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Feel free to repost this story. It contains adult themes, so don't read

if you are offended by such material.

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 fianc�e 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