The Count Forced the Slaves to Dance as Women… Until One of Them Planned Brutal Revenge
.
.
The Count Forced the Slaves to Dance as Women—Until One of Them Planned Brutal Revenge
Part 1: The Dance of Degradation
The ballroom blazed with candlelight as silk rustled across the floor, but beneath the rouge and powder, beneath the corsets and petticoats, were men whose backs still bore fresh whip marks. Count Henry Bowmont sat in his gilded chair, laughing as enslaved men stumbled in women’s dresses for his guests’ entertainment. For three years, this Mississippi plantation had hosted these degrading spectacles. But tonight, one dancer moved differently.
Casius Washington had spent months planning, and the count had no idea that the crimson stains on tomorrow’s ballroom floor wouldn’t be wine. The humiliation was about to end, and the price would be paid in blood.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across Bowmont Manor’s grand estate, 15 miles south of Natchez, Mississippi. In the quarters behind the main house, six men stood in various stages of undress, their faces masks of barely contained rage and humiliation. It was March 1847, and another of Count Henri Bowmont’s infamous entertainment evenings was about to begin.
Casius, 32 years old and broad-shouldered from years of blacksmith work, stared at the elaborate dress laid across his cot. The burgundy silk seemed to mock him, its fine fabric a cruel contrast to the coarse cotton he wore daily. Around him, other enslaved men prepared for the evening’s degradation with silent fury.
“Put the damn thing on, Casius,” muttered Fletcher, a field hand whose calloused hands fumbled with corset laces. “Ain’t nothing we can do but survive tonight.”
Casius said nothing as he began dressing. The count’s overseer, Malcolm Pritchard, paced outside the quarters, his leather whip coiled at his belt like a sleeping snake. The threat was always present, always implicit. Refuse, and you might survive the beating, but your family wouldn’t. The count had made that abundantly clear three years ago when he’d started these spectacles.
Count Henri Bowmont had inherited the plantation from his father in 1844. A French aristocrat who fled to Louisiana during political upheaval, he brought with him old-world decadence and a particular brand of cruelty disguised as entertainment. His monthly soirees attracted wealthy planters from across the region—men who found amusement in watching enslaved men forced to perform as women in elaborate balls.
“Remember your steps,” Pritchard barked, entering the quarters. His pale eyes swept across the men with contempt. “The count has guests from New Orleans tonight. Important men. You embarrass him, and I’ll take it out on every soul in these quarters. We clear?”
The men nodded, their eyes downcast, all except Casius, who met Pritchard’s gaze for a fraction of a second before looking away. It was enough to draw the overseer’s attention.
“You got something to say, blacksmith?”
“No, sir,” Casius replied, his voice carefully neutral.
Pritchard stepped closer, close enough that Casius could smell whiskey on his breath. “Your wife’s feeling poorly, I hear. Be a shame if she had to work the fields in her condition.” The threat hung in the air. Casius’s wife, Sarah, was six months pregnant with their second child. Their daughter, Ruth, was only four years old. The count owned them all—could do with them as he pleased. This was the chain that bound Casius to compliance, stronger than any iron shackle.
“I’ll dance perfect, sir,” Casius said quietly.
“See that you do.”
As twilight descended, the men were herded toward the main house. The manor rose before them—three stories of white columns and gleaming windows, a monument to wealth built on stolen labor and broken bodies. Music drifted from the ballroom, violins and pianoforte playing the latest European dances.
Inside, the ballroom was suffocating in its grandeur. Crystal chandeliers cast dancing light across polished floors, tables laden with delicacies lined the walls—food these men would never taste. Seated in ornate chairs with the count’s guests were 20 wealthy white men in evening dress, holding brandy snifters and cigars, ready to be entertained.
Count Bowmont himself sat center stage, a thin man with sharp features and cold blue eyes. He was 43 but looked older, dissipation written in the lines around his mouth. At his right hand sat Judge Theodore Carlile, one of the most powerful men in Mississippi. At his left, Merchant Prince Edmund Thibido from New Orleans.
“Gentlemen,” the count announced, rising with his glass, “tonight’s entertainment promises to be exceptional. I’ve had my dancers practicing a full month for your pleasure.”
