by Ishmael Reed
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t like it down here, Mr. Swille. I’m just a mudfish. I don’t yen for no fancy flies.”
“Think about it, Lincoln. You can take an hour and a half putting on your clothes down here. Why … why … I’m thinking about taking up Meditative Transcendentalism. I’ve sent to India for a Swami. You know, you may not be so lucky in the next election year. If it hadn’t been for those Hoosiers and Suckers and other rags and patches who packed the Wigwam, you’d be back in your law office in Springfield. Their conduct was disgraceful. Why, I had to tell the networks not to carry it. They hollered you the nomination. Steam whistles. Hotel gongs. Comanches! Liquor flowing like Babylon. Not even top-shelf, but Whiskey Skin, Jersey Lightning and Brandy Smash.”
“The boys were just cuttin up, Mr. Swille, just jerking the goose bone.”
“And then bribing the delegates with Hoboken cigars and passes to quiz shows. Washington, Jefferson and Monroe must be howling in their chains. And that lunatic wife of yours. Must she dress like that? She looks like a Houston and Bowery streetwalker who eats hero sandwiches and chews bubble gum. Why does she wear that brunette bouffant and those silver high-heel boots? She looks like a laundromat attendant. Old frowzy dough-faced thing. Queens accent. Ever think about taking her to the Spa? And why does she send those midnight telegrams to the Herald Tribune after drinking God knows what? And there’s another thing I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mr. Lincoln.”
“What is that, Mr. Swille?”
“Do you think it appropriate for the President of the United States to tell such lewd jokes to the boys in the telegraph room? The one about the cow and the farmer. The traveling salesmen and the milkmaid. The whole scabrous repertoire.”
“How did you know that, Mr. Swille?”
“Never you mind. And you think it’s befitting your exalted office to go about mouthing the sayings of that hunchback Aesop? No wonder the Confederate cartoonists are beginning to depict you as a nigger. They’re calling you a Black Republican down here, and I’ve heard some weird talk from the planters. Some strange ugly talk. I want you to read that book they’re all reading down here. Uncle Robin! Give Lanky that book they’re all reading down here.”
Robin goes to the shelf. “Idylls of the King, Mr. Swille?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
Robin removes the book from the shelf and gives it to Lincoln.
“This book tells you about aristocratic rule, Lincoln. How to deal with inferiors. How to handle the help. How the chief of the tribes is supposed to carry himself. You’re not the steadiest man for the job; you’d better come on and get this Camelot if you know what’s good for you. You, too, can have a wife who is jaundiced and prematurely buried. Skin and bones. Got her down to seventy-five pounds. She’s a good sufferer but not as good as Vivian, she …” Swille gazes toward the oil portrait of his sister.
“What … Anything wrong?” Lincoln says, beginning to rise from his chair.
Robin starts toward Swille.
“No, nothing. Where was I, Robin?”
“You were telling Mr. Lincoln about Camelot, sir.”
“Look, Lincoln, if you don’t want to be a duke, it’s up to you. I need a man like you up in my Canadian mills. You can be a big man up there. We treat the Canadians like coons. I know you used to chop wood. You can be a powerful man up there. A powerful man. Why, you can be Abe of the Yukon. Why don’t you resign and call it quits, Lincoln? You won’t have to sneak into the Capitol disguised any more. What ya say, pal?”
“Look, Mr. Swille, maybe I ought to tell you why I came down here. Then we can cut this as short and sweet as an old woman’s dance.”
“All right, Abe. But before you tell me, look, Abe, I don’t want to get into politics, but, well, why did you up and join such a grotesque institution as that party that …”
“We call ourselves the Republican party, Mr. Swille, but don’t look at me. I didn’t name it.”
“A far-out institution if there ever was one. Free Soilers, whacky money people, Abolitionists. Can’t you persuade some of those people to wear a tie? Transcendentalists, Free Lovers, Free Farmers, Whigs, Know-Nothings, and those awful Whitmanites always running about hugging things.”
