Date: Tue, 20 Sep 2011 23:52:12 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: Re: "Changed Circumstances" Chapter 42  Gay Male/Authoritarian

CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES
A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune"
Chapter 42: "A Pony Named Jake"

This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of
eighteen years.

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)
"To see all my stories go to yahoo.groups.com/group/SlaveNow"

Chapter 42: "A Pony Named Jake"

I had never stood that close to Jake before and mostly I had only seen him
from afar. The nearest I'd ever been to him were on those occasions when
Claymore Jackson halted his trap close by me during his visits to the
water-wheel to check on my progress.

To be honest, I'd always resented Jake and his friendship with Norge. I
suppose there was an element of jealousy in this. Norge had become so
special to me that I unreasonably resented his close feelings for Jake.  I
knew this was unfair but I couldn't help myself.

Norge had told me on several occasions of his strong feelings for Jake and
of the special bond that had developed between them when Lucien Barrois had
sent him out to La Foret for his pony training. He'd added their friendship
had grown out of their common need for protection against the unwanted
advances of the more predatory slaves with whom they were
stabled. Inevitably, this friendship strengthened and as the bonds grew
they became lovers. And that was what I resented.

I resented that Norge and Jake could give physical expression to their
feelings for one another. And I resented that the chief overseer gave his
blessing for this and allowed them to be stabled together in the same stall
whenever my Master visited La Foret. Claymore Jackson was aware of the
strong attachment the two ponies had for each other and he rewarded Jake
for his honest labour and loyalty by allowing him to spend his nights with
Norge.  I knew this was so because Norge had told me of it back in the city
and, on the day of my arrival at La Foret, I'd also overhead Claymore
Jackson's instruction to the grooms to stable Norge with Jake for the
duration of my Master's visit.

During the preceding six weeks, my Master had visited La Foret on three
occasions and the closest I got to seeing Norge was whenever Guy Maratier
drove him to the water-wheel to inspect me. I never got to spend time with
Norge or to speak to him. I, of course, wasn't allowed to pause in my
labours; if anything I was 'speeded up' by Sir Conn's whip as a
demonstration of my increasing fitness. And Norge could only stand mute and
wait on our Master. But as I strained at the capstan, I stole furtive
glances in Norge's direction and I could see he was looking at me as I
toiled. I wondered what Norge would have said to me if we'd been able to
speak. Would he tell me that he was proud of my progress and of my
acceptance of my slavery?

I longed to speak with him and to feel our two bodies wrapped in a tight
embrace. I longed to lie alongside him in our stall at our Master's
townhouse and I hungered to experience the satiny feel of his mouth as he
took my cock into its moist embrace.  I hungered for the delicious
sensations of his tongue as it sought to twist itself around the hard shaft
of my prick and tease the myriad nerve endings of my glans. But most of
all, I lived for that day when he could enter me and claim me for his
own. But our Master had forbidden this and so I spent my days in fevered
anticipation and my nights in unfulfilled desire.

And my situation wasn't helped by the knowledge that Jake and Norge slept
side by side on the freshly strewn straw bedding of Jake's stable stall
whereas I was locked securely alone in my cage.  The sexual exploits of the
slaves in my barracks only fuelled my frustration. As I watched and
listened to the carnal activities of my fellow slaves, I was tormented by
the vision of Norge - my Norge - and Jake indulging in their
love-making. Was it any wonder that I was jealous of Jake and resented him?

That day, when Claymore Jackson halted Jake at my side, was to be my
introduction to him. I stood between him and Honky and I must have
presented a sorry sight in comparison to them. Both ponies were clean,
well-groomed and their body oil added to their sleekness.  I, by contrast,
was unkempt, dishevelled and filthy. I was envious of their cleanliness and
yet the thought occurred to me that within a few weeks, I too would be like
them. Once my training was finished, I would be as well groomed as they
were.

Left to stand as the three overseers talked, I stole a sideways glance at
Jake and I could see why Norge was attracted to him. Unlike Honky, Jake
didn't wear blinders so his face was open to my scrutiny. And he didn't
possess Honky's grotesque mane; instead his thick, black hair was cropped
close to the scalp in the style common to all slaves.

Jake had an open, friendly face - pleasant rather than handsome - and
grey-green eyes that lit up his face as he smiled at me. His friendliness
took me by surprise. The warmth of his smile conveyed that he knew who I
was and I was disconcerted by his unexpected gesture. I saw Jake as a rival
for Norge's affections and yet he obviously didn't see me as such.

