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A Plantation Tale. By The Professor 02/98 This story will be a period piece, taking place during the American Civil War period. I realize not everyone on the list is American, so trust me, the historical data is essentially correct. Now, this story is sort of "nasty" but I'm not sure, Thomas, that it meets all of your criteria for your contest. Still, I would appreciate your considering it. Also, I note that it is Black History Month in the United States. Did I write this in honor of that? No, it's just a happy coincidence. I also want to add that I've tired to make the characters residents of the 19th century, so I've tried to make them talk, act, and think like the people of that time in the American South. This may make it a little hard to read if English is not your primary language. My appologies, but for the sake of realism, it has to be that way. Also, since many of the main characters are slave owners, don't expect them to be "politically correct." We live in an era where the dead could be considered "terminally challenged" so as not to offend them. The language in this story is more likely to offend some people than any other element in the story. The broad use of the word "nigger" is not meant as a racial slur. Rather, it is the way people talked in 1860, particularly in the South. Remember, most of the anti-slavery Americans of the period wanted to send blacks back to Africa to avoid the intermingling of the races, while many Southerners argued that they were doing the blacks a big favor by keeping them in slavery. Few if any people of that time would have anticipated the social mixing of the races we see today. Feel free to repost this story. It contains adult themes, so don't read if you are offended by such material. Keeping all of this is mind, I hope you enjoy the story. It had been a wet, humid spring in the Mississippi Delta. By May, many mornings were fog bound, the sun not appearing until late morning, and when it did appear, it turned the whole Mississippi Valley from Baton Rouge to New Orleans into a twenty mile wide steam bath. It was on such a morning that the Cotton King, carrying me and a hundred and fifteen other passengers, tied up at the pier. Jackson square and the spires of Saint Louis Cathedral would normally have been in sight, but today, they were shrouded in the thick warm fog. I tugged at my collar in a most ungentlemanly fashion to release what little hear I could from beneath my cravat. The wet river air cooled my neck a little. "A hot one today, eh, Charles?" came a voice from behind me. I turned to see Brady Pierce. Brady had boarded the riverboat at Lanaux Landing with me. He had been visiting relatives at Meadow Ridge, the plantation just down the road from my own family's estate, Willow Glen. Brady and I had matriculated at Tremont College in Memphis. The son of a wealthy cotton merchant in New Orleans, Brady had always been an entertaining person to be with. He spent money with reckless abandon and always knew the best bordellos in Memphis. With his cavalier manner and handsome patrician face, he was on every eligible bachelor list compiled by the mothers of Louisiana's finest daughters. "Most certainly, it is hot," I agreed cordially. Brady and I had roomed together at college, along with Ambrose Lacroix and Robert Jefferson. Brady and Ambrose were actually closer friends than Brady and I were. They were of a similar temperament and similar beliefs. Both believed Louisiana's future lay as the crown jewel in a new, independent Southern nation which, they believed, would stretch from the banks of the Potomac to the northern coast of South America. Brady was even a member of the Louisiana State Militia, often as not wearing his blue-gray service uniform, complete with red sash. In fact, as I turned to look at him, he was wearing his uniform that very day. "Oh, well," he said amicably, "the heat is rather good for the crops. Father says heat makes for a stronger fiber." There were two schools of thought on that. My own father, who grew cotton for a living, believed too much heat would be damaging to the crop. Also, it slowed down the field hands and caused them to be sloppy. Unlike some of the plantation owners I knew, father believed the slaves who labored in our fields should be treated well. To that end, he made certain that they were well fed, properly clothed, and had a solid roof over their heads. This was not just Christian charity, although that did play a part. Rather, it was good business sense. Happy slaves were productive slaves. Father even went so far as to keep the Negro families together, turning down the opportunity to sell fertile women or strong field hands if it meant a family was to be rent apart. Bringing my mind back to Brady's utterances, I nearly refuted his statement, but then thought better of it. Brady and I had had many strong words on the subject of slavery. As our views on the preservation of the union were markedly different, so were our views on slavery. Although our views were not so divergent as those of our other roommate. Robert Jefferson had been a life-long friend of mine. We had grown up together as our families had operated adjoining plantations since the time that General Jackson had defended New Orleans. As boys, we had shared a tutor. We were practically brothers. When the time had come to further our education, we chose Tremont together. Brady and Ambrose had the makings of good friends. Although from dissimilar backgrounds (Brady's family were merchant and thus looked down upon by many of the planters) and were both fierce defenders of what they called "the Southern way of life." They believed in the power of the states over the federal government, which to them was a government "of the Yankees, for the Yankees, and by the Yankees." They believed the genteel life of the southern plantations to be intellectually and morally superior to the ways of the north. And as to slavery, it was the "foundation upon which the society of the South rested." "Think of it this way, Charles," Ambrose would argue (for of the two, he was the most persuasive). "Left to their own devices, the niggers would still be eating each other back in Africa. We have given them the gift of civilization and a belief in God. All we ask in return is that they labor for us to preserve our superior way of life." "Hogwash!" Robert would interrupt. Although neither of us favored slavery, my objections were passive while Robert's were passionate. "The Negro are no different than you or I, save the difference in education. While we in the South keep them ignorant, in the North, they are educating the black man with promising results." "Promising results, sir!" Brady would echo. "Are you aware that those are treasonous ideas? Why, in several slave states, it is against the law to teach the niggers to read and write. And a fine law it would be back home in our state as well." "Gentlemen," I would say jovially, trying to calm all of my roommates down, "surely there are things we can agree upon." "Such as?" they would say in unison. I would grin and say, "Such as the young ladies at Mrs. Patterson's establishment being the most affectionate girls in the city of Memphis. Shall we test my hypothesis?" And with friendly chuckling, we would all make our way off to a passionate evening with Mrs. Patterson's young ladies. I smiled at the thought of those days, not so very long ago. "You appear amused," Brady observed next to me. "I was just thinking back on our days in Memphis," I told him. "And about the delights of Mrs. Patterson's establishment." A small grin broke out under Brady's moustache. "Yes, indeed, Charles. Those were memorable days. It was a simpler time than now." I watched with concern as his small smile faded into a frown. "Do you really think so?" He nodded with military correctness. "Indeed, I do, sir. Have you not been following the news of the