Tied for the world: the slave girl Stefania.
I’ve always wondered how the Civil War would have turned out if it had ended in a different way. Okay, here’s what I imagine…
Early fall 1992
Harrison County, Virginia (This county is in the state called “West Virginia” that was created after the Union was won. Harrison County (This county is located in the state called “West Virginia” that was created after the Union was won.)
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“You’re almost home, baby.”
Not far from leaving U.S. Highway 50, after the car had pulled onto a narrow natural dirt road, the acting sheriff smiled at Stephanie in the rearview mirror and said this. Stephanie was in the back seat of the patrol car, looking around indifferently.
The natural dirt road winds through a vast cultivated field that stretches to the horizon, lined with uneven wooden fences, and as it reaches out to an old farmhouse surrounded by a clump of oaks, the old, unpainted wooden fences completely hide the lush wild roses.
A few weeks ago, such a view would have enchanted Stephanie, and she would have hummed her favorite Susie Boggs tune. She would have hummed her favorite Susie Boggs tune. But today, somehow, the simple natural beauty of the countryside had lost its appeal to her.
The car stopped in front of a wooden gate at the end of the road. By the gate, beside a handsome white Arabian horse, a man, said to be the “master”, was waiting for them.
The acting sheriff opened the car door for Stephanie, a smile once again piled on his face.
“Come with the thing (me), baby. Be happy! You’re home. This is your host, Big Ron Jackson. Jackson. Aren’t you happy to meet him?”
Getting out of the car wasn’t too easy, as her hands were cuffed behind her back and both ankles were attached to a short chain. But by the friendly hands of the acting sheriff, Stephanie was finally able to stand firmly on the ground with her own pair of bare feet.
She glanced quickly at her new master, who also stared at her with curiosity. He was dressed in a lumberjack shirt, blue jeans and cowboy boots, a total redneck in front of Stefanie, someone who was a stranger to her, but who she had to deal with. She was handcuffed but wearing the uniform of a UCLA cheerleader, and she realized how funny that looked to him, and Stefanie ducked her head in embarrassment.
“Ah, I’m going to hell!” Ron exclaimed, “It’s kind of weird: she looks almost exactly like a white girl.”
“Ask me,” replied the acting sheriff, “and I’ll say she’s the white girl. Sheriff Dude told me she was delivered to you under the fugitive slave law, but don’t you lie to me-this girl ain’t no fugitive slave! I kept asking her on the way, but this babe didn’t tell me anything.”
“Ah, I don’t blame her. I’m not sure she fully understands herself.”
“So tell me how (what) is going on?”
“Well, this girl, how do you say, is sixty-four, hell, one hundred and thirty-two percent blood nigger, you see. The situation is, on the maternal side, that her grandmother’s grandmother’s grandmother’s grandmother, was a mulatto slave on the plantation gardens, when old Stonewall was still around. Rumor has it that old Stonewall himself was her father, and somehow I think it’s true. Anyway, during the Civil War, this mulatto woman ran off with a bunch of Yankees and ended up marrying one of them after the war was over. Well, that’s all I know, but it’s enough to get the girl here to answer for everything that’s happened since then-thanks to the Supreme Court passing the Helms Amendment to the Fugitive Slave Law last May.”
“Yes, that’s good for you, Ron,” commented the acting sheriff: “Come to think of it, you’re almost cousins or cousins.”
“Ah, you are right. Come to think of it, we are indeed.”
The two men chatted briskly for a while longer. Then Acting Sheriff Al unlocked the handcuffs from Stephanie’s wrists and the chains from her ankles and drove off down the dirt road, promising to come to supper some day, while Long locked a heavy iron collar around the poor girl’s neck and mounted his horse.
“Welcome, cousin or cousins!”
A feeling of dread surged through Stephanie as she realized that Lang hadn’t taken her directly to the slave’s quarters.
In fact, he took her into a large room in a large house off the main road. The house was filled with charming Victorian decorations and relics of the Jackson family’s glorious past, in stark contrast to the rest of the farm.
“Strip.” The door had just closed behind her when Stephanie heard Ron give the order in a somewhat imperious voice.
She blushed with shame. She had never been naked in front of a man before, let alone a complete stranger. And, being ordered to strip herself naked, she had never experienced such humiliation. But she didn’t hesitate any further and obeyed. She knew deep down that there would be worse situations than this as a slave.
