This story contains graphic but completely fictional depictions of sex among men and men, and men and underage boys. If this offends you, if it is illegal for you to read or download this, or if you are under 18, please go away.
Seaward Plantation
Chapter one
The rhythm of the train changed, slowing as it moved into the approaches to Charleston. Mark Appleby awoke slowly, blinking his eyes in the bright light coming in from the half-open window. A warm air scented with the sea, with flowers, with growing things. with the South, blew over his face. Disoriented at first, he recollected where he was: on the overnight train from North Carolina, the last of many since first boarding in Boston. In this year of our Lord 1850, he was coming to a home he'd never seen, and into his inheritance.
Washing his face and hands quickly from a jug and basin in his private compartment, he took stock of his own appearance in a small mirror as he shaved: A little over six feet tall, light brown hair worn almost to his shoulders in a fashionably long cut, he was a handsome man of average, muscular build with light brown eyes. Putting on the last of his clean shirts and ties, Mark joined the other early morning passengers in a makeshift dining car. Clutching his chipped mug of lukewarm coffee carefully to avoid spilling it with the jolts and rolls of the train, gnawing on a stale roll, Mark thought back over the recent remarkable changes in his life.
It had been three months since he received word of his Aunt Lucy's passing. He knew her, of course, from her infrequent visits to Boston. His mother's only sister, childless, when she passed from this world at the age of 85 he took the news calmly, sadly, never suspecting what it would mean to him. A week later, he was surprised to receive a letter from his old law school friend, Horatio Smith, telling him that he had inherited his aunt's entire estate. He had vaguely known that Aunt Lucy had used Horatio's legal services, in fact Mark recommended him to her when both he and Horatio graduated from Harvard Law and Horatio returned to Charleston, to his ancestral home. Lucy had lived there since she went to Charleston to marry Richardson Huddle at the tender age of 20, many years ago. Richardson and Lucy settled into the Huddle estate, Seaward Plantation, where he promptly died after six months from falling off a horse, and there Aunt Lucy stayed, never marrying, managing the plantation, for the rest of her life. There were no surviving Huddles. Now, at his own ripe old age of 25, Mark Appleby found a whole new life staring him in the face.
He remembered his surprise at learning of his aunt's death, then the later, greater surprise as he began to read Smith's letter, which turned to astonishment at learning that he had inherited the estate, which occupied an entire island off of Charleston, plus enough wisely invested capital to support him and the plantation for the rest of his life. A rapid exchange of letters and telegrams followed. Raised in an upper middle class Bostonian family, trained for the law with good prospects at a well established Boston firm, Appleby knew nothing of farming, much less of what must be involved in the management of a Southern plantation. What do they grow there? he asked of Smith, what sort of trade is involved?
The answered surprised him: they grow what they need to sustain themselves and they have no sort of trade whatsoever at Seaward Plantation, said Smith. Lucy Huddle had invested Richardson's legacy wisely, and a nice income from securities and properties around the several States and the West Indies kept the Plantation going; besides, it was hardly large enough, nor was the arable land plentiful enough, for raising vast cash crops of cotton or cane as they did on the mainland. Seaward Plantation was a nearly self-sufficient community, walled off from the mainland by the sea. All Appleby had to do was use his legal training to maintain the investments, acquire a working knowledge of the plantation, and settle down to enjoy his inheritance of land, buildings, equipment, livestock.. and slaves.
There was no getting around it. On the property inventory were listed so many buildings, so many acres, durable goods, stock, dry goods, and slaves. There seemed to be two main families of them, about ten or eleven of them. Now, Appleby, like most good Bostonians, opposed slavery. Unlike some Bostonians, that was as far as his involvement went. Certainly he had seen some free blacks on the streets, confronted the occasional freedman servant working for pay, but in general he gave little thought to Africans in America. He was not politically involved, as were so many of his abolitionist kin and acquaintances; he had his hands full learning the legal trade and beginning his career. He certainly had never given thought to owning any Africans, but here he was, about to come into full possession of nearly a dozen of them. The prospect had given him cause for some long and careful thought.
Back in his cabin, he assembled his scattered belongings and began to pack his valise. More of his belongings were in the trunks in the baggage car. Buildings became larger and stood closer together as the train approached the main station in Charleston. Dark clouds of coal smoke rolled by the window as it slowed, brakes hissing and screeching as the station platform came into view. Slower and slower the pistons pumped as the wheels rolled gradually to a stop.