“Look, Mr. Swille,” Lincoln says in his high-pitched voice, “I didn’t come here to discuss my party, I came to discuss how we could win this war, Mr. Swille; end this conflict,” he says, pounding the table. “We are in a position to give the South its death-knell blow.”
“ ‘Death-knell blow.’ There you go again with that corn-pone speech, Lincoln. ‘Death-knell blow.’ Why don’t you shave off that beard and stop putting your fingers in your lapels like that. You ought to at least try to polish yourself, man. Go to the theatre. Get some culture. If you don’t, I’ll have to contact my general; you know, there’s always one of our people keeping an eye on things in your … your cabinets. Why, under the Crown …”
“Now you look here, Mr. Swille. I won’t take your threats. I knew it was a mistake to come down here, you … you slave-flogging pea-picker.”
Arthur Swille, startled, removes his cigar from his mouth.
“Yes, I know what you think of me. I never went to none of that fancy Harvard and don’t lounge around Café Society quaffing white wine until three in the afternoon, and maybe my speeches don’t contain a lot of Latin, and maybe my anecdotes aren’t understated and maybe I ain’t none of that cologned rake sojourning over shrimp cocktails or sitting around in lavender knee britches, like a randy shank or a dandy rake.
“I know you make fun of our nation, our war and our party, Mr. Swille. I know that you hold it against us because our shirts stick out of our britches and we can’t write long sentences without losing our way, but you wouldn’t be sitting up here in this … this Castle if it weren’t for the people. The public people. And the Republic people in this great people period, and that ain’t no pipple papple pablum either, pal.”
A train whistle is heard.
“Mr. Swille, listen to your train. That great locomotive that will soon be stretching across America, bumping cows, pursued by Indians, linking our Eastern cities with the West Coast. Who built your trains, Mr. Swille? The people did, Mr. Swille. Who made you what you are today, Mr. Swille? A swell titanic titan of ten continents, Mr. Swille. Who worked and sweated and tilled and toiled and travailed so that you could have your oil, your industry, Mr. Swille? Why, we did, Mr. Swille. Who toted and tarried and travestied themselves so that you could have your many homes, your ships and your buildings reaching the azure skies? We did, Mr. Swille. Yes, I know I’m a corn-bread and a catfish-eatin curmudgeon known to sup some scuppernong wine once in a while, but I will speak my mind, Mr. Swille. Plain Abe. Honest Abe. And I don’t care how much power you have in Congress, it won’t stop me speaking my mind, and if you say another word about my wife, Mr. Swille, I’m going to haul off and go you one right upside your fat head. Don’t forget I used to split rails.” Lincoln turns around. “I’m leaving.”
Uncle Robin, blinking back tears, applauds Lincoln until Swille gives him a stern look.
“Hey, wait a minute, come back, Mr. Lincoln, Mr. President.”
Lincoln, stunned, stops and slowly turns around.
“You know, I like your style. You’re really demanding, aren’t you?” Swille takes the old keys from his right hip and fastens them to his left. “How’s about a drink of Old Crow?”
“Well, I’ll stay for a few more minutes, but I warn you, Mr. Swille, if you so much as whisper some calumny and perfidy about my wife, I’m going to belt you one.”
“Sure, Mr. President. Sure,” Swille says as Lincoln returns to his seat in front of Swille’s desk. Swille is at the liquor cabinet reaching for the Old Crow, when, zing! a bullet comes from the direction of the window and shatters the bottle. The contents spill to the floor.
“Why, I’ll be …” Swille says, staring at the pieces of glass on the floor. Lincoln and Uncle Robin are under the desk. Moe, t
he white house slave, rushes in. “Massa Swille, Massa Swille, the Confederates are outside whooping it up and breaking Mr. Lincoln’s carriage. We hid Mr. Lincoln’s party down in the wine cellar until the episode passed, and do you know what, Mr. Swille? Somebody has drunk up all the wine.”
“Somebody has drunk up all the wine!” Swille and Uncle Robin say.
“Uncle Robin, give me the telephone. I want to call Lee.”
