Loving My Master

The following story deals with slavery in the Americas. To make it as truthful and authentic as possible I have had to use some harsh and offensive language at times and for that, I apologise.

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Phoebe Gordon was a slave. It was a sad and sorry truth for any human to have to bear but it was nonetheless true. In their hearts, every black slave in the Americas was free, at least until they were broken into beasts of burden.

She stood with many such now, crowded into livestock pens in a barn.

Each pen was filled with slaves suited to a different task and for each, different stages of this descent into despair was made clear by the general air about its inhabitants.

Near the opening of the barn, larger pens were filled with field hands or those who would work the sugar mills. Jobs infamous for bringing about the early death of slaves, or at the very least, dismemberment. The furthest pen in the corner housed the dead meat, slaves that were bound for jobs that predicted death with a certainty. Many bore the marks of serious floggings or other methods of punishment. Slaves like those, who were rebellious or dangerous weren't worth much and were sold cheaply to be used in the most dangerous tasks, meat for the crows. That end of the barn stank of death; Death and fear and abject sadness. Each soul there had downcast eyes, they shuffled mournfully in cruel shackles, resigned to their fate. Even the grease rubbed into their skin to make them glow with a healthy look did nothing to disguise how truly broken they were.

Closer to her were fresh slaves, some newly indentured but most simply unbowed by years of grinding toil. They were mostly young sons and daughters taken from their families, by owners recognising their value as a commodity. They'd be sold to new owners and transported away to different plantations where they were better suited to different crops or productions.

In the pens surrounding her in the far reaches of the barn were skilled workers, those with a trade or skill. Most were clothed and cared for by owners that understood it was better to keep the more expensive goods in the best condition possible.

They were educated, but only in the area that was their skill for strict laws kept slaves in their place, most unable to read or write or do anything that weakened their dependency on the masters.

Along with their clothes they carried some dignity, still human despite their bondage. They looked out and about, their eyes curious, only dropping them obediently when a buyer or any free man cast a glance at them.

Realising that she too had been gazing about, Phoebe turned her eyes down and shuffled further behind the woman in front of her. She had more pressing concerns to keep hidden and unobtrusive than just a reflex to appear submissive and obedient.

She did not want to attract the attention that young attractive slaves often did. It had been a worrying development to transform from just another little slave girl rushing about the plantation into a beautiful young woman. She had progressed and had been taken as a maid by her old Mistress. Her mother had worried then, for under the eye of the master, it was not uncommon for a maid to also become his plaything.

Her old master had never seemed interested thankfully, and so she had been able to continue on, blossoming into full womanhood without interference. Even then though, gentleman visitors to the house had been a danger to her, for they rarely took her refusal to their advances, slaves were beasts after all. Luckily the watchful eye of old lady Jameson had saved her from abuse. She had maintained her dignity, or at least that dignity, for there was little dignity left to a slave.

Then the old lady had upped and died and here she was, leaving the plantation she'd known all her life to be shipped off somewhere else to an unknown end.

As the purposeful tread of feet approached, she quietened her mind and assumed a placid bowed expression. The footsteps stopped across the barn, one of the first sets of customers that day, important enough to warrant the choice of an early comer.

'I want a coupl'a strong un's, none of that tosh you sold me last time Samson. I need good hard lads to keep the mills running. The last storm battered em to hell an' I need um running at peak efficiency. Peak, you hear me boy?' A rough voice boomed. The accent was a harsh mix of English, bastardised over a few generations in the Caribbean.

'I'll thank you not to call me boy, Cunning' the voice she knew belonged to the head auctioneer retorted 'I'm three years older than you myself as you very well know. These are good hard working lads and if they don't work I knows you'll take the whip to 'em good and 'ard as you usually do. They'll work, don't you worry.'

'Aye, I'll be the judge of that Samson. That I will. I'll take two. That fella there and the big ugly one there. As well as that lot we discussed down there. Now, take me to see what you've got in the way of clerks, I need one to see to the papers. Richard lad, go find your mother a new handmaiden and see that the bitch isn't half dead.' Finished Cunning.

