Ishmael Reed - Flight to Canada

“But, Barracuda …”

Barracuda gives the signal to Bangalang, who grabs one of her Mistress’ arms and one leg while Barracuda catches the others. They turn her over. Barracuda squats atop her and slowly gives the injection. Ms. Swille emits a low moan and passes out.

Barracuda turns out the lights.

Ms. Swille comes to, momentarily. “Barracuda, when is my son coming back from Africa?”

Barracuda and Bangalang look at each other.

“He’ll be back soon, now you go to sleep.” But Ms. Swille is already asleep, snoring. Barracuda rips out the radio cord. She carries the radio under her arm and walks out of the room, followed by Bangalang, her aide.

Mammy Barracuda stands in the center of the room, her arms folded. She gives orders with her head. Pointing in this direction, that direction. Tapping her foot when annoyed. Giving some eye-dagger when mad. Not smiling but showing a wee twinkle when pleased. Bangalang is second in command, following through, taking inventory of every detail.

Ms. Swille sits in the chair facing the huge mirror. The slave girls and the pickaninnys are applying makeup, combing, brushing, manicuring; others are bringing out the wardrobe, preparing to put Ms. Swille in it. She sits at the dressing table, in her slip.

“I feel like … like I’m in a dollhouse.”

“Now, don’t get smart. We doin this for your own good. You remember what happened the other night when you was acting reckless. Now don’t be acting reckless. When we finish with you, you gon put Jeanette MacDonald to shame.”

“Yes, Mammy.”

“That’s mo like it.”

Bangalang drops a pincushion. Mammy Barracuda rushes over and shakes her a little. “Be careful with dat. What’s wrong wit choo? If you don’t shape up, I’m gon take away this good job you got and send you to the fields. You don’t want to go to the fields, now do you?”

“No, Mammy Barracuda.”

“Who da boss?”

“You are, Mammy Barracuda.”

“Who?”

“You.”

“Let me hear it from all of you,” she said, her hand cupping an ear.

The girls say, “You are, Barracuda. You the boss. Our leader …”

“I didn’t hear one person say it.”

The girls stop. They stare at Ms. Swille.

“Barracuda, please don’t … don’t humiliate me before the girls …”

“You’ve given up your respect. Listening to that old Beecher woman. Talking about taking up whoring …”

“Free love, Barracuda. That’s different …”

“I don’t care what you call it, you syphilitic muskrat …”

The girls oooo and awwwww.

“Now I give you one more chance. Who the boss?”

“You are, Barracuda.”

The girls giggle. They are standing before the mirror, and Ms. Swille is blushing.

“Don’t she look beautiful.”

“OOOOOO. So preeeeeety.”

“Don’t look like the same person, look quality again.”

“Look ten years younger.”

Mammy Barracuda, lighting up a corncob pipe, makes a twirling motion with her finger. Ms. Swille, holding the hem of her dress, begins to spin about and model as the girls gape and sigh.

“Have yo butt down in the parlor when the gen’men begin to light up their cigars. All right, count off.”

Ms. Swille stands in the middle of the room. The other girls stiffen. With her hands behind her back, Barracuda inspects the woman. “Turn around, fool.” Barracuda grabs Ms. Swille and spins her around some more. She looks at the woman directly, eye to eye. She looks at the girls, and “marching like a grenadier,” she exits from the room. The girls scurry out like the corps de ballet, leaving Ms. Swille alone.

She begins to sob. There is a gust of wind. The kerosene lamps go out. There is a sudden chill in the room.

THERE WAS A FROST on the Lake Erie steamer The North America. Quaw Quaw had gone inside the cabin to read. Raven stood at the rail gazing out across Lake Erie. The cold air was hitting him in the face. It felt good, and he was warm in an overcoat he had just bought with some of the “Flight to Canada” money; it was made of rare apaupala wool and was bear-brown. He was thinking about the kind of fashion he’d buy now that he was becoming a successful anti-slavery lecturer. A man came up. He had on a vest of “oriental” design. He carried a tall silk hat. Black kid gloves. He wore a black waistcoat. He carried a cane whose head was the head of a serpent.

“That’s some lake, huh? I’ve made this trip from Cleveland many times but I still can’t get used to its wonder.” He was distinguished-looking.

“Oh, are you commuting to a job in Buffalo?”

“No, not at all,” the stranger said. “I have been abroad, but nothing compares with the serenity of this lake, this peace. It has a special meaning to me. You see, I used to carry fugitive slaves to Canada from Cleveland and Buffalo.”

“Really,” Quickskill said, smiling.

“Those were the days, back in the forties. We used to get into some pretty tough scrapes with the claimants and coadjutors. They’d be watching the steamers for their goods. They were a pretty ignorant bunch, though. Sometimes we’d disguise the male slaves as women, and the female slaves as men, and they’d walk right past the suckers! Ha!”

“They were that dumb, huh? You must have had some pretty trying moments though.”

“We did. Once we had a run-in with a slave trader named Bacon Tate. He was after a couple named Standford who were living in Saint Catherine’s, Ontario, a delightful place. Well, he sent in some thugs to take them, and they were heading back across the Black Rock Ferry to the U.S. when me and some friends heard about it. We caught up with them and freed the Standfords. Well, old man Tate went and got the law, and before we got them on the boat, they caught up with us. Well, man, you should have seen the fight. Pistols going off. People clubbing each other. During the melee the Standfords escaped on the ferry. Ha! Never will forget that.”

“Those must have been exciting times.”

“Yeah, they were all right.” There is a far-off gaze in his brown eyes. “Where you heading?”

“Canada.”

“Vacation?”

“No, I’m escaping. I’ve booked passage on this steamer under a pseudonym. My master is after me.”

“You have to be kidding me, stranger. The war is over.”

“You don’t know my Master. He views me as something that belongs to him. The laws which apply to other slavemasters don’t apply to him. He’s the slavemasters’ slavemaster.”

“A real case, huh?”

“You can say that again.”

“Well, if I can be of any help, contact my agent. Here’s my card.”

It read William Wells Brown, Anti-Slavery Lecturer, Writer.

“William Wells Brown. The William Wells Brown?”

“Can’t be two of us, Mr. … Mr. …”

“Quickskill.”

“Mr. Quickskill. What line of work are you in?”

“Why, I guess you might call me an anti-slavery writer, too, but I … well in comparison with your reputation, I … I’m just a beginner. I read your novel Clotel and … I just want to say, Mr. Brown, that you’re the greatest satirist of these times.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Quickskill. I’m glad you like my books. What kind of stuff do you write?”

“I … well, my poem ‘Flight to Canada’ is going to be published in Beulahland Review. It kind of imitates your style, though I’m sure the critics are going to give me some kind of white master. A white man. They’ll say that he gave me the inspiration and that I modeled it after him. But I had you in mind … Mr. Brown, I don’t want to take up any of your time, but would you like to see one of my poems?”