conventions?" He spoke, of course, of the political conventions. The Democrats had held their convention in Charleston in April, nominating to all Southerner's consternation the diminutive Senator from Illinois, Stephen Douglas. There was talk of Breckenridge and even Bell mounting a campaign for the presidency as well. If they did, the new Republicans, even now meeting in the lusty Northern city of Chicago, might actually be able to elect their man. All bets were on a relative unknown - someone named Lincoln. "I follow them, of course," I replied. "Then," a deep voice boomed from behind me, "you know we Southerners must all unite behind Breckenridge." I would have known that voice anywhere. "Ambrose!" I cried, turning to greet yet another old friend. "I didn't realize you were on the Cotton King." He shook his head. "I wasn't. I boarded a few moments ago. I had business to attend to. Father sent me here last week on the Missouri Mail to purchase a new servant. My sister requires a new maid." "Your sister, is she with you?" I asked, trying to sound casual. Actually, I had just spoken with Ambrose's father a few days before leaving for New Orleans and had asked for permission to court his sister, Samantha. Their father had been most gratified that I wished to press suit upon her. Although Ambrose and I were not close, it seemed highly possible that he would soon be my brother-in-law. "No, I'm afraid not," he said. "She has given me leave to select a proper slave to be her maid." "Ambrose is quite good at selecting female slaves," Brady said mischievously. I smiled a thin smile. Ambrose was well known as a man who enjoyed forcing himself upon attractive female slaves. His actions were not uncommon, but I had never understood why it was not rape. I knew slaves had no rights in the sense that we as free men had rights, but it did not seem right for the races to mix at all, and particularly not right for them to mix forcefully. "I do seem to have a talent for it," Ambrose said with a friendly chuckle. It sent a chill down my spine. Brady said suddenly," Charles, we see too little of you these days. I would be honored if you would have dinner with me this evening." "Well..." I began. I didn't want to be drawn into a long discussion over brandy and cigars with both Brady and Ambrose, particularly without the help of Robert. Poor Robert. "I would like to dine with you as well," Ambrose said, as if reading my mind. "But sadly, I have other affairs to take care of. It was wonderful seeing you again, Charles. Remember what I said about Breckenridge." "I shall," I said cordially. I had no intention of supporting Breckenridge. I was a Bell man. To Brady, I replied, "I would be please to dine with you tonight, but first, I must go visit Robert." "Oh, yes, poor Robert," Brady said with sympathy. "How is he these days?" "Not well, I'm afraid," I replied. Robert had left Tremont the most likely of all of us to succeed. He was handsome, witty, and feared nothing. Also, he was engaged to Louise Mulroney, arguably to most beautiful girl in Louisiana. Her fair skin and light brown tresses made her the most desired woman in the state. We all envied Robert. They were to be married this very August, but fate had intervened. They had been riding in a surrey on her father's property shortly after the new year when a small fox leaped from behind a bush, spooking the horse. Although Robert was excellent with horses, he was, by his own admission, so smitten with Louise that he had become too casual in his control of the rig. Before he could react, the horse had bolted, tugging the reins from his hands. He leaped off the surrey to try to grab the reins, but before he could, the rig turned over with tragic results. Robert's right arm was run over by the wheel of the surrey. Although surgeons fought to save it, it began to putrefy after a few days and had to be removed. Louise was even less fortunate. She was thrown clear of the rig, striking her head on an exposed rock. She died instantly. The combination of his injuries and the loss of Louise devastated Robert. Although he had made progress physically, he had seemed to lose the will to live. He had shut himself up in a small, modest apartment in New Orleans far from his family and had proceeded to drink himself to death. A sadder waste of a fine soul had never occurred. "Be sure and give him my best," Brady said, although I knew he was just being polite. Brady had never liked Robert, nor for that matter had Ambrose. "The shall we say Pierre's Supper Club at eight?" "I'll be there," I agreed. I said my good-byes to each of them and returned to my cabin to collect my bag. When I reached my cabin, I saw there was something amiss. I had left my bag on the floor, but it was now on the bed. I opened it with trepidation. In the valise, there were important papers which my father had entrusted to me. There was a deed to nearly a quarter of the Jefferson plantation which my father was buying. I had been taking it to be placed with our bankers in the city. If it was missing... But it was not. All of the papers were in their proper folder. Nothing appeared amiss until I noticed one thing was gone. I always carried a small two-shot derringer in my bag. I normally eschewed the use of weapons, but New Orleans could be a dangerous place. My father had given me the weapon when I attended college. It even had my name inscribed on the grip. I was alarmed at its loss. It was not a terribly expensive weapon, but it held great sentimental value for me. I searched about the stateroom, hoping that I had just misplaced the weapon, but I found nothing. As unhappy as I was at the loss of the derringer, at least the thief had not thought to take the deed with him. It would have been far more trouble to authenticate the sale of the land than to replace the derringer. I would have to replace it as soon as I could, but for now, there was no time. I had to get to the bank and then see Robert. The errand to the bank took over an hour. Safely filing the deed took only a few moments, but a Mr. Samson, a good friend of my father's wanted to chat. He asked me how my father was (well, I told him) and what I thought of the latest political developments. Mr. Samson had no more liking for the nomination of Senator Douglas than Ambrose had. Like Ambrose, he was determined to support Breckenridge. I had decided to hold my tongue since John Bell did not seem to be a popular presidential choice in New Orleans. It was nearly three by the time I reached Robert's rooming house. It was an old structure, dating back I would have guessed to the days when France had ruled the region. The humid weather in New Orleans had taken its toll on the structure. While the brick work was sound, I noted the wood trim was rotting badly, and I suspected the same could be said for the frame of the structure. It was hardly a fitting residence for the eldest son of one of the most prominent planters in the state. The landlady reluctantly showed me to Robert's room and waited as I rapped on the door. "Who is it?" came a tired voice from behind the door. "It's me, Robert," I said. "Charles Wilton." There was a rattling of the lock and the door opened. I had last seen Robert when he was still in the care of doctors, his arm removed only a week before. I thought he looked bad then, but now, he looked even worse. His once handsome face was etched with lines of sadness, and his eyes had an empty hollow look to them. He was slim by nature, but now, he looked as if he had consumption. He gave a furtive nod to the landlady who silently disappeared. "You shouldn't have come, Charles," he said, reluctantly ushering me in. "Robert," I said, staring with concern into those haunted brown eyes, "I am most concerned about you." Robert plopped ungracefully into a ragged chair. I noticed with shock that the room was dark, musty, and depressing. "I appreciate your concern, Charles," he replied, "but there's nothing