The Home Coming A Story of Longing and Rejection Parts 2 and 3
This is a story of erotic fiction meant to be read by those over the legal age of their respective jurisdiction.
Written by Jean-Christophe in 2009 Reworked February, 2018
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Part 2: Reading the Will
The law offices of Bellamont & Arceneau maintain a discreet presence in the Algiers Quarter of New Orleans. The firm's reputation is such that it has no need to advertise for clients or to tout for business. Indeed to do so would be anathema to its two principals, Barth‚lemy Bellamont and Fran?ois Arceneau; both of these elderly gentlemen are of the "old school" and the virtues of honesty, propriety and discretion are paramount to all others.
When you consider that they work exclusively with Louisiana's richest and most powerful businessmen, plantation owners and the most reputable of slave dealers you can perhaps understand their position.
Algiers is the primary landing place for the newly arrived slaves from Africa and consequently many of the slave-broking firms have their holding pens in this location. Here the slaves are allowed to settle after the traumas of their trans-Atlantic voyages and are conditioned before being taken over the river for sale in the auction-houses of New Orleans.
As a boy, I had sometimes accompanied my father on his visits to Bellamont & Arceneau and so I know the area reasonably well. I am aware of the squalid slave-pens and I'm familiar with the sad, one-line songs of "call and response" that the homesick African slaves use to communicate with one another or to comfort wives, husbands and children from whom they've been cruelly separated and who are held in separate pens.
Even as a child, I'd been deeply affected by the sadness of those lilting melodies brought over from faraway Africa by the unhappy slaves in the fetid, vermin ridden holds of the slave ships.
Much of the legal work done by Bellamont & Arceneau has to do with these newly arrived slaves and their subsequent sale; hence the proximity of their law practice to the slave-holding pens of Algiers makes sound business sense.
They'd always handled the legal affairs for Belvoir Plantation and my late father had trusted them implicitly. He'd appointed them as the trustees of his vast estate and I am on my way to meet my half-brother, Yves at their offices. I suppose, with my father's death, there is much that Yves and I must attend to.
Hiram Pettigrew, the slave Brutus and I had caught the ferry at the bottom of Canal Street in the French Quarter and crossed the wide river to Algiers Point. It is a short stroll from the ferry pier to the attorneys' office and this takes us through the very pleasant residential area of stately, white painted mansions for which the Point is justifiably famous.
I'd tried to engage Hiram in conversation and I plied him with numerous questions about Belvoir, Yves, his wife, Odile and their eight year old son, Mathieu all to no avail. Each question was either ignored or answered with a perfunctory grunt. It has to be said that Hiram Pettigrew's attitude towards me is diffident. But I attributed this to the fact that I have been away at school for a number of years and he hardly knows me. And so I gave up the effort at polite conversation and lapsed into silence.
We leave Brutus to wait for us in the street; as a slave he'd not be welcomed inside the offices of Bellamont & Arceneau. Hiram Pettigrew retrieves a valise that Brutus had been carrying and accompanies me into the attorneys' chambers. I'm surprised at this; surely, as an employee, he is taking too much upon himself but I reason that perhaps he's obeying Yves's instructions in ensuring that I arrive safely for our meeting.
I take the initiative and I introduce myself to a nondescript looking clerk seated at a desk in the outer, reception office and tell him that I have business with Messieurs Bellamont and Arceneau. He watery eyes peer disdainfully at me other the top of the rimless spectacles perched precariously on the very end of his thin, pointed nose. He ignores me but nods to Hiram Pettigrew; obviously the two are acquainted. I am annoyed by the clerk's rudeness and bad manners and I am on the point of delivering a stinging rebuke to him when Hiram asks.
"Has Monsieur Yves arrived?"
"Yes indeed he has and he is with M Bellamont and M Arceneau at this very moment awaiting your arrival. If you just wait for a minute or two, I'll check to see if they are ready for you."
There is an awkward silence as Hiram and I wait for the clerk to return. It's quite obvious that the chief overseer doesn't want to engage with me in conversation and so I pretend to study several paintings hanging on the wall. I'm not an art connoisseur and so the paintings' merits or otherwise are lost on me. Nevertheless, I pretend to show a keen interest in them if only to avoid the embarrassing silence.
I haven't had a lot to do with Hiram Pettigrew over the years and so I don't know him all that well. I know my late father thought very highly of his abilities as his chief overseer and stud-master. As always, I respect my father's sound judgement and I resolve to do my best to get to know this man with whom - no doubt - I'll now have daily contact as one of the heirs to Belvoir Plantation.
How strange it sounds to describe myself as a Belvoir heir. Of course, as the younger heir, I will need to defer to Yves who after all has been assuming more responsibility for the plantation's management while I was away at school.
But what is taking so long for me to be admitted into the two attorneys' inner sanctum? What can be delaying them?
After my lengthy trip South, I am naturally anxious to be re-united with my half-brother so that we can together grieve the death of our father and console one another.
My silent question is answered as we are re-joined by the clerk who sniffily announces that.
"Messieurs Bellamont and Arceneau are ready to receive you!"
He holds the door open and I am followed by Hiram Pettigrew into the inner office. Once more, I am surprised by this but don't give it too much thought. After all I am here to meet Yves and to hear the reading of my father's last will and testament.
The inner sanctum is very much as I remember it from my boyhood visits with my father. It still has the same musty smell of books and legal tomes ageing and mouldering in the floor to ceiling bookshelves. I was never sure which of the two attorneys occupied this office - was it M Bellamont or M Arceneau? It had never overly concerned me. Usually as both attorneys engaged with my father on the business in hand, I occupied myself with a book or drew childish pictures on sheets of paper.
