Plantation Tale

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A Plantation Tale By The Professor

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 well to ally ourselves with an illustrious hero."

As he spoke, Ambrose pushed the dress off both of my shoulders, exposing my large, ebony breasts as the dress gathered at my widened hips. He stroked a nipple which involuntarily hardened, to my shock and disgust. "It was a stroke of genius on my part, don't you think? Brady was willing to help me to eliminate you from my sister's side. You really wouldn't have liked her anyway, Charles. She is, after all, a true daughter of the South, not an apologist for the nigger lovers.

"I ascertained that Mama Tumo's brother was a queer and developed a plot to use against you. Brady has patronized her establishment on a number of occasions, proving himself to be a model customer. He has gained Mama Tumo's trust, off-handedly telling her that he would be bringing another gentleman to her establishment, a gentleman who unfortunately could not tolerate the sexual perversions of her brother. He concocted, I believe, some story about his friend being accosted by a queer in his younger days. While you were under the influence of a drugged wine which made you, although I'm sure you don't recall, quite belligerent, Brady enlisted the help of Mama Tumo's brother to carry you up to one of the rooms.

"Once you were safely out of sight, Brady produced your derringer and shot her brother directly through the heart. It wasn't difficult to convince Mama Tumo of your guilt when she barged into the room a few moments later to find you covered in her brother's blood, the murder weapon at your side. I only wish I could have been there to see it.

"Brady had told her that her brother had accidentally brushed his hands along your private parts, enraging you. He said you pulled the derringer from your pocket and fired before he could stop you. Brady can be most persuasive, you know. He convinced the stupid nigger that this would be a proper punishment for you, and she readily agreed. The rest you know."

I was nearly dumbstruck. I had no idea that such a malicious heart beat in the chest of one who I had called my friend and nearly, by marriage, my brother. "Ambrose.." I began.

He slapped me viciously across my face. "Master!" he yelled. "You will refer to me as 'master.' Is that clear?"

"Yes, massa," I said reflexively, rubbing my stinging cheek. In my inner self, I wanted to lash out at him, to do whatever damage I could do to him, but I knew it would be a fruitless action. I had to endure this if I was ever to return to Mama Tumo and clear my name.

The look of anger which had crossed Ambrose's face was now gone, replaced by a look of grim satisfaction. "Yes, indeed, you are learning your place, girl. Now, on to business. What was the name you were given?"

"Ruth," I said softly.

He shook his head. "No, that won't do. That's a white woman's name. I've even known a Ruth or two. You have, too. Remember the Ruth at Miss Patterson's back in Memphis? The caress of her lips on your manhood was pure ecstasy. Of course, you now have no manhood to concern yourself with. No, I have a better name for you."

I winced, knowing I was not going to like this. I was not disappointed.

"I know. What was it the auctioneer said about you? Ah, yes, he said you were as fresh as a daisy. That name will do nicely. Besides, there is a second meaning to it. A daisy is white on the outside and yellow at the center, just like you were, Char- I mean, Daisy."

He reached for me again, this time tearing my dress completely away as I stood helpless to prevent it. I had still not seen my face in a mirror, but I now had the first moment since my time on that unnatural plain with Mama Tumo to examine my new body. Had I been Charles, I would have become instantly erect at the sight of such a woman, no matter what the color. My body was perfectly molded into an ideal female shape, with large breasts, a slender waist, and sensual hips tapering into smooth, feminine legs. Ambrose pulled at a barrette which had held my hair in place, causing it to fall softly in a large, curly mass at my breasts, back, and shoulders. Although I could not see my face, I knew I was beautiful, a black Venus.

"You are breathtaking," Ambrose confirmed. "You may not realize it now, Daisy, but I can make your life most pleasant. You will, of course, serve my sister during her waking hours, but late at night, you shall spend many evenings with me, and I will teach you your new role in life. I will even give you a child to confirm your sex. You will be mine, starting now."

Without warning, his strong male hands forced me to my knees, my face poised at his crotch. "You know what to do, Daisy."

I hesitated, unable even with the magic coursing through my body to commit such an unnatural act. I could feel myself tremble and nearly passed out.

"Do, it, Daisy, or there will be worse things in store for you."

With shaking fingers, I unbuttoned his trousers and snaked them down his thighs. He was already erect, his member larger than I could have imagined. I wanted in that moment to kill myself, but there was no way. I thought also about taking him in my mouth and biting, but that would accomplish nothing, either. I felt as if this were an unnatural act, forbidden by God, but I reconciled myself out of necessity to the realization that I was a woman, and to do this was no worse than what I had allowed the girls at Miss Patterson's to do to me. With this thought to buoy me, I took him in my mouth.

I cannot to this day describe what happened that night, or on any of the successive nights. Ambrose was most demanding, and I had no choice but to become completely submissive. My time as a slave on the Lacroix plantation was a blur. Days were long and filled with drudgery, constantly enduring the curses and demands of Samantha Lacroix. The evenings were spent with young Massa Ambrose, as we slaves called him. He was far more sexually demanding than I could ever imagine, often leaving me bruised and sore, to the point that the other slave women, taking unusual pity upon me (for they usually would have little or nothing to do with "the massa's whore), gave me ointments which they prepared to take the pain away. I must say that I derived no sexual pleasure from my acts. As a man, I had found sexual relations to be exhilarating. The sudden rush of ejaculation was like a glimpse of Heaven. But as a woman, I derived no such pleasure. Yes, I felt a pleasant tingling in my body when Ambrose touched me, but any pleasure was gone when he would force himself into me. At least I was thankful that the sensation of his entry had become less painful with time.