Laughter rippled through the room. Casius stood in the line of dancers, feeling the weight of the dress, the powder on his face, the humiliation burning in his chest. But beneath that burn was something else—something he’d been carefully nurturing for months: rage, cold, calculated rage.
The music began, the dance started, and Casius moved through the steps. He learned to focus his mind not on the present degradation, but on what was coming. In three days, everything would change. He’d made certain preparations, taken unthinkable risks. The Underground Railroad had contacts even this far south, and he’d made connections that could have gotten him killed. But he wasn’t planning to run—not yet. First, there would be a reckoning. The count had taken so much from so many. It was time someone took something back.
Part 2: The Plan
If this scene left you with a lump in your throat, write “justice” in the comments. The dance lasted three hours—an eternity of forced smiles and degrading spectacle. When it finally ended near midnight, the men were permitted to change and returned to their quarters.
Casius walked back through the darkness, his body aching, his mind sharp and focused. Sarah was awake when he entered their small cabin. She sat by the dying fire, mending a shirt by candlelight. Their daughter, Ruth, slept on a pallet in the corner, her small chest rising and falling peacefully. This was everything Casius had in the world, and it was nothing because none of it was truly his.
“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Sarah asked quietly. She was 28, still beautiful despite the hardship etched into her features. She’d been born on this plantation and had never known anything but bondage.
Casius sat beside her, taking the mending from her hands. “It won’t be much longer.”
She looked at him sharply. “What does that mean?”
“Means what I said. Things are going to change.”
“Casius, you’re scaring me. You haven’t done something foolish.”
He took her hand. “I’ve done what needed doing. In three days, on Saturday night, there’s going to be another ball. A bigger one. The governor himself is coming and half the state’s plantation owners.”
Sarah’s eyes widened with fear. “What are you planning?”
“Justice,” Casius said simply. “And freedom.”
The next morning, Casius returned to the forge where he’d worked for 15 years. The count had bought him specifically for his blacksmith skills, recognizing valuable expertise. It was one of the few mercies of Casius’s existence. He worked with his hands, created things, had a degree of autonomy rare for enslaved people. It was also what made his plan possible.
The forge stood separate from the main buildings, a stone structure with a high roof and open sides. Fire roared in the hearth as Casius worked iron, shaping horseshoes and tools. But hidden beneath the forge floor, buried in a space he’d carefully excavated over months, were other items—items that would change everything.
“You’re working hard today,” Casius looked up to find Marcus standing in the doorway. Marcus was 57, the oldest enslaved person on Bowmont Manor. He’d been born in Virginia, sold south in his 20s, and had survived by being careful, quiet, and observant.
“Always do,” Casius replied, returning to his work.
Marcus stepped inside, his movements slow and deliberate. He picked up a finished horseshoe, examining it with practiced eyes. “This is fine work. Your daddy taught you well.” Casius’s father had been a blacksmith, too—skilled enough that his owner had hired him out to other plantations. He died when Casius was 16, his heart giving out during a sweltering August day. Before he died, he taught his son everything he knew about working metal.
“He did,” Casius agreed. “He also taught you to be smart, to think before you act.”
Marcus set down the horseshoe. “I’m hoping you’re remembering those lessons.”
Casius met the older man’s gaze. “What are you saying, Marcus?”
“I’m saying I’ve seen that look before on men who were planning something dangerous. And I’m saying that whatever you’re thinking about doing on Saturday night, you better be sure it’s worth the price because if you fail, it won’t just be you who pays.”
The weight of those words settled over the forge. Marcus was right. If Casius’s plan failed, the count would make an example of everyone—Sarah, Ruth, the unborn child. Every person in the quarters would suffer for his actions.
“I know the price,” Casius said quietly. “But we’re already paying it. Every day we wear these dresses. Every night we dance for their entertainment. We’re paying. The only question is whether we’re going to pay for our humiliation or for our dignity.”
Marcus was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. “What do you need?”
Those four words changed everything. Casius had been planning to act alone to keep everyone else safe through ignorance, but having Marcus’s support meant having someone who knew the plantation’s rhythms, who could help coordinate what needed to happen.
“Saturday night during the ball, I need you to make sure Sarah and Ruth are ready to move fast, and I need you to gather Fletcher, Benjamin, and Thomas. Tell them to be ready when the music stops.”
