Whipped and branded!

The transformation of Ptolemy from free man to slave is completed.

Le Noveau Monde

Part 4

“The Warehouse”

 This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the legal age. If you are underage, please leave now.

 Written by Jean-Christophe in 2009 and re-edited in 2013.

“The characters and ideas in this story belong in the writer’s imagination. Please respect the integrity of the story and don’t do any rewrites, make alterations or add pictures.”

 Part 4: The Warehouse. 

The drive through town to the riverside warehouse is just a short one and yet it seems to last an eternity.  

I know it is just my imagination, but I am convinced everyone is looking at me and pointing out that I was once an heir to Belvoir Plantation. Of course, I know this isn’t the case and outside of my new Master, his two attorneys and Hiram Pettigrew no one knows that I am the former Thierry Broussard and that I am now the mulatto slave, Ptolemy.  However, one other knows - that is Brutus - but he is of no consequence. He is, after all, just a slave like me.

My new designation as a “mulatto” demeans me and speaks of my new non-human, slave status. The word derives from the Latin word “mulus” meaning mule which is the hybrid offspring of a horse and a donkey. In other words, I am neither fully black nor fully white. White people will despise me because of my mixed blood – I know this from my own prejudiced upbringing – and I wonder how Belvoir’s black slaves will receive me. Will I be accepted as one of them or will I be ostracised? 

I don’t doubt for one moment Brutus will delight in telling Belvoir’s slaves the true identity of the latest addition to their number and I wonder what their re-action will be on hearing that young “Massa Thierry” is now the slave Ptolemy.  I face an uncertain future. 

I had never mistreated my father’s slaves; in fact, I’d always enjoyed a good relationship with them and they’d treated me kindly and with the respect due to me as their Master’s younger son. Now of course, that will no longer apply. I will live among them and eat with them; I will toil alongside of them and I will suffer under the overseers’ whips as they do.

Suddenly, my world is a very frightening place and I am very afraid.

At this time of the afternoon, the streets are full of people hurrying about their business. Well-dressed gentlemen stroll casually along the sidewalks pausing to amiably greet a friend or to doff their hats to a New Orleans matron and her debutante daughter passing by in an open carriage driven by a satin liveried slave. Other slaves walk the required three paces behind their masters and mistresses loaded up with parcels from shopping excursions and still more slaves are busy labouring with a multitude of tasks.

The contrast between master and slave couldn’t be starker or more apparent. The free man is peacock resplendent in fine, colourful silks while the common work-slave wears well-worn Osnaburg uniforms similar to the one I now wear.

Our progress through the crowded street is slow and with nothing better to do, I have time to study the crowd. We pass a well-dressed, foppish dandy who is obviously a “gens de coleur libres” or a free coloured person attended by a handsome, young, black slave who is probably his valet and undoubtedly serves as his bed buck. I am envious of the dandy; like him I too am a “gens de coleur’ but unlike him I’m not free. I am a slave to Belvoir Plantation. 

Eventually we turn off the main thoroughfare and travel down a narrow street of warehouses which have been converted to slave holding pens. The stench of the pens is overpowering and I begin to dry retch as my stomach churns.  The stink permeates the air like some foul miasma floating over the area; it is the nauseous smell of human suffering - of unwashed bodies, of urine, excrement and vomit. And the quietness is broken by the pitiful, murmuring voices of so many newly arrived slaves from Africa lamenting their lost freedom and enforced separation from loved ones.

There is no pity in the white man’s heart for their sad plight. These new arrivals are simply commodities - units of labour - to be rested after a horrendous sea voyage and fattened up expeditiously before taking their place on the auction block. All too soon, they will find new homes on the rich, broad acre plantations of the southern aristocracy and forced to work in the cotton or sugarcane fields.

Acting under instructions from Hiram Pettigrew, Brutus halts our buckboard before a riverside warehouse owned by Messrs Clutterbuck and Rasmussen. There are other horse drawn drays and conveyances loading and unloading supplies and we take our place in a queue while our overseer disappears inside the warehouse. I watch as slaves busily shuttle back and forth into the darkened interior of the warehouse staggering under the heavy weight of bales, barrels and baskets.

Immediately in front of us a large dray and team is being unloaded by a gang of brawny slaves, who because of the heat, are working stripped to the waist. They are unloading heavy bales of cotton branded “Jolimont Plantation”- which is well-known to me as the former home of my sister-in-law - and storing them in the warehouse ready for shipment to the cotton mills of Britain. I know that the bales each weigh about four hundred pounds and it requires several slaves to lift them from the dray and carry them into the warehouse.