Eventually, in the last stage of my pony training, I will be stabled in a
stall next to Jake and I will learn he did know all about me. In the
silence of the night, I will learn from Jake that Norge had told him
everything; of his concerns for me and of the true nature of his feelings
for me. Jake will tell me I was always uppermost in Norge's thoughts and
how whenever they were stabled together his first questions were of me.

"Had Jake seen me? How did I look?  How were the overseers treating me? How
was I bearing up?"

Jake's words will shame me. I will see how unworthy my resentment and
jealousy of him were.  Eventually, I will see him for the outgoing,
generous-spirited man that he really is. I will appreciate that he and
Norge supported one another when each was at the lowest ebb of their slave
existences. I will learn that rather than resent Jake, I should appreciate
him for all he has given to my beloved Norge.

I will see in Jake, a mere slave, a nobility of character and a generosity
of spirit that are so sadly lacking in the freemen acquaintances from my
previous life as Lucien Barrois. Jake will become my friend and like Norge
I will grow to love him too.

But that is in the future. That day, I still resented Jake and his show of
friendliness wasn't reciprocated. Instead, I sulkily ignored his smile and
pointedly turned my face from him.

                                 >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

"Good morning, Regis. Good morning, Conn.  How are you both?" Claymore
Jackson is the first to speak. "Today looks as though it will be another
scorcher."

"Yes indeed it does, Claymore." Sir Regis returned the chief overseer's
greeting. "You're right and the weather is heating up once more. How's the
harvest going?"

We're on schedule, Regis. The oat crops have all been harvested and we've
nearly finished the barley and wheat.  But it's hard on the slaves having
to toil in such conditions. They have to be driven that much harder to keep
them working."

"I can imagine, Claymore. But spare a thought for their overseers too.  It
is hard work using the whip in this heat to keep the slaves toiling."

"That's true! But my main concern is that the slaves don't become
dehydrated.  I don't want them dropping in the fields from heat
exhaustion. I have issued orders that they are to be given water every hour
rather than at the customary two hours period."

"That's a good move, Claymore. I've done much the same with the draft
teams. They are to be watered more regularly too."

"Good man, Regis! That's all we can do. That and hope there'll be a change
in the weather to cool things down a little."

"True, Claymore. But we don't want rain with the change to spoil the
harvest."

"Conn, I see you've brought Rafe over. He's now ready for the next phase of
his training and I'm surprised he's not out in the fields working even as
we speak."

"I'm sorry, Mr Jackson.  Regis and I were just about to take him out but we
got talking about him being trained as a pony and we were comparing him
with Regis's pony."

"Well I notice he has some fresh stripes on his ass. Has he been playing
up?"

"He showed disrespect to Regis, Mr Jackson."

"Please Conn call me Claymore.  There's no need to be formal as we're all
equal here. And how did the slave show disrespect to Regis?"

"In answering a question he implied Regis was a 'nothing', Claymore."

"HE DID WHAT?"

Claymore's roar of anger startled all three of us. Honky began to fidget
nervously and even Jake was taken aback by the sound of fury in his
driver's voice. The three of us were out of earshot of the overseers'
conversation and I was unaware of what had provoked the chief overseer's
ire. However, I was about to discover that I was the cause of it.

"RAFE, GET YOUR USELESS ASS OVER HERE! NOW!"

Suddenly, I was afraid. Whenever I'd heard Claymore use this tone of voice
with a slave in the past it had boded ill for the unfortunate wretch.  I
wondered if that was to be the case with me.

Fearfully, I ran to where the three overseers waited and I stood trembling
before them.

"ON YOUR KNEES, BOY! Put your nose to the ground and get your ass up in the
air. DO IT!"

I dropped to my knees and lent forward and placed my nose to the gravelled
surface of the stable- yard. And by doing so, I automatically carried out
the second part of Claymore Jackson's command; my ass was indeed up in the
air in an attitude of humiliation and nicely positioned for punishment.

"Now tell me exactly what Rafe said?"

There was an edge to Claymore's voice; one that didn't bode well for me. I
wondered of what offence I was guilty but Claymore's question about what
I'd said gave me a clue. Ruefully, I chided myself for the stupidity of my
reply to Sir Regis initial question to me.

"What you looking at boy?"

