Date: Fri, 21 May 2004 08:35:05 -0700 (PDT)
From: Lance Kyle <lokiaga@prodigy.net>
Subject: Seaward Plantation chapter 1

This story contains graphic but completely fictional
depictions of sex among men and men, and men and underage
boys.  If this offends you, if it is illegal for you to read
or download this, or if you are under 18, please go away.

Seaward Plantation

Chapter one

The rhythm of the train changed, slowing as it moved into
the approaches to Charleston.  Mark Appleby awoke slowly,
blinking his eyes in the bright light coming in from the
half-open window.  A warm air scented with the sea, with
flowers, with growing things. with the South, blew over his
face.  Disoriented at first, he recollected where he was:
on the overnight train from North Carolina, the last of many
since first boarding in Boston.  In this year of our Lord
1850, he was coming to a home he'd never seen, and into his
inheritance.

Washing his face and hands quickly from a jug and basin in
his private compartment, he took stock of his own appearance
in a small mirror as he shaved:  A little over six feet
tall, light brown hair worn almost to his shoulders in a
fashionably long cut, he was a handsome man of average,
muscular build with light brown eyes.  Putting on the last
of his clean shirts and ties, Mark joined the other early
morning passengers in a makeshift dining car.  Clutching his
chipped mug of lukewarm coffee carefully to avoid spilling
it with the jolts and rolls of the train, gnawing on a stale
roll, Mark thought back over the recent remarkable changes
in his life.

It had been three months since he received word of his Aunt
Lucy's passing.  He knew her, of course, from her infrequent
visits to Boston.  His mother's only sister, childless, when
she passed from this world at the age of 85 he took the news
calmly, sadly, never suspecting what it would mean to him.
A week later, he was surprised to receive a letter from his
old law school friend, Horatio Smith, telling him that he
had inherited his aunt's entire estate.  He had vaguely
known that Aunt Lucy had used Horatio's legal services, in
fact Mark recommended him to her when both he and Horatio
graduated from Harvard Law and Horatio returned to
Charleston, to his ancestral home.  Lucy had lived there
since she went to Charleston to marry Richardson Huddle at
the tender age of 20, many years ago.  Richardson and Lucy
settled into the Huddle estate, Seaward Plantation, where he
promptly died after six months from falling off a horse, and
there Aunt Lucy stayed, never marrying, managing the
plantation, for the rest of her life.  There were no
surviving Huddles.  Now, at his own ripe old age of 25, Mark
Appleby found a whole new life staring him in the face.

He remembered his surprise at learning of his aunt's death,
then the later, greater surprise as he began to read Smith's
letter, which turned to astonishment at learning that he had
inherited the estate, which occupied an entire island off of
Charleston, plus enough wisely invested capital to support
him and the plantation for the rest of his life.  A rapid
exchange of letters and telegrams followed.  Raised in an
upper middle class Bostonian family, trained for the law
with good prospects at a well established Boston firm,
Appleby knew nothing of farming, much less of what must be
involved in the management of a Southern plantation.  What
do they grow there? he asked of Smith, what sort of trade is
involved?

The answered surprised him:  they grow what they need to
sustain themselves and they have no sort of trade whatsoever
at Seaward Plantation, said Smith.  Lucy Huddle had invested
Richardson's legacy wisely, and a nice income from
securities and properties around the several States and the
West Indies kept the Plantation going; besides, it was
hardly large enough, nor was the arable land plentiful
enough, for raising vast cash crops of cotton or cane as
they did on the mainland.  Seaward Plantation was a nearly
self-sufficient community, walled off from the mainland by
the sea.  All Appleby had to do was use his legal training
to maintain the investments, acquire a working knowledge of
the plantation, and settle down to enjoy his inheritance of
land, buildings, equipment, livestock.. and slaves.