Uncle Robin obliges, tiptoeing across the room, grinning widely.
“I don’t want any of that grey trash snooping about my door,” Swille says, frowning.
Outside, rebel yells can be heard.
“Hello? Give me that Lee … Well, I don’t care if he is at the front, tell him to bring his ass away from the front. This is Arthur Swille speaking …” To Lincoln, Moe and Uncle Robin, “That got em.”
“Hello, Lee? What’s the big idea of your men come busting up to my place and annoying my guests? I told your boss, Jeff Davis, to keep that war off of my property … Why, you impertinent scoundrel.” Hand over the phone, he mimics Lee to the trio in the room, “Says extraordinary emergency supersedes the right to privacy enjoyed by the individual no matter what station in life the individual may hold … Look, you little runt, if you don’t get those men off my property, I’ll, I’ll … My father’s dead, I’m running this thing now. I don’t care how long you’ve known the family—my brothers and Ms. Anne and me are running things now …
“Who’s up here? Why, the nerve. For your information, Mr. Abraham Lincoln is up here.”
Lincoln tries to shush Swille, but Swille signals him that it doesn’t matter.
“You’ll do no such thing.” Hands over the phone, to Lincoln, “Says he’s coming up here to arrest you …
“Look, Lee, if you don’t get those men off my property I’m going to create an energy crisis and take back my railroads, and on top of that I’ll see that the foreign countries don’t recognize you. And if that’s not all, I’ll take back my gold. Don’t forget; I control the interest rates …
“Now that’s more like it … Now you’re whistling ‘Dixie’ … No, I won’t tell Davis … Forget it … That’s fine.” Turns to Lincoln, “Says he’s going to send an escort up here to see to it that your men return safely to your yacht, The River Queen. Lee said he was preparing to blow it up but will call it off in deference to your comfort …”
Turning back to the phone, “What’s that? … Oh, you don’t have to come up here and play nigger for three days for punishment; anyway, who will run your side of the war? Look, Lee, I got to go now.” Hangs up. To trio, “Boy, when you say gold, they jump. And speaking of gold, Mr. President, I’m going to give you some.”
“Why, Mr. Swille, now that you mention it,” Lincoln says, fidgeting and pushing his feet, “I didn’t come all the way through Confederate lines just to pass the time of day. We need some revenue bad. Why, we’re as broke as a skeeter’s peeter. I’m leaning toward the peace plan originally proposed by Horace Greeley of the New York paper … it’s called … Well, the plan is called …” Lincoln reaches into his coat pocket for a piece of paper. “Ah, Mr. Swille, I didn’t bring my glasses, would you read it?” Lincoln hands the piece of paper to Swille.
“And cut the formalities, Mr. Swille. You can call me Abe.” Lincoln, once again, reaches out for a handshake, but Swille is too busy reading to notice. Lincoln, embarrassed, puts his hand in his pocket.
Swille takes the paper and examines it. “I … well, your writing, your aide’s writing, is nearly illegible. Here, Uncle Robin, can you make this out?”
Robin looks at it. “Compensatory Emancipation it says, Massa Swille.”
“Compensatory Emancipation, that’s it! Sure enough is, Mr. Swille. It goes like this. We buy the war and the slaves are over. No, like this. We buy the slaves. That’s it. We buy the slaves or the bondsmen and then they pay the South seven and a half percent interest. No, dog bite it. How did it go? My aides have been going over it with me ever since we started out from The River Queen. I got it! We buy up all the slaves and then tell them to go off somewhere. Some place like New Mexico, where nobody’s hardly seen a cloud and when they do show up it looks like judgment day, and where the cactus grows as big as eucalyptus trees, where you have to walk two miles to go to the outhouse and then freeze your can off in the cold desert until it’s your turn and then the outhouse is so dark you sit on a rattlesnake. Other times I think that maybe they ought to go to the tropics where God made them. You know, I’ve been reading about this African tribe that lived in the tropics so long they trained mosquitoes to fight their enemies. Fascinating, don’t you think? I need that gold bad, Mr. Swille. Whatever I decide, it’ll come in handy.”