I should have been more aware of the pitfalls that confront a slave when he
is asked a question by his superiors. I know many owners deliberately bait
their slaves under questioning in the hope of exposing any hidden
resentment on their part. But this isn't something I'd ever done as Lucien
Barrois. I was never into playing such games with my slaves. I'd always
considered this beneath me but I'd supposed that my overseers did play
mind-games with the slaves under their control and my current predicament
seemed to suggest that could be so.

My past experiences as a Master should have prepared me for this. My
instincts should have forewarned me that I needed to think carefully before
answering. I recall how on several occasions, my Master had played these
mind-games with me; baiting me and asking leading questions of me. I should
have been more alert to the possible deviousness of an overseer.

Viewed in retrospect, Sir Regis's question could have been a leading one;
designed to ensnare me into an unthinking response. Whether or not that was
so, I didn't know. And yet, I'd meant no disrespect to Sir Regis. Rather my
unfortunate answer reflected my uncertainty and lack of experience.

However, as a Master, I would have been angry if a slave had replied to me
in the manner I had used in answering Sir Regis and I would have perceived
this as gross insolence on the slave's part. And the slave would have been
punished for his transgression.

I knew I'd angered the chief overseer and I feared his righteous
indignation. As I said, I had seen him that angry on a number of
occasions. But fortunately for the plantation's slaves, these events don't
happen very often and I supposed it was that rarity that added to my
apprehension.

As Lucien Barrois, I had witnessed similar scenes and I'd always remained a
silent witness to them.  Quite correctly, I'd allowed Claymore Jackson a
free hand in matters of discipline and I would never have undermined his
authority by interfering. For Lucien to have done so would have sent
conflicting messages to the slaves and served to confuse their simple
minds.

As Lucien, I'd always believed slaves need certainty in their uncomplicated
existences. They need to know that if they displease an overseer - either
by word or deed - then there is a price to pay for that. They have to
understand that, for slaves, there are no mitigating circumstances allowed
for their behaviour. They need to see things strictly in shades of black
and white; for them there can be no insolent replies, no questioning of
orders and no procrastination.

What is expected of them is instant and total obedience to all commands and
respect for their overseers. Masters demand - and it is their right to do
so - total subservience, absolute obedience and unqualified respect from
their slaves. These are the basic tenets which govern a slave's life and
any deviation from these rules can't be tolerated.

On those occasions when Claymore Jackson's ire had been stirred to the same
level of anger as that day, things had not gone well for the offending
slave. Without fail, the miserable wretch was given a whipping ranging in
severity from five to ten strokes and the number was determined by the
extent of his misdemeanour.

Instinctively, I knew then I was to suffer the same fate.

I had never been whipped. Well, that wasn't strictly true as Sir Conn had
used his whip on me as I laboured on the water-wheel. But he'd used the
whip judiciously and randomly and only as an inducement for me to work
harder.  And that was very different to being ritualistically tied to a
whipping post and methodically flogged as punishment.

But I remembered the fiery bite of the lash when Sir Conn had laid his whip
across my back for the first time. Its pain was indelibly etched into my
memory and I was very afraid.

As a master, I had seen slaves whipped although I always tried to avoid
being a witness to them. I can't say that I ever derived any pleasure or
satisfaction from seeing a slave suffer under the lash.  Despite my
squeamishness, I, as a slave owner, accepted floggings were a necessary
part of slave management but I doubt that I could have administered one
myself. But then, why would I? After all, I had employed overseers who had
no qualms and strong arms to do this for me.

Several times my former neighbour, Major Swanston had invited me to witness
the flogging of one his slaves. Somehow, I'd always found an excuse not to
do so. I really hadn't wanted to watch as his brutal steward, Pug applied
his Master's whip to the back of some luckless victim with sadistic relish.
I knew the Major strongly disapproved of my constant excuses not to be
present and he'd chided me for my weakness.

As I crouched at Claymore Jackson's feet, I knew that I would in all
probability, be whipped. All my instincts told me this was the inevitable
consequence of his wrath. And yet, I hoped my instincts were wrong.

Frantically, my mind went back to the reason that saw me cowering at
Claymore Jackson's feet.  Sir Regis's earlier question repeated itself over
and over.

"What you looking at, boy?"

And echoing back was my unthinking answer.

"Nothing, sir! I'm sorry sir!"

My answer was misconstrued and taken completely out of the context of my
true intent. But that won't save me.  Now uppermost in my mind are the
questions "how do I make amends for my stupidity? How do I redeem myself?
Or is it too late?"

