Changed Circumstances
By:
Jean-Christophe
(© 2011 by the author)
The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's
consent. Comments are appreciated at...
Chapter 7
'The Forge'
I'm the last of the newly
enslaved to be branded today and I wait for my turn — there is another slave
before me. I watch in fixated horror as he is dragged kicking and screaming
incoherently to the branding table. He is hysterical in his terror and vainly
begs to be spared. The two older guards, Harold and Craig are unmoved by his
pleas, but the young guard, Jason, is decidedly ill at ease. New to the sight of
slaves being branded, he hangs back unsure of what to do or what is expected of
him. Indeed, when the brand had seared itself into the left flank of the first
of us to be branded, he'd hastily left the forge and I could hear the sounds of
his explosive, vomiting coming from the courtyard. But who could blame him his
reaction to this sickening sight of a former free man being initiated into his
slavery.
Only the most callous of minds would be unmoved by the awful suffering of a new
slave as he feels the hot kiss of the branding-iron burning itself into his
tender flesh. Only the hardest of hearts wouldn't react to the victim's terror,
his desperate pleas that fall on deaf ears, his plaintive crying as he awaits
the iron, his scream of abject pain, and the awful, sickening smell of his
scorched flesh.
The stench of so much burned flesh pollutes this vile place. It permeates the
air I breathe, and I'm sure it has tainted the very timbers that hold up the
walls and roof of the forge.
On his return, Jason could best be described as 'green around the gills'.
Harold, the older of the other two guards, was sympathetic to his plight and had
put a supportive arm around the young apprentice guard's shoulders.
"Don't worry, lad! The first branding of a slave you get to witness is always
the worst. It affected us all that way. So there's no need for you to be
ashamed; is there, Craig?"
No! Not at all, Jason. It takes a bit of getting used to at first, but you'll
soon get the hang of it. After a while, you won't even think about it. It'll be
second nature to you," Craig added his encouragement to that of Harold.
I reflect on this concern of the two older guards for their young assistant. I
can't help but contrast this to the cruel indifference they have shown to us.
Bitterly, I recall we are slaves and undeserving of even the smallest shred of
humanity. No doubt, it is their indifference that allows the guards to go about
their grim business each day; without it, how would they cope with the cruel
reality of their jobs?
But then, I recall less than four hours ago, I'd been like them. Hadn't I
displayed this same total disregard towards my former slaves? The cruel
hopelessness of their existence had never intruded itself upon my consciousness,
nor had it ever disturbed the complacency of my self-centred life. I'd never
viewed my slaves as anything other than units of labour to be used by me in my
pursuit of even greater personal riches. The Barrois family had always viewed
their slaves this way, and I was no different. I simply followed in the
footsteps of my former grandfather.
But I'm no longer a Barrois; I'm now a slave whose new name is Rafe; a
slave-name given to me by my new Master. The gods have certainly played me false
and delivered me into grim slavery. Ironically, I suppose that viewed from their
perspectives, my former slaves would see the poetic justice in all that is now
happening to me.
As I wait to be taken to the branding table, I consider all that I have lost.
Without my expensive watch — a gift from my former grandfather — which had been
taken from me in the court-room and given to its new owner, Guy Maratier, I no
longer know the time. This was my first personal insight into what it meant to
be a slave. As the watch was removed from my wrist and handed over to Guy
Maratier, I realised that a slave possesses nothing and is, himself, nothing
more than a possession of his owner. And I understood that time will be of no
further consequence to me — as a slave, all decisions will be made for me, and I
will have to give unquestioning obedience to them. But I reason it is now late
afternoon, possibly between 4.00 PM and 5.00 PM.
If that is so, then four or five hours ago, I'd sat in the dining-room of my
townhouse and ate my usual rich lunch and drank my expensive wine. Curiously, I
wonder about my next meal. No doubt it will consist of the same cheap, bland
slush or hard biscuits that I had routinely fed to my slaves.
Ridiculously, I think about my very expensive clothes hanging in the wardrobes
of my former homes. What will my Master do with them? We are of similar build
and they would fit him — but will he overlook the fact that they once belonged
to his new slave and wear them himself? Or will he consider them contaminated by
me and discard them — perhaps donating them to a charity— and buy new ones?
Miserably, I realise I am condemned to wear the uniform of my new slavery —
total nakedness, an iron collar around my neck, and a brand on my ass.
It seems impossible to me that my life has been altered so much in the course of
a single afternoon. Four hours ago, I was Lucien Barrois, the sole heir to the
Barrois estate and highly regarded by the leading citizens of the city. If they
didn't care for me personally, then certainly they cared for the prestige that
my name gave to their endeavours.
