Chapter 7 A Game of Chance
That evening I lay in bed alone, as Lizbeth and Patsy were recovering from their ordeal and, frankly, I needed some recovery time as well, particularly to consider Bill’s interesting proposition. The mere thought of the fun that I could have as a Southern planter caused my member to stiffen, much as it had watching the whippings of slave girls and participating in the punishing and fucking of those two minxes. However, I suspected that Bill was not done with his plans to entertain me and I decided it would be wisest to preserve my strength, so I forced myself to ignore the insistent tug of desire and allowed myself to drift off to sleep.
At breakfast, I found that my surmise regarding Bill’s plans was not wrong, though what he proposed wasn’t quite what I had envisioned. Nevertheless, it would turn out to have quite an interesting outcome, as we shall see.
“Well, Bobby, I hope you’re well rested,” Bill announced as I was buttering a biscuit. “We have some plans for tonight.” I was imagining another session in his playroom and wondered if Lizbeth and Patsy were sufficiently recovered or if he had some other slave girls in mind. Bill must have read my mind, because he added, “No, not those type of plans. Something much more socially acceptable, I’m afraid.”
“What is it?” I asked, curious.
“It’s time you met some of the other plantation owners from the area. After all, you are down here to investigate and you shouldn’t base your report to van Vliet on my opinions alone.”
“That’s quite true,” I replied.
Bill went on. “They are interested in meeting you, as well. After all, we don’t get that many Yankees down here. We’ve been invited to a dinner party tonight at the Robertson Plantation, with poker to follow, and I accepted for both of us. There will be plenty of opportunity for you to get a taste of the social life in these parts.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“Oh, it will be, from at least two additional aspects also. First, Paul Robertson is a terrible poker player who thinks he is a real card sharp. He is also very fond of whisky. That is something a quick-witted Wall Street type such as yourself should be able to take advantage of. You might even win enough to sway your decision on the Marston place.” That did sound interesting.
“Second, Robertson is a widower and inherited custody from his late wife of a beautiful 20-year old step-daughter, Alicia, or Ali to her friends. She is a tigress, gorgeous, but headstrong and wild. She has run off a couple of times and had to be brought back by the Sheriff. None of the men around here has been able to tame her, but maybe a sophisticated city boy such as yourself can be the one to settle her down. If you did, she’d make a fine wife, whether you lived down here or even if you took her up to New York.” That also sounded interesting.
“All in all, it sounds like quite an evening,” I replied, sincerely. We took things easy all day, relaxing so that we would be well-rested for an evening that could stretch late into the night.
In the late afternoon, Bill and I rode over to the Robertson Plantation, which seemed of a similar size and wealth as Bill’s. The house too, was like his, in the typical plantation style, nicely furnished. Paul Robertson was a good-looking man, somewhere around 45 years old I estimated. He greeted us heartily, pouring each of us a generous glass of whisky and escorted us to the drawing room, which was populated by several men. Robertson introduced us to his other guests, all of whom were planters in the area. It was to be a “stag” evening so they had left their wives at home.
As we were making their acquaintance, discussing the latest goings on in Washington and beyond, I heard a commotion coming from the area of the kitchen, a female voice raised in anger. A door slammed and a charming apparition entered the drawing room, a beautiful redhead with soft pale skin and ample breasts that were shown to great advantage by the low cut dress she wore, which looked as though it had come directly from Paris. This could only be the lovely Alicia.
And it was clear that she had a temper to match her fiery red hair. “I will not be spoken to in that manner. I want the little guttersnipe whipped, right now,” she said, stamping her feet in anger. My organ stirred itself at the prospect of another whipping.
Our host stood and went over to the girl. “Now, now, Alicia,” he said in his most reassuring voice, “We have guests. This can wait and we will deal with it in the morning.”
“I’m tired of your always dismissing my concerns, step-father,” she said, stamping her feet again in disgust.
Robertson took her arm. “I’m not dismissing anything, Alicia. In the morning I will hear you out and see what the girl has to say about it. If she was rude to you, I will have her whipped, I promise. But for now, dinner is about to be served, so I would really appreciate it if you would just calm down and let us enjoy our evening in peace.” As he spoke, he slowly maneuvered the girl out of the drawing room. He returned a few minutes later and summoned us to dinner.