Claymore waited for an explanation and it was Sir Conn who gave it.

"Claymore, Rafe was insolent to Regis and showed him great disrespect. He
called him a 'nothing' in answer to a question. Regis caught Rafe looking
straight at him and when he asked what he was looking at, the slave
insolently said 'nothing'."

That was wrong!  While it was true that I had used the word 'nothing', it
was never my intention to be insolent or disrespectful and it was
disingenuous of Sir Conn to say that I was. But then, I supposed it
depended on the interpretation you placed upon it.

For a slave there is no defence against an accusation made against him by
an overseer. There can be no argument; the overseer is always right and
never the slave.

At best, I was intimidated by my first encounter with Sir Regis. His
physical presence and manner both overwhelmed and confused me. With the
exception of Sir Conn, I'd not had contact with any of the other overseers
and I was unused to their ways.

Claymore Jackson's powerful figure towered over me as I knelt cringing at
his feet and the anger in his voice was all too evident as he challenged
me.

"What have you to say for yourself, boy?

I knew it would be futile to try and defend myself against Sir Conn's
accusations. To do so would only compound my crime and lead to additional
punishment for contradicting him. There were absolutely no options open to
me; it was simply a case of a 'coping it sweet'. However, I needed to reply
to Claymore Jackson's question.  I decided I had to accept my crime and
that my answer needed to be brief, direct and without embellishments.

"Sir! I apologise to Sir Regis for my disrespect."

"That's not good enough, boy! You need to make amends." The head overseers
admonished me.  "Crawl to Sir Regis's feet and beg his forgiveness and
depending how sincere you are I will then decide your punishment."

Quickly, I scuttled on my hands and knees to where the stable-master stood
and lent forward to kiss his feet as I abjectly asked for his forgiveness.

"Sir, I humbly apologise and beg your forgiveness. I am sorry for my
transgression. Sir, please forgive me."

My apology was a grovelling one. But uppermost in my mind was Claymore
Jackson's warning that my punishment would be decided by the sincerity of
my words. My fear of the whip overrode any sense of foolish self pride.  I
willingly debased myself in an effort to minimise the whipping that I knew
would be administered to me.

Sir Regis was gracious as he forgave me.

"Good boy, Rafe! I accept your apology. We'll say no more about
it. However, don't let it happen again."

"Thank you Sir! And I will be more respectful in future."

"Indeed you will Rafe!" Claymore Jackson's words are ominous. "And to help
you remember you'll be given five strokes of the whip."

I blanched at the chief overseer's sentence and my trembling portrayed my
mounting trepidation. I was to be whipped. True the sentence was only a
light one - I had seen more severe sentences carried out on other slaves-
but there is something almost primeval in the notion of one man flogging
another. I thought of the grim, almost ritualistic nature of a whipping and
I pictured myself spreadeagled within the whipping frame and subjected to
the lash.  I trembled as Sir Regis asks.

"So you want him whipped, Claymore?"

"Yes I do, Regis. I won't tolerate any insubordination or displays of
disrespect from a slave. And I am being lenient with Rafe. He's getting off
very lightly."

"And when do you want him punished, Claymore?  Do you want him whipped in
front of the other slaves; at the end of the day?"

"No let's do it now.  Let's do it while it is fresh in his mind.  It makes
the punishment more relevant to the crime."

I waited to be ordered to my feet. I was forbidden to move until then. But
Sir Regis had one final act of humiliation to heap upon me. He had one more
task for me to perform before I was forgiven.

"Boy, while you're on your knees you can clean the dust from my boots."

Foolishly, as I studied his boots I wondered how I was to clean them.  But
I recall thinking how flashy they were. They were expensively handmade of
the softest leather and reached almost to his knees.  Coloured a light tan,
they were embossed with an intricate, raised pattern of black leather on
the pointed toes and high sides. I viewed them with distaste.

Over the next few days, I grew accustomed to Sir Regis and his ways and I
became aware that this flamboyancy is a hallmark of his character

Sir Regis possessed an air of easy self-assurance that Lucien Barrois would
have described as over the top arrogance. But as the slave Rafe I saw it as
something entirely different. What I saw was an air of overbearing
authority.

Highly polished - and the thought flashed through my mind that some slave
obviously spent much time and effort if achieving this - they were covered
in a patina of fine dust.  Obviously it was this dust that I'd been ordered
to clean away.