And today, the question still remains unanswered. Both elderly men sit sagely in ancient chairs, upholstered in burgundy, creaky-cracked leather, behind an enormous, hand-carved mahogany desk; they are just barely visible behind the piles of legal records and documents which clutter up the desktop. Yves sits in on this side of the desk facing them.
No one acknowledges my entry. Neither of the two attorneys or Yves rise to welcome me and my heartfelt efforts to speak to Yves are silently rebuffed. I am hurt by my older half-brother's cold indifference. Surely at such a time as this he could overlook any past animosities between us and embrace one another as grieving brothers.
Nonplussed, I look around for somewhere to sit and I see no chair has been made available for my use. It would appear that I am meant to stand. With a backwards glance over my shoulder, I note that Hiram Pettigrew has taken up a position with his back against the door to the outer office. He stands with his legs akimbo and hands on his hips and for some inexplicable reason I see his stance as quite menacing.
This isn't the homecoming I'd envisaged and I'm suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of unease. I nervously await developments.
For several moments - and it seems like an eternity to me - an awkward silence prevails in the room. Eventually, it is M Bellamont who breaks the silence. Loudly, he clears his throat and pointedly ignoring me, he speaks directly to Yves.
"It would appear that all the parties mentioned in M Charles Broussard's last will and testament are now present and we can proceed. Are you in agreement with that, Yves?"
Once more, I have been ignored. I accept that I am the younger son - younger by twelve years than Yves and that does make me very much his junior. But surely civility and good manners demand that I am not ignored and should be addressed by my father's lawyers and included in any discussions concerning his will? I might be the younger son but as a beneficiary in Belvoir, I am entitled to be treated with respect. Since arriving here, I have experienced nothing but rudeness. Really it is too much and I am on the point of protest; but Yves' reply cuts my retort short.
"By all means, M Bellamont, let's get this over and done with, shall we? I am anxious to return to Belvoir as soon as possible. Already this vexed question has taken up too much of my time. I just want it resolved expeditiously."
"I understand your situation, Yves. And I'll make this as brief as possible. But as you are aware there is a matter of some delicacy that we must address before your father's estate is finalised."
"Of course, M Bellamont, I'm well aware of the matter of which you speak. But can we keep the proceedings brief?" There is a hint of impatience in Yves's voice. "Can we proceed, please?"
"Well as you know your father bequeathed Belvoir in equal shares to you and your half-brother, Thierry which now presents us with a problem. But before we discuss that, I'm obligated to tell you that your father had instructed us to prepare another will which corrected an anomaly in his previous one. Essentially, this correction manumitted of one of your father's slaves setting him free. We, of course, did as M Broussard had instructed and drew up this new will. But unfortunately, your father passed away before he had the opportunity to sign his new will into being."
"So what's the current state of affairs, M Bellamont? What is the legal standing of my father's proposed new will?"
"Because your father hadn't signed and affixed his seal to the new will it has no legal standing and the previous will dated 21 July, 1824 is the one that we must now work with. I mention the new will because it is at variance with the 1824 will. However, it is a true expression of your father's wishes and I thought you might want to consider those in light of the problem we must now address."
M Bellamont's references to "a matter of some delicacy" and "the problem we must now address" worry me. What specifically do these refer to? I'm not privy to them and I wonder what - if any impact - they will have on me.
"Correct me if I'm wrong. But there is no legal obligation on my part to accept what my father intended in his new, unsigned will, is there?"
"There's no legal obligation on your part whatsoever, Yves." For the first time M Arceneau speaks. "However, you might like to see it as a moral obligation on your part to honor your father's wishes."
"Regrettably, my father never confided those wishes to me and I only became aware of them after his death. However, his death places me in the position of having to decide what is in the best interests of Belvoir Plantation and more importantly those of the Broussard family. I don't have the luxury of indulging his last minute pangs of conscience. If he'd really been serious about correcting the situation referred to in the newer version of his will, then he should have done so many years ago. He didn't do so and now I'm left to make that decision on his behalf."
"What you say is absolutely correct, Yves." M Arceneau continues. "But we would be remiss in our legal obligations if we didn't bring your father's change of heart to your attention. But we do appreciate that it is a contentious issue and you must now deal with it."
"Whilst he never discussed his plans to change his will with me, my father and I did on many occasions discuss this other matter pertaining to those changes. I have to say that I never accepted that situation and my views were well known to my father. He knew I strongly disapproved and we agreed to disagree. Having voiced my opposition, I don't feel that I now have any moral obligation to correct my father's indiscretion. If he'd been serious about that then he had many years to do so for himself and not leave it to me to rectify the problem. "
This discussion is moving beyond my comprehension. All this talk of "pangs of conscience" and "change of heart" is new to me and I wonder what these allude to. Despite my curiosity - and the need to know - I hesitate to ask. I've not been spoken to since entering the office and I've not been included in any of the discussions.
"Well then, Yves, it would seem that you have made up your mind to ignore your father's intentions as set out in his latest, unsigned will. Is that correct?"
"Yes, M Arceneau. I don't feel under any moral or legal obligations to carry out his wishes. As I said earlier, my only responsibilities are to Belvoir and to my family. I have thought this matter through - at some length I should add - and I have come to my decision which is final and not open to further discussion. So can we please move on and get this resolved."
"As you wish, Yves." It's M Bellamont's turn to speak. "That being so then we must now only refer to M Broussard's will signed by him on the 21 July, 1824. In that he leaves Belvoir Plantation and all other of his possessions, goods and chattels - and this latter includes his slaves - to his nominated heirs Yves BenoŒt Broussard and Thierry Guillaume Broussard in equal shares."
M Bellamont pauses in his deliverance and looks first to me and then to Yves. I heave a sigh of relief and I'm excited to think that I am to share equally with my half-brother in our late father's estate.
