Dr. Merrick's Appointment On The Barge free porn video

Very loosely based on the 1980 short story "Appointment on the Barge" by Jack Ritchie. * * * * * From "Mysterious Adventures Magazine," 1897 (London, England) I feel compelled to relate within these pages the curious tale of my one-time good friend Doctor Charles Merrick. He had been a longtime acquaintance of the family for several years in the past, and as a journalist I had turned to the doctor more than once for his expert medical opinion in articles of a scientific nature I had been commissioned to write. Consequently, it surprised me to no end when Merrick arrived at my doorstep early in the winter of last year with a most remarkable tale to tell. He was very flushed with emotion, red-faced, and obviously agitated and deeply disturbed by some strange event. But more remarkable than his emotional state was the fashion in which he was dressed. The good, restrained, conservative Doctor Merrick was wearing a calico-print dress, the type favored by many of the country women in the summer months! To understand how remarkable this is, you must realize Merrick is a balding, middle-aged man of prodigious girth. His face is very red and constantly shines with the oily energy of a stout man who has just completed a vigorous climb up a flight of stairs. He is a portly fellow, stout and hairless (at least upon his head. His ample arm hair more than nearly makes up for this deficiency) In general, Merrick is of that class of medical men who neglects to attend to his own health, only too late in life winding up a classic case of obesity and diseases of the heart. Yet here on my doorstep one early winter's day stood this singularly unlikely man in a blue and white calico dress, a pair of ankle-high women's boots that seemed to fit him most poorly, and the most ridiculous of straw bonnets tied about his head! I recognized Merrick despite his unusual appearance, and being a proper English gentleman, invited him in making no mention to his odd attire. Fortunately to my insatiable journalist's curiosity, he quickly began with an explanation for his unusual state of arrival. "I suppose, Jack, you're wondering about why I'm dressed as I am," he said in a soft, breathy voice which I hardly recognized as the Doctor I knew. "You deserve to know, since it's actually why I've come here. You see I need for you to tell my tale. You're a reporter and have the necessary connections. Most people likely won't believe what I have to say, but no matter. You can title it a work of fiction if you must in order to publish. But promise me, Jack ... promise me that you'll write up my story and disseminate it to the public!" I did my best to calm the good doctor's spirits down and assured him I would gladly see to writing up the details of any so remarkable a story that might explain his present circumstances of dress. He took a seat near the fire and, after I had served him a steaming cup of earl-grey tea, began his story. "It has become the popular fad of recent months among the leisurely societal circles, to engage in a sort of parlor game study of the phenomena of trance-induced past-life regression," he began. "The key notion here being that human identity and self-awareness is the result of spiritual incarnation -- that we are the end result of a continual cycle of birth, death, and physical incarnation from life to life, body to body, through the course of history in a never-ending cycle of spirit transmigration, or more commonly, reincarnation. No doubt, the present popular interest largely stems from the faddish sentimentality at present towards all things Hindustani, combined with a morbid public preoccupation with spiritualism these days. The problem with this mass popularity of reincarnation lies in the drifting away from a more serious scientific documentation of such phenomena. Too often, societal circles depend upon a rank amateur to conduct their "seances" and past-life trances. If such amateurs prove to be mere charlatans engaged in the clever fleecing of fancy societal ladies, then soon such chicanery shall lead to the public outcry against all practitioners -- scientific or otherwise. Even when chicanery is not present, the amateurish, parlor-room study may prove quite dangerous the psyches of those individuals directly involved -- again leading towards a public backlash against the perceived dangers of regressionary study. This is why I've come to speak my tale to you, Jack. I wish to go on the public record with my own cautionary tale to discourage the parlor-room style of hypnotic regression, while hopefully encouraging a serious scientific interest in the careful study of this phenomena. So you see, in order to allay public fears and better educate others on this matter, I feel obliged to relate my own personal experiences, traumatic though they were, into the trance-induced past-life regression studies of my good friend and colleague Professor John Lewis Whitby. The good professor has the distinction of being quite well known among scientific circles as a man of the most impeccable credibility, as well as being a good and proper gentleman in the very British sense of the word. I had the unique pleasure of attending classes with Whitby one semester in medical school, the good professor having studied medicine first before turning towards the pursuit of the natural sciences. I had chanced to call upon Whitby while in London last autumn on a personal holiday. This was pure chance, mind you! I had no prior plans to meet up with him, nor had I received any manner of invitation from him. Random luck happened to urge me into meeting with him at precisely this key moment in time. He received me quite royally, though and welcomed me into his modest flat eagerly. 