There was no getting around it.  On the property inventory
were listed so many buildings, so many acres, durable goods,
stock, dry goods, and slaves.  There seemed to be two main
families of them, about ten or eleven of them.  Now,
Appleby, like most good Bostonians, opposed slavery.  Unlike
some Bostonians, that was as far as his involvement went.
Certainly he had seen some free blacks on the streets,
confronted the occasional freedman servant working for pay,
but in general he gave little thought to Africans in
America.  He was not politically involved, as were so many
of his abolitionist kin and acquaintances; he had his hands
full learning the legal trade and beginning his career.  He
certainly had never given thought to owning any Africans,
but here he was, about to come into full possession of
nearly a dozen of them.  The prospect had given him cause
for some long and careful thought.

Back in his cabin, he assembled his scattered belongings and
began to pack his valise.  More of his belongings were in
the trunks in the baggage car.  Buildings became larger and
stood closer together as the train approached the main
station in Charleston.  Dark clouds of coal smoke rolled by
the window as it slowed, brakes hissing and screeching as
the station platform came into view.  Slower and slower the
pistons pumped as the wheels rolled gradually to a stop.

Stepping out into the warm breeze, Appleby scanned the
crowds for Horatio Smith.  If black people had been a rarity
in Boston they were certainly not here:  Men in shirtsleeves
and frayed pants carrying loads, thin young women with their
hair in kerchiefs tending to white children, older (and
fatter) women following their mistresses along.  Appleby had
little time to think about this spectacle, for in the
distance he saw Horatio Smith waving his hat and walking
quickly to meet him.

".and will I have the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Appleby as
well?" Smith had asked in one of his letters.  Well, no..
although it would have been possible, since it had been a
couple of years since they last saw one another and Smith
headed south to begin his law practice.  But no, there was
no Mrs. Appleby, and not likely to be, Mark had concluded.
Not that he had no inclination for marriage or for women.
There had been the occasional furtive groping upstairs in
Boston mansions while society balls played out downstairs,
and twice even the successful attempt at sex.  But Appleby
knew himself well enough to know that he was. undecided.  To
be honest with himself, he knew that he also had strong but
confusing feelings about men.  He had admired with longing
but also fear the strong bodies of his friends and
classmates on swimming parties at the beach, and sometimes
lost his concentration on the lesson during classes as his
attention wandered to the golden-haired young face of a
classmate across the room.  These longings were spent in
solitary bouts of masturbation late at night, which only
fueled his imagination but did not satisfy his confusing
desires.  No, Appleby was not ready to commit to women, but
more important, not sure that he wanted to.  He was..
waiting.

Horatio Smith reached Mark Appleby and welcomed him
heartily.  "Did you sleep?" he inquired.  "Our train service
is remarkably up to date but still uncomfortable, especially
the overnight."

"Quite well, thank you," replied Appleby.  "Now I think my
luggage is just here," he said, indicating the baggage car.

"Yes, of course," said Smith, and motioned behind him.  An
elderly black man with silver hair pushed a cart up behind
him.  "Well, let me see. ah yes, here are your tags.  The
three trunks, then?  Yes, that will make a good start, you
can send to Boston for the rest of your belongings when you
see what you need, but really, I think you will find Seaward
quite well appointed."  Assisted by another black porter,
the elderly man wrestled the trunks onto the cart.  "We
haven't far to go," said Smith, leading the way down a ramp
off the platform and onto a brick sidewalk that sloped at a
gentle angle through the town and towards the port.  The two
men caught up on recent events in their lives; Smith himself
had married into an old South Carolina family a year ago,
although there were no children as of yet.  The old slave
pushed the cart along behind them as they renewed their
friendship.  The smell of the sea grew stronger as they drew
closer, and amid the wooden buildings with their iron
railings and tall roofs one could see the masts of sailing
vessels large and small.

"One thing I must ask you again, I suppose," said Smith, and
lowered his voice.  "Do you still intend to carry out the
plan that you have devised?"

"I think so," said Appleby, "but of course I must settle in
and see what the lay of the land is.  Of course, you have
kept this confidential, as I requested?"