Why, tonight, I was to have sat on the platform alongside the Governor as he
launched his re-election campaign. Instead, I'll spend tonight alone, naked, and
in chains, locked in a slave prison. But, I'll be very much a talking point at
the meeting. Instead of my presence lending lustre to his campaign, the governor
will use my new slave status as a powerful tool in his argument for another
term. He'll rail against the wicked, unscrupulous actions of the former
illustrious Barrios family that saw them present me — a slave — as the heir to
their vast wealth. He'll use my situation to highlight the need to be
ever-vigilant against the spurious arguments of the abolitionists and
anti-slavery groups, and he'll both cajole and frighten the voters into
accepting his proposed, draconian changes to the 'Slave Act'.
I won't ever be aware of the Governor's delight at my changed circumstances.
Gleefully, he recognises the benefits to be gained by using my situation as an
argument to strengthen his 'law and order' program and to bolster his calls for
the harsher treatment of all slaves.
Eventually, the notoriety of my enslavement will win the Governor his coveted
second term, and I'll also be the unwitting instrument in ensuring that the
'Slave Act' is expanded to place slaves under even more stringent control than
is currently the case.
Indeed, he'll "honour" me by introducing these harsh new changes in the slave
laws to the legislators as the "Barrois Amendments". And of course, I'll be
subject to this harsher treatment. I wonder about my immediate future. After
I've been branded, will I remain locked up here overnight, or will my Master
take me with him? If so where will he take me? Back to the townhouse, which only
a few hours ago I'd owned and had left so unsuspectingly. It's a bitter thought
that I'd left there as the proud master and must now return to it as an abject,
naked slave. How will my former slaves view me as I join them in the slave
quarters? Will they gloat at my new status or will they be so surprised that,
initially, I'll be ignored? I hope so. My sense of shame at becoming a slave is
palpable, but the humiliation I would feel on being presented to my former
slaves as one of them … is unimaginable.
Then, I wonder … when will my Master take me out to La Forêt? Will he take me
there tomorrow to begin my new life as a common work slave and put me to work in
the fields with the other slaves? As I think of this my eyes brim with tears. I
know enough about my former overseers to know not to expect any mercy from them.
They will delight in humiliating me and subjugating me to their wills. Without
doubt, they'll rejoice in my downfall and make me work hard —perhaps even harder
than the other slaves — out of sheer spite and malice. And I know they'll
delight in applying their whips to my back as they exhort me to greater effort
in my labours. Stupidly, I wonder just how painful is the lash and I shudder at
the thought that, by this time tomorrow, I will have tasted its sting.
And tomorrow night, will I be shackled and locked in the very same slave stables
that I once delighted in visiting as a boy, to look at my grandfather's ponies
and draft slaves.
The hard metal of the collar around my neck chafes at my pride and reminds me of
what I've lost, and its constriction is a reminder of what I am now. It feels
heavy around my throat and, like the brand I'll receive in a few minutes, it'll
be the permanent, visible badge of my servitude declaring to the entire world
that I am a slave. As the heavy collar was fastened around my neck, there wasn't
any discomfort just an awful sense of degradation. As I knelt on the dirty floor
of the forge while the blacksmith locked it into place, I thought of Norge. Did
he feel this same outrage at what was being done to him that I now feel? Did he
share my sense of loss of freedom? Somehow, as I recall my treatment of him at
the slave auction, I now feel deeply ashamed.
As the four of us were taken from the assessor's offices out across the yard to
the forge, I saw Norge still tethered where I'd left him; no doubt waiting
patiently for my return. He'd looked up as we moved towards the forge attracted
by our sobbing pleas and the shouts of our handler's. For a few fleeting moments
he watched us dispassionately before turning away. A few months ago, he'd made
this same short walk from the courts to the forge; he knew from painful
experience what awaited us. Yet he had shown a slave's disinterest in our fates.
He had previously undergone all that I'm now experiencing. As a slave himself,
why then would he be interested in what is happening to us? I'm to learn this
lesson very quickly; that a slave's only concern is for himself. When a slave
sees another slave's suffering, he is grateful that it isn't him. When he is
forced by his master to watch the punishment of another slave, he absorbs the
lesson but give thanks that it isn't him being punished — at least, not this
time.
I don't think Norge knew I was one of the four being taken to the forge. If he
did, he didn't show any recognition. Probably, it would be inconceivable to his
mind that his owner is now to share his fate. He will become aware of this,
shortly, and I wonder what his reaction will be at seeing me reduced to his own
lowly status. I was the man who'd humiliated him at Schuster and Hanson's
Sale-yards, who had bought him and trained him to serve, demeaningly, as a naked
pony and who had used him for his own sexual gratification before having him
circumcised. Will he rejoice in my downfall?