I was actually looked down upon by the other slaves. I was forced to dress in a more provocative manner than the other women, with my dresses quite tight at the waist and my breasts practically spilling out. My hair I was told to keep loose, so it spilled in tight black curls over my shoulders rather than in a neat bun like many of the other girls. All the slaves knew me for the whore I had been forced to become.

My only friend, and my anchor of sanity in this period of degradation, was Bertram. He made sure I at least got a little rest, often by placating Miss Samantha early in the day as she bellowed, "Where is that lazy bitch? I want my morning bath!" He would often run it himself, explaining to her that he had sent me on an errand. Bertram also saw to my other needs as well, often feeding me from the leftovers of the master's table. He browbeat one of the slave women employed on the plantation as a seamstress to make certain I was properly (and modestly) clothed during the day, as if this would make up for the fact that I spent most of my nights wearing nothing at all.

Days became weeks, and the full summer was upon us. It was a hot Fourth of July, and we slaves had just spent the better part of the evening singing patriotic songs for the whites. Bertram was walking me back to my quarters when I became light headed and stumbled. He caught me by the arm, and I looked into his concerned eyes as my equilibrium returned.

"What's wrong, Daisy?" He asked. The other slaves were required to call me by that onerous name.

"Ah don' know," I replied. "Ah can't... Ah be dizzy." It was becoming harder and harder for me to carry on an articulate conversation, I noted sadly.

"When you have your time, girl?" he asked me.

"Mah... mah time?"

"You know, girl. When you have your bleed'n?"

Oh my God, I thought! I knew, of course, of menstruation, and I knew its periodic demands were monthly. However, not being used to the female body, I had not thought to be concerned that it had never started for me. Bertram saw it in my eyes.

"Lordy, girl," he said in a fatherly way as he held me closely, "you gonna have the massa's baby."

"Bertram, leave us." I turned quickly to see Ambrose standing in the shadows. Bertram wordlessly complied.

Before I could do more than gasp with astonishment, Ambrose declared, "This is wonderful news, Daisy. Wonderful! This is even sooner than I had hoped. You should have the whelp about the time my sister and Brady are married."

I could think of nothing to do but softly cry. Ambrose's plan for me was now complete. I was a nigger slave girl, timid, submissive, and now, pregnant with his bastard.

"I had planned to take you with me on my trip to New Orleans tomorrow," he mused, "but now, I think I should leave you here. I wouldn't want a hard trip in the summer heat to cause your child any distress. I hope it's a strong, healthy boy who can be a good field hand before too many years go by."

Laughing to himself, he walked back to the house. At least, I thought, this meant he would not be interested in me for a while. Although I had no doubt he would force himself on me when he returned from New Orleans.

My tears continued to fall, so I thought to leave my small slave cabin and get some air to dry them. A Louisiana evening in the summer is really no place to dry anything, but at least I could be alone in the dark to consider my fate. When I had first arrived at Burgundy Rose, I had an odd feeling of confidence, as if my station and form were only temporary. I had resolved to enlist Ambrose's help and return to Mama Tumo. But circumstances had intervened. Without help from Ambrose, I could never hope to escape. I had fallen into a trap of despair, hopelessly doomed to be Ambrose's sex slave. My mind had dulled until I was unable to bring myself to take action. Now, it was too late. I was a slave girl with no chance of recovering my former life. Also, I was pregnant. How could I possibly be changed back with an infant slowly forming in my womb?

"Daisy, are you all right?"

I turned at the sound of a voice. It was Bertram, I realized. He had apparently stayed outside my cabin, waiting for Ambrose to leave, but I had rushed out too quickly for him to stop me.

"Not.. not zactly, Bertram." I whimpered.

He stepped over to my side and gave me a hug which almost caused me to collapse in gratitude. "Well, you tell old Bertram all about it."

What was I to say? I wasn't the first slave girl to be impregnated by her master, nor I dare say, would I be the last. I had to tell my entire story, if for no other reason than to make sure someone knew what had happened to me before I descended into madness from my misfortune.

"Bertram," I began, trying to muster what little command of the English language was left to me, "I used t' be a man."

He looked me straight in the eye. "A man, you say?"

In the poor vocabulary which remained to me, I told him the entire story, stopping at several points to break down into tears. When I was finished, I found myself cradled in his strong arms like a small child.

"That's quite a story," he said at last.

"Do you believe me, Bertram," I asked in a small voice. "I gotta know if'n ya do."

"Oh, I do, child," he said, holding me all the tighter. "Fact is, we gotta figure out what we gonna do about it."

I rose up. "But don't y'all see? Dere ain't nothin' to do. I ain't nothing now but a little nigger gal about to have a baby." I felt the tears welling up in me again.

"Listen here, child," Bertram said sternly, "don't you ever give up. There's one chance and you gotta take it."

"What?" I asked, feeling for the first time in weeks a faint hope.

"Massa Amrose is gonna be gone from here in the morning. That means he won't be looking for you. I can take care of Miss Samantha for a while. I'll just tell her you're sick with the cramps. She'll call you lazy and all, but I can take care of it. That means come about suppertime tomorrow, I can put you on a horse and send you off to New Orleans. You'll have to be careful, though, and stay off the roads. Some white man sees you out alone and you're gonna have more troubles. Can you do it?"