The meal was a delightful affair, excellent food and interesting conversation. The other planters more or less shared Bill’s opinions on the situation regarding slavery. They believed that freedom for the slaves was neither likely nor possible and would be devastating to the South and to the nation as a whole if it did occur. They were confident that despite the differences between the North and the South that compromises would be made and the Union would hold together. I promised to include their opinions in my report to van Vliet.
After dinner, we retired to the card room, a well-appointed chamber next to the dining room, with a well-stocked bar and a round table of solid oak furnished with eight chairs. We took our seats and our host said he would serve as banker, exchanging our currency for chips, which he would be duty bound to re-purchase from us at the end of the night.
We all agreed the game would be 7-stud poker, a game in which each player is deal t two closed, or “hole” cards, followed by four face-up cards and a final hole card, out of which he must make the best 5-card hand. The evening proceeded pleasantly. I did quite well, accumulating a nice stack of chips. Bill managed to more or less break even and the other guests either broke even or sustained modest losses. The big loser was our host. He started out OK, but, as the evening wore on, he continued to swallow copious amounts of whisky, whereas I limited myself to no more than two modest-sized glasses. And the more he drank, the more recklessly he played.
Eventually, it got quite late. I could see that several of the guests appeared fatigued, stifling yawns, so as not to offend their host. I turned to Bill and said, “The hour is late, perhaps we should be going.”
Robertson scowled. “I think it’s only fair, Mr. Owens, that as you have won a substantial amount of my money, you give me a chance to recoup my losses. I don’t know how you do things up in New York, but that’s how we do things down here.” His words were a bit slurred from the alcohol, but I caught his drift.
I shrugged. “As you wish, sir,” I replied. The man whose turn it was to be dealer shuffled the cards and dealt the next hand. When I looked at my hole cards, I was very pleased to see two Aces. Of course, I didn’t allow my pleasure to show, maintaining a casual demeanor and blank expression on my face. The first open card I was dealt was a four. Robertson was showing a ten. I bet conservatively in the first round, not wanting to tip my good fortune.
The next card I was dealt was a seven. Robertson got a King. He placed a substantial bet that drove the other players to fold their hands. However, with a pair of Aces in the hole, I was not to be deterred. I called his bet. I noticed that he had exhausted his original stack of chips and dipped rather heavily into the bank for an additional allotment. I certainly hoped he had the cash available to redeem them should he lose the hand.
The third open card was dealt, a second four for me and a five for Robertson. He placed another large bet. I suspected he had another King in the hole and might well have dropped out, had I not had the two Aces. Backed by the confidence those gave me, I called him.
The final open card, made things even more interesting. I received a six, which did nothing to change my hand, but Robertson got a second King on the board. That meant I had two pair, Aces and fours and I was fairly confident from the way he was betting that he had a King in the hole, unless he was even drunker than he seemed, which would give him three Kings, meaning he had a better hand then me unless the final hole card was an Ace or four. He pushed a big stack of chips into the center of the table and drew more from the bank.
Normally in this situation, I might have folded. But, I was still ahead on the night. Even if I lost it all, it would simply be the price of a night’s entertainment. And, there was the possibility that Robertson’s judgement was clouded by the whisky and that he was bluffing. “I want to see the final hole card,” I said nonchalantly, as I pushed a stack of chips into the center of the table.
The final hole card was dealt. My heart skipped a beat, when I saw it-it was third Ace! That gave me a full house, Aces over fours, a hand that Robertson could beat only in the almost improbable event that he had a fourth King. I did my best to remain calm and display a stone-faced expression.
Robertson asked how many chips I had left; I did a quick count. “Around $200,” I said.
“Since you are my guest, I will go easy on you,” he said, smirking. He dipped into the bank and pulled out more chips and placed his bet. “Let’s make this the last bet, $200; you can call or fold as you wish,” he said. “Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I said, pushing the last of my chips into the pile. Robertson turned over his hole cards. As I suspected, there was a third King. “Full house, Kings over fives,” he announced, reaching out to move the chips to his side of the table.
