CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune"
Chapter 31: Destiny awaits Rafe
This is a story is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years.
Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris) "To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/SlaveNow"
Chapter 31: Destiny awaits Rafe
It's a strange homecoming!
Turning off the isolated country road into the long, sweeping driveway of La Foret Plantation, I'm swept up in the whirlpool of my emotions and suddenly I'm very afraid. My destiny has finally caught up with me.
Last time I visited here, it was as Lucien Barrois, the proud owner of La Foret. Today, I return as the new slave, Rafe and I am terrified. One part of me knows what awaits me here on the plantation and yet there are so many other unknown factors at play within my troubled mind.
I am well aware of how the plantation operates. I know of the miserable lot of the unhappy wretches who labour under the lash of La Foret's enthusiastic black overseers. I'm aware of their soul-destroying drudgery as they toil in the vast, agricultural fields to enrich their owner. These things I know and understand.
My experience of life at La Foret is like the two sides of a coin. Its obverse side saw me as the Master of the plantation and now its converse side sees me as one of its many hapless slaves doomed to unrelenting toil and unimaginable suffering.
But I'm yet to learn of the slaves' real suffering. I'm yet to experience the hunger pangs of an unsatisfied belly, the awful thirst of toiling under the blazing sun, the long, backbreaking hours of unremitting labour and the all too few hours of rest. And my back is yet to feel the fiery bite of the overseers' whips as they spur me to greater effort in my Master's interests. My life is about to change in ways that I can only imagine but can't fully comprehend.
The foundations of La Foret's grand colonial mansion were laid down by my slave-trading ancestor, Jean-Marc de Barrois several centuries ago and progressively, they have been added to by successive generations of the Barrois family. The last major alterations to the mansion - and it extensive grounds - were undertaken under the direction of my late grandmother with the same impeccable flair with which she'd modernised the Barrois town house -now home to the Maratier family.
My grandmother loved La Foret with a passion and spared nothing in bringing it up to a standard that she thought reflected the prestige of the 'aristocratic' Barrois family. The Barrois had always thought of themselves this way; they saw themselves as the New World descendants of an ancient and noble lineage, the French de Barrois family. And it had never troubled them too much that Jean- Marc de Barrois was in fact a disreputable and opportunistic slave-trader. They preferred to view him as a principled privateer who'd made his fortune from seizing the vessels of France's enemies.
My grandfather, who shared his wife's passion for La Foret, gave my grandmother a free hand and unlimited funds in her endeavours and today it stands as a monument to their love of the Barrois ancestral home.
The mansion itself is positioned on a small rise almost at the centre of the plantation and is reached by the long, winding, white gravelled driveway on which we are travelling. The branches of the magnificent, ancient trees lining both sides of the driveway touch over our heads and entwine to create a cool, green tunnel which provides shelter from the winter winds and the summer's heat. As a small boy, it had been a favourite spot of mine and I'd often played here searching for the unique flora and fauna that thrives in this environment. However, today it assumes a fearsome aspect as I trot by Norge's side.
Apart from my own rasping breath, the only other sounds are the laboured breathing of Norge and Pollux, the scrunching sound of the trap's wheels in the loose gravel and the pounding of our feet. Running on the gravelled surface is difficult; my feet are still tender and not yet use to being unshod. In contrast, both Norge's and Pollux's feet are hardened - but they have been slaves longer than me - and I suppose my soles will eventually callous over to protect me too.
Suddenly, I'm aware that my Master and his son have fallen silent. Ever since we resumed our journey after their luncheon break, they'd been extremely talkative and their excitement as they neared La Forˆt was all too evident. Master Etienne had bombarded his father with questions about the plantation and clearly my Master didn't have the answers to his son's questions. Until a few days ago both father and son had lived pecuniary lives and never in their wildest dreams would they have envisaged such wealth as they now possess.
As members of the disinherited Maratier family they'd never been invited to La Foret -indeed their existence was never acknowledged by my grandparents - and any knowledge they did have of it would have come from my Master's grandmother, Charlotte Maratier. But even her knowledge of the place would be limited to her memories of the time before her ostracism by her parents. Other than that, what they did know about "La Forˆt" would be hearsay.
La Foret was well known as the ancestral seat of the immensely wealthy Barrois clan - everybody knew of it but very few ever had seen its grandeur for themselves. The aristocratic but intensely private Barrois family always saw the plantation as a retreat from the mundane and the inane. It had provided them with a quiet refuge from the city's social and business elite and they rarely issued invitations to visit there. They preferred to use their city residence for any essential entertaining of their social inferiors.