"And herein now lies the problem." M Bellamont continues. "Yves, both your family and Government records show that you are the legitimate son of Charles Christophe Broussard and his wife Alphonsine Marie Peltier, both deceased. Am I correct in stating that?"
"Indeed you are, M Bellamont and I have the family Bible with me that record the date of my parents' marriage, together with the dates of my birth and baptism. And of course my mother's untimely demise. Do you wish to see them?"
"That won't be necessary, Yves. I know these things to be factual. The question was rhetorical but one I had to put to you to comply with the laws of inheritance."
"I understand perfectly, M Bellamont."
"Ah humph!" M Bellamont cleared his throat more from awkwardness rather than of necessity. "Now comes the most distasteful part. It's one which I am loath to raise but which must be addressed. I refer to Thierry Guillaume Broussard and the circumstances of his birth."
I'm perplexed! What does M Bellamont's reference to the "circumstances of my birth" imply and why is he loath to raise this matter? Is there some dark family secret about the nature of my birth that has been kept from me? Was I conceived out of wedlock and was my father forced to marry my mother. Or worse still - am I my father's bastard son? And if so, does this bar me from my inheritance. Suddenly, the world takes on a menacing face and I grow apprehensive.
"There is absolutely no doubt that Charles Christophe Broussard is the father of Thierry Guillaume Broussard." M Bellamont continues solemnly. "There is no question that this is so. M Charles Broussard has always acknowledged Thierry as his son and it is a matter of public record that he has done so. So that is not in dispute. The problem arises ... ahem ... in the rather vexed question of Thierry Broussard's maternity. We know that Thierry's mother was known as Ad‚lie Aimee Broussard, the supposed wife of Charles Christophe Broussard."
"Well that's always been a matter of conjecture," Yves replies tartly, "whether or not my father actually married for a second time. Certainly it was never recorded in the family Bible nor have I ever seen a marriage certificate verifying such an event. Anyway, given the status of the woman, Ad‚lie - I refuse to use the name Broussard when referring to her - such a marriage would be socially impossible. My understanding is that she was an octoroon slave owned by my father. And to my knowledge, he never manumitted her and she died as a slave. "
"Yves, all of what you say is correct! Under the circumstances such a marriage wouldn't have taken place. Certainly we have checked all the records and can find no evidence that your father ever married for a second time or that he gave Ad‚lie her freedom. Quite evidently, the woman he presented as his second wife was in fact his pla?ee or mistress."
I'm rendered speechless. Which is possibly just as well? Up to this point, I have been ignored as though I'm not even present in the room and I don't know how any comments from me would be received. Some inner voice warns me to remain silent. But for how much longer can I still my tongue? The revelation that my parents were possibly unmarried worries me. Am I tarnished with the stigma of illegitimacy? If so, then I am "persona non gratia" in the stifling, pious, self-righteous world of planation society.
The plantation owners have a moral code which they strictly adhere to. Well, that is the impression they strive to present to polite society. Secretly, many lead double lives residing on their plantations with their white wives and children and projecting an illusory image of domesticity and marital bliss.
Yet, it is no secret that many white plantation owners hypocritically engage in the practice of pla?age and have installed Quadroon and Octoroon mistresses in secret households on Rampart Street, in Faubourg Marigny or in Faubourg Trem‚. Here they maintain the pretence of propriety by lodging in their secret households as "boarders" or, if they are wealthy enough, by occupying a separate household next door to their coloured pla?ee and their "Creole of Colour" offspring.
"Well, if it's true that my father never married the slave, Ad‚lie then that raises questions about the legitimacy of their offspring. Am I right in thinking that, M Bellamont?"
"If no marriage took place between your father and the - ahem - woman, Ad‚lie then any issue from that union would be deemed to be illegitimate."
"Which would prevent such issue from making any claims on my father's estate?"
"Normally, that would be the case, Yves. But in this situation, your father specifically left instructions that his estate is to be shared equally between you and your half-brother......."
Just one moment, M Bellamont! Let me correct you." Yves cuts short the attorney's words. "I don't acknowledge that I have a half-brother. I have never accepted Thierry Broussard as my half-brother. AND I NEVER WILL!"
Yves hurtful response in repudiating me as his kin cuts deep. I'm aware that we'd never been close; Yves had always kept me at arm's length and now I know why. In his own words he has never regarded me as his brother. I need to know why and so I ask.
"Yves, why are you doing this? What have I ever done to you that............"
"Shut your mouth, boy! And only speak when you're spoken to. Or I'll have Mr Pettigrew gag you."
The vehemence of Yves words shocks me and hits home with as much force as a blow to the stomach. He has revealed the intensity of his hatred for me and his manner of speaking to me re-enforces this view. More than anything else he insults me with the use of the derogatory word "boy". This is a term used when addressing a male slave irrespective of his age. But Yves command to "shut my mouth" does shock me into silence and fills me with a sense of foreboding.
"Are you saying that my father's will gives Thierry Broussard a share equal to my own in his estate?"
"Yves, in a nutshell, yes that is correct. Your father was very definite about that and his will clearly sets out his wishes in regard to Thierry sharing his estate with you.
"Well, M Bellamont as you are well aware there is another issue for us to consider."
"Ahh yes, indeed, there is, Yves. You refer to the ... ahem... circumstances surrounding Thierry's birth. That is an entirely different matter altogether and one however that we must address no matter how distasteful!"
"Indeed we must, M Bellamont! Can we move onto that?"
"Mais certainement! Yves, as you are aware the law prohibits slaves from owning property and there is now the question of Thierry's eligibility to inherit from your father's estate."
M Bellamont's words are puzzling! What do his comments about slaves being prohibited from owning property and my eligibility to inherit have to do with me? And what are the "circumstances surrounding my birth"?