“And when the music stops, what happens then?”
Casius returned to his anvil, bringing the hammer down on glowing iron with controlled force. Sparks flew in the dimness.
“Then we show them what happens when you push men past their breaking point.”
Part 3: The Countdown
If you are witnessing Casius’s strength, even in pain, the days leading to Saturday passed in tense preparation. Casius worked the forge, his hands creating the tools that would either save them or condemn them. At night, he met quietly with Marcus and the others, laying out the plan in careful detail.
Fletcher was 35, a field hand with arms like oak branches. He’d watched his wife sold away five years ago and had lived with that grief ever since. When Casius explained what was coming, Fletcher’s eyes lit with something long dormant.
Benjamin, at 23, was younger, angrier. He’d been born on the plantation but remembered the stories his grandmother told about Africa, about freedom. The dancing humiliated him more than the others, if that was possible.
Thomas was different. At 41, he was the count’s house servant, trusted to serve at the grand balls. He had access the others didn’t, and that access was crucial to the plan.
“You understand what you’re risking,” Casius asked them during their meeting Wednesday night. They gathered in the old tobacco barn, long abandoned, speaking in whispers while the moon rose over the cotton fields.
“I understand I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees,” Fletcher said.
“They already took everything that matters,” Benjamin added. “All we got left is our dignity, and they’re trying to take that, too.”
Thomas nodded slowly. “I’ve served the count’s table for ten years. I’ve watched him laugh while we suffered. I’ve heard the things he says when he thinks we’re too stupid to understand French. He thinks we’re animals. It’s time we showed him what cornered animals do.”
Marcus, who’d been silent until now, spoke up. “The Underground Railroad contacts Casius made. They’ll be waiting two miles north of here at the old stone bridge, but they can only wait till dawn. We miss that window, we’re on our own.”
“We won’t miss it,” Casius said with conviction. “Thomas, you’re sure about the ballroom layout?”
“The main doors lock from inside. The servants’ entrance in the back has a simple bolt. All the windows on the first floor are barred, but the second-story ballroom windows open onto a balcony. It’s a 20-foot drop to the gardens.”
“And Pritchard, he’ll be there. He’s always there during the balls, standing by the door with his whip and pistol. The count likes having him visible, likes the threat he represents.”
Casius nodded. Pritchard was a problem, but a problem he’d planned for. The overseer was cruel but predictable. He had his routines, his patterns. Casius had studied them carefully.
“What about weapons?” Fletcher asked.
“Hidden under the forge floor. Tools mostly—hammers, iron rods, a few knives I forged. Nothing fancy, but enough for what we need.”
“And the fire. That’s where you come in, Benjamin. The old cotton barn by the east field—the one that’s due for demolition anyway. At exactly 11:00 Saturday night, you set it ablaze. Make it look accidental if you can, but make it big enough to draw attention.”
“Half the overseers will run to deal with it,” Marcus said, understanding.
“Pritchard might stay, but his attention will be divided.”
“Exactly. And that’s when we act.” Casius looked at each man in turn. “But I want to be clear about something. What I’m planning for the count and his guests—what happens in that ballroom, that’s on me. If anyone wants out, wants to just run when the confusion starts, I understand. You’ll have your chance. This is my vengeance, not yours.”
“It’s all our vengeance,” Fletcher said quietly.
Every man in that ballroom earned what’s coming, the others murmured in agreement. These weren’t violent men by nature. They’d been made violent by circumstance, by cruelty, by systematic dehumanization. What they were planning wasn’t murder; it was survival. It was justice in a world where the law protected their oppressors and criminalized their existence.
Part 4: The Final Preparations
Thursday and Friday passed in agonizing slowness. The plantation buzzed with preparation for Saturday’s grand ball. The count had spared no expense. Additional servants were brought in from neighboring plantations. Musicians arrived from New Orleans. The ballroom was decorated with garlands and ribbons, crystal and silver.
Casius worked the forge, appearing to focus on his tasks while his mind ran through the plan repeatedly, checking for flaws. He’d made contact with the Underground Railroad through circuitous means—a chance meeting with a freedman traveling through Natchez. Coded messages passed through trusted hands. They’d promised help but warned him that timing was critical. Miss the rendezvous and they couldn’t wait.