There were some notable exceptions to this rule however. As a boy, my grandparents had allowed me to bring my three closest friends, Miles, Jack and Daniel to stay during the long, school breaks. I'd always looked forward to their visits and they provided a welcome break in the loneliness of my boyhood. As an only child without parents, I had always hungered for the company of my peers and over the years, I came to regard my three friends as the siblings I never had but longed for. It's true to say I grew to love all three of them as brothers and the memory of those days are bittersweet. Now those three friends are lost to me forever.
The days spent with Miles, Jack and Daniel were full of fun and excitement. I was of course viewed by everyone - both slaves and overseers - on the plantation as the 'young Master' and my slightest wish was their command. The slaves feared me and the black overseers indulged me.
I was very close to the chief overseer, Claymore Jackson and most days I could be found in his company as he toured the fields checking on the slaves' work output. Among my earliest memories are those of Claymore chastising an errant slave or bawling out an overseer for being too lenient with his work gang.
I suppose it was Claymore's uncompromising sternness that helped form my antipathy towards slaves.
Growing up surrounded by them, I couldn't help but regard them as little more than work animals similar to a heavy duty, draft horse or a plough ox. I only ever saw them collectively working together in gangs under the supervision of their overseers and so my young mind never noticed a slave's individuality.
To be honest, I don't ever remember giving too much thought to our slaves - they were ever present but they never really intruded into my boyish thoughts. I failed to make any distinction between my grandfather's slave herd and those of his cattle, horses and sheep.
But those days spent in the company of my three friends were joyously carefree ones for me. Our days were filled with fun and laughter. We swam in the wide river that formed the northern boundary of the plantation but I was always under the vigilant eyes of the body slaves my grandmother assigned to watch over me as we roamed free over the plantation's six thousand acres.
Excitedly, we explored the cool, shaded forests that to this day still cover a large swathe of the plantation and within their dark depths we played games that both fired our boyish imaginations and satisfied our high spirits. These forests are but the mere remnants of the vast forest which once covered the entire plantation and which gave it the name - La Foret.
Another of our favourite pastime was hitching a ride on one of the many drays that moved around the plantation hauling fertiliser and other equipment into the fields and returning to the storage and packaging shed with freshly harvested produce. It was exciting for us to sit atop the heavy loads and look down on the naked slaves straining into their harnesses as they were driven onward by the whips of their black overseers. Enthusiastically, we added our boyish voices to those of the loud shouts and exhortations of the impatient overseers as they constantly encouraged the struggling slaves to do better.
We considered it very daring to use the abusive language of the black overseers when addressing their white charges. My grandmother would have been horrified to hear me use the common patois of the overseers; but I was the 'young Master' and they both indulged and encouraged us to join with them in their incessant demands to the struggling slaves to apply themselves to their labours. All four of us readily identified with the overseers and we felt very grown-up in their company.
When we grew tired of this, we'd turn our attention to the hapless slaves sweating in my grandfather's fields. We enjoyed teasing and taunting them simply because we could. We knew the slaves couldn't answer back and must just suffer our cruel jibes in resigned silence. Our particular favourites were the young, teen-aged slaves just a few years older than ourselves and they became the particular targets of our insensitivity.
As they toiled, we'd taunt them about their nakedness and make crude references to the genitals. One favourite pastime was the game of 'bullseye' where we'd pelt their asses with clods of earth; bent double at their labours, the young slaves did make inviting, moving targets. We were enthusiastically encouraged by the black overseers who took great delight in seeing a white ass used as a target and sometimes a young, black, apprentice overseer would join us and give us lessons in the finer points of chucking. It has to be said all four of us strived to outdo one another at hitting out targets and it's true that "practise does makes perfect". By the end of the holidays, we were all experts at aiming at and hitting the bullseye.
Not once did we ever consider the slaves' feelings and if they did feel any shame or humiliation at our treatment of them, then their fear of the overseers' whip stopped them from showing their true feelings.
Today, as I return to the plantation as a slave, I do however remember an occasion when a young slave rebelled and shouted at us to.
"Stop it, you little fuckers."
He paid a heavy price for his shouted defiance. Two overseers descended upon him and applied their whips to his back with such vigour that he fell to his knees and begged them to stop. But such an act of defiance was unpardonable and his disrespect to the young Master couldn't go unpunished. They ignored his tearful pleas and continued to whip him into submission.
That day, I'm sure my grandfather's black overseers broke the young, white slave's spirit as they beat him onto his knees.