If I was free, I know I’d salivate at the sight of so much naked muscle. As the slaves stagger under the weight of the impossibly heavy bales, the stress placed on their bodies highlights the working of the different muscle groups of their powerful, sweat glistening torsos. Normally, I would appreciate the erotic display of so much raw, masculine energy and muscular black power – but not today! For I realize that I am now a slave and most likely I will be called upon to perform similar feats of strength. 

Hiram returns several minutes later accompanied by a middle-aged man, Asa Clutterbuck. He unfastens my ankle chain and orders me to.

“Climb down, boy! Time to put you to work. But first remove your shirt.”

I clamber out of the buckboard and in one easy movement, I remove my shirt and stand bare chested before Hiram and the other man. Without thinking – I have yet to acquire the mindset of the slave – I look directly at the two free men. My unintentional impertinence angers the overseer who slaps my face and rebukes me.

“Who are you looking at boy? A slave never stares a white man in the face. Lower your eyes!”

Hastily, I drop my eyes to the ground as the man with Hiram comments.

“The boy’s a bit uppity isn’t he, Hiram? You’ll need to take him down a peg or two from the look of things. Still, he’s a fine-looking, young buck – a high yeller - and he shows the promise of better things.”

The use of the words “high yeller” is an offensive reference to my golden skin tone which now defines me as a coloured man and a slave. It doesn’t matter that I am whiter or that my skin colour is paler than a lot of free, white men.  A “high yeller” slave is a most expensive commodity. And they are highly sort after for the drawing-rooms and salons of New Orleans high society.  Should my Master ever decide to sell me, I would fetch him a handsome sum.

“Hiram, you mentioned he’s the bastard son of old man Broussard and an octoroon wench, is that correct?”

“Yes, he is! It was a well-kept secret from all accounts. Why even the boy himself had no idea that he was slave born. But Monsieur Yves always knew and kept his counsel from what I can gather. I hear he and his father were at loggerheads over the true status of his younger son and he’d secretly vowed that one day the brat would be returned to his natural slavery. And today is that day!”

“I always thought the younger son was away at school In the North?”

“That’s right! His father sent him North to be educated. I suspect the old man’s long-term intentions were for him to stay there permanently.”

“As it turns out, it would have been wiser for him to stay with the Northern abolitionists rather than come south.”

“Indeed, it would! Indeed, it would! Unluckily, his father died and Monsieur Yves sent for him to return home. Of course, he wasn’t aware of the true nature of his birth and probably thought he was to share in Belvoir Plantation. However, Monsieur Yves had other plans for him. Not suspecting anything was amiss, he came home and now finds himself one of Belvoir’s slaves.”

“Do you know what plans Yves Broussard has for the buck?”

“Yes, he’s to work as a field hand initially to toughen him up and to get him thinking like the slave that he is. Later, I think Master Yves plans to use him as a house slave. But first up, he’s to receive a whipping as soon as he arrives at Belvoir.”

“What’s his crime? What offence did he commit to earn punishment so quickly?”

The slave couldn’t keep his mouth shut and kept interjecting while his Master was discussing his affairs with his attorneys. For that he’s to receive ten strokes of the whip.”

“Serve him right too! Monsieur Broussard is right to commence as he intends to continue with him. He’ll need to rule his new slave with a firm hand if I’m any judge. You need to just look at him to see he doesn’t have a slave’s true demeanour. I ain't got any time for a 'mouthy, uppity" slave. I hope his ass hurts after his beating.

“It will, Asa, I assure you.” Hiram Pettigrew laughs. “Brutus here will deliver the whipping and it’s a job he’s very good at.”

I stand mute witness to the two men’s’ conversation about my future. Suddenly, I feel the utter desolation of my situation. Within the space of a few hours my life has been turned upside down. No longer a scion of one of the state’s oldest families, I am now a common slave. As Hiram Pettigrew and Asa Clutterbuck talk, I begin to understand the complete hopelessness and the total helplessness of the true slave. We play no part in our futures; all is determined for us by our owners. And as if to emphasise this Hiram orders me to.

“Move your ass, boy! Take your lead from Brutus and start loading up.”

I’m taken unawares by his next action. Viciously, he lays his whip across my naked shoulders causing me to cry out in pain. The crack of the whip and my startled scream disturb the other slaves working nearby. They look up with fearful expressions and I see reflected in their eyes their pity for a brother slave.

Then Hiram adds further to his command.

“And be quick about it! We don’t have all day to waste. I want to make a start back to the plantation as soon as possible.”

I can’t see my back of course. However, if I could, I would be shocked by the angry red welt raised by the overseer’s whip running diagonally across my shoulders. I can’t see it but I certainly feel the pain it has inflicted on me.

Not wanting to feel the lash for a second time, I hastily follow Brutus into the shadowy interior of the warehouse to where a stash of lumber, barrels, crates and sundry other items are stacked together in a tidy pile. All are stamped with the black lettering “On Consignment to Belvoir Plantation, Louisiana” and I wonder how Brutus knows they are for us.