I began to use my hands to wipe away the dust from the left boot when Sir
Regis interrupted me.

"What the hell are you doing, boy?"

"Sir, I'm cleaning your boots as you instructed me to, Sir"

"Not like that, dumbass! You don't use your hands."

I was confused; what had I done wrong? Despite this, I managed to blurt out
my question.

"Sir, how do I clean them?"

"Use your tongue, boy. Start licking!"

I was appalled by Sir Regis's command. Were there no limits to the insults
and humiliations to which a free man can subject a slave?  Was there no
action too demeaning or too debased to heap upon a slave's wounded pride?

Over the weeks of my slavery leading up to that moment, I had suffered many
humiliations and each of these, in turn, had seemed to be the ultimate in
degradation. But I was wrong; each succeeding one was worse than its
predecessor.

In turn, I had been declared a slave and made to strip naked to the cheers
of a crowded courtroom, assessed by a court official, collared and branded
at the court's forge and made to run naked alongside of Norge through the
city's streets to the taunts of a hostile crowd. I'd been shorn of my hair
and made to wait on my Master and his grandmother in their dining room. On
several occasions my ass had been caned and I had been evaluated by the
odious Lionel Schuster. I'd suffered the taunts and jibes of my former
neighbours, lawyer and friends and my Master had allowed some of them to
use my mouth for their sexual pleasures. And finally, I'd been chained to
the waterwheel and made to work as a mindless beast-of-burden.

But these paled into insignificance at the command to lick the dust from
the stable-master's boots.  Surely, that had to be the ultimate debasement
demanded of any slave?

In the few short weeks of my slavery - and what a contradiction that was as
each day seemed a lifetime - I had endured much that had stripped me of my
self-pride and respect. These qualities are denied a slave and I had lost
them. Yet a slave does have emotions that remain unseen by his master and
he suffers hurt as surely as any free man. That day was just such a day for
me.

As I knelt in the gravel of the stable-yard at Sir Regis's feet, I felt the
anguish of that latest humiliation as acutely as the pain of the cane and
possibly that of the whip which hung over me.

But I had hesitated too long and I yelped as Claymore Jackson's crop
slashed across my shoulders.

"Your overseer gave you an order boy.  Now do as you're told!"

My tongue worked hard in response to the chief overseer's command. I began
at the toes of each boot and worked my way around the sides to the back and
then upwards to the tops of each boot.  Once or twice Sir Regis looked down
and impatiently told me I'd missed a spot and he made me redo it. The dust
coated my tongue and filled my mouth with a dryness that made me gag.  All
too soon, my saliva dried up and I desperately needed water to moisten my
tongue and in vain, I asked for water.

"Please Sir! Can I have some water to moisten my mouth! Please Sir!"

"No you can't! Who do you think you are, boy? Do you still think you're
Lucien Barrois to ask us to fetch water for you?"

Sir Regis' answer demonstrated his annoyance with me. Impatiently, he urged
me back to work by using his crop to rap my low hanging balls as they swung
freely between my spread thighs.

My loud "OUCH!" was cause for amusement as the three overseers laughed
loudly at my distress.

I was unaware that Jake was watching my torment and I didn't see the look
of pity in his eyes.

"Get on with it Rafe! We haven't all day to wait on you."

I hastened to comply with Sir Regis's order to continue.  I'm not sure how
long it took me to clean Sir Regis's boots to his complete satisfaction. My
first attempt didn't please him and viciously, he rapped his crop across on
my ass. He harangued me for my poor effort and he commanded me to begin all
over.

The three overseers ignored me as I worked and they talked over my head as
though I didn't exist.  They discussed the business of the plantation, the
slaves and the prospects of them receiving large bonuses resulting from the
high yielding crops and the increased productivity from La Forˆt's
slaves.  Claymore reminded Sir Conn and Sir Regis that the previous owners
had always been magnanimous with their bonus payments and it remained to be
seen if the new owner Guy Maratier would be as generous.

The irony of this wasn't lost on me. I recalled bitterly that I, as Lucien
Barrois had recently introduced a new bonus scheme based on the slaves'
work output.  Put quite simply, the bonuses were commensurate with the
profit made from the slaves.  I had introduced it in my ever present need
for efficiency and profitability and I am now the inheritor of my own
thoughtless greed.