'I should say, Merrick, you've caught me at a bit of a bad time as I'm expecting a small gathering of students for a lecture here this evening,' he said. 'But you were always a clever man with a keen mind and a healthy interest in the observance of science. Perhaps it should suit you to attend our soiree? It will be a largely informal session, you know.' I was secretly quite thrilled at the prospect of hearing Whitby speak publicly upon his scientific theories, as he had always had a peculiar interest in the most fascinating of topics. I quickly agreed to stay the evening and entertain myself with his scientific lecture. Before long the students arrived and we settled down for a good night of interesting scientific discourse. Whitby had much to say on the subject and explained how it was possible, through the application of certain herbal teas, to achieve a trance-like hypnotic state that readily regressed one into a past-life, provided a trained professional was there to guide the mesmerized state along. At the end of the lecture, a young Irish woman in the crowd stood up to speak. She was a petite little thing, barely over five feet but with a striking shock of flaming red hair that set itself off brightly against her luminous emerald eyes. She spoke with the alluring accent of those northern people: 'Professor Whitby, my name is Diana O'Flaherty and I wonder if I might possibly be your subject tonight? Surely we'd all love to see viable demonstration of your fascinating theories. Please, do allow me to serve as your volunteer.' When Whitby inquired why she was so excitable about the prospect of being hypnotically regressed, Miss O'Flaherty replied: 'I am Cleopatra. Or at least I WAS Cleopatra. I just know it. And I do hope you might prove it and shed more light on the matter for me.' 'What, my dear, makes you so very certain you were once the Queen of the Nile?' asked a staid-faced Whitby. 'I just FEEL Egyptian. Besides, one of my grandmothers was an exotic dancer from Cairo. And for another thing yet, I simply abhor snakes!' gushed O'Flaherty. 'Professor Whitby, you've just got to send me back there. Refresh my memory, and both prove I am who I say I once was and that your theories are true and most valid in the scientific sense.' Whitby stood poised in thought for a moment, and finally acquiesced. 'All right,' he announced. 'Why not? It's about time we proved these theories in a more or less public setting. Though I caution you, my dear, that the odds of you being Cleopatra in particular are most astronomical. With the number of people alive in the first century b.c. it's much more likely you were, for example, an elderly Chinese man ... or perhaps a newborn infant amongst the Indian tribes.' 'No, I KNOW I was Cleopatra,' insisted O'Flaherty. 'I feel it deep in my bones.' Whitby shrugged and began jotting notes to himself in a large book. 'Very well, to what point in Cleopatra's life do you wish to regress to? Her childhood, her exile in Syria, the episode with Julius Caesar?' 'Well,' answered O'Flaherty. 'I should like to be with Mark Antony when she first meets him. She's all dressed as Aphrodite, goddess of Love, and they met on a barge on the Nile river!' Whitby laughed. 'Actually, that incident occurred in Tarsus in Cilicia, where she had gone to answer charges of aiding the Republican forces following Caesar's assassination during the Roman civil war.' I winced, remembering how inflamed with a passion for history Whitby had been in school so many years ago. Clearly his ego had not allowed his mind to let slip over the years the slightest bit of trivial knowledge that might impress a group of people later on. 'Tarsus?' O'Flaherty asked. 'Tarsus is in what we call Turkey nowadays,' Whitby replied, pointing out the nation on a nearby globe. 'I know it's inland nowadays, but in those days the Cyndus River flowed through there. If you really were Cleopatra in those days, you'll see it all shortly enough.' With that, Whitby handed the young lass a noxious-smelling herbal brew. After she had imbibed it, he sat her down and commanded her to relax and make blank her mind. In short work, her eyes were glazed over and Whitby was speaking to her in soothing tones, regressing her back in time. The room was deathly silent for several moments as we all watched the demonstration eagerly. 