As Charles, I could ride like the wind. I saw no problem in making it to New Orleans. I could be there by mid-morning at the worst. The only problem would be what would happen if I was stopped. In the city, no one would think twice about me. I would be just one more little Negro girl out on an errand for her master. But in the country, it wouldn't do for me to be seen. Also, no one would miss me until morning. Then Samantha would probably send word to her brother that I was a runaway. If she rose at her usual late hour and spent an hour or so looking for me, then sent someone to the nearest telegraph an hour from the house, I should be able to make it.

At last, I nodded to Bertram. "Ah can make it, sho 'nuf."

"Good," he said. "Then get some sleep. You're gonna need it tonight since you won't get any the next night."

I tried to sleep as best I could, but it was difficult. I knew in my heart that this was my one and only chance for salvation. If I was caught, Ambrose would make sure that I never had the opportunity again. In my few weeks as a slave, I had found him and his entire family to be cruel, bordering on sadism. My family had always treated slaves reasonably well, but I was starting to realize that the conduct of families like the Lacroixs would condemn the institution of slavery eventually.

As usual, I slept late, knowing that Miss Samantha would be a late riser. Still, I was tired when I went to her room. I don't know if it was just the anxiety of what must be done that day or if my body was slowly beginning to draw strength from me to nurture the child which was beginning to grow within me.

Samantha was in a terrible mood as usual. I was particularly obsequious that morning, lest I be punished in some fashion which would have prevented my escape. The morning hours passed slowly with each new demand from Miss Samantha weighing upon me sorely. After what seemed to be a score of days, Bertram came to me as I was in the kitchen. It was mid afternoon at last.

"She's taking a little nap now," he told me. "She won't wake up until supper."

"How you so sure?" I asked.

Bertram just smiled. "She asked for a lemonade about an hour ago. I dare say there was more to that lemonade than she reckoned on."

My eyes went wide. "What? You poison her?"

"No," he laughed, shaking his head. "I just gave her a little something to make her sleep. Now, girl, we don't have time for talking. You need to ride."

Bertram had managed to get a horse bridled for me without alerting Henry or any of the other slaves. "I couldn't get you a saddle," he explained. "Somebody would notice that. But without the saddle missing, everybody will just think old Juniper here is just out to pasture. You can ride bareback, can't you?"

"I practically growed up on a horse," I told him with a smile.

"All right." He handed me a package. "There's some salt pork and corn bread here so you won't get hungry."

My female body had been taking hold of my mind more and more each day, so there was nothing masculine about the tears of gratefulness in my brown eyes. I smiled through the tears and gave him a most unmasculine hug. "Ah ain't never gonna fo'get this, Bertram," I told him.

He hugged me back. "Now, get going, girl!"

The road was fraught with peril for a young Negro girl such as I. I was forced to stay off the main road. While most goods and people traveled the river from the cities further north such as Baton Rouge and Natchez, there was foot and horse traffic in great proliferation. A young Negro girl riding on her own would be suspect at best and in danger at the worst. No one would be punished for having their way with such a girl, and the avaricious among the travelers would be pleased to turn a young escaped slave in for an anticipated reward.

Still, I made good time by day, paralleling the road as best I could, stopping to quiet my horse as travelers could be heard on the nearby road. By nightfall, I knew that with care, I could be in New Orleans by morning, losing myself among the slaves scurrying to and fro on errands for their masters.

I stopped just after sunset to eat the meager meal Bertram had prepared for me, washing it down with water from a small stream. Coarse as the meal was, I considered it a feast, for it was my first meal since my transformation enjoyed without the specter of captivity. Like most whites, I had never stopped to consider the inherent evil of slavery. After all, our African slaves were like retarded siblings to us, needing our help to prosper. Was it so much that we ask them to labor for us in return? It was, it must be said, a system which had worked well for centuries.

Or so it seemed. I knew better now. My mind had been altered to fit the pattern of the body I now wore, and I had gotten to know many other slaves as well in my captivity. They were people, just as I. They were ignorant but they were not stupid, and if they were ignorant, whose fault was that but our own?

Our own? I meant, of course, the white race. But was I of that race now? Mentally, perhaps, I was, but physically, I was obviously not white. And, I realized, mentally, I was becoming more and more Negro with each passing hour. I involuntarily shuddered at this realization. If my mission failed, Daisy would soon supplant Charles Wilmont in every conceivable way.

Travel at night was even more perilous. While there were less travelers about than during the day, those who were on the road were often as not up to no good. But I could not ride through the woods and fields at night with any haste, or I would likely as not cause grievous injury to my mount, so reluctantly, I rode down the dusty road toward the city of New Orleans.

Twice during the night, my caution was rewarded. The first time, I passed a small tavern, not knowing that two young men had stepped out for a breath of fresh air (if the hot, muggy air of a Louisiana summer could be said to be fresh). Spying me, they moved to intercept my horse, but in their drunken state could not grab either me or the reigns before I rode past them. They mad no attempt to pursue.

On the second occasion, I was nearly taken. While I was able to get off the road when I heard horses approaching, I was not prepared for two men who, I suspect, were waiting to lay ambush to an unexpected passerby. Whether they awaited a specific individual or merely awaited the first potential victim, I could not say, but they were nearly on me before I could react.

Fortunately, my horse was strong, and I was a lighter load than the horses of my pursuers carried. I was able to outrun them, and for the first time, I was thankful I was not in my old body. Had I been, my horse might not have been able to carry the day.