Friday evening, Sarah cornered him in their cabin. Ruth was with other children playing in the dusk.
“Tell me the truth, Casius,” she demanded. “All of it.”
So he did. He told her everything—the weapons, the fire, the plan for the ballroom, the escape route. He watched her face cycle through fear, horror, and finally reluctant acceptance.
“You could have told me sooner,” she said when he finished.
“I wanted to protect you.”
“If something went wrong before tomorrow, if someone talked, I wanted you to be innocent.”
She took his hands. “I’m never innocent, Casius. None of us are. We’re all complicit in our own survival. Every day we don’t resist is a day we collaborate with our own enslavement.”
“You don’t mean that, do you?”
“I work their house, cook their food, raise their children alongside my own. I smile when they speak to me. I say yes, ma’am, and no, sir, like they’re my betters instead of my captors.” Tears welled in her eyes. “So don’t tell me you’re protecting my innocence. There’s no innocence here. There’s only survival until we can find something better.”
Casius pulled her close. “Tomorrow night, we find something better or we die trying.”
Part 5: The Escape
Saturday arrived with unseasonable warmth. Spring had come early to Mississippi, and the air hung heavy with the scent of magnolias. By afternoon, carriages began arriving at Bowmont Manor—the wealthy and powerful of the region drawn by the count’s reputation for spectacular entertainment. Governor Albert Whitfield arrived at 6:00, his carriage flanked by attendants. He was a portly man of 53, his face flushed from good living. With him came Senator Bradley Harrison and Judge Carlile, men who held the machinery of Mississippi law in their hands.
As twilight fell, Casius and the other dancers were summoned to prepare. In the quarters, they dressed in silence, the elaborate gowns, the powder and rouge—the humiliating transformation. But tonight felt different. Tonight, beneath the silk and satin, beneath the degrading costumes, each man carried the knowledge of what was coming.
Casius caught Fletcher’s eye as they dressed. A slight nod passed between them. They were ready.
At 9:00, they entered the ballroom. The space blazed with light from three massive chandeliers. Fifty guests filled the room, the cream of Mississippi society. At the head table sat the count with the governor at his right hand. Pritchard stood by the main doors, his presence a silent threat.
“Gentlemen,” the count announced, rising with a champagne glass in hand. “Tonight I present the finest entertainment in the South. Trained dancers who will perform for your pleasure.”
Laughter and applause filled the room. Casius felt the familiar burn of humiliation, but tonight it fueled something else—determination.
The music began—a waltz, graceful and mocking. The men moved through the steps they’d been forced to learn. Casius watched the clock on the far wall: 10:15, 10:30, 10:45.
At 10:55, Thomas, dressed in his house servant livery, entered through the servants’ door carrying a fresh tray of champagne. He moved through the room with practiced efficiency, refilling glasses, invisible in the way enslaved servants were always invisible to their masters.
As the clock struck 11, a bell began clanging outside, then shouts: “Fire! Fire!” in the east field. The ballroom erupted in confusion. Men rushed to the windows. Through the glass, orange flames were visible against the night sky. Benjamin had done his work well. The old cotton barn was ablaze, flames climbing into the darkness.
“Stay calm,” the count ordered. “Pritchard, take men and deal with it.” The overseer hesitated, torn between duty and the instinct to respond to the emergency. Finally, he barked orders at three other white overseers in the room. They rushed out together, leaving the ballroom guarded only by the count’s personal attendant, a young man named Davis, who carried a pistol but had never used it in earnest.
This was the moment Casius met Marcus’ eyes across the room. The older man stood by the musicians, supposedly there to turn pages of sheet music. At Casius’s signal, Marcus moved swiftly, pushing the piano toward the main doors. The heavy instrument rolled across the polished floor, blocking the exit.
“What the hell?” Davis reached for his pistol. Fletcher moved faster. He’d been standing near the young man, and now he grabbed Davis’s gun arm, twisting hard. The pistol clattered to the floor. Thomas scooped it up.
The ballroom erupted in chaos. Women screamed. Men shouted. The governor attempted to rise, but Thomas pointed the pistol at him. “Everyone stay seated,” Thomas ordered, his voice steady despite the weapon shaking slightly in his hand.