you can do." I carefully dusted off another chair before sitting. "I can take you home," I countered. "I'll only be here a few more days. You should be home, away from these surroundings." He shook his head. "I cannot, Charles. To go home would only remind me of Louise." I leaned forward, putting my hand on his remaining one. "Robert, it wasn't your fault. It was an act of God." "No, my friend, it was not. It was an act of carelessness. She... she told me we were going too fast, but I didn't listen. Then, it all happen so quickly. I actually got up after the accident, did you know that, Charles? I couldn't move my right arm, and there was pain, but I did manage to get up. I saw her there, Charles. She looked to be asleep until I saw the blood pouring from her head." He shuddered. "No, it was not an act of any God. It was the act of a careless man." "Robert," I said quietly to distract him, "what of your health?" He smiled a wistful smile which denoted no pleasant feelings. "The doctors say I will recover, given time. I must trust their judgement." Rising suddenly, he said, "But forgive me my manners, my friend. I haven't been up long and was still preparing for my first drink of the day. Would you care to join me?" "No, thank you," I replied sadly, watching as he shrugged and poured with his remaining hand a tumbler of bourbon, filling the glass nearly half full. We spoke for a few moments more until I could politely take my leave. It saddened me as I left to realize that the lovely Louise had not been the only person to die in the accident. I arrived at Pierre's at the appointed time and was ushered to a table where Brady awaited me. A Negro waiter poured a glass of sherry for me, and Brady and I settled into an evening of light conversation. I told him of my visit with Robert. Brady shook his head sadly. "You know," he said, "that entire family will come to ruin before it is over." "What do you mean?" He shrugged, pouring us each another glass of the excellent sherry. "Come now, Charles. I know Robert's father has just deeded a large acreage over to your father. Rumor is that his father is reinvesting the money in a large farm in Missouri where he plans to raise tobacco and horses without slaves. Of course, when we secede, I expect Missouri to join us in our new nation." I wasn't so sure of that. Missouri had a very low number of slave owners, but I let the speculation pass. "When do you think secession will happen?" Brady looked at me seriously. "If this Lincoln is elected, it will happen by the end of the year. Mark my words, Charles, we will be a new nation by this time next year." "But what if Douglas is elected?" Brady snorted, "The little sot hasn't a chance. If Breckenridge wins, perhaps there is hope." "Or Bell," I offered as our food arrived. Brady shook his head. "Bell is a compromiser. The time for compromise is over." We ate together, discussing one issue after another. But as the meal wore on, I found Brady becoming more distant, as if there was something else which demanded his attention. Then, over cigars and brandy, he suddenly said, "Charles, I would like for you to be my guest tonight at Mama Tumo's." "Mama Tumo's?" "Yes, Charles. Remember Mrs. Patterson's?" I smiled. "Who could forget Mrs. Patterson's?" "Well, Mama Tumo's is superior to Mrs. Patterson's. I guarantee it. The girls are all lovely and cultured, and the wines are from some of the finest vineyards of Europe. I must warn you, though, the Major Domo is a man lover. From what I hear, he is the brother of Mama Tumo. Who's to say though. All the niggers are probably related to each other since we've been breeding them so long." "I really can't, my friend," I protested. "I have only recently received permission to call on Samantha Lacroix, so I'm afraid my days of whoring are over. Besides, I have another meeting with the bank tomorrow.' "Well, at least have one more drink with me and walk me there." He poured another brandy for me. "Of course," I replied. I thought one more couldn't hurt. I couldn't have been more wrong. The next few hours are not clear to me, even as I relate them now. I had drunk a considerable amount of sherry and brandy, but not so much as to make me lose all recollection of time. Yet from the time I left Pierre's with Brady until the terrible transformation which was to follow, I remember little. I can recall Brady and I staggering along a dark street on the edge of the French Quarter, and I remember the tall black fellow with the odd lisping accent who took our hats in the parlor at Mama Tumo's. "He's the one I told you about," Brady whispered to me as I recall. Then there was nothing until ... I remember two gun shots quite nearby and sudden screams, and then... "He's coming around," a soft feminine voice said. I opened my eyes, finding it hard to focus. As my normal vision returned, I saw I was looking up into the face of a beautiful young blonde dressed in a silky red garment which covered very little. I must have smiled, for she smiled at me reflexively. "Don't get none too friendly with him, Martha," a deep voice which I recognized as belonging to a black woman said. The blonde, Martha, was suddenly pushed aside, and I found myself staring into two brown eyes filled with pure hatred. "He ain't no customer no more. He gonna wish he'd never been born." "What?" I started to speak, but only that word came out of my mouth, and not very clearly at that. I could see also that I was covered in blood, although I seemed to realize that the dark, sticky substance was not my own. A large, heavy-set black woman came into my view. She was fifty or perhaps a little more. It was difficult for me to tell, but the gray streaks in her hair indicated that age. She was well dressed in a maroon gown, but her jewelry spoke of her African heritage. Her visage was stern colored with anger. I had no doubt that I was staring up into the face of Mama Tumo. "This is yours," she said, holding a shiny object in her hand. It was not a question. With all my effort, I focused on the item in her hand. To my surprise, I saw it was my missing derringer, and I recalled with horror the earlier sound of two gunshots. "Not me..." I mumbled, trying to make her understand that I had not fired the weapon. I suspected as my mind cleared that someone had died from the use of my gun that night. My suspicions were soon confirmed. "But it is your gun! This 'W.C.' on the grip - that's you," she spat, not fully understanding my answer. "You done killed my Elmore." Elmore? Who was Elmore. "No..." I managed weakly. She snorted. "No, eh? Your friend, he say you don't like my brother Elmore 'cause he liked to make love to men." Why would Brady say that? No, I did not particularly like men of a queer persuasion, but I would certainly have no cause to murder one. And why would Brady mention it? In conversations we had conducted in college, I knew Brady liked such men even less than I did. I almost was able to put the pieces together when Mama Tumo said, "Well, come on now; it's time for you to pay for your crimes." I didn't know what she meant. Even if I had killed her brother, and I was sure that I had not, the political climate of New Orleans dictated that I would not pay dearly for the crime. Killing a Negro was frowned upon, but not unheard of. Almost any affront could be construed into justifiable cause for such an action. It was not right, I knew, as did many of my friends, but the truth was that I was the son of a wealthy planter and the victim was a queer Negro Major Domo in a house of prostitution. All I would have to say is that he had attempted to rob me, or worse yet, sexually accosted me, and no court in any parish in the state would convict me. She pulled me to my feet as easily as if she had been a strong male field hand on my father's plantation. I was surprised that I was able to stand so easily when I suddenly noticed that except for Mama Tumo and I, there seemed to be no one in the