It was a tired and dirty Negro girl who entered the city at first light. I was hungry again and smelled of horse. I had, I realized, no idea where Mama Tumo's establishment was located, as I had been under the influence of Brady's drugs when last I was there. But I had formulated a plan on my long ride. Ambrose and Brady had both eschewed my friendship, but I was sure Robert was still my friend. I had to reach him and convince him as to my identity.

I tied the horse up some distance from Robert's lodgings. It would have been suspicious for a young Negro girl to be riding such an animal. Now, afoot, I was just one more darkie girl on an early morning errand for her master. If stopped, I would merely say my master had a sudden urge for Jamaican coffee, and I was sent to get him some fresh ground.

I reached Roberts rooming house without incident, thankful that it was early morning. The landlady opened the door warily. If she had been reluctant to let me see Robert when I was a fine young gentleman, I had no doubt I would find it even more difficult to see him now.

"What do you want, girl?" she asked sharply.

I knew as Charles, I could browbeat her into allowing me in, but at Daisy, I had no such leverage. I had decided the best course of action was a judicious lie. "Oh, beg pardon, ma'am. Ise got to see Massa Robert right away. His daddy, he very sick an' he callin fo' his son."

"Are you sure about that?" she asked me.

"Oh, please, ma'am! I done gotta see him o' I gonna get the whippin' o' mah life." I surprised myself by actually squeezing out a few tears.

"Very well," the landlady agreed at last. I made a mental note to come back here and thank her if everything worked out.

Robert looked even worse than he had the last time I saw him. The landlady had obviously awakened him. He was wearing trousers, but for a shirt, his night shirt had been carelessly tucked in his trousers and his feet were bare. He had not shaved, but by all appearances, he had not shaved in several days. The landlady whispered a few words to him, nodding at me. He grunted reluctantly, dismissing her and motioning me into his room.

"Now, what's this about my father?" he asked, closing the door. "I thought he had made it quite plain that he didn't want to see me again."

"Robert," I began. "Yo' father, he didn't send me. I be Charles Wilmont."

"What?" he frowned. "Are you saying Charles Wilmont sent you here?"

"No, Robert," I said with exasperation. I pointed at myself. "It be me. Ise Charles Wilmont. They done magiked me dis here way."

""Why that is preposterous!" he said angrily. "Girl, I don't know what this is all about, but leave now."

"Please, Robert," I begged, tears forming in my eyes as my breasts heaved. "You ask me anything, anything at all. I prove I Charles. You is my only chance to get mah iden- mah body back."

"Just leave!"

"Wait!" I begged through the tears. "You all 'member when we was boys? You an' me, we swore we be blood brothers, like the Indians. Ah cut mahself on de arm and gave you de knife, but you wouldn't cut yoself." I knew I could convince him if he would just listen, but, god, how I hated this Negro patois I was forced to speak in.

"How could you know that? Did Charles tell you?"

"I is Charles. You 'member when you an' Louise an' I was at Willow Glen?"

"Don't you speak to me of her."

"She was dere visitin' mah sister, Mary," I went on, heedless of his anger. "You was tellin' me how you gonna take her up Missouri way an' raise horses if'n de state ceced- break away."

Robert looked at me with shock. "Only Louise and Charles hear me say that. I never spoke of it to anyone else."

"Dat's what I been tellin' you all. It be magic. Ise Charles."

His eyes widened. "Can it be? Can there be such magic in the world? Surely God would not allow it."

I sat in the chair I had occupied as Charles on my last visit to Robert's room. "I don' rightly know what God got to do wit' dis here, but dey's other gods, too. One o' them made me like you see me here."

"Tell me more," Robert urged, sitting on the edge of his unmade bed.

So I told him the entire story. I told him of my betrayal by Brady, and my purchase and degradation at the hands of Ambrose. I even told him of my shock at learning of Samantha's true personality.

Robert actually smiled the first smile I had seen from him since Louise's death. "That at least does not surprise me. I always thought Samantha a heartless shrew."

Now it was my turn to be surprised. "You did? Den why you not tell me?"

"Because, Charles, you seemed totally captivated by her beauty." He stopped for a moment, considering what he had said. "I just called you Charles."

"You did."

He peered at me with bloodshot eyes. "Then it's true. You really are Charles."

"It true."

"Then what are we to do?"

"We gotta go see Mama Tumo and get her to change me back," I told him, hoping I could get him to take action quickly before he lost his resolve. "Do you know where she be?"

Robert searched his memory for a moment before replying, "Yes. Yes, someone pointed her establishment out to me some time ago. Let's see... yes! I remember now."

"Den we gotta go now," I told him. "We gotta get dere 'fore Ambrose find out."

I actually felt safe as we made our way to Mama Tumo's. While I was with Robert, I looked as if I belonged. I was just one more slave girl accompanying her master on an errand. No one would give us a thought.

Mama Tumo's was apparently quite close. We walked only a half mile or so when we came to an old brick house which appeared to date back to the Napoleonic era. In spite of its age, it was well kept, complete with a large gold knocker.

"Is this the right place?" Robert asked me.

"Ah don' rightly know," I told him. "It were night and I were drugged."

"Oh, it is the right place all right," a voice from around the corner of the building said. As we turned to see who had spoken to us, we saw two men and recognized them at once. Ambrose and Brady were both waiting for us, and each held a small but menacing looking pistol.

"We assumed you would find your way here," Ambrose said to me, "but I'm surprised you managed to convince Robert to come. That is a complication, but we can deal with it. I suppose his nigger-loving nature overcame his self-imposed grief. You are to be congratulated, Daisy."

"The what she - he told me is true," Robert ventured.