Stepping out into the warm breeze, Appleby scanned the crowds for Horatio Smith. If black people had been a rarity in Boston they were certainly not here: Men in shirtsleeves and frayed pants carrying loads, thin young women with their hair in kerchiefs tending to white children, older (and fatter) women following their mistresses along. Appleby had little time to think about this spectacle, for in the distance he saw Horatio Smith waving his hat and walking quickly to meet him.
".and will I have the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Appleby as well?" Smith had asked in one of his letters. Well, no.. although it would have been possible, since it had been a couple of years since they last saw one another and Smith headed south to begin his law practice. But no, there was no Mrs. Appleby, and not likely to be, Mark had concluded. Not that he had no inclination for marriage or for women. There had been the occasional furtive groping upstairs in Boston mansions while society balls played out downstairs, and twice even the successful attempt at sex. But Appleby knew himself well enough to know that he was. undecided. To be honest with himself, he knew that he also had strong but confusing feelings about men. He had admired with longing but also fear the strong bodies of his friends and classmates on swimming parties at the beach, and sometimes lost his concentration on the lesson during classes as his attention wandered to the golden-haired young face of a classmate across the room. These longings were spent in solitary bouts of masturbation late at night, which only fueled his imagination but did not satisfy his confusing desires. No, Appleby was not ready to commit to women, but more important, not sure that he wanted to. He was.. waiting.
Horatio Smith reached Mark Appleby and welcomed him heartily. "Did you sleep?" he inquired. "Our train service is remarkably up to date but still uncomfortable, especially the overnight."
"Quite well, thank you," replied Appleby. "Now I think my luggage is just here," he said, indicating the baggage car.
"Yes, of course," said Smith, and motioned behind him. An elderly black man with silver hair pushed a cart up behind him. "Well, let me see. ah yes, here are your tags. The three trunks, then? Yes, that will make a good start, you can send to Boston for the rest of your belongings when you see what you need, but really, I think you will find Seaward quite well appointed." Assisted by another black porter, the elderly man wrestled the trunks onto the cart. "We haven't far to go," said Smith, leading the way down a ramp off the platform and onto a brick sidewalk that sloped at a gentle angle through the town and towards the port. The two men caught up on recent events in their lives; Smith himself had married into an old South Carolina family a year ago, although there were no children as of yet. The old slave pushed the cart along behind them as they renewed their friendship. The smell of the sea grew stronger as they drew closer, and amid the wooden buildings with their iron railings and tall roofs one could see the masts of sailing vessels large and small.
"One thing I must ask you again, I suppose," said Smith, and lowered his voice. "Do you still intend to carry out the plan that you have devised?"
"I think so," said Appleby, "but of course I must settle in and see what the lay of the land is. Of course, you have kept this confidential, as I requested?"
"Quite, quite," said Smith," and it is certainly possible. The necessary papers are ready and kept secure in my safe. Whether it is wise I leave to your own judgment. Ah! I think this is the pier just here," he said, directing the little party onto a long wooden platform pushing out into the harbor, flanked on both sides by small craft. Some of them were fishing vessels, hung with netting. Others were pleasure yachts of modest size, awaiting pleasure parties. "And there is Miss Huddle's boat, the Hesperus. Oh, pardon me! I meant to say, your boat, Mister Appleby, Esquire," said Smith with a pleasant smile and flourish of his hand.
The men and their escort of servants and luggage came up to a pleasant little vessel, about twenty feet long and stout in the beam, capable of carrying cargo and with what seemed like access to cabin space below. One long mast rose amidships. Appleby took no more than a quick look at the boat, admiring its compact sturdiness and tidy appearance. What arrested his eye instead were the two people who were evidently just loading the last of several large stores of provisions onto the boat. Two black people, a young man of about twenty and a boy of no more than fourteen.
At the sound of Appleby's and Smith's approach, the two blacks scrambled out of the boat and upon the pier. Appleby's usual confidence and self-possession failed him for a moment. Here was a young man and a boy working on his boat... and the conclusion was inescapable then, that they were his young man and boy. His slaves. Smith soon confirmed this.
Stepping forward slightly he said, "Troy, Hector, this is your new master. Mark Appleby." Instinctively, Mark's right arm began to move to extend a hand to shake. Sensing it, and tolerant of the different ways of a Northerner, Horatio Smith gently placed his hand over Mark's arm, stopping it almost as soon as it had begun to move. "Mr. Appleby," he said, "these are your servants: Troy," he said, indicating the young man, and "Hector," he said gesturing toward the boy.