“Sure, sure, Lincoln, I know. You’ll decide what’s best. I know that the war is even-steven right now, and this gold will help out. I’ll take a chance on your little Union. The nerve of that guy Lee. I’m going to take back that necklace I gave Mrs. Jefferson Davis. Why, they can’t do that to me. Just for that …” Swille goes to his safe, removes some bags of gold and places them on his desk. “That ought to do it, Mr. President, and if you’re in need of some more, I’ll open up Fort Knox and all that you guys wheelbarrow out in an hour you can have.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Swille. You’re a patriotic man. But all of this gold, really, I …”
“Take it. Take it. A long-term loan, Lincoln. I’ll fix these Confederates. That Lee. Sits on his horse as if he was Caesar or somebody.”
“The Confederates are innocent, Mr. Swille. The other day one of them was tipping his hat and curtsying, and one of my snipers plugged him. And in the Chattanooga campaign, Grant tells me that once he was ascending Lookout Mountain and the Confederate soldiers saluted him. ‘Salute to the Commanding General,’ they were saying.”
The men share a chuckle on this one.
“My generals may look like bums, with their blouses unbuttoned and their excessive drinking and their general ragged appearances, but they know how to fight. Why, that Grant gets sick at the sight of the blood and gets mad when you bring up even the subject of war, and he’s never read a military treatise—but he can fight. His only notion of warfare is, ‘Go where the enemy is and beat hell out of him.’ Crude though it may sound, it seems to work.”
“You know, Mr. President, I’m beginning to like you. Here, have a Havana. I have three homes there. Ought to come down some time, Mr. President, play some golf, do some sailing on my yacht. Get away from the Capitol.”
“Well, I don’t know, Mr. Swille. I’d better not leave town with a war going on and all.”
“Where did they get the idea that you were some kind of brooding mystic, tragic and gaunt, a Midwest Messiah with hollow cheeks? I was saying to myself, ‘How can a smart corporation lawyer like this Lincoln be so way-out.’ ”
“I keep my mouth shut, Mr. Swille. And when I can’t think quick enough I walk over to the window, put my fingers into my lapels, throw my head back and gaze toward the Washington Monument, assuming a somber, grave and sulfurous countenance. It impresses them, and the myths fly.”
“You know, Mr. Lincoln, I wish you’d do something about that fugitive-slave law you promised to enforce during the campaign. There are three of my cocoas at large. I’d like to bring them back here. Teach them a lesson for running away. They’re giving the rest of the cocoas around here ideas. They’re always caucusing, not admitting any of my white slaves or the white staff—they pass codes to one another, and some of them have taken to writing.
“They’re in contact, so it seems, with slaves in the rest of the country, through some kind of intricate grapevine, so Cato my graffado tells me. Sometimes he gets blackened-up with them so’s they won’t know who he’s working for. He’s slow but faithful. So faithful that he volunteered for slavery, and so dedicated he is to slavery, the slaves voted him all-Slavery. Sent him to General Howard’s Civilizing School. You should have heard my son, who was an authority on sables. He said they’
re so trusting and kindhearted. I sent him to the Congo to check for some possible energy resources, though he told them he was looking for the source of the Nile. They’re so trusting.
“He was majoring in some kind of thing called anthropology in one of those experimental colleges. You know the young. First I wanted him to go to Yale, like me. Then I saw that the little stinker had an angle. What a cover. Anthropologists. We used to send priests, but they were too obvious.”
“You must be very proud of him, Mr. Swille.”
“He was doing well until … until these Congo savages captured him and … and … well.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, was he … ?”
“You might say that he was killed. But, Mr. President, we all have our trials. An unpleasant subject. A smart one he was, like your Todd. Very inquisitive. It’s upon my son’s advice that I don’t permit any of the employees to use the telephone. I permit Uncle Robin to use it because he’s such a simple creature he wouldn’t have the thought powers for using it deviously. He’s been in the house for so long that he’s lost his thirst for pagan ways and is as good a gentleman as you or me.”