"Well, M Bellamont, can we cut to the chase? I suspect we're just skirting around the issue. Let me call a spade a spade. The individual we know as Thierry Broussard is excluded from owning and inheriting property because of his slave status. Am I correct in stating that?"
Suddenly, I'm gripped by panic. What does Yves mean by my slave status? In my confusion, I blurt out the question.
"Yves, what's goin........."
"I told you to keep quiet boy." Once more Yves insults me by the use of the word boy. "I told you what would happen if you continued to interrupt me. M Bellamont, M Arceneau do I have your permission to bring my slave Brutus into the office?"
"Well.... ahem..."
"I know it isn't etiquette for a slave to be present as free men discuss business matters but these are exceptional circumstances that demand a quick resolution. This won't happen as long as the slave, Thierry constantly interrupts proceedings. I have warned him once to remain silent yet he persists in interrupting. Now I need to gag him."
"Then so be it, Yves! You have our permission for your slave Brutus to be present to help restrain Thierry"
For a second time, Yves has referred to me as a slave. I want to shout out my protest but instinctively, I know I should remain silent.
"Hiram," Yves asks his overseer, "would you be good enough to fetch Brutus, please?"
We maintain an awkward silence as we wait for Hiram Pettigrew to return with the slave Brutus. And as we wait, I try to make sense of what is happening.
If what Yves is saying is correct, then it would appear that I am the bastard child of Charles Christophe Broussard and an octoroon slave woman I'd known as Ad‚lie Aimee and whom I'd always thought of as my father's second wife. If this is so, then I am officially a "Creole of Colour" - making me neither white nor black - and suspending me in a limbo of uncertainty.
The stifling rules governing our segregated Southern society are rigidly enforced. Hypocritically, a wealthy plantation owner can have two families - one white and one coloured - and many do. While this is common knowledge - even to the long-suffering, white wife virtually confined to her husband's plantation - such situations are never spoken of. The white family is, of course, "legitimate" and the rightful heirs to the plantation owner's fortunes. The coloured family isn't recognized and the "Creole of Colour" offspring seldom have claim on their sire's estates.
Most plantation owners do provide for their Creole offspring by sending them to special academies to be educated. There they are taught the social graces. Beyond that, the plantation owner seldom feels he has any ongoing responsibilities and on reaching adulthood, his "children of colour" are left to fend for themselves.
In such a cloistered society where whites fear their black slaves, "creoles of colour" are resented and ostracised. The doors of polite, white society are permanently shut to them and so they must live as best as they can. However, their options are limited by their colour and young, Creole women often survive as high-class courtesans while their brothers become gamblers or confidence-men who live by their wits.
If what I am hearing is true, then I am the illegitimate son of white plantation owner and a Creole slave woman. And, as such, I'm not to share in my father's estate. Am I then to be turned away from Belvoir Plantation and left to fend for myself?
Suddenly, my world has been turned upside down. The joy I'd felt as I'd disembarked from the river- boat less than two hours ago has dissipated The thrill of my homecoming has been replaced with a sense of unease and foreboding.
Hiram Pettigrew returns to the office with Brutus and suddenly I feel very threatened by their presence. Something warns me that I should be very afraid. The silence within the room is ominous and it is left to Yves to break it.
"Hiram, please gag the slave if you will?"
Hiram Pettigrew opens the bag that he'd been carrying and removes a leather gag used on the slaves at Belvoir. It consists of a leather ball of about one and three quarter inches diameter attached to leather straps which fasten behind the head. My father had commonly used the ball gag whenever a Belvoir slave was whipped as he'd always been distressed by the agonised screams of the victim. Now such a gag is to be used on me.
I watch in fascinated horror as Hiram prepares the gag. Obviously, it is an old one that has been well- used. The ball itself is misshapen and well-chewed; no doubt by the teeth of the many hapless slaves who'd worn it as they were flogged for some misdemeanour.
As Hiram approaches me I back away and don't see him nod at Brutus. Suddenly, I am seized in a vice like grip of two, muscular, black arms and held fast. Hiram orders me to open my mouth and I obstinately refuse to do so. Once more, he orders me to.
"Open your mouth, damn you boy! Or you'll get a taste of my strap."
Tears of outrage - and shame - flood my eyes and trickle down my cheeks. I look around the room for support. Embarrassed by the spectacle being played out before them; both attorneys avert their eyes from me and stare blankly out the window into the street. Yves however is watching me intently and I am shocked by the malevolence I see reflected in his face.
Despite my defiance, I am no match for Hiram Pettigrew and the slave, Brutus. Hiram pinches my nostrils closed and forces me to breathe through my mouth. With his other hand he pops the leather ball into my mouth, behind my teeth, and tightens the straps behind my head.
My mouth is held open in an obscene grin and my teeth are on prominent display. I try to give voice to my objections but my words are reduced to unintelligible, guttural sounds that sound more animal-like than human and as I begin to drool, my spittle trickles down my chin onto the floor. I simply give in and remain silent.
"That's better! That should keep the brat quiet.' Yves exclaims triumphantly. "Now can we return to the business in hand and bring matters to a close? I am most anxious to return to Belvoir before nightfall."
"If that is your wish, Yves then so be it!"
"M Bellamont let me be quite clear on my position. As matters currently stand, I am the sole, legitimate heir to my late father's estate. Is that not so?"
"Yes, that's correct, Yves!'
"And the person known to us as Thierry Broussard is a person of colour whose true status is that of a slave?"
"That is correct!"
"And as such he is prohibited from inheriting a share in my father's deceased estate? Is that also correct?"