"What should we call you, sir?" Troy asked softly, with a slight bow. Both kept their heads down slightly but yet managed to look up enough to survey the situation and get a sense of their new master. "Oh, Mark will be fine," he replied, then realized he had violated yet another local social law when Smith quickly chimed in, "Yes, Master Mark it is, then."
"Master Mark, sir," both slaves said, bowing again. Did Mark detect a slight smile on Troy's face and a quick, questioning look in his direction?
"Y'all come on up and load Master Mark's luggage into the boat, now," said Smith. With graceful speed they jumped from the boat and began lugging Mark's trunks onto the deck of the boat, lashing them securely with ropes. All the while, they kept up quick, sly glances at Mark. If their surveillance was furtive, Appleby's was frank. To say that he was strongly affected by what he saw would be an understatement. As Smith kept up a chatter of small talk, Appleby sank into what was nearly a trance of absorption in the two strong black bodies before him.
Troy was a young man of perhaps twenty, six feet tall. He wore a simple shirt and pants of a rough material, and sturdy, old homemade shoes. He moved with a powerful fluid grace, shifting heavy loads with ease. His shirttail was out and a large collar was open, exposing glimpses of a powerful body as he moved. Troy's skin was very dark and beautiful, a rich deep flawless chocolate with a light sheen of sweat in the morning sun. His hair was a close-cut cap of solid black, tightly coiled hair that glistened slightly with the perspiration of his efforts. He had nearly black eyes in a strong but friendly face, with a full, broad nose and high cheekbones. Unused to seeing African features, Mark drank in visually what was distinctive about them: the hair, the color, the soft, wide nose.... and the lips: Full, with a slightly larger lower lip, smooth and dark which highlighted flawless white teeth when he spoke softly to his brother. Mark's gaze did not neglect Troy's physique, either. It was powerful. His chest was like two slices of a dark oak trunk beneath the shirt, each pectoral muscle nearly round beneath a tight, oiled skin. His waist narrowed dramatically through the hips, bulging out again in powerful thighs. It was when he turned in profile that Mark caught his breath--he hoped not so dramatically as to be noticed. It was hard to say exactly what made Troy's buttocks so arresting, so... powerfully attractive. They were somehow higher and a little more protuberant than the bottoms of the white men Mark had secretly eyed on the beaches of Cape Cod. A little higher, a little further out, and the effect might have been grotesque, something you could balance a tray on. But no, the shape was just right, as far as one could go in being high, tight, rounded and strong while still being perfectly balanced. Almost in spite of himself, Mark let his gaze rest from time to time on the front of Troy's trousers, where a large and definite bulge promised mysteries that Mark could only wonder about. He became aware of a stirring in his own groin and a feeling of strong but unfocused desire.
If Troy was a stallion, Hector was a colt. If Troy was a brick pillar, Hector was a fireplug. Perhaps five feet tall, perhaps a little taller, he resembled his brother in many ways. The fourteen year old likewise wore rough, simple clothing and shoes. The sleeves had been torn from the shirt, probably from long wear, so that Mark could see his arms clearly. His muscles seemed somehow longer, smoother, rolling from one into the other, when compared with white boys Mark had known. Small patches of tight black hair could be seen quickly in his armpits as he hoisted loads. His muscles, not as well developed as Troy's, were nevertheless tight and strong already. That butt! already high, tight, and round, it pushed back and up invitingly, straining against his rough trousers as he moved. His face was a bit softer, more rounded, his lips a bit fuller and more moist. He had Troy's jet black skullcap of hair, but worn a little longer. Of the two, Mark thought that Hector stole a glance in his direction a bit more often, a look of questioning, appraising, even.... did he just imagine it? admiring? Perhaps so. Hector, too, sported a bulge in the front of his frayed pants, and was it, Mark wondered, perhaps a little uneven? A little more swollen to one side and down?
Troy and Hector finished their work and stood in the boat, waiting instructions, stealing glances as they dared. Mark Appleby roused himself from what seemed like a daydream, grateful for his overcoat that covered the swelling of his own penis in his breeches. "Well, I think your servants are ready, sir, to show you to your new home. Shall I come see you, then, in a week's time, with the papers all ready?" said Horatio Smith. "Yes, unless you hear from me to the contrary," said Appleby--but did he catch a look of concern in Troy's eyes as they ended their conversation? Perhaps it was his imagination. Horatio handed him a thick packet bound in ribbon: "You will need to examine these financial records in connection with the estate; also, there is a letter for you from your Aunt." With best wishes for his new life, Horatio Smith bade Appleby farewell and with the carter behind him made his way back down the pier.