Fleetingly, I did feel some guilt as I realised that, indirectly we'd been the cause of his punishment. Guiltily, I understood that we had goaded him to a point where he'd snapped and hit out at his tormentors. But as my three friends laughed at the young slave's distress, I'd quickly overcome any sense of wrong and joined them in their amusement.
After that, guilt over a slave's treatment never overly troubled me. That is until I purchased Norge. For some unexplained reason he aroused within me a sense that I was doing him a great wrong.
Later, I asked Claymore about the young slave's background and I discovered he had only recently been tried by the courts and found guilty of antisocial behaviour and enslaved. Ruled by the presiding judge as "incorrigible and beyond redemption", he'd been sent to a clearing-house for juvenile offenders where my grandfather had bought him cheaply in a job lot of ten, newly enslaved youths. My grandfather was partial to buying new slaves under this system. He believed you "bought slaves when young and trained them hard".
Now as I trot up the driveway, I wonder if the slave still works on the property. There is every chance that he does and if so I estimate that he'd now be aged in his late twenties or early thirties. For some strange reason, I wonder if our paths will cross.
I wonder about my Master's continuing silence. But I'm not surprised by it. After, all given the poverty of his life to date, it would be hard for him to grasp that he is now the owner of this magnificent plantation; just weeks ago such a possibility would be unimaginable. The realisation that all this now belongs to him is sufficient reason for him being rendered temporarily speechless.
I can well imagine his awe as we draw nearer to La Foret's mansion; he is yet to be confronted by its architectural grandeur and the beauty of its surrounding gardens. But this beautiful driveway, with its avenue of ancient, stately trees, hints at the magnificence that awaits him and his son Etienne around the next sweeping bend.
Suddenly Master orders Norge to stop and all three of us enjoy a welcome respite from our running. Our Master has paused to watch the activities in the adjacent fields and as my breathing returns to normal, I too look out through the trees into the sun drenched crops of golden, ripening grain. The fields are a chequer board of varying shades of yellow and they range from the soft mellow of the oats - now being harvested by teams of sweating, naked slaves - to the green tinged, tawny brown of the still ripening wheat and barley.
These fields are the scene of much activity and my blood is chilled by the sight of so many wretched slaves industriously engaged in harvesting the oat crops. Even from this distance I can see the stress their labours place upon their sweat stained, sun darkened bodies.
At the forefront there is a line of slaves who, working abreast of one another, use long, sharp scythes to fell the tall growing oat stalks just an inch or so above ground level. Their actions are synchronised and the sweep of their scythes are in unison and it is obvious they are well trained and conditioned for this work. There is something almost graceful in their body movements as they steadily move forward. Their tall, lean bodies twist and turn with each sweep of their scythes and I am reminded of a choreographed and well-rehearsed dance troupe. The mid-afternoon sun glints on their naked torsos and their sweat highlights the working of the muscles of their arms and upper bodies as they follow through with their scythes.
From my vantage point in the cool shade of the driveway, I look out into the sunny, unshaded field as the slaves move relentlessly forward with robotic resignation. I can hear their laboured breathing and the gentle swish of the scythes cutting through the rustling stalks. I hear their soft moans as their tired muscles protest at the ceaseless demands made of them. Their labour is unremitting but still the overseers aren't satisfied. The overseers' angry whips crackle frighteningly through the air demanding more of their charges and as the lash cuts across their unprotected backs the suffering slaves respond positively to the demands made of them.
But these slaves are the lucky ones in that they work upright. Following close behind them are other slaves, who work bent doubled over as they gather up the scythed oat stalks, tie them into sheaves and place them into stooks ready for picking up and carting into the distant threshing sheds? Their stooped backs make tempting targets for the lash!
Lucien Barrois had always found pleasure in such pastoral scenes. To his eyes there was satisfaction in watching as another plentiful crop was successfully gathered in. He'd looked beyond the suffering of his slaves - their hardships were inconsequential - and he'd taken pride in 'his' achievement of harvesting yet another bountiful crop.
But as the slave, Rafe I now see things very differently. I see the sweating, groaning slaves toiling under the lash and I hear the loud, abusive shouting of their black overseers making impossible demands of them. I watch as whips fall on their unprotected backs and I hear the pain filled cries of the hapless, helpless victims of the obscene inhumanity that is slavery.