He is after all a slave and can neither read nor write. What I don’t know is that he is able to recognize the words “Belvoir Plantation” without actually knowing their meaning. Over time I will discover that this is true of most slaves. Denied the right to any education, a slave’s master sees him merely as an ignorant beast of burden and credits him with no intelligence. Yet, most slaves have this ability to associate words to things - as in this instance - but they keep this fact carefully hidden from their owners for fear of punishment.

I am of course a rarity. I am an educated slave who is skilled in reading, writing, science and the various fields of mathematics. Additionally, I speak a number of languages fluently including Latin and Classical Greek. These are the result of my “Yankee” education and will count as nothing in the Southern cotton and sugarcane fields where I am now condemned to labour.

Brutus lowers his voice so that Hiram and Asa can’t hear what he is saying. This reluctance to speak in the presence of free men is common to all slaves and one that I had just accepted as I was growing up. Actually, I’d never thought about it; it was the correct order and an indication that a slave knew his place in the wider scheme of things. A slave remains taciturn and never initiates a conversation with his master; he waits until that master asks him a question or gives him permission to speak. Of course, slaves do talk among themselves and when they are alone in their quarters after their day’s labours, they are quite noisily vocal. But during the working day they remain silent for fear of the overseers’ whips.

Not unkindly, Brutus tells me we will load the heaviest and bulkiest items onto the wagon first. He advised me on how I should to lift to avoid injuring myself; he tells me not to bend at the waist but at my knees and to keep my back straight as I do so.  He whispers.

 “Boss be angry if you hurt yo’self, boy and he’ll whop both our asses!”

Brutus chooses the biggest crate first. He positions himself at one end and tells me to take hold of the other. Taking my lead from Brutus, I bend my knees and remember to keep my back straight. Brutus instructs me to us my legs as levers as we lift the crate. On his word, “lift”, I use my legs to try to straighten up and lift the crate from the warehouse floor.

The crate is heavy and I wonder what it contains that makes it so weighty. As I lift, its weight places enormous stress on my body. I feel the stretching in my back and the tightening across my chest while my biceps become rounded balls of hard muscle. But it is my legs that bear the brunt of my lifting and they fail me. Unused to any physical labour, I’m not equal to the task.

Effortlessly, Brutus lift his end while I still struggle to stand upright. Obviously as a slave, Brutus is more practised at lifting heavy weights than I am and his movements are both quick and fluid. In fact, as I watch, I am struck by his almost graceful movements which bring into play the powerful muscles of his bared torso.

Brutus stands upright and is very much in control of his end of the crate while I struggle to raise my end just a few inches from the floor. I try and use my legs as levers to raise my end but its weight is just too much for me and the incline of the crate throws much of the burden back on my end.

And as I struggle vainly, I see Hiram Pettigrew approaching with his whip uncoiled and at the ready.

“What’s taking you so long?” Hiram asks angrily. “I told you I’m in a hurry to return to Belvoir. Why are you two wasting time?”

Quickly, he assesses the situation - that I am to blame for the delay - and brings his whip into play to spur us along. Firstly, Brutus grunts as the lash falls across his back.  The overseer then turns his attention to me. 

I see Hiram’s arm raised above his head and I hear the fearful whine of his whip as it travels through the resisting air. I hear the loud “thwack” of leather striking naked flesh before an indescribable pain explodes through my body. And I hear my loud scream which reverberates around the lofty interior of the warehouse. My scream sounds like that of a wounded animal and it unsettles the other slaves working nearby who avert their eyes and quicken their efforts to avoid angering their own overseers.

“Lift, damn you, boy!” Hiram angrily exhorts me to greater effort. “Put you back into it and hurry it up!”

And to emphasize his command, He stands behind me and continues to lash my back.

And as the whip urges me along, I draw on a hidden reserve of strength I never knew I had. In coming days, I will find that, while I think I have reached the very limits of my physical endurance, an overseer’s whip can always help me find that little extra strength I need to meet the insatiable demands placed upon me. Hiram’s whip proves a great motivator!

Three more times the whip falls on my unprotected back before I respond. Then, as if by some miracle, after the third stroke, I am standing upright and helping Brutus to carry the crate out to the waiting wagon. Even so, I find this challenging; my knees buckle and I stagger under the heavy, unaccustomed burden. Brutus sets the pace that I must follow and when we reach the wagon, he places his end of the crate on the tailgate and clambers on board to position it. While he pulls effortlessly, I have to push my end with all my strength under the vigilance of both Hiram Pettigrew and Asa Clutterbuck.