'I see the whole world!' cried O'Flaherty suddenly, jerking almost out of her seat. 'I see the whole round globe!' Her eyes remain transfixed in space. 'We shall now descend,' commanded Whitby. 'Go down ... go down, down, down. Deep down, through the clouds and descend into Turkey. Remember the shape of Turkey on the map I showed you. Descend down into there. Find Tarsus. You should feel it drawing you like a magnet if you were in fact Cleopatra.' 'Yes!' she cried. 'I see it. It's a river, with many small boats. But there isn't a barge, like I've always read.' 'Historians are hardly as precise we scientists,' grumbled Whitby. 'The date of the occurrence is doubtless listed incorrectly in my history books. We shall rectify it. Move slowly in time ... one week ... now two weeks ... now three weeks ...' After nine-and-a-half-weeks, O'Flaherty stopped the professor. 'I see the barge coming down the bend in the river. Please, descend me onto the deck of the ship. I feel so at home!' The professor obliged and for several moments O'Flaherty sat silent, her face deathly pale. Finally she cried out, 'Return me at once!' 'What do you see?' asked Whitby. 'Never you mind!' she snapped. 'Just bring me back to the present.' Whitby again obliged her demands and soon she sat up and glared angrily about the room. 'It was HORRIBLE!' she exclaimed to no one in particular. 'You weren't Cleopatra were you?' asked the professor. 'No,' she snapped. 'I was a slave! I found myself in the body of an old crone, at least 70 years of age! It was terrible ... I was all wrinkled, and I actually felt the arthritis in my joints. It pained me something awful to move. And you deposited me there just at suppertime! You wouldn't believe the ghastly garbage Cleopatra passed off as food for her slaves.' The room laughed politely. 'I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, this is a sincere and unrehearsed demonstration,' answered Whitby. Out of the crowd, a tall broad-shouldered man with curled, jet-black hair stood. 'Professor sir, if you are quite completed with this first demonstration, I was wondering if perhaps you could repeat the procedure ... on me.' 'You don't want it!' snapped O'Flaherty impatiently as she returned, scorned, to her seat. 'You'll think it's most queer,' said the man, oblivious to the girl's reply. 'But I am utterly convinced that in a previous lifetime I was Mark Antony.' I turned to watch Whitby's reaction and expected him to close his eyes and wince with the headache I felt coming upon myself as this scene threatened to repeat itself. But to his credit Whitby remained impassive and merely motioned, in his particular way, for the young man to hurry up and state his case. 'My name is Stephan Bonevicci, good professor. And I know it's amazing ... but ever since I read Mark Antony's speech at the funeral of Caesar, I have felt a certain empathy. A strong connection if you will, with the man. I believe that I know Mark Antony better than anyone else!' Whitby stared silently at him for a moment, before finally speaking. 'You must realize, sir, the odds that you were Mark Antony are overwhelmingly against you. Surely this immediate demonstration has proven the fact to you. It's absurd to believe two people in this room might have BOTH been in ancient Tarsus simultaneously. It's more certain you were a swine herder in old England, or perhaps the mother of a family of Polynesian children.' 'Professor,' Bonevicci implored. 'Please, just humor me. I know who I was. All I ask is that you prove it to me.' Whitby shrugged. 'Very well, I see no reason why we cannot proceed with a second demonstration. We have a bit more time before I must retire for the evening. But I caution you all, this must be the last demonstration of the evening.' Bonevicci proved to be an equally easy subject for hypnosis, and before long Whitby had him in a deep trance and even hovering over Tarsus. The professor seemed a bit surprised by this sudden turn of events, but he did no more than raise an eyebrow imperceptibly. 'Who are you?' Whitby asked. 'Are you on the barge?' 'I'm on the barge,' answered Bonevicci in a suddenly unsure and higher-pitched voice. 'But there's something we hadn't reckoned on, professor.' 'What pray tell might that be?' asked Whitby. 'I'm another slave girl,' answered Bonevicci quietly. 'You're an old crone?' asked the professor, without changing the tone in his voice. 'No, not exactly,' replied Bonevicci haltingly. 'I can see Bahati ... I mean Miss O'Flaherty. She's here as well. And she is quite old. Ugh! I hope I never look that bad, so stooped and my breasts sagging so! I am quite young now myself. I can see that my hands are delicate and unwrinkled. They're so smooth and small.' The large, brawny man held out his arms before him like a little girl, gazing out into space wonderingly. 'Then who are you?' repeated Whitby patiently. 'I'm a young girl,' he answered. 