"It is, Yves," M Bellamont replies, "but once more, I have to point out this goes against your late father's stated intentions. Clearly, it was his earnest desire to see you and your brother share equally in his estate. I know from our discussions with your father that was his sincere wish. Could I suggest a solution to this problem which would satisfy you and honour your father's intentions towards Thierry?"
"And what is your suggestion, M Bellamont?"
"We have established beyond any doubt that Thierry - given the ... ahem .... unfortunate nature of his birth - is unable to inherit or own any property so Belvoir will pass to you and your heirs in its entirety. That is beyond any doubt. However, in keeping with your father's wishes could I suggest you give your half-brother his freedom and a small sum of money to allow him to return to the North. If you wish, my clerk can prepare the manumission papers as we talk and you can sign them before you leave our chambers."
"NEVER! Once more, M Bellamont! I re-iterate, I don't feel under any obligation to accede to my father's wishes. Had he genuinely wanted them, then he'd have ensured his wishes were set out in his will. And I repeat again - Thierry Broussard isn't my brother - he is my father's bastard by a slave woman and there'll be no manumission papers setting him free. He is a slave. and he is my slave! He was born a slave and he'll die a slave. I'd rather sell him to a plantation upriver before I'd see him walk free from Belvoir. And that Monsieur is my final position!"
"Are you sure this is what you want Yves? We can't convince you otherwise?"
"My position is inflexible! I have no intention of accepting Thierry Broussard for anything other than what he is. He is a slave and he will remain so. Let's have no more discussion on this subject."
"Then regretfully, we must accept that as your final position. All that remains is to name you the sole heir to your late father's estate and Belvoir Plantation. And to declare the person known as Thierry Broussard is the bastard slave child of your father and a female slave known as Ad‚lie. Are you happy with that decision, Yves?"
"Indeed I am, M Bellamont! I am most happy!"
"And you are comfortable with that? You don't wish to reconsider the position? Legally and morally, I have to ask."
"I am very comfortable with my decision! Can we please move on?"
"Then all remains is the matter of Thierry Broussard. What are your wishes regarding him? What will you do with him?"
"Why, I will keep him and take him back to Belvoir. He's a most presentable young buck and I understand he's quite intelligent. Possibly, I can use him as a house boy or as a my son's personal slave. Do I need to sign papers to that effect?"
"Well yes! We'll need to register him as a slave and the property of Belvoir Plantation. But that is a mere formality and just requires certification from us that we have looked at all the circumstances and satisfied ourselves to the validity of his slave birth. I can have our clerk draw up the necessary documentation as we finalise our business."
"Thank you, M Bellamont! I'd appreciate that very much."
"I have a question for you, Yves." M Arceneau interjects. "What name will you give your new slave? I take it you will change it from Thierry?"
"Indeed I will, M Arceneau, indeed I will. I have given this some thought and I will continue with my father's habit of naming our house slaves after historical Greek and Roman figures. The slave is to be known as Apollonius or Apollo for short."
"That's a most appropriate name for a slave, Yves! Now if you'll excuse me I'll speak to our clerk and set the wheels in motion to have your slave registered as 'Apollonius' Broussard. You're aware that slaves take the surname of their masters are you not?"
"Indeed I am, M Arceneau!"
Part 3
I can only listen in stupefied silence as I am stripped of my freedom and even my birth name. I am no longer Thierry Broussard and I have been renamed "Apollonius" - a name my father could well have chosen for a slave. And Yves has said that I am to serve in Belvoir's stately mansion as a house boy. The prospect of this chills me to the bone. It is some years since I'd last stayed at Belvoir and I recall the house servants were worked very hard under the close scrutiny of my vinegary sister-in-law, Odile who ruled her domain with a rod of iron. Now I am to work for her and undoubtedly, I must address her as my "Mistress" and my young nephew, Mathieu as the "young Master".
"M Bellamont, I have one more favour to ask of you. As you can see Apollo is too well dressed for a slave. I ask your permission to have him change out of his finery into clothes more befitting a slave."
"You have it, Yves! I take it that you came prepared for this eventuality and have brought a change of clothing with you?"
"I have M Bellamont! Hiram has slave trogs in his bag. If you'd just fetch them for us Hiram we can have Apollo put them on and we can be on our way."
I watch as Hiram removes a change of clothing from the bag he'd been carrying. Now it is plainly obvious that my half-brother had planned - and prepared - for this eventuality. There'd never been any doubt in his mind that day's end would see me reduced to slavery.
There are two articles of clothing; loose fitting trousers and a sleeveless, open fronted shirt which is the standard uniform for Belvoir's male field-hands - as it is for most slaves in Louisiana. They are made of cheap Osnaburg, the coarsely woven material made from flax, jute or unrefined linen which is manufactured in Scotland and exported to the slave colonies in the Caribbean and to the slave states of the United States.
Both articles of clothing are faded blue in colour, threadbare and obviously much worn. It would appear that I am to wear the cast-off clothes of another slave.
I am ordered by Yves to strip.
"Shuck off those fancy togs, boy. Let's have you buck-assed naked!"
I'm shocked by my half-brother's order. Apparently, I'm not to be afforded any privacy as I change my clothes. Obviously, I'm to strip naked in front of everyone.
I know nudity for a slave isn't out of the ordinary. At Belvoir, I'd witnessed many slaves - both male and female - being made to strip naked for an inspection by my father and Hiram Pettigrew. Indeed it was routine before slaves were sent to market or were being selected by them for Belvoir's slave breeding programme. I'd watched as Hiram, acting in his role as stud master, humiliatingly examined the most intimate parts of the females and discussed their potential for producing "healthy suckers" - a euphemism for a slave baby. Then he'd examine the males weighing and hefty their balls and stoking their cocks to full erection commenting all the time on their breeding potential.