"As fantastic as it must sound, yes," Ambrose replied. "it's really a shame we can't convince the nigger woman to change you, too. You would probably enjoy the experience, given your feelings for the dark race."

"Instead, Robert, we have a difficult choice to make with you," Brady said.

"You've killed before, Brady," Robert said, mustering as much dignity as he could. "I daresay you won't find it difficult to perform such an odious act again."

"It's really the only way, Robert," Ambrose said with mocking regret. "Then, I'll take Daisy here back to Burgundy Rose. She'll have to be whipped, of course, as an example to the other slaves." He grabbed my arm. "We won't hurt you too much, though, for the sake of the baby. Did she tell you, Robert? She's going to have my little bastard. Then, after the child is born, she can go back to being my favorite plaything. You'll like that, won't you Daisy?"

I had made up my mind that death was preferable to returning to captivity, but Ambrose would not have understood my resolve. With all the strength that I could muster in my small body, I pulled away from him, accidentally turning the arm holding the gun closer to Robert.

Robert took advantage of the moment, and with a speed I would not have thought him capable of exhibiting, he pulled the gun away with his only hand, causing it to discharge. I saw blood spray from Robert's left arm as Brady rushed to help his accomplice.

Before Brady could do anything, a familiar voice ordered sharply. "Stand away and drop your weapon."

Brady froze, unsure of what to do while the rest of us turned to see... "Bertram!"

I cried his name in joy. He stood at the doorway of Mama Tumo's, a dangerous-looking pistol in his hand. I could see in his eyes that he possessed the will to use the weapon.

Ambrose, too recognized him. "Bertram, you put down that gun or I'll have you whipped to death."

Bertram shook his head. "You won't have anyone whipped - not ever again," he said. The menace in his voice caused Ambrose alarm for the first time since this sordid affair had begun. Brady also understood that the game was lost and allowed his pistol to drop harmlessly to the ground.

"Now that that's settled," Bertram said, "it's time you all came in and we got this affair settled."

We met in Mama Tumo's parlor. It was the first time I had had the opportunity to see it without the haze of drugs and alcohol. The room was quite tasteful, considering the nature of the establishment, with assorted brocades in a rich, dark fabric and couches and chairs which were both comfortable and expensive. We did not sit though, save Robert, who had acquired a wound to the fleshy part of his arm. Although it bled profusely, it was a clean wound, and one of Mama Tumo's girls tended to it expertly.

Ambrose and Brady stood subdued as Bertram related the full story to Mama Tumo while I merely looked on. When Bertram had finished, she remarked, "Then you was right, Bertram, and I was wrong. I only hope that it can all be made right."

I suddenly realized that Bertram had followed me for a greater reason than my personal safety as I had first imagined. I looked from Bertram to Mama Tumo and said, "You two is friends?"

"Yes, child," Mama Tumo told me. "Bertram and my Elmore, they were... friends."

"Much more than friends, actually," Bertram smiled.

"This is all very touching," Ambrose interrupted, "but unless you release us at once, I cannot be held responsible for what the authorities do with all of you."

To my surprise, Mama Tumo laughed out loud. "Authorities? You think Mama Tumo afraid of your authorities? I'm gonna show you authorities like you can never imagine."

As she finished speaking, the comfortable parlor disappeared, and once more, I was in the darkness where Mama Tumo's gods dwelt. Given what had happened to me the last time, my girl's body gave a horrified shudder. "Don't you worry, child," she told me. "You gonna be all right. But they ain't."

She nodded at Ambrose and Brady who stood before us, bathed in the light which seemed to come from nowhere, expelling the darkness only where we each stood. I looked around. Everyone who had been in the parlor, except for the girl who had been ministering to Robert's arm, was there.

"Where should we start?" Mama Tumo mused as something dark floated past her, almost caressing her side. "We do the easy part first."

She looked at Robert, and suddenly the ruined sleeve of his shirt was restored to a clean state, the blood miraculously washed away. Robert lifted his arm, pleased to see that it was uninjured. Then, with disbelief, he stared at his other arm, now filling the once-empty sleeve. "Thank you," he said quietly to Mama Tumo. I noticed something else had been healed as well. Robert stood strong and clear eyed as I had remembered him before Louise's untimely death.

"You're welcome," Mama Tumo replied. She waived her hand at Robert, and suddenly he was gone.

"Now to the important business," she said, her voice suddenly hard. She looked straight at Brady and said, "You killed my Elmore." It wasn't a question.

"Madam," Brady began smoothly, "I regret the loss of your brother deeply, but-"

"You KILLED my Elmore," she repeated. She looked around at the swirling creatures which slithered and pulsated in the near darkness. "I want him back, do you hear?"

There was a startled gasp from Brady. His clothing had melted away, and I watched in shocked fascination as he began to soften and change. He became smaller and less athletic in build, but retained an unusual grace in his stature. His hair began to darken until in was black and curly, and his skin darkened to the deep coffee color of Mama Tumo herself.

"You took my Elmore from me," she explained to the changing man. "Now, you gonna replace him. First, you just look like him, but with some help, you gonna be him in no time.

Unbidden, Bertram stepped to the side of the new black man and gently took his hand. He then looked at me and said, "I wish you all the best, child." Then, Bertram and the altered Brady disappeared as Robert had done moments before.

"Now you," Mama Tumo said, facing Ambrose. I don't think I had ever seen fear on his face before, but I saw it now. Droplets of perspiration formed on his face and ran down to his wrinkled collar. I practically thought I could see him shaking with fear and trepidation.