Tearfully I suppose, if the tables were reversed, I'd most probably be overjoyed
at my former Master's changed circumstances. Could I then blame Norge for
harbouring similar feelings?
My thoughts are interrupted by the pleading of my fellow slave as he is hoisted
bodily onto the table, flipped over onto his belly and strapped down. With the
exception of me, he is the last of the group to be branded. Within a few minutes
his suffering will be over and he'll be shackled and placed in the holding cage
with his companions to wait on the pick-up van from Schuster and Hanson's, Slave
Dealers and Auctioneers. Once there, he'll go on display and be available for
inspection from any interested buyers. Within a few days he'll suffer the
ultimate indignity; he'll mount the auction block and be sold to the highest
bidder.
Thankfully, I'm to be spared this fate — at least for now. But the reality of my
situation tells me that there is every chance that one day, I, too, will be
publicly displayed and sold at auction. My new Master said as much in the
court-room, and he'd promised the judge he would advise him of when this
happens.
When we'd first entered the forge, all four of us looked around at the
frightening surroundings with our eyes opened wide with terror. What we saw
didn't allay our fears; the smells, the overpowering heat, the overall
untidiness, and the sight of all collars and chains hanging on the walls only
added to our distress.
The building was typical of the older type of blacksmith's shop that was open at
the front to allow for some relief from the intense heat of the forge itself.
The walls and ceiling were smoke-blackened, and the floor was littered with the
detritus of previous brandings and fixing of collars. The stench of scorched
flesh permeated the place and was sickeningly overpowering. The blacksmith was
obviously a free man — he was clothed but stripped to the waist and protected by
a leather apron — and he was assisted by two brutish, naked slaves one of whom
was vigorously pumping the bellows ensuring that the coals were constantly
glowing with red-hot intensity. As we entered, I saw the handles of four
branding-irons protruding from the bed of hot coals — one for each of us. The
sight of these caused me to tremble, and it took all my willpower to remain on
my feet. My fear overwhelmed me.
At one side of the forge was a cage, which held the seven new slaves who were
branded earlier. These were the same seven I'd seen on my arrival, and whom I'd
planned on viewing at the slave-yards tomorrow. However, my plans are somewhat
altered in view of my own situation. The seven lie on the straw-covered floor of
the cage and each was dealing with the pain of his branding as best he could.
Some were crying, others whimpered softly and one or two were groaning loudly.
While their reactions to the branding-iron may have varied, they were united in
the awful pain they all suffered.
As the four of us entered the forge we huddled together in a tight group as our
guards and the blacksmith discussed the order in which we would be branded.
Given the lateness of the hour and the fact that the people from Schuster and
Hanson's were due shortly to pick up today's consignment, it was decided that my
three fellow slaves would be branded first and me last. But first we were
collared.
One by one, we were dragged forward and forced to our knees by the blacksmith's
attendants who held us in position as our necks were measured and the
appropriately sized collar fitted. Within a very short time, all four of us wore
this first accoutrement of our servitude.
For a new slave, this fitting of the collar is symbolic. It reminds him of what
he's lost and of what he once was but is no longer. Its closure around his
throat tells him he has lost his freedom, and that he is now a slave. It's to
serve as a permanent reminder to him that society no longer regards him as
human, and that he's been relegated to the level of a beast-of-burden.
And so it was with me. With the fitting of my collar, I lost all hope of
redemption, and the endless years of my slavery yawned like a wide, bottomless
chasm of hopelessness. All that has happened to me this afternoon has led me to
this spot. As the blacksmith hammered the final spigot through the lugs of my
collar, my consciousness finally accepted the fact that I was no longer free.
For me it was an epiphany — for now, I truly felt like the slave I'd become.
I wait trembling as the other slave is branded. He continues his pleas for mercy
even though he knows none will be shown. He struggles against the straps holding
him firmly to the table and he is rewarded with a series of blows to his back by
the two older guards. He turns his head to watch as the blacksmith walks to the
forge and withdraws the branding-iron from the coals. As the blacksmith
approaches the table, the slave continues to struggle and babble incoherently.
My line of vision is obscured by the blacksmith's bulky figure so that I don't
see him apply the iron to the slave's body. I do, however, clearly hear his
shriek of animal-like pain.
The sounds of the slave's distress turn my bowels to water and I lose control of
my bladder, and I now stand in a puddle of my own piss.
I watch as the newly branded slave is released from the table and has shackles
fitted to his wrists and ankles before he is dragged to the holding cage. There,
he, too, lies on the straw-covered floor and waits with his fellow slaves for
the arrival of the van that will deliver them to Schuster and Hanson's
slave-pens.