room. In fact, as I looked around, there was not even a room! We were surrounded by darkness, and yet I could see Mama Tumo and myself as clearly as if we were standing in daylight. I was too confused to be frightened and looked at her with questioning eyes. "You white folks and your Christian god," she sneered. "He's all right, your god, but he don't come down to the people like our gods of Africa." I was afraid she could be right. I began to feel the presence of some...thing else in the darkness with us, but this something had no form to be seen by any human. I don't think I would have wished to see its form, even if given the opportunity to do so. "In the islands, they got the VooDoo," she explained with a chuckle. "They's close down there, but they ain't got it right. The old gods laugh at them, but not at Mama Tumo. She knows how to please the gods." I felt something float past me. It had no odor and yet I was repulsed, as if something foul had come within inches of me. "It's time you got justice," Mama Tumo said, practically whispering it in my ear. "The old gods, they real good at justice." I felt the air somehow congeal and wrap around my body. As I watched, my clothes began to rot and fall away until within moments, I stood naked before Mama Tumo. Stood? It was more like floating. I couldn't feel anything against the bottoms of my feet except the same congealed air that surrounded the rest of my body. "You don't like black folks, do you Mr. Wilton?" I considered her question. I had really never thought much about it before. I didn't care much for slavery. I never had. But what did I really think of the Negroes? If slavery were to suddenly end, would I want them to remain in Louisiana, or would I prefer to see them all sent back to their ancestral homelands in Africa as many abolitionists had had suggested. I really didn't know, but I did know that I didn't dislike the Negroes. They were people to me, albeit primitive when left to their own devices. I tried to tell her so, but nothing came out of my mouth. "No, you don't like black folks," she said menacingly, answering her own question. "Well, we gonna see about that." She waived her arm, and the air around me became suddenly warm, as if I were on the inside of an oven. I could move about slowly, as if I were under water, but the pressure of the air kept moving me back into a limited circle of movement. Still, I was able to look down at my body and watch with alarm as my skin began to change in color. At first, it appeared reddish brown, like the skin of a worker or farmer who has spent too much time in the sun. But soon, I saw that it was not to stop there. My skin became darker and darker until it was nearly as black as Mama Tumo's. "There," she said with satisfaction. "Now you got a reason not to like yourself. I wish we could have a mirror here, but they ain't allowed. I'd like you to see yourself. You'd be a big strapping farmhand if I let you go like this. Might do you good. All the black girls'd like you, too. You got a handsome face and black curly hair. Yes, I got a mind to leave you like this, but you got more to answer for." I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I was helpless. I couldn't move very much and I couldn't speak. If she had made good her threat and let me go now, I would be one more Negro to work the plantations. Oh, I could tell them I was a free man. There were still a few free Negroes in Louisiana at that time, but how could I prove it? I had no papers, so the first owner who came looking for a runaway would point the finger at me and proclaim, "That's him, that's Edgar (or Paul or Jack or Thomas or whatever the name of his runaway might be). Who would know otherwise? Still, as bad as that fate might be, I knew Mama Tumo had something even worse in store for me, but what could be worse than this? I was soon to find out. "Well," she began, "what can we do wit' you now? I know. You didn't like my brother 'cause he was a man lover. I could make you into my brother. I can do that. Shall I do that to you? Shall I leave you like this and let you go be a man lover?" I began to shake visibly. The Bible said I would be dammed to Hellfire for all eternity if I did that, or at least I thought it did. "Don't worry, I ain't gonna do that to you. My brother, he a good man, and you don't deserve that," she grinned evilly. What little relief that gave me faded quickly when she continued, "I got somethin' better'n that for you." With another wave of her hand, I felt the air around me thicken even more. It was as if I were being squeezed over every part of my body. My head was pushed only a little, and I began to feel something pulling on my scalp, but the pressure was worst at my waist. I began to feel as if there were large, strong hands pushing at my waist, almost as if they were trying to completely surround me. I managed to look down in horror as I saw my body reshaping itself, almost like clay on a potter's wheel. My arms were becoming smaller and weaker, and my hands becoming more delicate and dainty. On my chest, two large mounds were beginning to form, as if squeezed up from my now narrowed waist. My nipples were becoming large and pronounced, and my hips were flaring out into a new shape, accompanied by the feeling of all the bones and internal organs in my lower body shifting and changing. I had gotten as far as glancing at my slender legs and smaller feet when another push occurred, this time between my legs. I tried without success to scream as my male organs began to twist and change, crawling up inside my newly formed body. I tried to fall to my knees, but the air held me in position. I could feel my hair growing rapidly from my scalp and rearranging itself into a weighty mass. I almost thought I could hear deep baritone laughter on the air. Suddenly it all stopped, and the only sound I could hear was my own sudden gasp for air in a voice far lighter and feminine than I was used to hearing. Then I heard the chuckle from Mama Tumo. "Oh, you're a sweet one, you are," she said with venom. "Let me tell you all about you. Your name was Ruth when you were born almost seventeen years ago. Now, well, now your name gonna be whatever your new master wants it to be. You're a pretty girl. I wanted you to be real pretty, 'cause the white menfolk, they gonna like you a lot. You see, honey, there really was a Ruth, but she die about a year ago from consumption. I can change all that, so now, you gonna take her place. You gonna look like her and act like her, and before you even knows it, you gonna think like her. You gonna be on the block tomorrow morning, and I got a feeling you gonna find out real soon what it like to be black and make love to a man..." Her voice trailed off, and before I could do anything else, I felt the blackness surround me until I felt nothing at all. ** I awakened to the sound of a crowd. There seemed to be a hundred voices coming from outside my room. For a moment, I thought I was back home, and there was something happening out on the veranda, but I knew very quickly that that was not so. There were other voice, much nearer to me. They were women's voices, but I could tell from their inflection and words that they were the voices of Negro women. Where was I? The, before opening my eyes, I remembered what had happened the night before. Mama Tumo had changed me into a black girl, and she had promised that by morning, I would be on the block. That meant I was to be sold as a slave! Oh, God in Heaven, what had I done to deserve such a fate? Slowly, I opened my eyes and looked around. I had been right. I was in a large room surrounded perhaps by a dozen other women, all as black as I now was. They didn't seem unhappy, but I realized they also did not seem happy either. All of them were sitting or reclining on straw mats as, I felt suddenly, I was lying upon. I became aware of myself slowly, in stages. The first thing I noticed was that I smelled, but