'As you say father.' came a reply in a voice that was almost like honey.

Where the older men's voices grated and barked, this smooth tumble of words were beautiful on the ears, husky and strong. Chancing a glance at the group to catch a glimpse at what surely must be an angel, she saw the auctioneer lead off a tall, cruel looking man, his white hair bright against his darkened skin. As they moved away they revealed a young man, the speaker that had caught her ears.

He was probably in his mid twenties, tall like his father with golden coloured hair, a wreath of heavenly curls. As his voice had been honey, so was his skin, tanned to a rich brown in the endless Caribbean sun. He stood with one leg straight, the other leg bent easily. His trousers were light blue and a simple white cotton shirt lay open at the neck, where more sandy hair coiled darkly with sweat. A riding crop was held between arm and chest as he lit a thin cigarillo and then casually tossed the match.

Nervously she dropped her head as he approached and was intercepted by another auctioneer, the young Eddie, another cruel man profiting from human misery.

'What'll it be Sir? New maid is it? This one here is a right bargain if that's the case, know's everything you might need and the nigger bitch can even birth a babe,' he said, jabbing his finger to an older slave at the front.

'Aye, I daresay she knows a thing or two. This one here is as old as my dead granny. I ain't buying so you can mitigate your loses when she pops it.' said the younger Cunning as he looked around the pen for something more to his liking.

Fearing being seen, Phoebe edged sideways behind another and could have cursed herself when it only succeeded in drawing attention to herself.

'Whoa there little lady.' Richard Cunning called out 'where are you going? Come on now, I want to have a look at you.

'Move girl, you heard the man!' Eddie barked when she stood rooted to the spot.

Fearing the worst but unable to free herself from their staring eyes, she stepped out from her hiding place and was propelled towards them, step by step at their coaxing.

Up close, the figure that was Richard Cunning took greater form. With her eyes downcast she first took in the heavy knots of his calves, pressed against the blue of his trousers. His boots were black, tapering to a point and his feet neat. More so she took in his smell for the first time. Lingering above the stink of animals in the barn, a healthy smell of sweat and leather predominated, perfumed with the warm fragrances of spiced rum and the cigarillo he smoked. She almost flinched when a hand shot out and took her chin in a firm grip.

He brought her face up so the light from the barn doors played across the chestnut skin of her face. She avoided his eyes but his fingers were insistent, jerking her until she met them. She was shocked at their colour, at first almost grey but under deeper inspection blossoming with blue all masked with a white wash so they were as pale as sun dried pebbles. No angel looked like that, or could look at someone like that. Those eyes bore into her, eyes that covered her in fire so hot it chilled her. Their paleness was disconcerting, and almost lifeless if it wasn't for the energy that glittered in them. That was the scariest part, for she couldn't tell whether they were fired by malice, lust or madness. She gasped and stepped back from his reach so that a shocked murmur ran through slaves and was near instantly silenced by their own desire not to attract attention.

She bowed her head quickly wary that she was by the slave owners standards, eligible for swift and severe punishment.

Instead of the strike from his crop that she expected to fall at any second, a deep grumble built in his chest. A chuckle so deep and throaty that it seemed impossible for this golden boy to posses.

She gaped at him, her mouth opening to show her neat little ivory teeth and the pink of her tongue, unsure whether to feel even more uneasy at his levity.

Master Eddie was not so lenient as to chuckle but instead leered at her as he spoke, grasping at her chest and tugging so that her breasts bulged out.

'This one more to your liking is she? Come here nigger bitch, this gentleman wants to examine you'.'

She was not like to push her luck again and move out of range but luckily, she didn't need to, for Richard Cunning's crop was now in hand and he laid it lightly across her aggressor's chest.

'That won't be necessary.' he said without looking away from her 'I can see her quality already, get her ready with the rest' before stalking after his father on long powerful legs.