Now it is my turn to be branded and as the blacksmith's two slaves approach me,
I move backwards until I have my back to a wall. With nowhere else to go, I
slide to the floor and curl my body into a crumpled heap and plead desperately
to be spared. I am no match for the combined strength of the two, brutish
slaves. Effortlessly, they haul me to my feet and drag me towards the table.
Vainly, I try to dig my heels into the floor, but they can find no purchase
there. Still, I continue to struggle, and then, with a burst of superhuman
strength, I break free from their grasp and run into the courtyard hotly pursued
by the slaves and the two older guards.
My headlong flight across the yard is soon curtailed; the blacksmith's
slave-assistants catch up with me and wrestle me to the ground. They are joined
by a third slave — the same slave who'd taken Norge's reins from me and given
him water when I'd arrived earlier.
Buried beneath the scrum of their naked, writhing bodies, I continue with my
useless struggling, and I give voice to my outrage and fear. My desire to avoid
the branding-iron is so strong that I find reserves of strength I'd not been
aware of.
The commotion of all this stirs Norge out of his lethargy and he now watches
this vain attempt of a new slave to escape the inevitability of his fate.
Then over the tumult of my screams and the loud cursing of the two guards, I
hear a voice. It is the voice of my Master, Guy Maratier. "Good afternoon,
gentlemen. Is my new slave causing you trouble?"
The question quietens us down. None of us had seen Guy Maratier, accompanied by
a court official, enter the yard from the court-rooms and his presence is
unexpected.
"He's your slave, sir?" Harold, the older of the two guards asks quizzically.
"Indeed, he is. Judge Matthews very kindly sent his Bailiff along to assist me
in claiming him, and I have the papers here to prove my ownership of the slave.
I've just picked them up from the registrar's office, and I'm on my way to the
forge to take possession my new property. But I see he's not yet ready."
"Ah! I'm sorry about that, sir. As you can see we have had some trouble getting
him onto the branding—table. Your slave's very reluctant to be branded. But he
should be ready for you in about ten to fifteen minutes. Can you wait? Why not
watch as he's branded?"
"Thank you! I will!"
Vainly, I plead with my Master, and I hear my plaintive begging.
"Please, don't do this, please. I don't want to be branded. PLEASEEE!"
My Master ignores me and I try to fall to my knees. Held fast in the firm grip
of the two slave-assistants, I'm prevented from doing so; but my legs do sag and
my knees buckle in a vain attempt to prostrate myself at his feet. Still I plead
and abase myself even further.
"Please, Master, please. DON'T DO THIS. PLEASE?"
In my fear, I have called him Master for the first time. From now on it will be
easier for me to use this hated word that acknowledges his ownership of me. But
I don't care. I'll do anything to avoid the branding-iron.
Foolishly, I continue to beg for my Master's mercy; yet I know this mercy isn't
his to give. As a former slave-owner, I'm aware that the branding of all slaves
is mandatory and that, as a slave, I must now wear the letter S on my body.
Inevitably, the letter of the law must be carried out; even in the case of the
former Lucien Barrois.
Sobbing wildly, I'm dragged back into the forge and manhandled up onto the
branding table. As I lie on my back, I see my Master watching with interest as
other hands seize my limbs and flip me over onto my belly. Struggling futilely,
I feel the tightening, leather straps as they are fastened around me, securing
me to the bench and immobilising my body. My movements are now restricted to the
nervous quivering of my muscles, the heaving of my chest as I gulp for air, and
the almost explosive beating of my heart. I turn my head towards the forge and
my eyes widen with terror as I see the blacksmith pull the iron from its fiery
bed of hot coals. My body is racked with sobs as I see the red glowing S at the
end of the long-handled brand approaching me.
My vision and all my thoughts are centred on the branding-iron. I don't see the
three guards move closer to witness my branding. Even Jason seems to have
overcome his initial reluctance and has taken up a position that gives him a
better view of the proceedings. Then, I hear the blacksmiths' instruction to one
of his assistants to "Hold him steady!"
I feel a firm hand pressing down on my ass preventing me from wriggling or
squirming, and I know my branding is imminent; I wait for the blacksmith. I'm
suspended in a limbo of dreadful expectation — of waiting as the hot iron sears
itself into me and feeling the agonising pain as it does so. How long do I wait?
I don't know, but each second seems an interminably long time. My heart pounds,
my laboured breathing quickens, and I am lathered in a fear-induced sweat. Then,
I hear the sizzling and smell the scorching of my flesh as the blacksmith
touches me with the iron.