Ironically, I reflect on my description of what is happening in the fields as inhumane. Lucien would never have agreed with this. To his mind, my use of the word inhumanity would have been erroneous. He would never have ascribed 'humanity' to his slaves; they ceased to be human from the moment they became his slaves. Bitterly, I am reminded of this as I contemplate my own fate. Is it possible that tomorrow, I could be one of their number labouring and sweating under the lash as I stoop to gather up my Master's crop?
Is my Master reading my thoughts? Certainly his question to me would indicate he is.
"Well Rafe," he asks mockingly, "what do you think? No doubt you and Pollux will be working in a similar gang tomorrow. Do you think you'll fit in with the other slaves? Will you be able to keep up with them? But I shouldn't worry if you can't. I'm sure the overseers will be keen to assist you?"
My Master is mocking me and I should be used to his taunts and jibes; but I'm not. Since my enslavement, Guy Maratier sometimes reminds of what I once was and what I now am. This is just such an occasion. He is reminding me of my most grievous loss - my loss of freedom. He is gloatingly reminding me that I am a slave and that I now belong to him. I have no answers to his latest taunts and I remain silent.
This angers him and furiously he lashes out at me with his driver's whip. I stand helpless as his whip rains down on my shoulders. How many times does he strike me? I don't know. Perhaps three, four, or is it five or six times. I'm not counting. But as I yelp under his furious onslaught I know that my suffering under the light driving whip is as nothing to that of the slaves in the adjacent field. Compared to the fiery venom of the overseers' whips the pain of my Master's is little more than a wasp's sting.
The true pain for me is in the humiliation I feel as my Master publicly beats me like a disobedient dog.
"ANSWER ME, DAMN YOU! I asked you a question, slave. You still have a lot to learn about proper respect for your master. I'll speak to the head overseer about having you broken in as a real slave. NOW ANSWER ME!"
Through my tears of wounded pride, I apologise to my Master
"I'm sorry Master. Forgive me Master but I meant no disrespect. Master I will do my best to be a good slave and to work hard for you."
My answer placates him and my beating stops. He is now ready to move on. But before he does so he hands Norge's reins to his son. Master Etienne is to have his first driving lesson within the secluded safety of La Forˆt's driveway. He instructs his son to move us forward and all three of us respond to our young Master's shrill, boyish order to.
"Walk on!"
As we move forward, our Master gives Master Etienne lessons in the finer points of driving a pony and trap.
"Remember, son, you direct the pony to do as you want and NOT as he wants to do. Of course he has a degree of intelligence and it's only necessary to give him verbal commands like 'walk on!' and 'stop!' to control his movements. And you further control his speed by other commands such as 'walk!', 'trot!' 'jog!' and 'run!' You determine how fast you want the pony to travel and you instruct him in what you expect from him. Do you think you can do that, Etienne?"
"Dad, this is so easy!" Master Etienne answers and flicks the driver's whip at Norge's exposed back as he orders him to.
"Trot!"
Master Etienne has neither the expertise nor the strength-of-arm for the whip to cause Norge any pain; its touch is merely akin to the annoying sting of an insect. Nevertheless, Norge knows what is expected of him and breaks into a brisk trot. Of necessity, Pollux and I must keep pace with him.
Our Master continues to give his son instructions in the use and control of Norge.
"Etienne! The whip is a valuable tool for a driver to have. You use it to speak to the pony. Through it you tell the pony what you want him to do. As a new driver, it's a skill I'm still mastering and you'll need to learn how to use it too."
"What did I do wrong Dad? Didn't I hit him hard enough?"
"I'm sure Norge felt the whip, Etienne." My Master speaks encouragingly to his son. "But there's a skill in using a driver's whip. It not simply a matter of lashing out at the pony and striking him with your whip; there's more to it than that."
"Then show me, Dad! Show me how to use the whip properly?"
"Etienne, you have to learn to control the whip through the movements of your wrist and to aim it at specific areas of the pony's body where it does the most good. Here, let me show you!"
My Master takes the whip from his son and taking careful aim; he deftly flicks the tip of it in between Norge's legs just below his buttocks. Of course he'd deliberately aimed the whip's tip at his pony's low hanging testicles as they swung free.
Poor Norge! The bit in his mouth prevents him from crying out but I do hear his gasp of pain and I can only wonder at the sickening feeling he must feel in the pit of his stomach. As any male knows - his balls are his most vulnerable spot - and I think back to those very rare times when I had inadvertently injured my own. The memories of the dull ache I'd experienced on those occasions arouse my sympathy for poor Norge. But the whip has the desired effect; Norge thrusts forward into his harness and increases his speed.
