his belt and held it aloft. “Drink.” He opened it and poured it onto Ashley’s face. Unable to use her hands, she drank as best she could, feeling most of the water splash onto her tits and face.

“Let it not be said I am an unkind man,” the guard said, tossing the empty bottle into a trashcan. “Now, your sentence.”

At first, Ashley couldn’t quite see what was going on. Julie was standing up on something that looked like a band stage, but Calvin was nowhere to be seen. As the guard led Ashley closer, she saw the top of Calvin’s head at the edge of the stage, bobbing around weirdly.

Stepping up onto the stage, Ashley finally saw what was going on: Calvin had a rope around his neck, and he was dangling on empty air, kicking frantically and twitching like he was having a seizure. He was dying, being executed.

Ashley screamed.

The guard laughed, and held her tightly as she tried to run away. Ashley could see a large crowd of fifty, maybe more, people gathered around the stage. Some had phones out and were filming.

Another guard smirked at her as he pulled another noose down and fixed it around Julie’s head. Julie was staring at Calvin, wide-eyed, frozen in terror. She didn’t seem to notice the guard fussing around her.

“But … but it was just … we were only drinking …” Ashley whimpered.

“You drank to excess, you abused the waiters, you drank in public and in a car, and then you drove through the streets. A child is dead, because of your fun. Justice must be served.”

The other guard pulled a wooden lever, and the platform beneath Julie’s feet tipped, swinging down like a door. Julie fell, tits bouncing as she reached the end of her rope.

“Why … why aren’t you doing this all at once?” Ashley felt tears on her cheeks. “This is so horrible, making us wait!”

Calvin was still kicking, albeit feebly. Julie was fighting hard, kicking and scrabbling, her cuffed hands reaching up to the noose. One of her false nails snapped off, then another, in her desperation to try and loosen the rope.

“It is more fun this way, for everyone else. First him, then her, and then you for last of all.” The guard fiddled behind Ashley’s back with the strap to her bikini. “Maybe you will give them a very special show.”

Julie’s wraparound skirt slipped around her knees, then her ankles. She wasn’t kicking any more, only twitching. Calvin had fallen still. There was a bulge between his legs, which was weird. Ashley didn’t understand why he’d get that way from dying, that seemed ridiculous.

“Your turn, American trash.” Ashley’s guard pushed her forward. He pulled a noose down around her neck, tightening it.

“It hurts!” Ashley wailed.

“It will hurt more in a moment.” The guard laughed, slapped Ashley’s ass, then laughed harder when she jerked forward, nearly tripping off the platform prematurely.

Ashley stared down at Julie. Her face was bright red, her eyes were staring in opposite directions, and her mouth was twitching. She looked ugly, she looked agonized, she looked terrifying. And soon, Ashley was going to look just like her.

“Please …” Ashley whimpered at the guard. “Please … I’m sorry!”

The guard waved and pulled another wooden lever. The platform swung down and Ashley fell with it.

Her tits bounced as she reached the end of her rope, just like Julie’s had. That, plus the guard loosening her bikini’s ties, meant her tits flopped out for all to see.

The crowd roared. There were cheers and jeering comments. Someone whistled, and the phones focused on her intently.  

Ashley tried to raise her hands to hide her breasts, but it was hard to keep them up for long, and she couldn’t hide herself completely. She tried holding onto the noose, fingers slipping on the rough rope, as her legs stretched out.

First Ashley tried to reach the ground by pointing straight down, then she tried to reach from side to side. Her foot brushed against Julie’s still-warm body and she yelped, flinching away and swinging in the air. Ashley’s legs paddled like she was swimming, and one foot slapped against the platform behind her.

She groaned, and drool slid down her chin and onto her tits. This was taking so long. Calvin and Julie had died much faster, or so it had seemed to Ashley before.

Ashley twisted around, saw the guards leering at her, saw a person from the crowd rush up and yank Calvin’s pants around his ankles so everyone could see his nakedness. Laughter filled her ears.

Her head, her head, her head was aching. The sun was blinding and the noose was burning and she was absolutely drenched with sweat.

It was so, so much worse than a hangover.