Behind you the deafening crack of cannon fire blew great plumes of smoke high into the night sky above the Mississippi. Any moment the forts will raise their white flags, surrender to the Union, and the city will be next. You had to get out before the city was occupied and the Federals started sweeping the countryside for stragglers.
You should have been in Virginia or Kentucky, a Southern captain leading a company of men and bringing it to the Yankees. You were even sworn in, in front of Mayor Monroe himself! You carried the saber with you now. But the day you would leave, your father had you exempted. He was headed to France to negotiate some secret deal involving the Mexicans that you were not privy to. Therefore, you were left to run the plantation. Someone had to keep the niggers in order, he reasoned.
Not that there had been much to do. The plantation practically ran itself. You kept the overseer paid and he kept the niggers working. He was a massive Cherokee black bear and he didn’t even carry a whip. When the niggers saw his huge black head over the tall stalks of sugarcane they would nearly piss themselves, nervous and cackling with those awful high-pitched barks, whoops, and yips, slashing and bundling the cane with newfound vigor. Your father often boasted at evening soirées in the city that your plantation had the fewest amount of runaways in the whole South, which may have been true. You had never heard of a slave escaping your plantation.
For your part, you stayed out of the fields, the sugarhouse, and the mill. You didn’t like the looks the niggers gave you, their glossy brown eyes peering at you over their brown muzzles. It was also the idea of them that made you uncomfortable. The women are bigger than the men, and more dominant, too; the men are submissive and act like women. It made no sense. Official church doctrine stated they were a failed experiment of God.
They weren’t all bad, though. One rode beside you on a small white pony. He wore a clean white shirt, cuffed neatly above his elbows, dark wool trousers, and a gray felt cap on his head, two rounded butterscotch ears poking out the sides. His name was Jean-Luc, and he had been your personal servant for several years, attending to you even when you studied at the University of Virginia. It made you a little uncomfortable at first to have a man servant, but Jean-Luc’s manners were anything but masculine. He was quiet, almost silent, and the few times he spoke were to say, “Yes, Master,” or, “No, Master,” in a polite, diminutive voice. He had been born under your father seventeen years ago and, too small to work the fields, had been moved to be a house servant, which he took to well—almost too well. He was more ladylike than the white ladies and could read and write, which was rare even among the house servants. You started having him write your letters for you upon realizing his penmanship was better than your own. He had never shown a hint of dissatisfaction or disobedience. When the battle started you summoned Jean-Luc, saddled up, and left. Your plantation was directly on the Mississippi, and there had been no time for preparation.
“God, I hope Vermilionville isn’t much further. Another mile of these horrible swamps and I’ll go insane,” you said.
You had finally broken free from the long rows of sugarcane that bordered the Mississippi and traveled on a thin path lit only by moonlight. It often broke and resumed between the short strips of land that jutted from the shallow brown swamp water. It was the rainy season and the water was higher than usual, forcing your ponies to wade through it knee-deep. They stumbled often on the thick, hidden roots of the Cypress trees, threatening to throw you from their saddles.
Despite the sweltering heat, Jean-Luc gripped the reins of his pony with trembling hands. He surveyed the swampland around you with wide, nervous eyes.
“Relax, Jean-Luc,” you said. “Yanks won’t be looking for us just yet.”
He jumped at your voice. “It’s not the Federals that terrify me, Master. It’s the g-gators. The field niggers say they can grow as long as six men and frequently swallow men whole.”
You scoffed. “They’re just telling tales. The field niggers don’t see any gators. Besides, that’s why God gave me this.” You pulled your Colt from the saddle and mocked shooting at an imagined gator.
“Y-yes, Master,” Jean-Luc said, blinking. You noticed he drove his pony a couple feet closer to you.
You did end up passing several gators, their eyes pale white marbles in the green duckweed that floated on the surface of the water and clung to the horses’ legs. Upon seeing them, Jean-Luc’s ears would go flat on his head and his shoulders would bunch up like he was trying to make himself small. The gators never approached, seemingly content to stalk you silently from afar.
A few hours later you left the worst of the swamp behind, crossing a small river and entering higher ground with the help of a silent hermit and his raft.
From there it was easy travel across the prairies and cotton fields, taking fire-less breaks to rest the ponies and pour the sweat from your boots. When Vermilionville finally came into view it was like a dream. The wooden buildings were single-story, scattered haphazardly on rambling paths that stretched from the main street. The store signs were written in both French and English. You stopped at the first and only tavern of the town, tied your ponies up in the stable outside, and ate a lunch of beans and cornbread granted to you by the owner, an old French she-wolf. You wolfed the meal down, barely stopping to breathe, while Jean-Luc ate with polite refinement. It must have painted quite a funny scene to the tavern owner.
You retired to your room. It was claustrophobic, the single bed in the corner taking up most of the space. Jean-Luc immediately removed his boots, navigated to the corner of the room, and laid on the hard wooden floor without a complaint, resting his head on his travel pack.
“Goodnight, Jean-Luc,” you said, yawning and settling into bed. You didn’t hear a reply, falling asleep the moment your head struck your pillow.

Jean-Luc was not stupid. When one of the drivers ran up the front steps of the house, shouting about Union ships firing at the twin forts on the Mississippi, he could have ran out of the house, hid with the field niggers in the slave quarters, and waited for the Union troops to raid the plantation. Master would be pressed for time, and probably wouldn’t bother to search him out anyway. The next day Jean-Luc would be free.
But Jean-Luc was not a field nigger. He could read and write. He was well-mannered. He didn’t howl and hoot during the nights like some stupid, feral beast. He didn’t bear whip scars on his back. He had traveled beyond the plantation, as far as Virginia. That was more than a field nigger could claim. Most important of all, he was loyal, and that was what drove him to follow Master.
Besides, what would be the point of freedom? Would he shack up with some poor, illiterate, gnarled nigger, give her children, cook her catfish every night, and live in a shack on the river for a few years until he died of fever? Please! He would sooner be a eunuch. Hyena women repulsed him. They would come up from the fields and tap on the window of the servant’s quarters. “Jean-Luc!” they would shout. “Aw, honey, you don’t wanna be cooped up in there with no white man! Come out here, we’ll show you a grand ol’ time, won’t we girls!” And the girls would laugh those awful laughs. Worst of all, in a particularly disgusting ritual, they would open their anal glands and smear a creamy white paste on the windowsill. The whites could barely smell it—the field always smelled like niggers, they said—but to Jean-Luc’s strong nose it was an awful, pungent, sour miasma that filled his nostrils. God, he shuddered even thinking about it.
White women were an even more unthinkable prospect. Merely talking to one was an excuse to be hanged. Not that a white woman would find him attractive. To Jean-Luc’s misery he was desired by only one race, and it was those he despised the most. Thus he came to the conclusion that it was better to serve in Heaven than reign in Hell. He would stick by Master until they reached Texas, or California, or wherever they were headed—he hadn’t been told where they were going yet, but they certainly weren’t staying in Vermilionville. With these thoughts he fell asleep.

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Pub: 07 Jul 2025 09:16 UTC

Edit: 07 Jul 2025 14:11 UTC

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