Conveniently, I overlook the fact that I'd treated Norge no better than our Master is doing. When I'd driven him I'd used the whip in an identical fashion. It had never occurred to me that I was causing him pain.
My grandfather had taught me to drive a pony-trap at a similar age to young Master Etienne and he'd also instructed me in the use of the driving whip. I recall my grandfather advising me to use the whip judiciously and not to overuse it otherwise I'd confuse the pony's mind. He told me there needed to be a bond between a driver and his pony built on the mutual understanding of what each expected from the other. Understandably, he driver would expect his pony to perform to the very best of his abilities and when required to give that little bit of extra effort demanded of him. The pony, for his part, could expect to be treated fairly - well fed, housed in a warm, dry stable and not subjected to unnecessarily harsh beatings.
Like my Master's comments to his son of a few minutes ago, my grandfather had also taught me to speak to our ponies through the whip. My grandfather said the whip should be used to guide a pony and never as a means of punishment. Although there were rare times when he broke that rule; these occurred whenever a pony acted up or refused to co-operate with him. Then he'd lay into the pony with his driving whip but any damage to the pony was superficial. The driving whip lacks the vigour and impact of an overseer's bullwhip.
He'd taught me not to use the driving whip capriciously or sadistically. He disapproved of those drivers who misused their ponies and he strongly deplored seeing the back and shoulders of a pony permanently scarred by the whip. I'd sometimes wondered how his aversion to seeing a pony marked by the whip sat with his indifference to his field slaves. After all their backs were permanently scarred and more often than not were laid open and bloodied by the lash.
Once I asked him about this and he told me it all had to with ascetics; that the appearance of the field hands wasn't of any importance and really for a field slave a whipped-scarred back was a natural consequence of his condition. A pony however was different. Grandfather said he couldn't speak for others but for him personally it was all about appearance.
He placed great store in driving a well turned-out pony and trap and noting the admiring glances of any onlookers. For him a pony was always on show and should reflect his driver's pride of ownership. But he added it was permissible for a pony to wear the stripes of his driver's whip on his buttocks.
Speaking of which, grandfather taught me - as our Master is now teaching his son - what parts of a pony's body re-act best to the whip. He'd told me the back and shoulders weren't the most responsive and whipping the pony in these areas wasn't the best use of the whip. Rather he advised that I should direct the whip at the pony's ass. Under his tutelage, I soon learned that this part of the pony's anatomy was indeed very sensitive and responsive to the whip's sting. Then, once I'd mastered this, he took me one step further and told me of a pony's most sensitive spot and the one that could coax the best out of the laziest pony. He was of course, speaking of the pony's testicles.
Most ponies are well-endowed -or at least the ones used by my grandfather were. It was a pre- requisite of his that a pony sport impressive genitalia and that he showed well as he ran in harness.
I still have memories from my boyhood of looking out from the driver's seat at a pair of low hanging balls that swung freely from side to side as the pony ran. And as they jiggled up and down, they made a tempting target for my boyish exuberance.
Grandfather showed me how to carefully aim the whip at the pony and how to skilfully twist my wrist to just flick his balls. There is an art in doing this and I have to admit I was a slow learner. But he was patient with me and persevered. After much trial and error I did master the skill but at what cost to the pony I never knew - or overly cared.
Master Etienne is now learning this from his father much as I had from my grandfather and I wonder if he is deriving the same pleasure from his driving lessons as I did from mine.
Of course, the secret is in the wrist action and I know from my own experience it will be some time before Master Etienne perfects this. In the meantime, I suppose poor Norge will suffer from very sore balls as a result of his young master's driving lesson. Again the secret is not to injure the pony but to gently flick the tip of the whip against his balls with just enough force to startle him into action.
At the end of each run, my grandfather would solicitously examine his pony's balls for any sign of swelling or other injury and apply a soothing, cream to any red welts that the whip had raised.
My grandfather taught me well and I remembered his lessons from my boyhood and I'd never used the driver's whip for anything other than its intended purpose. That is to encourage my pony to greater speed and effort and never as an instrument of punishment.
Grandfather was always gentler in his treatment of his personal ponies than he was with his field slaves. Whilst they lived a harsh existence of hard, unremitting labour, insufficient rest, basic food, and the strictest discipline, his personal pony was spoiled and he lived a life of comparative luxury.
Grandfather was most fastidious in seeing that his pony was well taken of; he insisted his pony was hosed down at the end of the day and his body dried and oiled before he was placed in his stall for the night. He took a personal interest in his pony's well-being and ensured he always had dry, clean straw for his bedding and that he was feed a special diet that sustained him in his heavy, running duties.