'I'm no more than 13 or 14 years old I would imagine. The memories aren't all clear ... but they're starting to come back. My name is Tiraa, and I'm a servant of the Queen.' 'Tell us more,' pressed the professor. 'I -- I -- I don't think I can,' answered Bonevicci. ' It's not entirely clear ... and it's somewhat painful remembering it all. Please bring me back.' Whitby again obliged his guest and quickly returned the man to the present time and his own body. 'Perhaps that is enough in the way of demonstrations for tonight, ladies and gentlemen. I'm afraid that as I am embarking on a trip to America in the morning, and I have a fellow academician guest staying with me tonight, I must cut short our lecture for this evening. I shall return to London early this spring and shall be available then for further study, should any of you wish to continue the pursuit of this matter. With that, I really must bid you all goodnight.' With that, Whitby politely but firmly escorted his guests one-by-one out the door until only he and I remained. It was then that I felt the most pressing need to answer a burning question of my own. 'Whitby,' I began. 'You'll think me a fool for asking, but I absolutely must know if this is all truly on the level?' Whitby snorted derisively. 'Of course it is, Merrick!' he answered angrily. 'You should know me better than this by now to suspect any charlatanry!' 'Oh, nothing of the sort, I assure you,' I replied. 'At the purely cognitive level I believe this is all quite genuine. I respect you as both a friend and as a scientist of the utmost credibility. But deep down at the emotive level, I must experience this for myself firsthand.' 'Ahhhhh,' replied Whitby understandingly. 'The American Show-Me attitude. I understand quite well. I imagine you suppose you were once Mark Antony as well?' I laughed nervously. 'Not at all. As a fellow academician, I respect the astronomical odds against my being in Cilicia at the time. But I am most curious about the possibility of where and whom I might've been.' 'I do this out of friendship,' Whitby answered. 'One last demonstration for the night, and then I really must retire for the night Merrick.' 'Quite acceptable,' I replied. And in no time at all, Whitby had been in a similar trance to that formerly imposed on Bonevicci and O'Flaherty. Before my eyes, I beheld the entire globe of the world spinning. Its seas and oceans shining a glorious, opalescent blue. It's clouds delicately spun about it like a blanket draped about a sleeping infant. Whitby urged me downwards ... and to both my surprise and his, I began to descend into Tarsus and the Cyndus River. I imagine there must be something to the entire notion of synchronicity and meaningful coincidence, to have brought together at least three of us in that same room on that same fateful night who had all been together nearly two-thousand years earlier on a Barge in Cilicia. It was slightly unnerving, though I imagine it hardly caused a frown to cross Whitby's impassive face. But the most remarkable thing happened next ... as I began to settle, I beheld Bahati and Tiraa ... and many others, the names of which I found I suddenly knew. As I turned my head to survey the scene, I realized I was no longer disembodied and passively observing the whole affair. I had become a participant on this barge. I held forth outstretched hands, just as Bonevicci had done earlier. Sure enough, my hands were a light brown, soft, delicate, and largely hairless. My body seemed lighter and smoother. An odd weight seemed attached to the back of my head. I'm sure you would find it quite amusing for me to say this ... but it took me several considerable moments to recognize this sensation as being indicative of my possessing a full head of long hair! After having been bald for so many years, I had totally forgotten the feel of hair upon one's head. And suddenly finding myself with long, thick, luxurious hair was an odd sensation in the extreme. I had no doubt about my situation now. O'Flaherty hadn't been Cleopatra ... I WAS Cleopatra. The knowledge was tremendous. I heard Whitby speaking to me in the distance, vaguely asking for more details. What did I see? What did I see? How could I explain it? I was the Queen of Egypt. I was the most beautiful woman who had ever lived. I was like a goddess. I held might and power like no one in our modern age of technology "wonders" might ever imagine. I was supreme, and the feeling was overwhelming. And before me stood the magnificent Mark Antony. Now, remember I have always been a proper British gentleman in every sense of the word ... I've never had any truck for those who might speculate on the Dionysian (and I might add largely questionable) pleasures of the Love that Dare Not Speak It's Name. But at that moment in time, I desired this man ... this Mark Antony. This tall, broad-shouldered, muscular fellow. I wanted and needed him. A strange warmth grew within my loins. It was all too much ... it was all too sudden. I'm an old, fat, curmudgeon of a Englishman! Not an exotic African princess ... I tried to force my return to the present. But all I could do was force a come-hither smile to the charming Antony. Inside my mind, I screamed. It took every once of willpower I have to call out to Whitby to bring me back. And to his credit, the man did exactly that. He returned me instantly to the present time. I explained all that had happened, and he listened impassively (as is his style) making periodic notes in a small book he carried. But he made no further comments. 