it was not the masculine sweaty odor I had experienced in my own body. Rather, I smelled somewhat... sweeter. I realize that is not precisely the word, but that was the thought which crossed my mind at that moment. I also felt air moving across my body more freely than it had before. The reason, I saw, was that I was wearing a dress of gray homespun which appeared slightly too large on me. The dress had a scandalously open neck as well, allowing me a view of what promised to be quite substantial breasts. As I shifted the dress to provide less of a view of them, I felt the harsh material scratch uncomfortably over my newly enlarged nipples. My skin was quite black. There appeared to be little or no white blood flowing though my body, and I was certain that my facial features reflected the same ancestry, although I had no was of seeing my new face. I reached up with a small hand and touched my now pronounced lips and broader nose. On top of my head, I felt long but extremely curly hair, which seemed to be tied in something of a bun. I had no idea how long it really was and had no intention of freeing it to find out since I had no idea how to re-secure it. As for what was between my legs, or rather, what wasn't between my legs, I could only imagine. I had no intention of raising my long skirt to find out, surrounded as I was by so many women. I realized I had nothing now which they themselves did not have, but it would not have been proper to view my genitalia in such surroundings. Still, as I moved my legs, my lack of male organs was obvious to me, and I felt a deep sense of loss. As a student, I had studied ancient Greek mythology, so I was well aware of the legend of Tiresias. Upon reading that story, I had reflected upon what it must have been like for him, striking the snakes and suddenly finding himself changed. Now I knew what it was like. It was bad enough to have changed sex, but to become a Negro as well was equally emasculating. I had gone from being the scion of one of Louisiana's most distinguished families to being a darkie slave girl without family or position. Why had Mama Tumo done this to me? She was under the impression that I had killed her brother, but had I? I didn't think so, but to be honest, I didn't remember. But wait a moment, I thought. The answer was obvious when I thought about it. I had been dining with Brady when I lost awareness. Why? Because most likely, Brady had slipped something into my drink when we were still at Pierre's. Then there was the derringer. Brady had been on the riverboat with me when the gun turned up missing. He came out on deck after me and had probably been in my room looking for the gun. He knew about it, of course, since I had possessed the gun when we roomed together at college. And he had suggested Mama Tumo's establishment for the evening, even telling me about her brother's sexual proclivities. Then, he had told Mama Tumo that I had no liking for persons of her brother's sexual tastes. I had to admit to myself that I did not approve of such activities, but I certainly would not have murdered the poor soul. The important question then became why? Brady and I had been casual friends for years. Why would he suddenly turn on me like this? It seemed to make no sense at all. The door suddenly burst open, spilling light over the entire room. "On you feet, the lot of you!" a harsh voice called out. As my eyes adjusted to the brightness outside the door, I saw that our captor was very short and heavy-set. That meant he was probably Jack McGraw, the slavemaster for Michelson and Sons, Auctioneers. I had heard stories of his cruelty to slaves who fell into his reach during market periods. I quickly scrambled to my feet (noting that I wore no shoes) with the other women. We were herded like cattle into a holding pen at the rear of the building where I could hear the voices of a large number of men. Then I heard the crowd settle down and realized a slave auction was about to begin, and I was now a slave! Today I would be sold to a new master, and I would be expected to do his bidding. I had to get out of this situation and return to Mama Tumo's and explain to her what had happened. But I realized that there was nothing I could do for now. I would have to endure the indignity of being sold as a female slave, then hope to escape quickly and return to Mama Tumo where I would tell her what had really happened to her brother. As a reward, I would demand that she return me to my rightful shape. "You!" the sharp voice of the slavemaster barked at me, "get out there." Wordlessly, I did as he bid me to do, confident in my own mind that I would get out of this situation yet. My confidence melted with the quickness of a southern snow as I was led to the trading block. I looked out over the crowd and saw at least a dozen faces I had known in my past life. But whereas a few days ago, they would have greeted me with a hearty, "Good day to you, Charles," on this day they stared at me as impassionately as if I had been a piece of furniture offered for their consideration. I felt a sudden fear rise in me. This was really happening. I was female, black, and a slave. I was without a doubt one of God's most helpless creatures. I actually felt myself tremble in fear. "A fine girl for you now," the auctioneer began, leering first at me and then at the audience. The men in the crowd seemed to understand and several began to chuckle. "Fresh as a daisy. She'd make a fine maid or be useful for other household duties." This produced a roar from the men. I stared in fear as they leered at me. I fought down the impulse to strike the auctioneer. Charles would have done so, but this young black girl would be sacrificing her life in a futile gesture. More than one slave had died for doing less. If I couldn't fight, I wanted to run, but I knew that was not an option either. I had to endure this and look for a better opportunity later. Perhaps I would be purchased by someone in the city. Then, I might have a good chance of reaching Mama Tumo. As the auctioneer chattered on, I suddenly realized that I had no idea where Mama Tumo's establishment was located. I had been under the influence of drink and drugs when Brady had taken me there. As Charles, I would have had the freedom to move about, ask questions, and find her house, but as this girl, I had fewer options. "Are you deaf, girl?" the slavemaster suddenly yelled at me. The crowd laughed again. I stared at him as if I didn't understand him, which in this case, I did not. "I said bare those breasts. A man wants to see what he's bidding on." With trembling fingers, I slowly complied, enduring the catcalls and whistles of the multitude. I felt my black face flush with shame and started to cover myself again when the slavemaster's hand caught mine. "Keep 'em showing," he said in a near whisper filled with the threat of what might happen if I failed to comply. Reluctantly, I let my hands drop to my side as he went on with, "What am I bid for this little flower?" A chorus of shouts went up, and I realized I was to be a popular prize. I heard the bidding start at $500 and rapidly rise from there. Within a few heartbeats, my price had risen to over $1100 and was still going up, albeit more slowly. A good field hand was worth $1000 in the market of the day, but I was not being purchased as a field hand, I realized. Instead, with my appearance, I would be one of the slaves in the great house, perhaps even a maid. Grimly, I also realized that I was prime property for another reason as well. A young female slave such as the one I had become would make excellent breeding stock. And I knew that the issue of such a girl might be half white due to the attention of an amorous overseer or young scion. "$1500!" a familiar voice in the crowd boomed. There was a moment of silence. The new bid was two hundred higher than the previous bid. My eyes and the eyes of many of the bidders turned to the young man