"This was all your idea," she said sternly, "so you gotta pay the biggest price."

"Please," Ambrose begged, his voice strained by fear, "I beg of you, let me make amends..."

Mama Tumo laughed, "Oh, you'll make amends, all right. Your amends start right now."

For the second time in a few minutes, I witnessed the power of those frightening gods. Ambrose began to shrink until he was smaller than Brady had become. His skin darkened and hair became dark and curly as I had seen Brady change, but the alterations continued. His hair became longer and fuller until it was on his shoulders. His body began to blur and change, with the limbs becoming thinner and more delicate. Breasts were growing rapidly on his chest, and his male organs literally pulled themselves up into his body, leaving him with the same configuration I had endured for several weeks. In only a minute or so, it was done, and I realized at once that Ambrose had become my identical twin.

The new black girl screamed hysterically, but her screams were drowned out by laughter, both from Mama Tumo and the booming laughs of strange gods which surrounded us.

Mama stopped her laughter and said, "Oh, one more thing." She pointed at me, and I suddenly felt an odd contraction in my abdomen. To my surprise, a faint, glowing ball of light extracted itself from my body and floated over to the former Ambrose where it plunged into her abdomen.

"There!" Mama exclaimed with satisfaction. "Now the baby is in you, Ambrose. Or I guess I should say Daisy. You gonna be the mama now, child. But don't you worry none. You don't have to go back to bein' a slave like you did to your friend. You can stay here at Mama's and have your baby. Then you can work for Mama, makin' all them men happy. You like little nigger whores so much, you can just be one."

"NO!" Ambrose screamed, but the sound of her voice was cut off as she disappeared from our ebon plain.

Mama Tumo sighed, "Well, that just leaves you, child."

"Change me back," I demanded. "I were innocent. You got no cause to leave me like this. Change me back into Charles."

Mama shook her head. "I can't child. I wants to, but I can't. To make you like this, they had to unmake who you were. Nobody remembers Charles."

"But Ambrose and Brady, dey remembered Charles."

"Yes, child, but that because they knew what I was gonna do. They planned it all, so they remembered. Other folks wouldn't know." She sighed. "It's all to hard to explain."

"Den how you make me like dis?" I demanded, my temper rising. I had been wronged, and now, she was telling me there was no way to make it right.

"Because," she explained, "there was a Ruth, or Daisy as he call you. She just die, so she still real. But to make you so's I could change you, the gods had to unmake Charles. You can't never go back."

"But," I began as tears formed in my eyes, "ah cain't be like dis. Dere's already another Daisy."

Mama Tumo nodded her head. "That's the truth, child. I don't know how to fix it. I gotta ask the gods to come up with an answer."

"Ain't dere no other way?" I asked. I wasn't anxious to allow my fate to be determined by these gods.

"It's the only way."

I sighed. I could accomplish nothing by myself. I would have to trust in the gods. I nodded my head in agreement. "Les do it 'fore Ise Daisy for life."

The dark swirling figures drew closer at my invitation. I couldn't exactly hear them. It was more as if they were inside my mind, flooding it with ideas and concepts that were too complex for my mere human mind to comprehend. Twisted images rose from and fell back into the darkness. I could see my original self for a few moments before the image faded away to be replaced by the body of the slave I now wore. Then, for a moment, I glimpsed Robert, first as he was now and then as he had been before the tragic accident. I owed Robert much, for he was the hero in the events which had transpired. Without his help, I would have been captured by Ambrose and returned to the plantation to live out my days in servitude. Yes, I owed Robert much, I thought, as a sudden surge struck my body. I was changing, I knew, for I had felt these feelings before. But changing into whom?

The darkness enveloped me once more, and as before, I woke as if from a dream. It was a warm afternoon with only the faintest hint of a breeze upon my face. I could hear birds singing and soft voices and activity in the background. The sweet smell of magnolia was all around me. I slowly opened my eyes and could see a lone rider trotting toward me through a double row of elm trees placed evenly on a carpet of soft green grass. I could hear the faint clop of the horse on the narrow cobblestone path.

For the first time, fearing what I might find, I looked upon myself, but I already suspected the result. I was seated in a comfortable chair, pastel yellow taffeta gathered about my body. I could feel the weight of hair piled upon my head. I examined my hands, relieved to find them, if feminine, at least white. They were lovely hands, the hands of a cultured young lady.

The rider was closer now, and I was not in the least surprised to see it was Robert.

A Negro maid stepped into my line of vision suddenly. "You look faint. Are you all right, Miss Louise?"

I recognized her from my visits here with Robert so many months ago. "I'm fine, Rachel," I replied. "I'm just fine."

The horses in the barn were suddenly nervous, and I know that meant they could hear a rider approaching from afar. Raiders, I wondered, but dismissed the thought. There had been no raiders in this part of Missouri for months. No, I realized as a rider crested the hill just south of the house, it was Aaron. He was one of our grooms, a tall, slim Negro who had accompanied Robert into St Charles. My heart stopped for a moment. Was there something wrong with Robert? He had gone into St Charles to negotiate to sell the army one hundred of our best horse. Had something gone amiss? But no, there was a broad grin on Aaron's face.

"Missus Jefferson!" Aaron yelled before he had even passed the main house fence. "General Grant did it! He done take Vicksburg!"

I fairly leaped for joy in a most unladylike fashion. We would have much to celebrate this Fourth of July. "How did you find out so quickly?" I asked.