Hiram took his stud master duties very seriously and methodically chose which buck he'd mate with a female. He'd have the naked slaves stand side by side as couples while he compared their bodies and discussed with my father their potential for "dropping a prime sucker". Hiram never hurried and always took his time before making a final decision as to which buck would cover which female. Like pieces on a chess board he'd reposition the slaves until he was absolutely satisfied with each couple's capacity to produce the finest progeny.
Therefore, my nakedness is of no consequence to anyone other than me and as a slave, my nudity won't affront anyone. Nevertheless, I do hesitate and I receive a sharp rebuke from Yves.
"I gave you an order, boy! Do it quickly and count yourself lucky I won't string you up by the heels and paddle your ass when we arrive back at Belvoir."
The tone of Yves voice tells me this is no idle threat and I know he is capable of carrying through with it. Several times I have witnessed as some hapless slave was "strung up by the heels and ass- paddled". It was a common form of punishment used by my father and as a youngster he'd made me watch to "harden my resolve" toward our slaves.
The barbarity of the "ass-paddling" had sickened me; however, as a teenager I'd also found it highly erotic and I'd always watched in a state of full arousal. Indeed there were occasions when, through my inexperience, I'd spontaneously ejaculated into my undergarments.
Watching as corporal punishment was administered to a helpless slave was visceral and struck a primeval chord within me. The sight of a naked buck suspended by his heels from a rafter in the barn and with his legs pulled widely apart emphasized the slave's powerlessness and my father's absolute mastery over him. As the slave waited with wide-eyed fear for the first strike of the paddle, he'd babble incoherently through his ball gag - I suppose the one in my mouth has been used for these occasions - and he'd struggle violently yet vainly to free himself.
The paddling had always been administered by the slave Brutus - the same one who holds me firmly in his vice like grip - and he'd strip naked for the occasion. I was never sure why he did this; perhaps it was a requirement of my father's but the spectacle of a naked slave hanging upside down being ass- paddled by a nude, massively aroused Brutus was always powerfully evocative. It reminded me of pictures I'd seen in my father's books about slavery back in the days of the Roman Empire - a period of history that my father always related to and it was the source for the naming of his slaves.
The paddle used at Belvoir is made of thick perforated leather and is, in Hiram's words, designed to "blister a slave's ass, good and proper". Hiram openly boasts how a slave won't be sitting down anytime too soon after his paddling and he would be sleeping on his belly. And wielded by Brutus, it is indeed a fearsome implement of pain.
The sickening "thwack" of the leather paddle striking naked flesh reverberated loudly around the closed confines of the barn and drowned out the muffled cries of its hapless victim. Each blow set the slave's body swinging like a pendulum and there was always another slave on hand to grab hold of him and to steady his body ready for the next strike.
All too soon, the slave's ass was bright scarlet and the paddle's perforations raised coin sized blisters which ensured the slave felt his punishment for many days to come. But worse was to follow. Always after an ass-paddling, my father insisted that pimentade and coarse salt be applied to the slave's abused buttocks.
Father claimed the pimentade and salt were efficacious in the healing process and prevented any permanent disfigurement of the slave. Whether or not this is true is open to conjecture but I do know it added another dimension of agony to the slave's already appalling suffering.
As Hiram callously rubbed the salt onto the slave's inflamed buttocks no thought was given to his discomfiture. Quite obviously, the salt stung the lacerated flesh but it wasn't until the pimentade was liberally applied to the slave's body that his true suffering began. It always seemed to me that Hiram was too liberal in his use of the pimentade. Using a special sponge on a wooden handle he'd generously "paint" the slave's ass several times before pouring the fluid it into his ass-crack. I'd watch as the fiery liquid slowly trickled down through the cleft and over the twisted, contorted muscles of the slave's back.
The slave's cock-shrivelling shrieks of pain - even the gag couldn't completely mask them - gave eloquent testimony to his suffering. I could only imagine the unbearable pain he felt as the astringent mixture set fire to the tender flesh of his anus and testicles.
Even more heartrending was the sight of the slave's futile attempts to ease the pain of the pimentade as he thrashed around in his bonds. Like some convoluted, obscene dance his body twisted and contorted itself so violently that it shook the stout, oaken rafter from which he hung suspended.
Once I questioned my father about the ingredients of the pimentade. He wasn't all that forthcoming and simply told me that an old slave woman prepared it from a recipe that included the juice of limes, ground chilli powder, cayenne pepper and some other ingredients.
So I am all too aware of what is involved in an ass-paddling and I know from the vehemence that Yves is showing towards me that he is quite capable of carrying through with his threat to "string me up by the heels and to paddle my ass". My fear of such is so great that I begin to undress.
I remove my jacket and waistcoat and very carefully fold them and then look around for somewhere to place them. Silently - and I sense sympathetically - M Bellamont indicates that I can place them on a small table standing against a side wall. As I do so, the door opens and M Arceneau and his clerk enter the office.
"The papers have been drawn up, Fran?ois?" M Bellamont asks M Arceneau.
"Yes Barth‚lemy! All that is required is for us to sign them and to ask out clerk to witness Yves signature. Then the person formerly known Thierry Guillaume Broussard will officially become the slave 'Apollonius' the legal property of Yves BenoŒt Broussard of Belvoir Plantation."
I watch as the two attorneys sign the document that condemns me to slavery and suddenly I am convulsed by a violent shivering. How can this be happening to me? When I awoke on the riverboat this morning such a thing would have seemed incomprehensible. But it is happening and I hear Yves being asked to sign the paper that will see me become his slave.
As he walks to the desk, he pauses long enough to slap my face and to reprimand me.
"Boy, you were given an order to undress. Continue or I really WILL have your ass paddled. Shuck down! Do it - NOW!"