who had offered such a large sum. I found myself looking into the intense brown eyes of Ambrose Lacroix. I began to feel hope. If Ambrose succeeded in purchasing me, perhaps I could bring him to believe the terrible fate which had befallen me, and even convince him of the duplicity of our old friend, Brady. There were no more bids. All the other men had fallen silent, each of them startled at my high price, but I could see on several of their faces the envy. They would have liked to own me for their own reasons. "Sold!" the slavemaster called triumphantly, and before anything more could be said or done, I was led by the arm to the sales desk. I expected to find Ambrose there, but he was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a wiry fellow, wrinkled and gray of hair met me. "The name is Hallstead," he said. I nearly said that I was pleased to meet him when I realized that he wasn't talking to me at all. I was, after all, a lowly slave, unworthy of the attention of his, or rather, her betters. "I'm the agent for the Lacroixs," he explained to the clerk at the desk. The clerk reviewed the bill of sale, comparing the amount written upon it with the sight draft for $1500 which Hallstead had handed him. "It appears to be in order, Mr. Hallstead. The bitch is yours." Bitch, I thought? Then I realized that he was using the term as one might in describing a female dog. That was all I was to him. I was a domesticated animal, no different from the cows or hogs or chickens which populated every farm in the south. "Very well," Hallstead muttered, clutching the bill of sale. "Put her in with the other ones." Apparently I was not the only purchase for the Lacroix plantation that day, for I saw a large wire enclosure with the name "Lacroix" painted on the wooden sign hung crudely to its side. I thought to myself that it would be best for me to not show an ability to read. In most slave states, it was illegal to teach a slave to read and write. Inside the enclosure were two young male salves, each as dark as I now was. One was only two or three inches taller than me and slender, but the other was perhaps a foot taller than I and appeared to be solid muscle. Both wore brown threadbare cotton trousers and wore no shirts or shoes. Their sullen expressions of boredom changed when they saw me. I was unceremoniously thrust into the cage to their open delight. "Lookie here," the smaller man chortled with glee. "They gots somebody to keep us company." "Yeah," the big one drawled in a deep voice. "Mebee dis here new place ain't gonna be so bad, eh, Cecil?" Hallstead whacked the side of the cage with his walking stick. "You niggers leave the girl alone. She's a sweet little virgin for your new master. You poke her and he'll cut your nuts off right in front of you and make you eat 'em. You got that?" "Yes, boss," they both said contritely in unison. As Hallstead turned to leave, the big one said softly to me. "You ain't really no virgin, is you?" "I sho am," I said, using my new voice for the first time. I was shocked to hear the accent. I was - or at least had been - a cultured young gentleman, and yet my speech patterns were consistent with my new appearance. "You means it, girl?" I nodded my head, unwilling to hear that voice again. I had no idea if this body was unmolested or not, but if I could make them believe it, I might be spared what promised to be a most unpleasant afternoon. If these two young bucks decided to have their way with me, there would be nothing I could do to stop them. "Well," the smaller man, Cecil chuckled, "if you is really a virgin, you gonna be a fine treat for the new master. Maybe once you get broken in, you and me can have some fun." "What you talkin' about?" the big one said. "The master get done with her, she ain't gonna even feel your little thing. She gonna need a real man, like me." This banter went on for several minutes until they saw I was not impressed. Finally, to my relief, they settled down on the dirt floor of the enclosure and napped in the increasingly warm sun. In my dress in the heat of the sun, I was most uncomfortable. I envied the two men, for they were dressed much cooler than I. I longed to be able to go shirtless as they were, but it wouldn't do for me to expose my new breasts. I could only sink to the bottom of the cage and attempt to nap as well. At mid day, a guard came to the cage with food for us. I had begun to be hungry as the shock of my transformation wore off, but one look at my meal spoiled my appetite. Each of us was given a tin plate with a slab of cold corn bread and a little salt pork. To wash it down, we were given a bucket of water with a single ladle. As much as I wanted to throw the meal into the face of the guard, I knew it might be some time before I was given the opportunity to eat again, so I swallowed my pride and a piece of the corn bread with it. There were no amenities in our cage, and I began to realize that my new body would be forced to void itself soon. There was a bucket in one corner for this purpose, but I began to realize that to use it would mean exposing myself. I began to look furtively at the bucket and then at my two cell mates. They had both settled down to sleep through the noon sun, so I decided I would have to do what I had to do while they slept. I crept over to the bucket and straddled it in a squatting position as I knew I would now be required to do. For the first time, I was happy to be wearing a dress, for the folds of my skirt covered my sex. I felt the warm flow of liquid draining from my body, but without the usual pressure I had felt as a man. It was over in moments, and I was relieved to see that neither Cecil or Willie had opened an eye while I had relieved myself. We all managed to nap during the heat of the day. I have to admit that I napped with one eye open, but my two cage mates were too lethargic from the hot sun and stifling humidity to be any trouble. I began to realize that when you were a slave, you tended to take your rest where you could find it. Tomorrow at this time, they would have no time to nap since they would probably be tending crops under the watchful eye of an overseer. Overseer! I had forgotten. Ambrose's father had a particularly nasty overseer. His name was Crawford, and he was a short, squat little man with a foul temper. He had once hamstrung a slave for running away and... Oh my God, I thought. He also was said to have at least a dozen bastard children issued by some of the slaves on the plantation. We had joked with Ambrose that the only reason he kept Crawford around was that he produced a steady stream of new slaves. Somehow, I realized, looking down at my body with its ebony skin and soft curves, it wasn't a very funny joke now. Unless I could reach Ambrose and make him believe what had happened to me, I might be Crawford's latest paramour. The thought sickened me. I was jolted from my thoughts by the opening of the cage and turned to see the latest arrival. I jumped to my feet to greet our new arrival. It was another male, I realized, but this one was different from the others. He carried himself with a grace and dignity that made me think of the time I had been introduced to Lord Hawthorne when he had visited our state in the days of my youth. He was tall and slender, but not exactly thin. I guessed his age at perhaps thirty five or so, but with slaves, it was often difficult to tell. A well treated slave on a household staff might appear youthful and vigorous for five decades, while a field hand often looked spent by thirty. With a graceful bow, he said, "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Bertram. And who to I have the pleasure of addressing?" I was dumbstruck. I had never heard a Negro talk so formally. He had a soft southern accent, but there was none of the uncultured patois of the typical slave. He might have been educated at one of the south's finer schools, were that not illegal. He stared at me, waiting, until I realized he was waiting for me to introduce myself. I nearly giggled. I could imagine his composure crumbling as I told him who I really was. But that wouldn't do. What was the name Mama Tumo had told me the original girl had been given? "Ruth," I managed to say. That had been the name. It would do as well as any for now. He smiled and gave a slight bow again. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Ruth." "Hey," Cecil asked suddenly. I had almost forgotten the two other men in the cage. "How come you give him your name girl, when you don't got nothin' to say to me and Willie here?' "Yeah," Willie rumbled. "How come?" "Cause you didn't ask," I replied with as much dignity as I could muster. "You mean all we gotta do is ask?" Cecil said slyly. "Well, what if we was to ask for a little fun? You wanna put you lips around my thing, girl?" I shuddered. That was absolutely the last thing in the world I wanted to do. I suspect even if I had been born to this sex, taking Cecil in my mouth was something I would not choose to do." "You shouldn't talk to her that way," Bertram said softly. Cecil giggled, "And who say I shouldn't? I talk to her how I please." With the swiftness of lightning, Bertram wordlessly punched Cecil in the face, knocking him out cold. "You need to learn manners, boy," he said to the unconscious man. "Hey!" Willie said angrily. "He my friend. You can't to that to my friend." Willie at least managed one punch, but Bertram deflected it with ease. Again, without a word, He punched Willie. To his credit, Willie stood up to three unanswered punches, but in the end, he joined his friend on the floor of the cage. "Thank you," I managed to say. Bertram smiled. "Don't fret none. They won't do you no harm now. They know I'm gonna stop 'em if it comes to that." Before I could reply, Hallstead approached the cage, flanked by two rough-looking men carrying large new revolvers. He opened the cage and said, "All right, all of you, it's time to go. You two on the floor, you can sleep tonight. We got to reach the boat landing in fifteen minutes." With a groan, Willie and Cecil picked themselves up and followed Bertram and I at a discrete distance as we walked proudly out of the cage. We were led to the riverboat landing where we were chained together at the ankle. With a sudden pang of sadness, I realized that the boat we were about to board was the Cotton King, the same boat I had ridden to New Orleans only a day before. So much had changed, I could barely conceive of it. Only a little over a day before, I had disembarked, a fine young gentleman with excellent prospects. Now, here I was, a young Negro girl, bound over into servitude, perhaps for the rest of my life. Numbly, I started to move toward the staterooms. "Were do you think you're going, nigger?" Hallstead's voice boomed. Bertram was tugging on my ankle chain. "Come on, honey," he said. "We'll be up front." That's right, I realized. There would be no stateroom for us. We would be out on deck for the journey, just like all the rest of the cargo. We would share the forward deck with a couple of cows and some boxes of merchandise heading back up the river. I felt tears building up inside me, and then I felt Bertram's hand on my small shoulder. "Don't you worry none," he said softly. "It gonna work out all right. You'll see." I prayed that he was right, but for the life of me, I didn't know how. Here I was, wrongly accused of murder, changed beyond any hope of recognition by friends or family, and sentenced by my color to a life of servitude, wearing a sex in which I had no experience. Unbidden, the tears flowed freely as I sank to the deck, crying until at last sleep claimed me. I awoke to another hot, sultry morning on the river. For a moment, I re- experienced the shock of realizing that I was not in my rightful body, but I soon overcame it. I felt two urges within my new body. First, I was hungry again. Even the thought of corn bread and salt pork sounded good to me, although I would have preferred Coffee and beignets at any of the little cafes surrounding Jackson Square. The second need was to void again, although I saw I would have even less privacy than I had experienced in the cage on the previous day. The bucket was not only in plain view of my fellow slaves, but also in view of the crewmen preparing for our departure. As much as I would have wished it, there was no avoiding the situation. With a heavy sigh, I made my way to the bucket, trying in the process not to make too much noise with my ankle chain so as not to waken the others. I succeeded in relieving myself without waking the others, but I heard a chuckle from one of the white deck hands and felt my face flush with embarrassment. Alone with my thoughts in the early morning air, I began to reflect upon my situation to try to determine what had happened and how I could extricate myself from this abominable situation. First, I knew I did not kill Mama Tumo's brother. But who did? Brady most likely, or at least he knew who did do it. If I was to get my old life back, I had to get back to Mama Tumo and convince her of my innocence. To worsen my problem, I was slowly becoming the slave girl, Ruth. I don't mean physically - that was absolutely complete. But when I spoke, I could hear the soft, uneducated voice of a slave girl. I knew I was beginning to think more like Ruth and less like myself. It would only be a matter of time until the "Ruth" persona took over and Charles Wilton ceased to be a memory to me any more than I suspected he was a memory to anyone else. I shuddered at the thought of being a slave girl for the rest of my life. Unless I was able to break free and visit Mama Tumo, I would be forced into a life of menial toil, broken only by forced liaisons with my masters (I knew this was bound to happen, for I was an attractive girl) until at last I was forced to breed to produce new slave children. It was ironic. I had never been a proponent of slavery (but to be completely honest, I was never a detractor of the practice either), yet here I was, its victim. My plan of action was clear. I had to make Ambrose aware of my situation. With his help, I could make my way to Mama Tumo and straighten out this most unfortunate mistake. My fellow slaves were awake and up by the time breakfast was served. Again, we were given a meal I would have turned up my nose at only two days earlier, but my stomach growled in anticipation as I gratefully accepted a small plate of fatty bacon and cold johnny cakes. The ever present bucket of water was then filled for us to wash it down with. We began our journey with the morning sun, the coal-fired engines of the steamboat pushing us further north against the current of the powerful Mississippi. I knew from experience that we would reach the landing at Oak Alley by mid afternoon. From there, it would be a five mile journey overland to Burgundy Rose, the plantation of the Lacroix family. I actually looked forward to it, for it meant that I would have the opportunity to explain what had happened to Amrose and enlist his help in setting things right. The trip was uneventful. Bertram was solicitous but kept his conversation to a minimum. Cecil and Willie remained quiet and slept most of the way. I swear, the two of them seemed to be most at home when they were asleep, for which I was truly grateful. I had no idea if this new body of mine was virgin as I had told them or not, but I knew if Cecil and Willie had their way, it would not remain virgin very long. As expected, we arrived at the landing mid afternoon. I had hoped for a wagon to transport us, but it soon became apparent that we were expected to walk. Ruth's - my - feet were fortunately toughened by a life of slavery, for I wore no shoes. I was expected to walk with the men the five hot, dusty miles to my new home. I hadn't gone barefoot for any length of time since I was a small boy in knickers. We arrived at Burgundy Rose