"Quite, quite," said Smith," and it is certainly possible.
The necessary papers are ready and kept secure in my safe.
Whether it is wise I leave to your own judgment.  Ah!  I
think this is the pier just here," he said, directing the
little party onto a long wooden platform pushing out into
the harbor, flanked on both sides by small craft.  Some of
them were fishing vessels, hung with netting.  Others were
pleasure yachts of modest size, awaiting pleasure parties.
"And there is Miss Huddle's boat, the Hesperus.  Oh, pardon
me!  I meant to say, your boat, Mister Appleby, Esquire,"
said Smith with a pleasant smile and flourish of his hand.

The men and their escort of servants and luggage came up to
a pleasant little vessel, about twenty feet long and stout
in the beam, capable of carrying cargo and with what seemed
like access to cabin space below.  One long mast rose
amidships.  Appleby took no more than a quick look at the
boat, admiring its compact sturdiness and tidy appearance.
What arrested his eye instead were the two people who were
evidently just loading the last of several large stores of
provisions onto the boat.  Two black people, a young man of
about twenty and a boy of no more than fourteen.

At the sound of Appleby's and Smith's approach, the two
blacks scrambled out of the boat and upon the pier.
Appleby's usual confidence and self-possession failed him
for a moment.  Here was a young man and a boy working on his
boat... and the conclusion was inescapable then, that they
were his young man and boy.  His slaves.  Smith soon
confirmed this.

Stepping forward slightly he said, "Troy, Hector, this is
your new master.  Mark Appleby."  Instinctively, Mark's
right arm began to move to extend a hand to shake.  Sensing
it, and tolerant of the different ways of a Northerner,
Horatio Smith gently placed his hand over Mark's arm,
stopping it almost as soon as it had begun to move.  "Mr.
Appleby," he said, "these are your servants:  Troy," he
said, indicating the young man, and "Hector," he said
gesturing toward the boy.

"What should we call you, sir?" Troy asked softly, with a
slight bow.  Both kept their heads down slightly but yet
managed to look up enough to survey the situation and get a
sense of their new master.  "Oh, Mark will be fine," he
replied, then realized he had violated yet another local
social law when Smith quickly chimed in, "Yes, Master Mark
it is, then."

"Master Mark, sir," both slaves said, bowing again.  Did
Mark detect a slight smile on Troy's face and a quick,
questioning look in his direction?

"Y'all come on up and load Master Mark's luggage into the
boat, now," said Smith.  With graceful speed they jumped
from the boat and began lugging Mark's trunks onto the deck
of the boat, lashing them securely with ropes.  All the
while, they kept up quick, sly glances at Mark.  If their
surveillance was furtive, Appleby's was frank.  To say that
he was strongly affected by what he saw would be an
understatement.  As Smith kept up a chatter of small talk,
Appleby sank into what was nearly a trance of absorption in
the two strong black bodies before him.

Troy was a young man of perhaps twenty, six feet tall.  He
wore a simple shirt and pants of a rough material, and
sturdy, old homemade shoes.  He moved with a powerful fluid
grace, shifting heavy loads with ease.  His shirttail was
out and a large collar was open, exposing glimpses of a
powerful body as he moved.  Troy's skin was very dark and
beautiful, a rich deep flawless chocolate with a light sheen
of sweat in the morning sun.  His hair was a close-cut cap
of solid black, tightly coiled hair that glistened slightly
with the perspiration of his efforts.  He had nearly black
eyes in a strong but friendly face, with a full, broad nose
and high cheekbones.  Unused to seeing African features,
Mark drank in visually what was distinctive about them:  the
hair, the color, the soft, wide nose.... and the lips:
Full, with a slightly larger lower lip, smooth and dark
which highlighted flawless white teeth when he spoke softly
to his brother.  Mark's gaze did not neglect Troy's
physique, either.  It was powerful.  His chest was like two
slices of a dark oak trunk beneath the shirt, each pectoral
muscle nearly round beneath a tight, oiled skin.  His waist
narrowed dramatically through the hips, bulging out again in
powerful thighs.  It was when he turned in profile that Mark
caught his breath--he hoped not so dramatically as to be
noticed.  It was hard to say exactly what made Troy's
buttocks so arresting, so... powerfully attractive.  They
were somehow higher and a little more protuberant than the
bottoms of the white men Mark had secretly eyed on the
beaches of Cape Cod.  A little higher, a little further out,
and the effect might have been grotesque, something you
could balance a tray on.  But no, the shape was just right,
as far as one could go in being high, tight, rounded and
strong while still being perfectly balanced.  Almost in
spite of himself, Mark let his gaze rest from time to time
on the front of Troy's trousers, where a large and definite
bulge promised mysteries that Mark could only wonder about.
He became aware of a stirring in his own groin and a feeling
of strong but unfocused desire.