Momentarily, I feel nothing, but suddenly my nervous system explodes into
violent activity as it carries the signals of my pain to my brain for
processing. I hear my animal-like shriek at the fiery eruption of this pain
throughout my body. The intensity of my suffering is unbearable, and my loud
sobbing adds to my misery. Incongruously, the thought intrudes itself into my
mind that I'm now a branded slave, and to give emphasis to this, I hear one of
the guards — I think it is Harold — say to my Master, "There you are, Mr
Maratier. The slave's finished and available for you to take away."
I am, indeed, finished in both mind and body. My body now wears the permanent,
visible marks of a slave, but my mind carries the shame, humiliation and
degradation of the transformation of a proud, young free man to that of a common
slave. My induction is complete, and I now wear the collar and brand of my new
slavery.
My Master walks over to me and places his hands on my body. Whether or not this
is his gesture of claiming me as his property, I don't know. But by that simple
act I know I now belong to him. It is, for me, a moment of rebirth.
Irretrievably, my former life is behind me, and the life that lies ahead of me
is one of service to this man. I am his slave and he is my Master. At his touch,
my being trembles with the cruel realisation of this. I awoke this morning as a
free man, and by day's end, I am this man's slave.
I shiver as his hands move down over my back to my buttocks, and I wince as he
examines the blistered flesh of my new brand. I listen as he asks.
"It looks painful. It will heal-up cleanly, won't it?"
His concern is more for the ascetics and value of my body rather than of any
concern for my suffering.
"Don't worry, Mr Maratier. Your slave takes the branding-iron very well." It's
the blacksmith's turn to answer, "It looks a bit messy just now but within a few
weeks he'll be sporting a nice, crisp brand. I suppose you'll be putting your
personal brand onto him at some stage. If so, I suggest you get a professional
to do the job. His skin is a bit thin and an amateur could easily botch it up.
He's a valuable slave, and it would be a pity to ruin him with a poorly applied
brand."
"Thanks for your advice," my Master replies. "Yes, he'll wear my brand as soon
as I've designed one and have it made. I'll certainly act on your advice and
make sure he's branded properly."
The blacksmith's assistants unstrap me and help me clamber off the table as my
Master wanders over to look at the ten new slaves locked in the holding cage.
"What's to happen to this lot?" he asks generally.
They're to be taken to the slave-dealers and made ready for the next sale,"
Harold volunteers.
"That's interesting! Do you know which dealers?"
"Schuster and Hanson's, Mr Maratier. Do you have an interest in them? I take it
your slave isn't going with them?"
"No, my slave's not for sale. I have other plans for him. Perhaps one day I'll
sell him, but not just yet. However, I might just look in on this lot, though. I
expect to be a frequent visitor to the auctions from now on."
"What do you want us to do with your property? Is he to be delivered to your
home?"
"No, I'll take him with me. I understand I have a pony and trap waiting for me
in the yard. Isn't that so, Bailiff?"
"That's correct, Mr Maratier. As, from today, both are now your property — as is
this slave."
"Good! Then gentlemen, could I please ask for your assistance in securing my
slave's wrists to the back of his collar, and do you have a length of rope I can
use to tether him to my cart?"
"We can do better than that, Mr Maratier," the blacksmith offers, "I'll get one
of my assistants to fetch a chain. A chain is stronger; being a new slave we
don't want him attempting to break free and trying to escape. I'll have my
slaves fasten his wrists to the back of his collar and take him out to your trap
for you. Are you going to lead him?"
"No! I think I'll have him run alongside the pony. That way, I can keep an eye
on him."
"That's probably very wise of you. Then I'll instruct my slaves to chain him to
the shafts of your cart alongside the pony."
I am defeated. I stand docilely as my wrists are fastened to the back of my new
neck collar, and I bow my head in shame as a long length of chain is attached to
the lug at the collar's front. A sharp tug of the chain tells me I must follow
as I'm led from the forge out into the courtyard and over to where Norge is
tethered. He looks up as we approach and for the first time he recognises me.
His eyes widen in disbelief as he sees that I — his former master — am now a
slave. Forbidden to speak, his eyes ask the questions of how and why, and as his
gaze roams over my body it tells me all I need to know. He smiles broadly at my
discomfiture; he is obviously delighted at my changed circumstances. Shamefaced,
I look at him briefly before lowering my eyes to the ground.
Soon I am fastened to the cart, and I now stand shoulder to shoulder with my
former pony.
I am now to run naked alongside him through the streets of the city as we
deliver our Master to his new home — a home that, until a few short hours ago,
had belonged … to … to me.
To be continued...
Posted: 06/10/11