Grandfather expected much from his pony and when necessary he'd drive him hard but a bond did exist between them. The pony knew what was expected of him and he gave of his best in his master's interest secure in the knowledge that my grandfather valued him and would take care of him. There was softness in my grandfather's handling of his pony; it was affection that I recognised as the same one feels towards a pet dog or a favourite horse. Most recently, I had similar feelings for Norge which rapidly grew into something deeper than the mere liking of a favourite animal.
Grandfather was always solicitous of his pony's comfort. He carried a container of water in the luggage compartment of his trap and whenever he saw his pony sweating to excess or showing signs of heat stress, he'd guide him to a stop in a shady spot and give him water to refresh him. And there were occasions when, after the pony had performed particularly well, my grandfather would show his appreciation by gently - almost lovingly - stroking the pony's flanks and reward him with a small portion of apple.
This way the pony knew that he'd earned his master's approval and it was touching to watch as he nuzzled into my grandfather's cupped hand and nibbled his reward while his ass was patted.
But my grandfather's was a complex personality. He was very conscious of who he was - the head of the Barrois family and the richest man in the country - and he was intensely proud to the point of haughtiness. Within the business and commercial spheres, he had a reputation for scrupulous honesty and integrity but possessed ruthlessness that was second to none. He had a business acumen that saw the Barrois family holdings expand rapidly under his stewardship and he didn't suffer fools lightly; as many unfortunates discovered to their cost. Consequently, he was admired, envied and feared in equal measure by all who worked for him or who had business dealings with him.
But the side to him that I knew best was that of the loving husband and doting grandfather; he could deny neither my grandmother nor me anything. His personal life revolved around us and he gave us everything we desired.
However, his stern attitude towards his slaves was another matter. His treatment of them was uncompromisingly hard and he wouldn't tolerate either laziness or disobedience from them. He spared them neither hard labour nor the whip. Through his black overseers, he ruled them with a rod of iron and all our slaves feared him. And he used this fear to cower them into unquestioning submission.
Quite deliberately he'd chosen to use black overseers to control his slaves who for the most part were white. Instinctively, he knew of the black man's ingrained sense of his superiority over the white man and he used this to his advantage. The black overseers were zealous in their control of their white charges and it could be said this was a labour of love for them. They knew how to squeeze the last amount of effort out of a white slave.
Grandfather had a genuine admiration for his black overseers and in particular for his head overseer, Claymore Jackson. Both men were close; they liked and admired each other and both worked to maximise the output from the plantation's slaves.
Whilst he might not agree with the idea of black supremacy over whites, grandfather nevertheless encouraged his overseers to both believe and practise it. This way he effectively maximised his profits from his slaves and at the same time held them in check under black dominance.
My grandfather was a strong advocate for slavery and he'd argue passionately on the subject with anyone foolish enough to espouse anti-slavery sentiments. During his lifetime, there were within the wider community some misguided fools who suggested that slavery was an evil blight on civilised society and it should be abolished. They argued that, at the very least, slaves should be treated leniently in recognition of their humanity. Grandfather would have none of this nonsense!
He saw slavery as a useful tool in gainfully employing the criminal and the undesirable elements of the community. He regarded this use of society's rejects as beneficial to the wider good and a valuable resource to be utilised by the more entrepreneurial citizens. In grandfather's view, once a man was enslaved he ceased to be a man and became a beast of burden to be used to his owner's advantage. And so it was with his slaves.
I recall my grandfather stating that it made absolutely no difference how you treated a slave; whether it was with kid gloves or an iron fist, the slave's nature was the same. Given the opportunity, he'd rebel against his master. He advanced the argument that slaves must always be kept in their place - for fear of this rebellion - and how an owner did this was entirely his prerogative.
A classical scholar, well-versed in the writings of the ancient Greeks and Romans, he adhered very much to the views of one such writer. This writer, commenting on the murder of a Roman citizen by his own slaves and their subsequent execution warned of the dangers confronting a slave -owner. He said no master could feel safe simply because he treated his slaves with kindness and that it was the brute nature of slaves rather than their capacity to reason that caused slaves to rise up against their masters. My grandfather held strongly to this and he certainly kept his slaves on a tight leash through the oversight of his black overseers.
Grandfather had taught these things to Lucien Barrois. I wonder what would be his feelings and attitude to the slave, Rafe.
.