"Military telegraph, Ma'am. The army's got a line from St Charles down to St Louis. Then they's another telegraph along the river all the way down to Grant's camp. Ain't all these inventions grand? The city done give up. General Pemberton, he surrender."

There was a wail from the house. "Oh, Aaron," I cried. "That's wonderful news, but you woke up little Robert with all your yelling."

"Sorry, Ma'am. Mister Robert, he tell me to tell you he be here in an hour."

"Thank you, Aaron."

"You right welcome, Missus Jefferson."

It still thrilled me to hear that name, but it hadn't always been so.

That day three years ago when I had first set eyes upon Robert in my new persona of Louise, I curse Mama Tumo's unnamed gods. Why had they done this to me? In spite of my time as the slave girl, I still thought of myself as a man. If they could not change me back into Charles again, surely, there was another man I could become. I knew that time had changed yet again, and the tragic accident which had claimed Louise's life had never happened, just as there had never been a Charles Wilmont.

As he came closer, I could see the Robert I had known before the accident. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye and confidence in his bearing as he brought his horse to a stop only a few feet from the porch where I was sitting. I was so happy to see my old friend well and whole again that I scarcely stopped to realize that I was the reason for his recovery. Then, as I realized that his life had been restored, I knew I had to play my part, or he would be lost again.

I did my best to be a proper fiancée for my friend. It was difficult at first, for while I had been in the body of a female for several weeks, I had never had the experience of being a proper lady. Fortunately, Martha, my Negro maid, did most of the work at keeping me beautiful, and it didn't take me long to figure out the rest of the equation. I found also that by being demure and smiling at even the most inane comments of my new father, Robert, and any other man who visited our home, I was accepted as Louise by all concerned.

My new mother noticed a difference, and would often shake her head with a weary sigh. "Louise," she would say, "you're too old to be a tom boy again. You must start acting more ladylike." Fortunately, she rationalized my behavior as pre-wedding jitters and took extra care with me.

The wedding was in August, an ungodly hot month in Louisiana, but the guests had a good time, in spite of the growing concern over the coming election which might rip our nation asunder. I did not have a good time at the wedding, for I knew what would be expected of me as a wife. My memories of sex as the young slave girl were still fresh in my mind, and I had no desire to endure further violation.

I had been somewhat heartened by my mother (for I had come to think of her as my mother). She was aware of my trepidation, although, of course, she had no idea of the true cause of it. She merely assumed I had the same misgivings all proper young brides must have. "Louise, dear," she began, "you must simply submit. You will find it can be a most pleasant experience." She reddened at her own admission, and I was forced to giggle in spite of myself. Soon, we were both giggling like young school girls.

Fortunately for me, I had been in the body of a woman long enough that my mind was more female than male, so it was with only a little consternation that I was taken to my wedding bed. I found, much to my surprise, that Robert was both a gentle and accomplished lover, but then, he and I had made many trips to Mrs. Patterson's establishment in Memphis during our college days. I snickered a little at the thought, causing Robert to ask, "Did I do something you found funny?"

"Of course not," I sighed, pulling him back to me. "You did something I found delightful."

And it was delightful, but I couldn't help but feel it was unnatural for me to experience it. We made love frequently, but I began to feel guilt over my enjoyment of it. This feeling deepened throughout the fall and winter, but in the spring, things were to change.

It had been determined by Robert's family that he would be in charge of a new venture in Missouri where the family would raise fine horses. His father knew that the prospect of war spelled disaster for the South, and it was necessary to diversify his holdings. I recall that my own father, my Wilmont father, had purchased land from him, and that I had been the one chosen to file the deeds in New Orleans, which had started my incredible journey into womanhood.

Missouri was selected for a number of reasons. Although a slave state, Robert and his father thought it unlikely the state would break away with the rest of the South. Robert's younger brother was sent to Kentucky to raise tobacco, betting that Kentucky, too would remain in the union. Events would prove the Jefferson family's reasoning to be quite astute.

We were sent to Missouri in a roundabout fashion in April, 1861, travelling first to New Orleans where breeding stock for our new equine venture would be acquired. We were warned to make our visit to that fair city a brief one, for Louisiana and five other Southern states had already officially seceded two months earlier at a convention in Montgomery. No one knew for certain what might happen, but war was a possibility. And if war broke out, travel back up the river to Union-held Missouri might prove difficult.

Robert left me at the Jackson Hotel and proceeded to make his dealings with several horse breeders. This left me to my own devices, so I decided to embark upon a trip to Mama Tumo's. My curiosity had gotten the best of me, and I had to find out what the eventual fate of my antagonists had been. But it was more than curiosity which was to drive me to Mama Tumo's that day. I needed to talk to someone about my circumstances, and only Mama Tumo would do, for it was only with her that I could speak my mind without being branded a madwoman.

I hired a carriage, but when I told the driver where I wished to go, he informed me in his Cajun accent, "Pardon, Madame, but it is not wise for a lady such as yourself to visit such a neighborhood."

I pulled a five dollar gold coin from my purse and told him, "Thank you, monsieur, but I know what I am doing. This will be yours if you take me that short distance and await me."

He gave a very Cajun shrug and we proceeded to my destination.

How odd, I thought as we came to a halt in front of the now-familiar address. This marked the third time I had been here, and each time as a different person. I hoped there was nothing in my curiosity that would lead to another alteration. Although being Louise Jefferson was not my first choice, I knew from experience that there were far worse fates.

