John Wray - Canaan's Tongue

Nobody gave a peep. The R— settled back in his chair, fussing with his glove-tips. Finally a well-preserved specimen to the R—’s left sat forward. His hair was coiffed and silverish and he looked more like a country squire than anyone I’d seen outside of a penny-theater. I’d expected him to weigh in with quite a speech, from the look of him, but once all heads were turned he said only—: “Is the horse trade not going well enough for you, Mr. M—?”

“The horse trade is going gloriously, Colonel,” the R— replied. “So well, in fact, that there are some — or so I’m told — who’d be content to spend the rest of their lives dealing in other people’s horses.” He cocked his head. “Might you, perhaps, be such a man?”

The Colonel took a breath. He thought of an answer, swallowed it, and sat back in his chair.

“This question—,” said the R—: “this question of whether to try our hand at reversing the flow of trade, is the least interesting of the questions I’m prepared to address this evening. Allow me to pass over the ‘should we,’ for the moment, in favor of the ‘how.’ ”

“By all means, let’s have it!” the Colonel said quickly.

The R— nodded and began rifling through a stack of papers. Sitting behind him as I was, I could see what only Virgil and the R— himself could see—: that they were blank as bed-sheets, every one. Here’s a crafty sort of blackguard, I thought to myself. We’re marbles to him, all of us—; to be tossed for and collected.

“Each of you may play a role in the effort I’m going to describe,” he said, still studying the papers. “Some of you have already given me your pledge.”

“You have my thupport, Thir — you know that, ” said a lisping, wheedling fellow at the table’s near corner. His prim little face sat on a plump round body that looked to belong to a different man entirely. His chin was drawn into his face as though he was chewing on a lemon.

“Thank you, Harvey,” the R— said. “Now, gentlemen. Kindly permit me to detail the logistics of our plan.”

“Whose plan, now?” came a hard-sounding voice from behind the Colonel.

“ Ours, I hope, Lieutenant Beauregard,” the R— said politely.

That one’s not his marble yet, I thought.

“I’ve no doubt that you hope it, M—; who conceived of it was my question.”

To my surprise the R— took Virgil by the arm. “Ah! In that sense, ours, Lieutenant. Young Mr. Ball’s here and my own.”

Though I couldn’t see Virgil’s face I saw his neck go pale and heard him commence to groan and stammer. All heads turned to look at him.

“I’ve heard tell of this idiot of yours,” the lieutenant said in a comfortable way.

I sat up then and looked the lieutenant over. He sported a gleaming black moustache and a canary-yellow waistcoat. His face was cruel and prideful.

“D’Ancourt tells me you read him something like a compass,” he said.

“Good lord, Pierre! I never said so,” the Colonel wheezed.

The R—’s face crimped together. “Ah! Mr. Beauregard. You are new to our little company. I assure you Mr. Ball is anything but an idiot, as you express it. Quite the opposite.”

Virgil was still scratching busily with his pencil, his nose all but pressed against the table. He was taking the minutes even then. My hands balled together at the thought of it and my tongue thickened in my mouth. I wished the lieutenant every earthly evil. But a part of me wished Virgil even worse.

The R— heaved a sigh. “Such japes, if you’ll pardon my saying so, waste precious minutes. We’ve still a great deal to discuss.”

That said, he went back to shuffling his papers. My eyes wandered about the room. There’s every kind of citizen here, I thought. One of each kind of American, like on board of Noah’s ark.

The room was poorly lit and the backs of the chairs threw great heavy shadows into the corners. There, where the dark was closest, I saw a man I hadn’t taken note of before. He was dressed in some manner of long black nightshirt and his body was as narrow and ganglish as I ever thought to see, with hairs on his face and forehead exactly like a possum’s. His mouth was bent sideways and his body was stiff and bristly as a broom. He came piece by piece out of the dark and when his leer fell upon me I went shivery right through. I shut my eyes and said a quick Our Father. When I opened them I saw that the R— had a map open on the table.

“The method, friends, is simple—: it can well afford to be because we have great means at our disposal. Ample means.” He smiled at each of them in turn. “A body of mulattoes in our service, apprised only of the initial phases of our enterprise, will visit plantations and shanty-towns in the outlying country and offer aid to any able-bodied slave inclined to run. The capital, it will be explained, to finance the passage north to freedom, is to be raised through the re-selling of said escapee at a plantation farther up the river. A second liberation will follow after three months, resulting in safe passage into Canada. The bond of this covenant, which must be kept secret from all, upon pain of death —” (here the R— gave a dramatic pause)—“shall be a plain and unworked silver ring, much like this one here.”

The R— laid a hoop of silver on the table.

“Which ring the slave shall, and must, present to his liberators when his term comes due. As some of you may know—”

“Trust a nigger with a piece of silver?” Kennedy said, showing us his gums.

“Bear in mind, Mr. Kennedy, that this piece of silver will already have been balanced by two hundred dollars in gold, as we’ll have sold him once already. If the escapee should fail to produce the ring, it shall be taken as proof of a breach of faith, and said escapee will be left to his druthers. We, contrary-wise, will be left our profit. ”

Kennedy rubbed his nose. “I don’t ruh! — ruh! — rightly see—”

The R— all but rolled his eyes. “The man who comes for the runaway at the end of the three-month period, Mr. Kennedy, may not be the same man who deposited him. Some mark of identity is required. A slave is very respectful of a piece of silver, as you may know.”

He privileged the lot of us with an easy grin.

“What happens after?” said the lieutenant, twiddling his whiskers. It was clear he was disgusted by the others’ way of buttering the R—’s cake. “Your scheme seems of greater interest to the Abolitionists, Mr. M—, than to any natural son of Dixie.”

The R— laughed. “And yet you are interested, Lieutenant Beauregard, are you not.”

“I’m interested to have you answer me, sirrah,” the lieutenant growled.

“A horse-thief steals horses, Mr. Beauregard—; an Abolitionist steals bondsmen. I see no difference between the two, aside from the margin of profit. It has simply never occurred to your Abolitionist, as near as I can tell, that he is in possession — ipso facto of having liberated it from its owner — of a highly remunerative piece of property.”

General laughter from the assembly. Beauregard was neatly put away. Virgil could have done that much, I thought. But Virgil was still scratching at his notes.

The R— smoothed the map out with his palms. “Abolitionizing for profit, gentlemen—: such is my proposal. I consider it no less grand for its simplicity. What’s more, I have fifty-seven share-holders — both here and in Memphis — who agree with me whole-heartedly.” He looked about the room. “I foresaw, of course, that some of you might not. That’s why we’re not going to steal the above-mentioned slaves.”