As Yves signs the document, I untie my cravat and strip to the waist by removing my shirt. Then I bend to unbuckle my shoes and to remove my leg hosing. All that remains now is for me to step out of my trousers and undergarment. Despite my fear of Yves's anger I hesitate to take this final step that will see me stand before the two attorneys, Yves and Hiram Pettigrew as a naked slave. Even Brutus is to watch my shame but as a slave he is of no consequence. Nudity between slaves is normal.
I see the red flush of anger suffusing Yves's face and I know I have delayed too long. His words confirms this.
"Your intransigence has just earned you ten strokes of the cane when we arrive back at Belvoir."
His words chill me and, white-faced, I apologize.
"I'm sorry, Yves!"
This time, Yves slap to my face is delivered with such force that I'm thrown off balance and knocked to the floor. And he orders me to.
"Get up! And as my slave you are now to call me Master!"
As I scramble to my feet, I see their sympathy for my plight reflected in the faces of the two attorneys; embarrassed by what they are witnessing, they look away. I wonder do they remember me as the small boy who'd accompanied his father on his visits to them. Can they remember me sitting quietly in a corner of the office busily drawing on the paper which they'd kindly given to me to while away the time as they talked business with my father?
Now stripped to the waist and shoeless, I hastily unbutton my trousers and allow them to fall in a crumpled heap around my ankles before stepping out of them. Only my underpants are between me and total slave nakedness. I look towards Yves hoping that he will save me from this ultimate humiliation. Surely, he must have some residual affection for me; I am after all his half-brother. My eyes plead with him to no avail. He curtly orders me to.
"Continue, boy!"
I have no other recourse but to obey Yves's command. Already, he has sentenced me to ten strokes of the cane and any further delays on my part could see that number increased.
I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my undergarment and ease them down over my hips and legs. As I bend at the waist to remove them, I'm acutely aware that my nether regions are exposed to the scrutiny of all those present in the room. I feel the stretching of my sphincter as it opens up and I feel the full weight of my balls hanging low between my thighs.
Now totally naked, I stand with bowed head and cover my genitals with my cupped hands in a futile attempt to retain some level of personal dignity.
"Put your hands behind your head and stand up straight!"
Yves's - or as I must now call him, my Master - command is imperious and not to be ignored and I take up the position he demands of me.
"Well Hiram, now that you see the slave buck naked, what's your opinion of him?"
"The boy looks to have good potential. I bit lightweight but from what I can see the building blocks are there. May I finger him at close quarters?"
"If M Bellamont and M Arceneau have no objection I most certainly don't."
Even as they give their consent for Hiram's inspection of me, I sense the attorneys distaste at having a naked, slave buck examined by an overseer in the inner sanctum of their august law chambers. Nevertheless, the owners of Belvoir Plantation have always been among their most valued clients and, no doubt, they are anxious for this to continue. Therefore it is easy for them to temporarily put aside their distaste and to watch impassively as Hiram "fingers" me.
I have the body of a typical eighteen year old. I have reached my full height of a shade just over six feet and I am large framed. However, my muscular development has yet to reach its full potential but for all that I have no reason to be unhappy with my physique. My youthful musculature is clearly defined and provides a good foundation for stronger development.
And I have been told that I have comely features with my blue eyes, full red lips and even white teeth. I have a thatch of thick, blond curls and my limbs have a light covering of golden down. A darker treasure trail wanders down the centreline of my belly to my golden pubes connecting it to my chest hair. My skin complexion is a light golden colour - something I'd always thought enhanced my appearance - but now it would appear it defines me as a "person of colour" and a mulatto slave.
I stand passively as Hiram's hands travel down over my body expertly gauging my potential as a slave. His manner is business-like and I instinctively know that I am being appraised by a connoisseur of prime slave flesh. Somehow, the impersonal nature of his inspection diminishes me as a person. Under his expert hands, I am no longer a man; I have become an animal or a beast of burden being assessed for my strength and work potential.
Hiram visits many indignities upon me as he squeezes my biceps feeling for their hardness then pounds my chest as a test of its soundness before forcing my mouth open to inspect my teeth. His inspection also involves giving a running commentary on my body to my Master. He turns me around and gauges the width of my shoulders before his searching hands sweep down over my back to the twin curves of my ass-cheeks. He takes hold of an ass-cheek in either hand and kneads them just as a baker would with his loaves and tell Yves that I have an ass like a "working bullock". He adds that this is a good thing as much of a slave's strength and capacity for hard work comes from having a muscular ass and strong legs.
But the worst indignity occurs as he subjects me to a close quarter examination. He perfunctorily orders me to.
"Bend at the waist".
I feel his left hand resting on top of my ass as he parts my buttocks and runs his finger up and down my ass-cleft. Then, without warning, he thrusts a finger into my anus. I'm taken by surprise and begin to squirm uncomfortably as his finger probes deeper into the recesses of my rectum searching for my prostate gland. For my efforts, I am rewarded with two sharp slaps to the buttocks and told to.
"Stand still, boy while I check out the health of your ass!"
His probing finger makes contact with my prostate and he comments favourably on my good response. Satisfied, he withdraws his finger and contemptuously wipes it on my back before parting my legs to give him easier access to my testicles. He tugs down on my scrotum and rolls each ball between his finger and thumb before hefting them in his cupped hand. He tells his watching audience that.
"The boy has a good pair of gonads!"
I'm familiar with the term "gonads". It is used disparagingly by white slave holders when talking about their slave's testicles and I'd heard my late father use it countless times over the years.
Hiram repositions himself and reaches between my legs to under my belly and clutches hold of my penis; he pulls back on it and begins a stripping action very similar to milking a cow. Despite my shame, I find myself responding unwillingly to his manipulations and my cock thickens and lengthens. This pleases Hiram who smiles at my half-brother and tells him.