“Not so fast, sir,” I cautioned, reaching out my hand to stop him. “I have a full house as well, and it’s Aces over fours,” I announced, turning over my three Aces in the hole. The look of shock on Robertson’s face was priceless. I reached for the chips, stacking them up and counting them. They came to almost $2,000, a large sum even on Wall Street.
Robertson poured himself another large glass of whisky. I noticed his hand was shaking. He downed it all in one shot and stood up, resting his hand on the table for support. “I find myself sadly embarrassed in front of my guests, Mr. Owens. That is a substantial amount of money and I do not have liquid assets at this time to make good on the debt. I will of course have such sums available in a few months once the cotton crop is harvested and sold and I will be happy to send you a check for the full amount, plus interest, at that time. Would you be so kind as to provide me with your address in New York?”
I was about to say that would be fine, when Bill spoke up. “Now, Paul,” he said, “You know the Code of Honor as well as I do. Gambling debts must be paid in full at the end of the game.”
“That is so, Bill,” Robertson replied. “Unfortunately, I simply don’t have the cash available, so that is not possible. I would be happy to pay Mr. Owens in kind. He can select some of my house furnishings or a few of my best slaves, which would surely equal the value of the debt.”
“But, Paul, Bobby here is due to return to New York in a few days. He doesn’t want to be burdened with lugging a bunch of furniture with him. As for slaves, you know the Yankees don’t allow them so what exactly would he do with them up in New York?” Bill asked.
Robertson looked nonplussed. I was going to assure him that his offer to pay me in the fall was acceptable to me, despite his Southern Code of Honor, when Bill intervened again. “Permit me, if you will, to propose a solution that may satisfy all parties. Your step-daughter gives you almost constant trouble, with her stubbornness and ill-temper. Is that not so?” Robertson nodded agreement.
“Why not turn her over to Bobby and me? We will break her of her willful ways, I can assure you.”
“What?” Robertson asked, incredulous. “She would never agree to that.”
“She is not yet 21 and thus she is legally a minor, is she not? Bill pointed out “And therefore she is not capable of making decisions on her own, but must rely on you as her legal guardian. We won’t offer her any choice in the matter,” Bill continued. “She is surely asleep now. We will take her from her bed and bring her to my plantation. You will tell everyone that she ran off, as she has done before. After all everyone saw that she was furious with you earlier this evening. In exchange of course, Bobby will forgive your debt, won’t you Bobby?”
I considered this. It was a large sum of money, to be sure. But I was hardly wanting for money or the opportunity to accumulate more on Wall Street. And the prospect of having the lovely Alicia in Bill’s playroom, of breaking her fierce will by dint of the various devices there was extraordinarily tempting. “Yes,” I replied, “That seems like a very acceptable deal.”
Bill requested some paper and a pen and drew up a contract. It stipulated that we would be given custody of Alicia. In exchange, I would consider the debt paid in full. Robertson and I affixed our signatures.
Robertson provided us with a cart with high sides in which we could transport the girl unseen by any passers-by and sent one of the servants to hitch our horses to it. He also ordered the servant to bring us two pairs of slave shackles and a sturdy piece of cloth we could use as a gag. When the man returned with the requested items, Bill and I crept quietly up to Alicia’s room. The girl was, fortunately, fast asleep in her bed, dressed only in a flimsy nightgown.
I approached as quietly as I could, holding the cloth tightly in one hand. Quickly, I launched myself upon her. Shocked into wakefulness, Alicia opened her mouth to scream. Seizing the chance, I pushed the cloth into her mouth and tied it tightly behind her head. The intended scream came out as a muffled groan. Meanwhile, Bill managed to hold her legs down despite the girl’s best attempts to kick him in the crotch. I slapped a pair of shackles around her ankles, while Bill wrestled her wrists behind her back and clapped a second pair of shackles around them. We wrapped her in one of the blankets from her bed and carried the squirming girl downstairs, where we threw her into the cart and headed back to the Jackson Plantation as quickly as we could.
Once there we drove around to Bill’s playroom and unloaded our cargo there, chaining her ankle shackles to a bolt attached to a sturdy support beam. We figured she would keep until morning.
(Alexis Bledel as Sarah Weston in "The Conspirator")