If Troy was a stallion, Hector was a colt.  If Troy was a
brick pillar, Hector was a fireplug.  Perhaps five feet
tall, perhaps a little taller, he resembled his brother in
many ways.  The fourteen year old likewise wore rough,
simple clothing and shoes.  The sleeves had been torn from
the shirt, probably from long wear, so that Mark could see
his arms clearly.  His muscles seemed somehow longer,
smoother, rolling from one into the other, when compared
with white boys Mark had known.  Small patches of tight
black hair could be seen quickly in his armpits as he
hoisted loads.  His muscles, not as well developed as
Troy's, were nevertheless tight and strong already.  That
butt! already high, tight, and round, it pushed back and up
invitingly, straining against his rough trousers as he
moved.  His face was a bit softer, more rounded, his lips a
bit fuller and more moist.  He had Troy's jet black skullcap
of hair, but worn a little longer.  Of the two, Mark thought
that Hector stole a glance in his direction a bit more
often, a look of questioning, appraising, even.... did he
just imagine it?  admiring?  Perhaps so.  Hector, too,
sported a bulge in the front of his frayed pants, and was
it, Mark wondered, perhaps a little uneven?  A little more
swollen to one side and down?

Troy and Hector finished their work and stood in the boat,
waiting instructions, stealing glances as they dared.  Mark
Appleby roused himself from what seemed like a daydream,
grateful for his overcoat that covered the swelling of his
own penis in his breeches. "Well, I think your servants are
ready, sir, to show you to your new home.  Shall I come see
you, then, in a week's time, with the papers all ready?"
said Horatio Smith.  "Yes, unless you hear from me to the
contrary," said Appleby--but did he catch a look of concern
in Troy's eyes as they ended their conversation?  Perhaps it
was his imagination.  Horatio handed him a thick packet
bound in ribbon:  "You will need to examine these financial
records in connection with the estate; also, there is a
letter for you from your Aunt."  With best wishes for his
new life, Horatio Smith bade Appleby farewell and with the
carter behind him made his way back down the pier.

"Well," said Mark, turning back to the boat.  "So. so nice
to meet you both" he said, and caught quick looks from both
man and boy that indicated they were perhaps not used to
hearing such language--not from a white man at any rate.  An
awkward moment passed; Mark could not quite grasp that he
was to be in charge, since he was the stranger here, at
least in his own mind.  The strangeness of his situation
began to grow on him.  "Are we ready to go?" he inquired.

"Yes, Master Mark, any time you are ready, we are," said
Troy.