'I trust your adventure was quite tiring Merrick,' he said finally. 'Perhaps you would care to retire for the evening. I know I must, for I have an early appointment tomorrow at the station.' 'Yes, of course -- your trip,' I answered. 'I must confess I am a bit tired myself. Perhaps I'd best sleep.' Whitby retired to his bedchambers and I to the guestroom. But all that night, my dreams were filled with the most amazing and unbelievable of images. Again and again I saw myself in THAT WOMAN'S body. I felt things I had never felt previously. I heard the voices of those she knew. I saw their faces. I felt their touch upon her gentle sweet skin. I knew the things she knew. I was Cleopatra, daughter of Auletes and Queen of Egypt from the age of 18. I saw the face of my despicable brother, Philopator. He was a weasely-faced man. His voice was whiny ... and his touch was oily and forced. I had married him, of course, because that's the custom. He knew I had a lover (Tek Aftunu was his name!) ... but Philpator didn't care. He only saw me as a wife and Queen of convenience. When he tried to kill me I fled ... I ran to Syria. I saw the whole painful event play out again and again in my mind. Of course he had tried to kill me ... but he was my brother. He had my father's face. I didn't want to kill him. But I knew I had to. I was advised to. When you're only a woman in the world, you have to stand on your own and prove your strength in ways no mere man could ever understand. I raised an army with the aid of some loyal allies ... and I had Philopator killed in Pelusium. He died. My own brother and I killed him. That's always haunted me. But still, the memories kept flooding back to me. I had to marry Ptolemy, my youngest brother. But by now, my life was harsh and cold. I had locked out the exterior world. I cared not for family, nor friends, nor love. I was the Queen of Egypt ... sole ruler of the mightiest and most ancient of empires. I was a goddess. I had no need of Ptolemy. And three years later, I had him killed. Oh, it wasn't totally my fault. PLEASE remember that and write down that part. I had Philopator murdered in as cold of blood as though I had plunged the dagger into his chest myself. But Ptolemy just got in the way. In a fit of anger and frustration one day I commanded that Ptolemy be killed for daring to insult the Queen with his pitiful lack of manhood. He wasn't present ... only the court servants who dealt directly with me were there. And most knew I was only making a show of myself. I had no serious intentions against him ... but one presumptuous guard, Kamen, took me seriously. He took me deadly seriously. He arranged Ptolemy's death. Oh, young sweet Ptolemy. He was only a pawn in all our games of power. I saw his young, dead body in my dreams. He haunts me still ... it was the vengeance of his spirit that has caused me all the sufferings of my later life. I saw the years pass. I saw the proud, arrogant Julius Caesar. The only thing we ever really shared was a passion for power and a hatred of Philopator and his cronies. But he was a strong, good lover. He knew when to gently stroke a woman ... and he knew when to assume greater aggression and more menacingly powerful thrusts. He never spoke of it, but I saw in his eyes that he conquered all of Egypt every time he entered me. I allowed him this ... for he was the closest thing to a real love I had ever had. The closest thing I had known till then. He mocked me in public, though. When I bore his child, he refused to marry me. He refused to make me his queen. Together we would have made an Empire out of all the Mediterranean for our child to inherit one day. But he publicly derided me. Privately he was soothing. He promised me much. He told me things would change. He told me it just takes time for those in Rome to accept my 'foreign' ways. I knew it was an idle promise. But when he made himself a god-king in Egypt, when he rode an Egyptian chariot through the streets of Rome, and when he began wearing our fashions before the Senate I had hope. It crashed when he died. When they killed him. They blamed me for it. They all believed I had him under my thumb. But it was never so ... I tell you he was never really mine to control. Of all men, he was the only one who ever controlled me. He was the only one who ever really knew me. But he made no mention of me in his will. He made no mention of his own SON in his will. I wept alone, ostracized by all of Rome. And my own kingdom, my own people, rejoiced that the foreign influence exerted by those wicked Romans might have finally