"Well," said Mark, turning back to the boat. "So. so nice to meet you both" he said, and caught quick looks from both man and boy that indicated they were perhaps not used to hearing such language--not from a white man at any rate. An awkward moment passed; Mark could not quite grasp that he was to be in charge, since he was the stranger here, at least in his own mind. The strangeness of his situation began to grow on him. "Are we ready to go?" he inquired.
"Yes, Master Mark, any time you are ready, we are," said Troy.
"Very well," said Mark. Starting down the few narrow steps to the deck of the boat, he clutched at the rope that served as a handrail. From the weariness of the journey, or his own confusion, or perhaps the gentle rocking of the boat in the harbor waves, he slipped and began to go down. Quick as a flash, both Troy and Hector leaped forward to keep him from falling, but it was Hector, nearly brushing his older brother aside, who got to Appleby first. Hector held out both hands, which Appleby grasped and held as he steadied himself and continued down the last step. The whole misstep took but an instance, but then Mark Appleby and Hector stood as if frozen in an instant of time, two white hands clasping two black ones. Both looked to each pair of hands, then into each others' eyes. Centuries of difference, enmity, domination and strangeness met and then vanished. The moment was electric and beyond thought, but when Appleby did form words in his head they were, "I am holding this dark brown hand, I am touching this strange, softly oiled skin.and it feels wonderful."
"Hector..push off" whispered Troy in a voice balanced between amusement and worry. Hector released Appleby's hands as if they were hot, but kept his gaze locked on Appleby's eyes for an instant longer. There Appleby thought he read some of his own thoughts: strangeness, difference, but also attraction and desire. Then quickly, Hector turned, jumped toward the bow of the boat, untied the ropes securing the boat to the pier, and began to push the craft away with a long oar.
"Please excuse Hector, Master Mark," said Troy, "he doesn't get off the island much. "He.." Troy hesitated, then went on in a lower voice. "He hasn't seen white folks much, and white men hardly at all. I guess you're a little different to him, if you don't mind my saying so."
Appleby laughed, relieved in a way that the spell had been broken. "Troy, don't take offense, but your people are sort of different to me, also. There are not many people of your color in Boston," he said. Troy laughed low and gently, nodding with understanding. He risked a more direct look into Appleby's eyes. As with Hector, a flash of understanding and connection seemed to pass between them, seasoned with a little surprise and skepticism on Troy's part, while Mark felt another instant of deep connection and- -was it desire? "Sit here, please Master," said Troy, breaking the spell, indicating a low, small bench by the steps down into the hold. Mark settled himself as Troy took up a position by the rudder in the stern of the boat, to Mark's right.
The boat wallowed slowly away from the pier as Troy aft and Hector forward scrambled with ropes and booms to raise two sails. A soft breeze caught the canvas and the boat glided into life. No stranger to small sailing boats, Mark watched with anticipation as his slaves expertly guided the craft through the small harbor and out to sea. He fell prey again to the enchantment of the sheer physicality of his servants: Troy's graceful power and strong, solid musculature.. Hector's active, nimble form, more rounded muscles giving witness to a greater strength to come with more years.
Yet despite the activity, Hector approached Mark often to attend to his comfort. "Have this pillow, Master Mark," he would say, or "Let me move this rope out of your way." And as Hector ministered to him, was it Mark's imagination or did his hand intentionally graze Mark's long, light brown hair in back as he adjusted the pillow.. did it stay there a second longer than it needed to.did Hector's forearm rest for an instant longer than necessary on Mark's knee as he reached across to move a coiled rope? Each time the boy approached, Mark took in as much of him as he could: the closeness of his deep chocolate skin, his warm, clean, toasty smell, the wiry, crisp cap of hair. For a few minutes of rest between his duties, Hector sat on the steps just below Mark, sitting very close to his leg but not touching, leaning forward slightly exposing a strong thick neck atop muscular shoulders that sloped downward. Caught up in the moment, before he could think about it Mark reached down and in pure affection rubbed the dark neck, his fingers just grazing the crisp, tight curls of hair above the neck. Startled, Hector froze, then swung his face around to look squarely at Mark, and a brilliant but shy smile broke out on his handsome features. Then the boat rolled slightly, and Hector jumped up to go forward and attend to the rigging.
"Look yonder, Master Mark," said Troy, pointing with one hand as he guided the tiller with the other. "Seaward." Mark looked and saw in the middle distance a smudge on the horizon, an island rising up out of the sea. It would be just barely in sight of the lights of Charleston when they finally reached it. Seaward Plantation.. his new home.