"Yves, he's a helluva fine, young buck! He's well hung and his pecker is hair-triggered too with an excellent response. You could well have yourself a potential breeder with this boy."
To hear myself described as possible "breeding buck" fills me with dismay. Suddenly, my mind is transported back through the years to the time when I'd illicitly watched the mating of one of my father's slaves to the Reverend Winterbourne's female slave. I recall how Hiram had stood behind the young slave and applied his "viper" to his ass urging him to thrust harder and deeper into the wench. Is this the fate that now awaits me? I am full of revulsion and yet I know there can be no escaping such an appalling prospect if Yves, my new Master decides on this course of action.
Hiram has finished his fingering of me and I am ordered to.
"Boy, straighten up, put your hands on top of your head and face the front!"
He delivers his verdict on me.
"Yves, here's no doubting that he's a true son of Ham! One only needs to look at the size of his cock and balls to know he's not fully human. No white man could be hung as heavy as he is. It isn't natural. He's built like a proud, young stallion. You've got yourself a prime, young buck with this slave."
"What about his immediate future, Hiram? What do you recommend for him?"
"My recommendation is that you use him as a field-hand. Although he's well set-up, he does need the conditioning of the type that comes about through hard labour. Just look at his muscles; they are well- defined but soft. They need hardening up. A few months hoeing cotton in the fields and you won't know him."
"Well, Hiram, initially, I had thought of giving him to my son as his body-slave. Eventually, Matthieu will need his own slave!'
"An excellent idea, Yves! But first build on his physique, toughen him up and condition his mindset to that of a slave. Give him twelve months as a field slave and he'll be broken in and most biddable. Twelve months under the whip will teach him obedience and make him most docile. And after all, isn't that what you want - an obedient slave? You don't want an unbroken, untried slave working with your son, do you?"
"No Hiram, I guess you're right! Very well then, Apollonius will spend time in the fields learning to be a slave. I give him over to your supervision."
"Thank you, Yves! I promise you won't be disappointed. I'll turn Apollo into a tamed slave for you. But with your permission, I'll have him dress and we'll be on our away. As you know, I still have supplies to pick up from around town before we head out to Belvoir. I'll take Apollo and he can help Brutus load up the buckboard."
"You have it Hiram! I still have papers to sign with M Bellamont and M Arceneau before I ride out to Belvoir. However, there's no reason for you to wait around on me. You should be about your business and I'll see you back at the plantation."
Hiram retrieves the Osnaburg trousers and shirt and contemptuously tosses them at my feet.
"Boy, get these trogs on and be quick about it!"
I welcome the chance to cover up my nakedness even if it is with a slave's clothing. I have two items to wear; just the trousers and shirt. There are no undergarments - such things are unknown to a slave -and I am to go bare-footed which is normal for slaves at Belvoir. The exceptions to this are house servants who wear the more elaborate satin uniforms and buckled footwear of the footman or the parlourmaid. But I am to be a field-slave and will therefore remain barefooted.
I hastily scramble into the faded blue trousers which are unwashed and reeking from the copious sweating of their previous wearer. They are of the slip-on type; there is no fly opening and incongruously the thought flashes through my mind - what will I do if I need to piss? The tattered legs barely cover my calves and they are very loose fitting around my midriff. I stand holding them up and wonder what to do next. Obviously, if I let go my hold on them they will slip down over my hips into a crumpled heap around my ankles.
However, Hiram tosses me a length of coarse, hempen rope with frayed ends to serve as a belt. As I knot it around my waist, he tells me to.
"Hurry along, boy! I haven't all day to wait on you."
All that remains for me now is to slip the ragged, sleeveless shirt over my shoulders. There are no buttons to be fastened and the open-fronted shirt leaves me almost bare-chested.
I now wear the garb of the common field-slave and any lingering doubts I have about my true station are quickly dispelled as Hiram Pettigrew bids farewell to the two attorneys and takes his leave of my Master. I listen to their conversation and learn that Yves will ride directly back to Belvoir while Hiram picks up supplies from a riverside warehouse before he begins the slow drive back to the plantation.
Tears mist my eyes. This morning, I'd awoken with such high hopes of re-uniting with my half- brother Yves and his family and I'd been excited at the prospect of seeing Belvoir Plantation and its beautiful colonial mansion set amid its lush, green gardens. These hopes had been cruelly dashed. It's true; I have been reunited with Yves not as his brother but as his slave.
And my dreams of a joyful return to Belvoir have turned into a nightmare. Rather than my triumphant return as one of its co-heirs, I am returning as a mulatto slave now condemned to work out my days at Belvoir toiling under the overseer's lash as a common field-hand.
And as though to drive home the message that I am now under his control, Hiram unclips the "viper" whip from his belt and lightly flicks it against my ass.
"Move your sorry ass, boy! There's work to be done. And you too Brutus unless you want a taste of the snake on your ass."
There's no pain in his action; just contempt and the humiliation of being driven on like the dumb animal I've become.
The clerk escorts us off the premises out into the early afternoon sunlight of the busy street. Hiram orders me into the back of the buckboard and chains my ankle to a ringbolt. As he does so he tells me.
"We don't want you trying to make a dash for freedom, do we? Least ways not before you wear the Belvoir brand. Nor do we want a valuable slave like you falling off and injuring yourself. Now you just rest easy and sit quietly until I need you to help Brutus load up with the supplies for Belvoir."
Hiram climbs into the seat alongside Brutus and tells him to.
"Drive on!"
I have begun my sorrowful return to Belvoir Plantation not as one of its young masters as I'd thought but as the new slave, Apollonius as my half-brother, Yves had planned.
To be continued ..........