We are now less than a mile from the house and young Master Etienne is becoming more confident in his driving. Of course, he's not to know that Norge is aware of what is required of him and that he is giving of his best to please his young, novice driver. Etienne, encouraged by his father, is enthusiastically applying the whip to Norge.
Etienne lacks the skills to accurately handle the whip and so it's very much hit and miss with the lash fallen on different parts of Norge's body. And fortunately for Norge, his young driver lacks the strength in his arm for the lash to painful - it is more of an irritant than an encouragement to run faster. Still Norge senses what is expected of him and - well-trained pony that he is - he runs faster. And I am forced to increase my speed to keep pace with him and Pollux.
Then - more by good fortune than design - Master Etienne has a lucky strike - the tip of his whip snakes in under Norge's buttocks, between his legs and painfully flicks his low hanging balls. Norge's response is immediate and predictable. I hear his grunt of pain as he bites down on his bit and I feel his power surge as he involuntarily thrusts forward into his harness in an effort to avoid the whip.
I'm very familiar with Norge's response to the driver's whip. I have seen it so often when I have been in the driver's seat and I'd never thought twice about the pain I'd caused him. Now as I run by his side, I have a new awareness of my past actions and I am ashamed. But unlike Norge who has felt the whip, I can only imagine at the intensity of the pain it can cause to one's testicles.
Of course, I'm well aware of their sensitivity and I have once or twice, during my life time, accidentally knocked my own. And I recall the instant pain and the sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach that caused me to dry retch before the pain's intensity finally subsided into a dull, lingering ache. Drawing on those memories, I can imagine Norge's discomfort. Strange that I'd never considered this before now.
Then, through my thoughts, I hear our Master congratulate his son on his burgeoning driving skills.
"Well done, Etienne! We'll make a driver of you yet."
"Thanks Dad! It's easy driving a pony. Did you see how he ran faster when I whipped his .........?"
"What son? What were you going to say - his balls?"
"Yes Dad! But Mum told me to never use that kind of talk."
"Well son, your mother is right - up to a point. Those aren't the words that a gentlemen uses in polite society and you must now remember that you are Etienne Maratier and my heir. People will expect you to speak and act like a young gentleman. But your mother's not here and I won't mind if you use those words when we're talking about a slave. But just watch what you say in front of free adults and never use those words in front of your great-grandmother. Remember!"
"I will Dad! So it's alright if I say balls?"
"With me -yes! And I would think you'll hear the overseers at the plantation use words that are far worse than that. However, you must remember they will be talking about slaves and not free men."
"OK Dad, I'll remember! Will I whip the pony some more to make him run faster?"
"No, I think he's running at a good pace. We don't want him breaking his stride. If you want to practise some more try using the whip on the other two slaves. Give me the whip and I show you how."
I hear my two Masters' conversation but my gaze is fixed straight ahead as we round the last, sweeping bend in the driveway and at last the double storied mansion comes into view. Through the surrounding trees I see its colonnaded facade gleaming white in the mid afternoon sun.
The rounding of this final bend had always the highlight of my trips to La Foret; it had signalled my arrival at my beloved plantation.
The house sits on a slightly elevated knoll that looks out over the surrounding fields - all of which are now hives of industry as the slaves labour to bring in the harvest. I'd spent many a pleasant hour relaxing on the cool, shaded porch that surrounds three sides of the house sipping mint julep or iced tea and watching as my slaves laboured to enrich me. I'd always had binoculars on hand so that I could - if necessary - check that all was going well in the fields. Not that I ever needed to worry for Claymore Jackson and his black overseers managed quite well without my input. Still, as the owner of the plantation and the Master of its slaves, I felt I needed to keep an eye on things.
I'd always had two, young, house slaves attend me at these times; one standing by to refill my glass as required and the other to work the ceiling mounted pukka fan which was similar in design to the one so favoured by the British Raj in India. This oblong shaped fan was suspended from the ceiling and operated through a system of pulleys and ropes worked by a slave whose task it was to keep it moving backwards and forwards in an effort to keep the air circulating and me cooler.
I could of course have had powered, overhead fans installed and perhaps these would have been more efficient in the stifling summer heat. But I rather enjoyed watching as the slave worked to keep me comfortable. There was an irony in this; the slave made to sweat profusely as he kept his Master cool. Anyway there was an element of decadence in having a slave perform this humiliating task that I quite liked. There was something exotic in watching the erotic play of his muscles under his sweat sheen.
The house is still some five hundred yards away and young Etienne has time to practise his whipping skills on Pollux and me. But first his father takes the whip from him and gives him a demonstration in its use. I shudder as I wonder which of the two of us he'll choose for his first demonstration. Will it be Pollux? Or will it be me? I don't have long to wait.
