Ishmael Reed - Flight to Canada

“It was full of beautiful women fanning themselves and filling the rose-tinted air with their gay laughter. He had set up his own poultry business, was underselling everybody in eggs, gizzards, gristles, livers — and had a reputation far and wide for his succulent drumsticks. Had a white slave fronting for him for ten percent. Well, when my man finally discovered him after finding he’d built a dummy to look like him so we’d think he was still in the fields, do you know what he did, Mr. Lincoln? He stabbed the man. Stabbed him and fled on a white horse, his cape furling in the wind. It was very dramatic.

“You defend Negro ruffians like that, Mr. Lincoln? You yourself, Mr. President, said that you were never in favor of bringing about social and political equality with them. You don’t want them to vote, either. I mean, I read that in the newspaper. They’re not like us, Mr. Lincoln. You said yourself that there are physical differences. Now you know you said it, Mr. Lincoln. When General Fremont got brash and freed the slaves in the Western territory, you overruled his proclamation, and now the military man tells me that you have some sort of wild proclamation on your desk you’re about to sign, if this compensatory thing doesn’t work.”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet, Mr. Swille. I guess I’m a little wishy-washy on the subject still. But … well, sometimes I just think that one man enslaving another man is wrong. Is wrong. Is very wrong.” Lincoln pounds the table.

“Well, I won’t try to influence your decision, Mr. President. Would you like Uncle Robin to help you with one of those sacks?”

“Thank you, Mr. Swille.”

Uncle Robin goes over and helps Lincoln with two of the heavy gold bags.

“And before you leave, Mr. President, go down to the kitchen and have Barracuda the Mammy fix you a nice snack. She’ll be so thrilled. All she talks about is Massa Lincoln, Massa Lincoln. Maybe you can sign a few autographs.”

Swille rises and walks over to Lincoln, who is now standing, his hands heavy with sacks of gold. “And think before you sign that proclamation, Mr. President. The slaves like it here. Look at this childish race. Uncle Robin, don’t you like it here?”

“Why, yessuh, Mr. Swille! I loves it here. Good something to eat when you wonts it. Color TV. Milk pail fulla toddy. Some whiskey and a little nookie from time to time. We gets whipped with a velvet whip, and there’s free dental care and always a fiddler case your feets get restless.”

“You see, Mr. President. They need someone to guide them through this world of woe or they’ll hurt themselves.”

“I’ll certainly consider your views when I make my decision, Mr. Swille. Well, I have to go now. And thanks for contributing to the war chest, Mr. Swille.”

“Sure, Lincoln, anything you say.” Swille goes to the window. “Hey, I think the escort Lee sent up has arrived. Look, Lincoln, I’m throwing a little shindig for Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson Davis. Why don’t you come down? I’d like to get you two together for one day. Take time off from the war.”

“You can arrange that, Mr. Swille?”

“I can arrange anything. They called my father God’s God, Mr. President. Davis may hate your flag and you, but everybody salutes our flag. Gold, energy and power: that’s our flag. Now, you have to leave, Abe, and don’t knock over any of the objets d’art in the hall. I don’t think your United States Treasury [chuckle] can replace them.”

“I’ll be careful,” Lincoln says. “I’m glad you could spend some time with me, Mr. Swille.”

“Not at all, Lincoln. Have a good journey back to your yacht, and, Robin, help Mr. Lincoln with his bags of gold.”

Lincoln and Swille shake hands. Lincoln and Robin begin to exit with the gold. Barracuda comes in, eying both of them suspiciously.

“Massa Swille, there’s some poor-white trash down in the kitchen walking on my kitchen flo. I told them to get out my kitchen and smacked one of them on the ear with my broom.”

“That’s Mr. Lincoln’s party, Mammy Barracuda. I want you to meet the President of the United States, Mr. Abraham Lincoln.”

“Oh, Mr. Linclum! Mr. Linclum! I admires you so. Now you come on down to the kitchen and let me make you and your party a nice cup of coffee.”

“But I have very important business to do on The River Queen, the tide of battle …”

“Shush your mouth and come on down here get some of this coffee. Steaming hot. What’s wrong with you, man, you gone pass up some of this good old Southern hospitality?”

Lincoln shrugs his shoulders. “Well,” he says, smiling, “I guess one little cup won’t hurt.” She waltzes around with Abe Lincoln, who follows awkwardly. She sings, “Hello, Abbbbbe. Well, hello, Abbbbbe. It’s so nice to have you here where you belong.”

The President blushes; he finds it hard to keep in a giggle. Swille and Robin join in, clapping their hands: “You’re looking swell, Abbbeee. I can tell, Abbeeee. You’re still growin’, you’re still goin …”

Barracuda and Lincoln waltz out of the room. Uncle Robin follows with the bag of gold, doing his own little step. Delighted, Swille chuckles from deep in his belly.

INSIDE THE KITCHEN OF the main house of Swille’s plantation, Uncle Robin sits on a high stool reading some figures over the phone which have been scribbled on a sheet. He is, at the same time, munching some white-frosted Betty Crocker glossy cake and drinking coffee that Aunt Judy, his wife, has prepared for him. Next to his hand is a copy of 60 Families.

“… and slave quarters number 3 wants to put 259, 344, and 544 in the box … What you mean? Chicago, it’s an hour behind in your time, it ain’t too late.” He hears footsteps approaching. “Hey, somebody’s coming. I got to go.” Uncle Robin takes a sip of coffee, looks innocent and begins to hum a spiritual. It’s Moe, the white house slave.

“Uncle Robin, are you abusing your phone privileges? I don’t know why the Master lets you use it. He doesn’t let any of us use it.”

“Oh, Mr. Moe, I was just ringing in the supplies for the week. I didn’t mean no harm.”

“I don’t know why he trusts you, Uncle Robin. He thinks you’re docile, but sometimes it seems to me that you’re the cleverest of them all, though I can’t prove it.”

Uncle Robin stares blankly at him.

“Well, I guess you are pretty simple. I don’t know what gives me the notion that you’re more complex than you seem.”

Moe goes to the kitchen table. Uncle Robin rises, fetches a cup of coffee and places it in front of Moe.

“What did you think of President Lincoln’s visit?”

“What you say, Mr. Moe?”

“That visit. You were right there in the room.”

“Oh, that. I don’t understand what they be saying. I never did understand good Anglish — it takes me even an effort to read the Bible good.”

“You are impoverished, aren’t you? No wonder they call you an Uncle Tom.”

Uncle Robin ignores this, eating another slice of cake. “I don’t know, Mr. Moe, suh. Sometimes it seems to me that we are all Uncle Toms. Take yourself, for example. You are a white man but still you a slave. You may not look like a slave, and you dress better than slaves do, but all day you have to run around saying Yessuh, Mr. Swille, and Nossuh, Mr. Swille, and when Mitchell was a child, Maybe so, l’il Swille. Why, he can fire you anytime he wants for no reason.”

“What! What did you say? How dare you talk to a white man like that!”

“Well, sometimes I just be reflectin, suh. Ain’t no harm in that.”

“Well, you can just stop your reflectin and if I hear you talkin like that again, I’m going to report to Massa Swille of your insolence, do you hear? Now you behave yourself and don’t you ever let me hear you making such statements.”