That first crate is the heaviest and working on the basis of progressively loading the heaviest items first, all the boxes, barrels and other sundry items become easier for me to lift and carry. Nevertheless, it is still hard work and in the high humidity of the early afternoon, both Brutus and I are sweating copiously. The sweat beads on my forehead and stings my eyes. Unable to stop to wipe the sweat from my brow, it drips from the end of my nose and its salty taste stings my lips aggravating my thirst. I long for the cooling balm of cold water but we aren’t allowed to pause in our labours for such self-indulgence. I find myself hoping that we’ll be rewarded with water once the wagon is fully loaded.

Sweat coats Brutus’s magnificent body in an oily sheen that highlights his superb musculature. He reminds me of one of the pseudo-Greek or Roman sculptures of naked gods or athletes with which the Northern aristocracy love to adorn their salons.

Then, I feel my own sweat trickling down over my naked torso soaking and darkening the worn fabric of my osnaburg trousers. I wonder if my sweat-soaked body arouses similar feelings to my own in those around me. I don’t have the bulk of Brutus’s body. After all, his well-honed physique has been cast in the forge of unremitting hard labour over many years and tempered by the mind-numbing repetitive nature of that work.

It takes us about thirty minutes to load up the wagon. I know this by the chiming of a clock in a distant church steeple marking the quarter hours. We load the lumber lastly and I assist Brutus in securing the load with stout ropes under the supervision of Hiram Pettigrew. I recall some of the roads leading out to Belvoir are rudimentary and deeply rutted. Obviously, Hiram is taking all necessary measures to ensure we don’t lose any of our load. Once Hiram is satisfied that all is secure, he directs Brutus and me to a nearby water-trough used by horses to quickly quench our thirst and, as he grumpily tells us, to “wash off the stink of your sweat”.

Never has water tasted so fresh or so sweet; it is like soothing balm to my parched mouth and throat. My thirst quenched, I scoop up water in the cup of my hands and splash it on body. Then I palm the excess water and sweat from my chest and belly. For a few brief moments, I savour the relief the cold water brings me from the day’s oppressive heat. But my enjoyment is short-lived and is cut short by Hiram’s angry shout.

“Ptolemy! Stop wasting time and bring you lazy ass back to the wagon and be quick about it or you’ll taste my leather.”

His threat to use the whip on me works. Having already “tasted his leather” I am now very afraid of Belvoir’s chief overseer and I hastily run back to where he waits by the wagon. I watch to see what Brutus does next so that I can follow his lead.

Brutus quickly dons his shirt and I retrieve my own ready to put it on for the journey out to Belvoir. But Hiram Pettigrew has other ideas and tells me to

“Leave your shirt off, boy! We need to start acclimatizing your body to the elements and to darken that pale hide of yours. Climb on board the wagon” then turning to Brutus, “and Brutus shackle his ankles. We don’t want him running off!”

I clamber on board and scramble to sit atop one of the crates and wait as Brutus refastens the shackles around my ankles. Then, after Hiram checks that I am secured, he orders Brutus into the driver’s seat and takes his place beside him as a passenger. Hiram wastes no time in ordering Brutus to

“Drive on!”

Brutus slaps the reins against the horse’s rump and slowly we move away from the warehouses and through busy streets that lead us out into the countryside.

Finally, I am returning home to Belvoir but not as I’d expected when I disembarked from the river-boat just a few short hours ago.

Rather than returning home as a son and heir in the comfort of a carriage and four, I am travelling out to the plantation as a shackled, semi-naked slave.

I’m overwhelmed by my ‘changed circumstances’ and fearful of what awaits me at Belvoir.

Conclusion

 Postscript:

The picture used to illustrate this chapter is another example of the magnificent artwork of garyRo whose works, as you know , I greatly admire.

Looking at the picture and using my imagination,  I see the new slave Ptolemy has been returned to Belvoir Plantation to begin his new life there as a slave. True to his word, "Massa" Yves has had Ptolemy strung up by the wrists and flogged with ten cuts of the lash following which he was then taken to the blacksmith's forge and branded on the right pectoral with the Broussard family crest marking him for all time as a Belvoir Plantation slave.

We see Ptolemy wearing a soiled and stained loincloth common to all of Belvoir's male slaves and  he has been left chained up overnight to recover before being assigned to a work gang of field-slaves next morning.

This was one of my early stories and I abandoned it to write "Changed Circumstances" which follows a similar theme. Nevertheless, "Le Noveau Monde" ranks as one of my favourite stories and revisiting and posting it to the blog has given me so much enjoyment.  It has re-awakened my interest in this story and I now wonder about Ptolemy's  life as a slave at Belvoir Plantation to such an extent that I am tempted to write a follow-up series called "Ptolemy" in the near future.

Chris