The three overseers were openly frank in their discussions of their new
employer and they left no doubt in my mind of their dislike and disdain for
Guy Maratier and his son Etienne. Sir Conn was adamant in expressing his
antipathy towards the son describing him as an upstart. These were
sentiments shared by me but I had to keep such thoughts to myself.
Claymore urged Sir Conn to be patient telling him that one day both father
and son would surely get their 'come uppance' and if he doubted that then
he need only look down at me crouching at their feet licking Sir Regis's
boots like a hound dog.

That must have appealed to some warped sense of humour and once again, all
three overseers laughed loudly at my expense.

For my part, my nakedness was suffused by the bright scarlet of my
humiliation and I burned with shame.

Finally, Sir Regis pushed me away with the toe of one boot and asked Sir
Conn's opinion on the efficiency of my work. Sir Conn examined both boots -
front and back - and declared them to be free of dust.

I heaved a sigh of relief and thought my ordeal was over. But I was
wrong. A slave should never anticipate what a master will do next.

Sir Regis told me I had done a 'great job' and that I should now clean the
boots of both Claymore Jackson and Sir Conn. He sought their permission for
me to do so and once it had been given I crawled to the chief overseer and
began to clean his boots. Fortunately for me both Claymore Jackson and Sir
Conn wore standard ankle height boots of ordinary black leather -without
the ornate embellishments of Sir Regis's boots - and so my task was made
that much easier.

As I worked, the three overseers continued their conversation.  As before,
the Maratier's were the main subject of conversation and they returned to
the topic of their anticipated bonus payments.

Sir Regis asked Claymore Jackson if Guy Maratier had given any indication
if he'd continue with the Barrois policy of rewarding the overseers for
their efforts. Claymore said there'd been no discussion as yet but he
intended to raise the matter with Guy when he visited La Forˆt the
following week.

He added that as far as he was concerned Guy Maratier was an unknown
quantity and it would be unwise of him to speculate on what the new Master
of La Foret might or might not do.

But he added darkly that Guy Maratier would be foolish not to continue with
the bonus system.  Should that happen, then it would cause resentment among
the overseers and Claymore hinted that they would adopt a more relaxed
attitude to the slaves in their charge. Inevitably, this would result in a
fall in the plantation's profitability with less money for the Maratier
family to spend.

Confidentially, Claymore told the two overseers that even the major domo,
Colton is unimpressed with Guy Maratier and Etienne. He regards them as
'nouveau riche' and lacking in the refinement that was the hallmark of the
Barrois family. Colton's words were that you can't make 'silk purses out of
sows' ears' and that the two Maratier's were just one small step above
their slave cousin, Rafe.

During this conversation I had finished cleaning the boots of both the
chief and junior overseers and I waited on my knees for their judgement. As
they talked, the thought uppermost in my mind was of my imminent whipping;
surely just minutes away. And I was correct in thinking this.it was
Claymore who once more raised the issue of my punishment.

"Well Regis, time is moving on. I suggest we give Rafe his punishment and
then move him out to the fields to begin his new duties. What do you
think?"

"That sounds good to me Claymore. Will you administer the punishment? After
all you ordered it."

"Regis, I think it is fitting that you punish Rafe. You're the one he
insulted."

"That's true, Claymore. But don't forget, Conn does have control of
him. Perhaps it's only right that he punish the slave?"

"That's a good point, Regis. I guess you both have equal grounds for
administering the punishment.  I'll tell you what let's flip a coin. Heads
you get to whip Rafe or tails the job falls to Conn. Are you both agreeable
to that?"

Claymore's tossing of a coin to determine which overseer would whip me was
just another illustration of the utter powerlessness of a slave.  I waited
with baited breath as Claymore flipped the coin, caught it in his right
hand and placed it on his left wrist.  The question of which overseer would
be successful churned over in my mind. But really did it matter whether it
was Sir Regis or Sir Conn who wielded the whip? Both are strong and I
feared the power of their arms. I am sure the whip's fury would be the same
irrespective of who applied it to my back.

There was an air of flippancy about all this. Like two high-spirited colts,
Sir Conn and Sir Regis laughingly jostled one another as they waited on
Claymore to declare which of them had won the toss. Claymore played to
their good humour by keeping them guessing but kept me in a state of
heightened anxiety by delaying his verdict.

As we waited on Claymore Jackson, three questions tumbled through my mind.

"Who had won the toss? Was it Sir Regis or Sir Conn? Which of the two
overseers had won the right to whip me?"


To be continued.........