Casius ripped off his wig, tore the dress from his body, standing in his plain cotton work clothes beneath. The other dancers did the same, shedding the costumes of their humiliation.
“Count Bowmont,” Casius said, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent room. “For three years, you’ve made us dance for your entertainment. You’ve degraded us, humiliated us, treated us like animals for your guests’ amusement.”
The count’s face had gone pale. “You’re making a terrible mistake.”
“Do you know who these men are? The governor, senators, judges. You’ll hang for this.”
“We’re already dead,” Casius replied. “We died the day you started these balls. We died every time we put on those dresses tonight. We’re just deciding how we’re going to be remembered.”
He walked to the head table, and the assembled power of Mississippi shrank back from him. He picked up the count’s champagne glass, held it up to the light, then smashed it on the floor.
“But we’re not killers,” Casius continued. “We’re not going to become the monsters you’ve tried to make us. You get to live with what you’ve done. You get to remember that six unarmed slaves took control of your grand ball, stood before the most powerful men in Mississippi, and walked away free.”
He turned to his companions. “Get the others. It’s time to go.”
Marcus and Benjamin rushed out through the servants’ entrance. Minutes later, they returned with Sarah, Ruth, and 15 other enslaved people from the quarters. They’d been prepared, waiting for this moment.
“You’ll never make it,” the governor said, finding his voice. “There are patrols everywhere, dogs, armed men. You’ll be caught before dawn.”
“Maybe,” Casius acknowledged. “But we’ll die free, and you’ll live knowing that you failed to break us.”
As they prepared to leave, Casius turned back one final time. He looked at the count, at the governor, at all the assembled power and wealth of Mississippi. “History will remember this night. Not your ball, not your glory, but the night enslaved people stood in your ballroom and chose freedom over survival.”
Part 6: The Flight to Freedom
They fled into the night, leaving chaos behind them. What moment has angered you the most so far? Write in the comments, “Your voice matters here.”
The group moved through darkness—21 souls racing toward an uncertain future. Casius led them north, following routes he’d memorized from conversations with the Underground Railroad contact. Behind them, shouts echoed through the night as the plantation woke to their escape.
Sarah ran beside him, carrying Ruth, who was miraculously silent, seeming to understand the gravity of their flight. The other children were equally quiet, their parents having prepared them for this moment.
They reached the old stone bridge at 2:00 in the morning. Casius’s heart sank when he saw it empty, deserted. Had the Underground Railroad contacts given up? Had they been caught?
Then a low whistle came from the trees. A white man emerged, middle-aged with kind eyes. Behind him stood two others, one black, one white. Quakers, Casius realized, recognizing the plain dress.
“We were about to leave,” the man said. “You cut it close.”
“Had to make a statement first,” Casius replied.
The man smiled slightly. “I heard the alarm bells. What did they do?”
“Made them remember we’re human.”
They were loaded into a covered wagon, hidden beneath hay and canvas. The journey north began—a desperate race against pursuit. Behind them, Pritchard had returned to find the ballroom in chaos, the count raging, and 21 enslaved people gone into the night.
The search was immediate and brutal. Dogs were released, patrols organized, rewards posted. The count offered $1,000 for the return of Casius Washington, dead or alive. The other escapees were worth $50 each, but the Underground Railroad was well organized.
The group was moved from safe house to safe house, traveling by night, hiding by day. They crossed into Tennessee after three days, Kentucky after a week. With each mile, freedom became more real, more tangible.
Two weeks after their escape, they reached the Ohio River. A free state lay across those dark waters. Casius stood on the bank, Sarah beside him, Ruth asleep in her arms, and felt something he hadn’t experienced in years: hope.
“What will we do?” Sarah asked. “Where will we go?”
“Wherever we want,” Casius replied. “That’s what freedom means.”
They crossed the river at dawn, the water cold and dark beneath their boat. When they stepped onto Ohio soil, Casius felt his legs nearly give out. He knelt, pressing his hands into the earth of a free state.
Marcus, who’d survived the journey despite his age, put a hand on Casius’s shoulder. “We made it, son. We’re free.”