passed with good Caesar's cold-blooded murder. Of course, then came Antony. Ahhhhhhhhhh, beautiful Mark Antony. He spoke out for Caesar when no one else would acknowledge the man's good deeds. He eulogized him ... for me. Though he'd never known me at the time. He knew the man Caesar and respected his lover. He knew me as the Queen I deservedly was. When Antony arrived in Cilicia, I had to meet him. He had achieved stunning success in the Civil Wars. He had fought valiantly and his charismatic leadership had swayed the wills of many. All my informants spoke most highly of the man. But ultimately it wasn't politics or military alliances or convenience of diplomatic relations that drove me to him. It was fate. Antony was no Caesar ... in good ways and in bad ways. He shared Caesar's passion, but women more easily swayed him. He was mine in a way that Caesar never was. I knew that from the moment I saw him move to greet me on the barge. Ahhhhhhh, that delicious sweet appointment on the Barge in Tarsus. Would that I could only live that moment again and again for an eternity! I awoke that morning in a cold sweat. The memories of that night's adventures rapidly faded from me, but not the sense of who I was. I knew my identity still as Cleopatra. I couldn't go to Whitby with this. He would insist upon a 'cure' for my peculiar condition. But what could I do? Destiny had driven me to this group last night. Why else might I have chanced to visit London and Whitby at such an opportune time? I had been given a second chance. I had been given the most unique of opportunities ... I could relive my appointment with Antony on the barge. Somewhere out there, he still existed. He might not be a HE any longer, of course. That might actually be for the best, I realized looking down at my heavy, stout, wrinkled frame. I was no longer a queen. Cruel fate had cast me in this portly prison! But no matter what shape he might take or where on earth he might have arrived, I knew I had an appointment with Mark Antony on the Cyndus River. I fled Whitby's place and came straight to you, Jack! Well, straight to you after I had shamefully stolen the drying laundry of an overweight washerwoman. It was all I could find at a moment's notice. And I know this country frock is hardly suitable for the regal princess I am, but they must suffice until I can buy something better. But here and now, I need for you to tell my story before I leave for Cilicia and Tarsus ... or Turkey as they're calling it now. Please, do me this favor Jack!" I listened impassively to Doctor Merrick's narrative, but agreed to do as he asked. He seemed most gracious and shook my hand a half-dozen times before leaving. I rather got the impression he'd have preferred to have extended a limp wrist and had me kneel down and kiss it ... but this Cleopatra business is his affliction and not mine. I simply promised to write down the whole affair for him, still not entirely certain if it wasn't just an elaborate hoax being performed to test my own gullibility. Before he left, I did advise Merrick to acquire a new wardrobe and told him if he insisted on dressing in women's clothing perhaps he might be best to find himself a suitable wig to attract less attention. He seemed most grateful again, thanked me, and finally departed. To this day I have never received word of the good Doctor's fate. A Professor J.L. Whitby did cable me a wire some months later stating he had heard of my intentions to write and publish an account of Merrick's experiences. Whitby urged me to withhold from publishing as it may damage his own professional credibility. But having given my word to Merrick, not to mention having already made arrangements with a magazine publisher, I felt obliged to see the affair through. As a postscript I should add that I had a most striking dream the day before the final publishing arrangements had been made. In my dream, I saw the Earth much as Merrick had described it -- shining in space and orbiting before my eyes. I descended down into somewhere in the Middle East (my sense of geography isn't as well-honed as apparently Whitby's and Merrick's!) But there, in a dry ancient riverbed, I beheld the phantom image of a plump, white-haired English woman dressed all in her finery wearing a velvet dress, a brocaded shawl, and elegant calf-skin boots laced tightly about her feet. She stood in the midst of the dusty ravine and gazed at the slowly approaching silhouette of a young Grecian girl who couldn't have been older than 16 or 17. She was clothed in rags and sandals, her long curled black hair hanging dirtily about her shoulders. But her eyes shown with a gleam of duty and purpose ... and passion, the likes of which the modern world has forgotten. I saw this most unlikely couple embrace, but then the scene faded away. Whether some apparition of destiny or fate visited me, I can't be certain. But I do feel quite sure that somewhere in this world, sometime in our modern age, the beautiful Cleopatra finally kept her appointment on the barge.