in time for supper. Two of the household slaves met us at the gate of the mansion and shepherded us around the house to the slave cabins. Cecil and Willie were sent on to the cabins closer to the cotton fields. They looked sullenly at Bertram and me, realizing, I suppose, that we were selected for less strenuous duties than they were. A tall, aging slave with gray hair dressed as a butler strolled over to meet us. I knew him to be Henry, the Lacroix's butler. On my few visits to Burgundy Rose as Charles Wilton, I had found Henry to be a little pompous for a slave. It was not uncommon for a household slave like Henry to get a bit above himself. After all, it was he who assigned the other household slaves their daily tasks. Also, a critical word to the Lacroix's from Henry could result in the banishment of a slave from the house to the fields. Henry held the power of a feudal lord over the rest of us poor darkies. I knew in my diminished station that I would have to tow the line with Henry if I was to ever have the opportunity to even talk to Ambrose. Henry looked over Bertram first. "I hear you got a way with yourself in the kitchen." Bertram nodded. "Yes, boss. I set a mean table. I can do fine in the kitchen." Henry grunted his approval. I realized he had sized up Bertram as a potential rival, but Bertram had handled the situation well. He had been properly respectful, and Henry realized he could make use of the man to his benefit. "Fine. You work with Ollie in the kitchen. But you do what he tell you to do. He in charge. You understand?" Bertram nodded again. "Yes, boss." Now, it was my turn. "You must be the new maid for Miss Samantha," Henry said, observing me with a critical eye. "You come with me." Henry turned and walked briskly toward the house. With my now shorter legs and long dress, it was all I could do to keep up. I had been inside the Lacroix home upon many occasions, but I had never expected to be there under such adverse circumstances. Here I was, a young Negro girl about to be made the maid of my prospective betrothed. Mama Tumo's gods must be laughing themselves sick, I thought. Henry knocked on Samantha's door and was rewarded with a most unfeminine, "What do you want?" "Miss Samantha?" Henry began. "It's me, Henry. I've got the new maid here." "Bring her in." I do believe I was blushing with embarrassment as I was led in to "meet" Samantha, a girl I had actually known for most of her life. I was surprised, though, to not see the demure Samantha I had known and admired in my masculine days, but rather someone quite different. There was an unfamiliar scowl on her face, and her hands were placed in a most unladylike fashion at her hips. "Let's look at you, girl," she said without preamble. I stood still while she examined me. "She stinks!" she told Henry. "Yes, Miss Samantha," Henry said soothingly. "I know she does, but she's only just arrived. I'll make sure she's cleaned up real nice for morning." "See that you do," she growled and motioned for me to be led away. "You be careful, girl," Henry told me in a low voice as he led me from the house. "Miss Samantha, she's a mean one sometimes. She got so mad at her last maid that she sent her out to the fields to work just for not having her bath water warm enough. You gotta be real careful or she do the same to you." Was this the young woman that I had chosen to court? How could it be? She was nothing like I had imagined her. I tried to imagine what would happen if I were to regain my old sex and win her hand. She would be most disruptive at Willow Glen where we treated our servants with a modicum of respect. I vowed to withdraw my suit if I was restored to my rightful form. I was given a hot bath and a fresh dress and was duly grateful for both. I had been hot and sticky and, yes, I stank, although I felt Samantha could have been a bit more tactful about pointing that out. I was led to one of the slave cabins normally reserved for the household staff where I looked forward to some sleep. But sleeping was not be my next activity, I found with a shock, for waiting for me in the cabin was Ambrose. Foolishly, I was actually happy, for I thought I could quickly explain to Ambrose what had befallen me and enlist his help, but I was soon to have my hopes dashed. Ambrose waived away the slave who had delivered me. Then, much to my shock and dismay, he grinned at me and asked, "Well, Charles, what do you think of your new estate?" I stood frozen, my mouth having dropped open in surprise. "Oh, yes, Charles, I know exactly who you are," he affirmed. "In fact, it is I who is responsible for your pitiable condition." I nearly collapsed. Ambrose and I had not always agreed with each other, but I had considered him a friend. I knew of no reason why he would do this to me. "But, how?" I asked in a voice choked with fear and confusion. "Well," he began, "let me just say I don't like your politics." "What do you mean?" "Charles," he sighed, "you're a fool. There is going to be new revolution in the South. We aren't going to put up with Yankee ideas any more, and families like yours that support them will not be welcome here." "My family don't support Yankee ideas," I protested, disgusted with the way my grammar was deteriorating in this body. "We're plantation owners, just like you'all." Ambrose shook his head. "No, Charles, that isn't true. You reluctantly support our way of life. You're too easy on your slaves, and I don't even think that deep down, you support slavery at all. Without slaves, there is no way we could cultivate cotton and you know it. And you're a Unionist, you and your whole family. We propose to dissolve the Union once and for all and found a new government to restore the nation our Founding Fathers envisioned. "I could have tolerated all of this if you hadn't decided to pay court to my sister. My father is a fool for allowing you to do so, and this was the best way I could think of to stop you. In the New South, it wouldn't do to be allied with your family. So this had to be done." "But why this, Ambrose?" I asked, motioning to my new body. "Warn't they some other way?" Ambrose smiled. "Your use of the language is becoming so interesting. Did you know that it will only be a few more days, a week perhaps, before you can no longer fight the nature of this slave girl? And no, there was no other way. This got you out of the way for good. Now, you will become just another salve girl and offer no further threat to my family. He stepped closer to me and pulled my dress away from one shoulder. "It was really so easy," he said. "I knew of Mama Tumo by reputation. As the stories go, she took a young nigger boy who had assaulted several nigger girls and changed him into one himself. At least, that's what the girl told me. I bought her for the evening at a whore house in the French Quarter a couple of months ago. She was quite inexpensive since the proprietor thought she was mad, but I checked out her story and found out that it was true. "Odd, isn't it, Charles? We Christians are so sure we are right, and yet such things seem to exist. What was it like, the changing, I mean? Could you feel it happening to you?" "Oh, yassur, I could feel it," I said, hating myself for calling him "sir," but it just seemed natural. "It was sorta like a presh.. you know, a squeez'n." Ambrose laughed, "Oh, Charles, I love to hear you talk. You are going to make a wonderful slave girl." I said nothing to his obvious barb. He smiled evilly and commented, "Good, you're already learning your place. Anyhow, to continue, in addition to your suit, our mutual friend Brady wanted the opportunity to court my sister. I far preferred his suit to yours, as we are fast friends, but my father saw otherwise. To him, Brady was the son of a merchant, not a planter, and so his suit was inferior. I know better, though, for our friend Brady will be a military hero in the coming struggle for Southern independence. It would do my family