After the last piece of clothing fell to the floor, she crossed her arms over her chest in a futile attempt to protect her dignity. But, even that was not allowed.
“Put both hands behind your neck and spread your legs.” Followed by the next command.
Stephanie’s face reddened even more as she realized how humiliating this new position was. But once again she obeyed silently. The cold chain from the collar dangled between her breasts, causing her to shiver.
“Beautiful, quite simply, beautiful.” Ron whispered as he paced around the naked girl, touching different parts of her slim body with his fingers.
He stopped behind Stephanie, pulled her into his arms and began to caress her round, firm breasts. Her nipples hardened almost immediately under his palms, and she felt a sensual impulse begin to arise in the lower part of her body. She closed her eyes and experienced a desperate tearing of her spiritual flesh, telling her on the one hand to love the sensation, and on the other hand telling her to reject it.
“What is the size of the breasts, slave girl?”
“32A, sir.” The red color on her face and neck now extended to the upper edges of her breasts.
“Uh-huh. How old are you?”
“I’m eighteen, sir.”
“You city girls always look younger than you are.” Ron sighed deeply, letting go of her breasts and began to stroke the muscles of her arms: “Such soft skeletons and pale skin. But trust me, you don’t expect to get out of the cotton fields one day.”
He returned both hands to the breasts, one hand still gradually working its way down to her exposed sex.
“But,” he continued, “I haven’t decided if I want you to go down to the cotton fields. That might not be using you enough, would it?”
Unsure of what to say, Stephanie kept her mouth shut and didn’t make a sound.
Ron didn’t care if she didn’t say anything, he was thrilled to have this unexpected, new girl at his mercy.
“On your knees, slave girl.”
Stephanie dropped to her knees, she tried to sit on her heels, but a gentle kick to her left ass reminded her to kneel up straight.
“Now, perform yourself.”
In a flash Stefania’s heart broke. She knew that obedience was a fundamental part of a slave girl’s moral code, but this was clearly over some line and she couldn’t do it.
“You hear me, nigga? Do it, wank, now!” Ron raised his voice considerably, calling her “nigger” for the first time in an intimidating manner.
“Master, please…”
Her feeble pleas for mercy were rewarded with a rough, hard kick between her shoulder blades. Unprepared, Stefania fell, landing on all fours. An explosion of pain ensued as the thin strap of the riding crop lashed suddenly against her uncovered, bare back.
“That’s why people say,” Ron sounded really pissed off: “A nigger’s always a nigger, and so is one percent or less of his blood.”
Whip after whip landed on Stefanie’s back and buttocks. Despite the shock, the first few lashes Stefanie remained aristocratically silent, but after five or six lashes she began to moan loudly. Within fifteen lashes she was forced to cry out for mercy.
Finally breathing a huge sigh of relief, she saw the whip being thrown to the floor in front of her.
“Kiss my whip, nigga.”
Because of the intense pain, Stephanie obediently did as she was told while gasping for air. When she raised her head, Ron was already crouching beside her.
He grabbed the shivering girl by her braid and forced her face to him.
“Ever been whipped before?” His voice lowered again, almost a whisper.
“No… sir.”
“Good,” he kissed her cheek, “now you have learned to take the whip. Hopefully this will ensure that you never disobey me again.”
He stood up, but immediately Stefania saw his clothes and boots thrown piece by piece onto the floor, right next to her own, and her heart leapt wildly.
“Is it a virgin?” Ron asked as he knelt behind Stephanie.
“No…”
“Good. That way, I don’t have to worry about ruining anything.”
He thrust into her from behind. Stephanie bit her lower lip to keep from crying out, but large teardrops rolled down her cheeks and dripped onto the thick Persian carpet.
Finally, it was dark when Ron pulled the chain on her collar and led Stefanie out of the large house, still naked. Her hands were now tied tightly behind her back and shackles were once again placed around her ankles.
“I guess I think you’re better suited to work in the room,” Ron told her : “It’s better for you and better for my cotton. But anyway, you’re going to live with the other slaves.”
They came to a small open area in front of the barn where a group of white employees of the plantation garden were gathering after dinner. As if on command, all the beer cans, playing cards, harmonica and baseball bats were thrown to the ground, and at the same moment every head was turned toward the naked girl, and a few whistles rang out from the small group of men.
Stephanie was so ashamed that she kept both eyes on her toes, wishing that the ground under her feet would crack and suck her in.
“Ah, my reward, boss.” After a while of silence, one of them tried to say something: “Is this the new black girl you were talking about?”