"Very well," said Mark.  Starting down the few narrow steps
to the deck of the boat, he clutched at the rope that served
as a handrail.  From the weariness of the journey, or his
own confusion, or perhaps the gentle rocking of the boat in
the harbor waves, he slipped and began to go down.  Quick as
a flash, both Troy and Hector leaped forward to keep him
from falling, but it was Hector, nearly brushing his older
brother aside, who got to Appleby first.  Hector held out
both hands, which Appleby grasped and held as he steadied
himself and continued down the last step.  The whole misstep
took but an instance, but then Mark Appleby and Hector stood
as if frozen in an instant of time, two white hands clasping
two black ones.  Both looked to each pair of hands, then
into each others' eyes.  Centuries of difference, enmity,
domination and strangeness met and then vanished.  The
moment was electric and beyond thought, but when Appleby did
form words in his head they were, "I am holding this dark
brown hand, I am touching this strange, softly oiled
skin.and it feels wonderful."

"Hector..push off" whispered Troy in a voice balanced
between amusement and worry.  Hector released Appleby's
hands as if they were hot, but kept his gaze locked on
Appleby's eyes for an instant longer.  There Appleby thought
he read some of his own thoughts:  strangeness, difference,
but also attraction and desire.  Then quickly, Hector
turned, jumped toward the bow of the boat, untied the ropes
securing the boat to the pier, and began to push the craft
away with a long oar.

"Please excuse Hector, Master Mark," said Troy, "he doesn't
get off the island much.  "He.." Troy hesitated, then went
on in a lower voice.  "He hasn't seen white folks much, and
white men hardly at all.  I guess you're a little different
to him, if you don't mind my saying so."

Appleby laughed, relieved in a way that the spell had been
broken.  "Troy, don't take offense, but your people are sort
of different to me, also.  There are not many people of your
color in Boston," he said.  Troy laughed low and gently,
nodding with understanding.  He risked a more direct look
into Appleby's eyes.  As with Hector, a flash of
understanding and connection seemed to pass between them,
seasoned with a little surprise and skepticism on Troy's
part, while Mark felt another instant of deep connection and-
-was it desire?  "Sit here, please Master," said Troy,
breaking the spell, indicating a low, small bench by the
steps down into the hold.  Mark settled himself as Troy took
up a position by the rudder in the stern of the boat, to
Mark's right.

The boat wallowed slowly away from the pier as Troy aft and
Hector forward scrambled with ropes and booms to raise two
sails.  A soft breeze caught the canvas and the boat glided
into life.  No stranger to small sailing boats, Mark watched
with anticipation as his slaves expertly guided the craft
through the small harbor and out to sea.  He fell prey again
to the enchantment of the sheer physicality of his servants:
Troy's graceful power and strong, solid musculature..
Hector's active, nimble form, more rounded muscles giving
witness to a greater strength to come with more years.

Yet despite the activity, Hector approached Mark often to
attend to his comfort.  "Have this pillow, Master Mark," he
would say, or "Let me move this rope out of your way."  And
as Hector ministered to him, was it Mark's imagination or
did his hand intentionally graze Mark's long, light brown
hair in back as he adjusted the pillow.. did it stay there a
second longer than it needed to.did Hector's forearm rest
for an instant longer than necessary on Mark's knee as he
reached across to move a coiled rope?  Each time the boy
approached, Mark took in as much of him as he could:  the
closeness of his deep chocolate skin, his warm, clean,
toasty smell, the wiry, crisp cap of hair.  For a few
minutes of rest between his duties, Hector sat on the steps
just below Mark, sitting very close to his leg but not
touching, leaning forward slightly exposing a strong thick
neck atop muscular shoulders that sloped downward.  Caught
up in the moment, before he could think about it Mark
reached down and in pure affection rubbed the dark neck, his
fingers just grazing the crisp, tight curls of hair above
the neck.  Startled, Hector froze, then swung his face
around to look squarely at Mark, and a brilliant but shy
smile broke out on his handsome features.  Then the boat
rolled slightly, and Hector jumped up to go forward and
attend to the rigging.

"Look yonder, Master Mark," said Troy, pointing with one
hand as he guided the tiller with the other.  "Seaward."
Mark looked and saw in the middle distance a smudge on the
horizon, an island rising up out of the sea.  It would be
just barely in sight of the lights of Charleston when they
finally reached it.  Seaward Plantation.. his new home.