I hear both the whip's swish as it travels through the air and loud thwack as it cuts across the cheeks of my naked ass. Unlike Norge, neither Pollux nor I wear bits in our mouths and I'm free to give voice to my pain. And even as it fades away it is replaced with my shriek of outraged pain as the tip of the whip licks my balls with its fiery fury. I re-act automatically; I lurch forward in an effort to escape the pain but I am restrained by the wrist shackles that bind me to the trap's shaft. Unable to escape, the whip finds its mark for a second time and I hear my terrified, pain-filled shriek.
I have never felt such pain and inexplicably the thought flashes through my mind that if my Master makes good with his plans to turn me into a pony then such pain will become an everyday occurrence for me. And I think - of how I'd thoughtlessly caused Norge to endure such pain on occasions too numerous for me to remember and I am stricken with remorse.
Through my pain I hear Master Etienne laughing.
"Wow, Dad! That must have hurt to make Rafe cry out like that. Can I have a go please?"
"Certainly, Etienne but practise on Pollux. Remember to keep you wrist flexible and take careful aim for his balls. And they shouldn't be hard to miss," he jokes with his son, "the way they are hanging down. It must be the heat; the balls on all three slaves are low slung. Now take careful aim!"
I don't know how many attempts it takes for Master Etienne to score a hit on Pollux. For a start, I hear the whip strike his body several times but his low guttural grunts indicate there's not much pain in them. But then I hear his frenzied shriek and I know that Pollux now shares Norge's and my pain.
They say practise makes perfect and this is certainly the case with Master Etienne. Very quickly he is mastering the knack of taking aim and accurately placing his whip on its intended targets; all three of us now endure the indescribable pain engendered by having our balls whipped. It would seem our young master is a natural pony driver.
Without knowing for sure, I suspect the same thought motivates all three of us - that is to outrun the whip and arrive at our destination as quickly as possible thus putting an end to our torment. Those final few hundred yards are covered in quick time and we enter through the elaborate wrought iron gates that mark the entrance into the ten acres of landscaped gardens surrounding the house.
These gardens were designed and set out by my grandmother many years ago as part of her restoration of La Foret. They stand as a testimony to her unerring good taste and boundless energy. They are truly magnificent and today they are regarded - quite rightly - as the finest gardens held in private hands.
Certainly the Barrois family had often been asked by different charities to stage an 'open day, when the gardens would be opened to the paying public. My grandparents had always refused such requests on the basis that the gardens were our private world and Grandfather had once remarked he didn't relish the thought of every "Tom, Dick and Harry" wandering around his home gawking at what was really none of their concern. Such requests were always politely but firmly refused with my grandparents preferring instead to make a sizeable donation to the particular charity as way of compensation.
As we travel the last hundred or so yards through the gardens to the front portico, I see the small army of slaves who labour continuously from first light to sunset to maintain the gardens in the pristine condition that remains faithful to my grandmother's original design. I see them bent to their labours and I hear the crack of the black overseers' whips.
I'd always appreciated the beauty and tranquillity of my grandmother's gardens but I'd never thought of the sweat and backbreaking toil that had gone into making them so enjoyable for me. That is - until today. Now, as I watch a whip fall on some wretched slave's back, I see the gardens' real ugliness. Behind their beauty lies so much suffering.
Today, on our trip out from the city to La Foret, I have seen the true drudgery of slavery and witnessed its appalling brutality. As a whip crackles through the air to land resoundingly across another slave's unprotected shoulders, I shudder with the realisation that I am now a hapless victim of this merciless system.
I, the slave Rafe, have finally arrived at my destination to begin my induction into slavery.
As I knew would be the case, Colton, the long serving, black major domo is waiting at the foot of the steps of the front portico to welcome my Master and his son to La Forˆt.
And waiting with him to take charge of Norge, Pollux and me is Claymore Jackson together with a senior overseer and an apprentice overseer. At first I don't notice the apprentice overseer. Then, as our Master pulls Norge to a halt, I do recognise him as the young apprentice overseer Claymore Jackson and I had interviewed several weeks ago. I struggle to remember his name but then eventually I do recall it is Conn.
Despite his age, he is now in every way,my better. He is a black overseer whereas I'm just a white slave. I am now obliged to show him all due deference and respect; it is both expected and demanded of me.
From now on, whenever I'm in his presence, I must lower my gaze to the ground and address him as "Sir Conn".
To be continued...................