But freedom, Casius would learn, was more complicated than crossing a river. The Fugitive Slave Act meant they were still in danger, still hunted. They would need to keep moving, eventually reaching Canada, where they would truly be beyond the reach of slavery’s law.
Part 7: The Legacy of Resistance
In the years that followed, the story of the Bowmont Manor Ball spread through the South’s enslaved community. The tale of slaves who confronted their masters in the midst of a grand ball, who walked away free despite overwhelming odds. It became legend, a story of resistance that inspired others.
Count Henry Bowmont never recovered his reputation. The humiliation of being held at gunpoint by his own slaves, of being powerless before the governor and Mississippi’s elite, destroyed him socially. He sold the plantation within a year and returned to France, a broken man.
Casius and Sarah eventually settled in Ontario, Canada. He opened a blacksmith shop in a small town where other formerly enslaved people had built a community. Ruth grew up free, never knowing chains. When the Civil War came, Casius was too old to fight, but his sons weren’t. They returned to America as soldiers in the Union Army, fighting to end the system that had tried to break their father.
In his later years, Casius would sometimes think about that night at Bowmont Manor—the fear, the rage, the exhilarating terror of standing before power and choosing dignity over survival. He’d taken a terrible risk, and by rights, it should have ended in death or recapture. But sometimes history turned on such moments. Sometimes the desperate gamble paid off, and sometimes broken people found the strength to break their own chains.
The dress Casius had worn that final night—the burgundy silk that had symbolized his humiliation—he’d kept it not as a reminder of degradation but as proof of transformation. It hung in his workshop in Canada, a strange trophy. When people asked about it, he would tell them the truth.
“That’s the dress I wore the night I stopped being property and became a man,” he would say. “That’s the dress I wore when I chose to die free rather than live enslaved. And that’s the dress I wore when I discovered that sometimes, just sometimes, the world rewards courage instead of punishing it.”
Fletcher settled nearby, eventually marrying again and starting a new family. Benjamin became a teacher, educating the children of formerly enslaved people. Thomas opened a restaurant that became a gathering place for the community. Marcus lived to see emancipation, dying at 73 with the satisfaction of knowing his people were finally legally free.
They all carried scars—physical and emotional. The trauma of slavery didn’t end with escape, but they carried something else, too: pride. The knowledge that they’d faced impossible odds and won. That they’d stood in the lion’s den and walked out alive.
The story of the Bowmont Manor Ball was never written in official histories. The powerful men who’d been held at gunpoint that night had no interest in advertising their humiliation. But in the oral traditions of black communities, the story lived on. It was told and retold, embellished and mythologized, becoming a legend of resistance.
At the heart of that legend was a simple truth: human dignity could not be destroyed no matter how hard oppressors tried. That the human spirit, even broken and brutalized, retained the capacity for resistance. That freedom wasn’t just a legal status, but a state of mind. And that sometimes choosing to risk everything for dignity was the most rational choice a person could make.
Casius Washington died in 1873 at the age of 58. He was buried in a small cemetery outside Toronto, surrounded by other formerly enslaved people who’d found their way to freedom. His tombstone bore a simple inscription: He chose dignity.
But his real legacy lived on in the descendants who remembered his story, in the knowledge that their ancestor had stood before power and refused to bow. That he’d taken the worst degradation slavery could offer and transformed it into an act of resistance so powerful it resonated across generations.
The count had tried to break him with humiliation, to destroy his humanity by making him dance in dresses for entertainment. But Casius had understood something the count never could: that humanity wasn’t in how others treated you, but in how you responded to that treatment. That dignity was an internal quality—something that could be surrendered but never taken.
And on that March night in 1847, when he stood in that ballroom and ripped off his wig, tore away his dress, and announced his humanity to the most powerful men in Mississippi, Casius Washington proved that the human spirit, even in bondage, remained unconquerable.
Conclusion
That was his revenge—not violence, though he’d been prepared for it. Not murder, though many would have called it justified. His revenge was simply this: to survive, to escape, to build a life of dignity and freedom, and to prove that everything the count believed about the inferiority of enslaved people was a lie.
The count died alone and disgraced in France. Casius died surrounded by family, community, and freedom. In the end, that was the most brutal revenge of all.
.