“Yeah.”
“You got it all wrong, Ron? This girl is not a nigger. She’s whiter than you drink (and) me.” The other man was more skeptical.
“She just looks white,” Ron explained, slightly smug about his new possession: “She’s got less than one percent Negro blood, but that’s enough to make her legally a nigger.”
“Ah, you know?” The third man nodded and wiped his mouth with one sleeve: “The other day, someone got a slave girl like her. They say she’s a top-notch fashion model in New York. But the other thing she knows is that some new law makes her a fugitive slave.”
“You know more and more white skinned niggers these days.” Ron talked about.
“But a nigger’s always a nigger, whether he’s white, green or blue.” A man with a goatee made a somewhat philosophical conclusion while walking over to Stephanie and pinching one of her nipples.
“No doubt about it,” Ron ended the discussion: “Okay, you guys keep playing, I’m going to take this black girl to the slave quarters.”
“Can I do anything for you, boss?” The man with the beard asked.
“Thanks, Tony, no thanks. You know, I want her to stay there until Christmas.”
The crowd laughed.
The slave quarters were a cluster of old wooden shacks with randomly installed iron bars. Surrounding the wooden shed were dense weeds and wild vines, making it hard to believe that anyone really lived in it. With just one look, Stephanie concluded that these wooden shacks had been used by Robert E. Lee when he became President of the United States. Lee became President of the United States, these wooden shacks have been here.
Ron led Stephanie into a larger wooden shed containing a long hallway with rows of locked doors on each side.
“This house is for single slaves.” He told her, “Take care of yourself.”
He opened a door and shoved an old blanket hard into her tied hands.
“This is your room, slave girl. Here are your blankets. You won’t need any clothes for a few days. I always keep the new girls naked for a week or longer, just so you can get better acclimated to who you are in the stud garden. And it keeps the men happy too. Now, have a good night’s sleep.”
The door behind Stephanie locked, symbolizing her complete departure from the free world.
There were five other girls in this cell, all black, sitting or lying on low wooden beds in a row against the wall. They all stared at Stephanie, evidently perplexed by her complexion. Their dark faces were expressionless, but their eyes were full of suspicion and hostility.
“Hi!” Stephanie smiled at them carefully, “I’m Stephanie. I’m new here.”
There was no reaction, and the other girls continued to watch her in silence.
Stephanie looked around, looking a little awkward, and walked towards a bed that appeared to be empty.
“Does the bed work?” She asked in as friendly a tone as she could imagine.
No response.
“So, can I sleep here?”
There was still no response, but the black girls began to whisper to each other.
She was so deflated that Stephanie threw her blanket on the bed and tried to sit down on the edge. But before she could touch the barked log under her buttocks, her blanket flew towards the corner of the room, near the toilet.
Startled, Stephanie turned to see the youngest black girl, no more than fourteen or fifteen, swinging her bony fists in front of her.
“Get your white ass out of my bed, white girl!” The little black girl screamed, “This is my bed!”
Stephanie subconsciously took a step back, still asking respectfully, “So, which bed can I sleep in?”
At the far end, a girl replied, “Za (this) is every (no) bed for you, white girl.
Go forward and sleep on the floor, where your blanket is.”
Stephanie had to hold back her tears as she hobbled toward the damp, filthy corner where her blanket had been thrown. She unfolded the blanket with her two shackled bare feet and prepared to lie down in silence. But her wrists ached terribly, and both hands were numb, and the thin nylon ropes that bound them might have blocked her circulation.
She looked at each black girl carefully, trying to find the most sympathetic face.
Her eyes fell on a woman who appeared to be the oldest, probably going on thirty. She was sitting beside a prone girl, gently rubbing the fresh whip marks on her back with a damp towel. The gentle expression on her face and the movements of her hands made Stephanie feel like a young mother caring for her newborn child.
“I’m sorry…” said Stephanie carefully to her.
“What for?”
“Can you help me? My arm hurts so much…”
“I don’t deal with white chicks!” The black woman rudely interrupted her: “Leave us alone, white girl!”
“But I’m not a white girl!” Stephanie finally screamed, “I’m a slave, just like you!”
The black woman stood up and thrust her hands threateningly in the air: “Same as me, huh? Why don’t you break your white face and shut up (don’t) talk to me about (this) one!”
Eventually Stephanie shed a tear. She curled up in a ball in the corner and cried herself to sleep.