I was met at the door by a slender young black man dressed in Turkish livery, and I knew him at once to be Elmore. The black man showed no trace of the white man he had once been. And I could see his sexual persuasion had changed as well, for there was no interest in me in those brown eyes, despite the fact that I knew myself to be very attractive woman. Of course, no black man would dare gaze lustfully at a white woman of any class in Louisiana, but there was something about Elmore that I sensed. Call it intuition for lack of a better word.

"Can I help you, Ma'am?" he asked in a lilting voice without a trace of recognition. I then recalled that Brady had never met Louise.

"Yes," I said, trying not to sound nervous. "I would like to see Mama Tumo."

"I'll see if she's available," he said formally, turning gracefully and retiring to the back of the house.

Mama Tumo didn't seem at all surprised to see me. "How have you been, child?"

How had I been? It was a question I had often asked myself lately. I was Louise Jefferson now and would be so for the rest of my life. I wore women's clothes, had a woman's time of the month, and had sex as a woman, but was I really a woman? How had I been?

"Fine, I suppose," I replied with a moment of hesitation.

Mama Tumo frowned. "Seems to me there shouldn't be any supposin' about it. You got a fine life, girl."

"Yes, I do," I admitted. "Robert is a good husband. But it isn't the life I would have chosen for myself."

"Most folks don't get to choose their life," she told me. "Mostly, life just happens. It's what you make of the life you'all are given what counts."

I sat unbidden, crushing the back of my skirt and broke into tears. "But, Mama, I am a man."

"You were a man, child. You're a woman now, right down to your soul."

"What do you mean?" I asked, stifling another sob.

"I mean it ain't just physical anymore. Old Mama Tumo can look right down all the way into your soul. The man is gone from there. You is all woman now, child."

"But how?"

"It happens, child. It's what the gods do to you. Your husband and you, you make love?"

I reddened as I replied, "Well, of course. I mean, it's expected."

"Do you like it?"

What a question to ask! Did I like it? As the slave girl, I had been forced to endure conjugal relations in a number of ways, all forced upon me by Ambrose. I had taken many of these techniques to my marriage bed, and was pleasantly surprised to find them enjoyable.

"You gotta answer me, girl," Mama said. "Do you like it?"

"I.." I began, unable to finish.

"Admit it, girl!"

"Yes! Yes, I like it very much. That's why... That's why I..."

"That's why you're worried," Mama finished for me. "You think it be unnatural, but it ain't. You a woman now, and you gonna be one all the rest of your days. Pretty soon, you probably gonna be a mama, so there ain't nothin' queer about what you do."

As if the sun had just risen after a dark night, I began to see that she was right. There was nothing wrong about a woman enjoying sexual relations, and I was most certainly a woman, no matter what I had been before.

"Do you love him?"

"Who?"

Mama sighed, "Your husband, you ninny. Do you love him?"

"Oh yes, Mama, I love him," I cried. I realized now that this was the true nature of my problem. I had been able to accept my fate in becoming a woman, but I had not been able to reconcile my previous male state with my growing love for Robert. Now, at last, I could love him freely, without any guilt over my past state.

"Then everything's gonna be just fine," Mama smiled.

I didn't get to see Bertram that day, for he was on an errand on the far side of the city, but before I left, Mama re-introduced me to another person of my acquaintance.

"Here, child, I want you to meet one of my newest young ladies. Jasmine, come in here, girl."

At Mama Tumo's bidding, a young Negress entered the parlor. She was small and fragile, but moved with the grace of a panther. Her dress was long and made of satin dyed a vibrant red. There was a slit in her skirt which allowed a supple leg to be seen, encased in a silk stocking which caused her black skin to shine. Her jewelry was large and expensive, from the gold necklace around her neck to the gold and ruby earrings which could be seen peeking out from strands of long, curled hair which spread down her back.

At first, I didn't recognize the girl. Both her name and her appearance were unfamiliar to me, but there was a look of recognition in her dark eyes, and I slowly came to realize that this was the girl I had been before I had become Louise. "Daisy?" I ventured.

"I'se Jasmine, Ma'am," she said, casting her eyes downward.

"Jasmine took some teachin' I don't mind tellin' you," Mama said. "Til her baby started to show, we broke her in kinda gentle like. Nothin' too rough, you understand. Then, when she got big, we let her use her mouth on the customers. Some of 'em like it from a pregnant gal."

I shuddered in disgust. I think I would have shuddered even if I had still been a man.

"The after she had her baby," Mama went on, "we taught her how to be a first class whore. She's in high demand now. She work here and we let her take care of the baby. Baby's a real pretty one, too. A little girl, half white. She gonna be a real looker some day just like her mama."

In that moment, I almost felt sorry for Ambrose - now Jasmine. Almost, but not quite. The fate he was now suffering was a more comfortable one than the one he had in store for me.

I took my leave of Mama Tumo and have not seen her again. When I returned to the hotel, Robert was waiting for me, frantic with worry. I smiled at his concern, realizing, I think, for the first time that I really had come to love him as a woman loving her man. I was, for the first time since my involuntary conversion, happy with my fate.

Robert's concern had come from the fact that he had just learned that forces of the state of South Carolina had just fired on a Federal fort called Fort Sumter. It was to be war at last. I thought for a moment of how Brady had longed for this moment, but I doubted if the new Confederacy would seek a black queer for their new army. Not being able to fight the war he so desperately sought was probably the greatest punishment of all.

So here I am now, a wife and a mother, living in a strange but beautiful region I had never thought I would ever call home. But I am content with what has befallen me, and look forward to Robert's attentions. Excuse me now, for I think I see him riding over the hill, and I must go to greet him.

END