by Ishmael Reed
Lincoln nods, approvingly.
“Why, thank you, Cap’n Swille.”
“Don’t mention it, Robin. I don’t know what I’d do without you. He brings me two gallons of slave women’s milk each morning. It keeps me going. He travels all over the South in an airplane, buying supplies for the estate. He’s become quite a bargainer and knows about all of the sales …
“Of course, I still buy the … well, the help. Just got back from Ryan’s Mart in Charleston with a boy named Pompey. Does the work of ten niggers. I got him working in the house here. He doesn’t say much but is really fast. The boy can serve dinner before it’s cooked, beats himself getting up in the morning so that when he goes to the bathroom to shave he has to push his shadow out of the way, and zips about the house like a toy train. I’m really proud of this bargain. Why, on his days off he stands outside of the door, protecting me, like a piece of wood. He can stand there for hours without even blinking an eye. Says he would die if something happens to me. Isn’t that right, Uncle Robin? Though he’s asp-tongued and speaks in this nasal tone, Pompey is a saint. He doesn’t come down to the races, nor does he Camptown; doesn’t smoke, drink, cuss or wench, stays up in his room when he’s not working, probably contemplating the Scriptures. They don’t make them like that any more, Mr. Lincoln. I have a shrewd eye for good property, don’t you think, Abe?”
“Well, Mr. Swille, if you’ve read my campaign literature, you’d know that my position is very clear. What a man does with his property is his business. Of course, I can’t help but agree with one of my distinguished predecessors, George Washington, who said, ‘There are numbers who would rather facilitate the escape of slaves than apprehend them as runaways.’ That law is hard to enforce, Mr. Swille.”
Swille rises. “Look, Lincoln, one of them kinks, 40s, wiped me out when he left here. That venerable mahogany took all my guns, slaughtered my livestock and shot the overseer right between the eyes. And the worst betrayal of all was Raven Quickskill, my trusted bookkeeper. Fooled around with my books, so that every time I’d buy a new slave he’d destroy the invoices and I’d have no record of purchase; he was also writing passes and forging freedom papers. We gave him Literacy, the most powerful thing in the pre-technological pre-post-rational age—and what does he do with it? Uses it like that old Voodoo—that old stuff the slaves mumble about. Fetishism and grisly rites, only he doesn’t need anything but a pen he had shaped out of cock feathers and chicken claws. Oh, they are bad sables, Mr. Lincoln. They are bad, bad sables. Not one of them with the charm and good breeding of Ms. Phyllis Wheatly, who wrote a poem for the beloved founder of this country, George Washington.” He begins to recite with feeling:
“Thy ev’ry action let the Goddess guide.
A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine,
With gold unfading, Washington! We thine.
“And then that glistening rust-black Stray Leechfield. We saw him as nothing but a low-down molasses-slurper and a mutton thief, but do you know what he did? He was stealing chickens—methodically, not like the old days when they’d steal one or two and try to duck the BBs. He had taken so many over a period of time that he was over in the other county, big as you please, dressed up like a gentleman, smoking a seegar and driving a carriage which featured factory climate-control air conditioning, vinyl top, AM/FM stereo radio, full leather interior, power-lock doors, six-way power seat, power windows, white-wall wheels, door-edge guards, bumper impact strips, rear defroster and soft-ray glass.
“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. “Wel
l,” 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.
5
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.”
But before Uncle Robin can issue some apologies, saying that the devil must have gotten ahold of his tongue or that he will promise not to express such notions again, the red light above the kitchen door begins to blink, which means that Massa Swille wants Moe to come into his office. Moe wipes his mouth with a napkin, gulps the coffee down so quickly it stains his junior executive’s shirt.
“Oh, dammit, now what will I do?”
“Hold on, Mr. Moe.” Uncle Robin rushes to the cabinet, takes out some spot remover and dabs it on Moe’s shirt. The button-down collar’s stain disappears. Moe rushes out of the kitchen.
PART II
LINCOLN THE PLAYER
6
LINCOLN SALUTES THE CONFEDERATE soldiers Lee has sent up to escort him and his party back to The River Queen. He climbs into the carriage and sits next to an aide.
“Did you sell him some bonds?” the aide asks.
“Yeah,” Lincoln says, leaning back in his carriage, removing his stovepipe hat and boots; he takes off his white gloves last.
“Gilded Age ding-dong if there ever was. Hands like a woman’s. I feel like a minstrel …”
“But you did sell him some bonds?”
“Yes. First I gave him the yokel-dokel—he saw through that. And then he went on about my lack of culture and poked fun at my clothes. Talked about my shiny suitcoat and pants. Then he said some nasty things about Mary. Well, I know that she’s … she’s odd. Well, you know, I couldn’t stand there and listen to that, so I blew my top.”
“And he still gave you the gold?”
“Yeah. You know, if we lost this war we wouldn’t be able to repay Swille. We’re sticking our necks out, but with the cost of things these days, we have to turn to him. Why, we still owe a bill for that Scotch plaid cap and cloak I bought so I could enter the Capitol in disguise. The Confederates thought I was frightened, but that wasn’t it at all. I was trying to duck the bill collectors who were holding me responsible for the debts owed by the last administration. Buchanan said there’d be days like this. No wonder he was trembling when he shook my hand at the inaugural ceremony, and when I was sworn in—whiz—he took off down the platform steps. Said he had to catch a train. Said ‘Good luck, Hoosier.’ Now I know what he meant.”
“It was a close call, when the Confederates came up to the house just now. You should have seen the secret service men in the next carriage scramble from the Queen Mary. I don’t think they know what in the hell they’re doing. And I think one of them, that fat one, is a little off into the bottle. Mr. President, you ought to fire that one.”
“I don’t plan to fire that one. Just put him on detail at insignificant events. The theatre. I might need Swille’s support some more and so I’m going to start doing more for culture. Tidy up my performance. I want you to get me and Mary Todd some tickets to a theatre from time to time and invite Ulysses and his wife.”
“Look, sir.”
On the side of the road some of the colored contraband were appearing. They started waving their handkerchiefs at the President. The President waved back. One man ran up to the carriage; Lincoln stuck his hand out to shake the slave’s hand, but instead of shaking the President’s hand the man began kissing it until he dropped back behind the carriage. He stood in the road waving.
“They love you, sir.”
“Curious tribe. There’s something, something very human about them, something innocent and … Yet I keep having the suspicion that they have another mind. A mind kept hidden from us. They had this old mammy up there. She began singing and dancing me around. The first time in these years I took my mind off the war. I felt like crawling into her lap and going to sleep. Just sucking my thumb and rolling my hair up into pickaninny knots. I never even gave spooks much thought, but now that they’ve become a subplot in this war, I can’t get these shines off my mind. My dreams … She must do Swille a lot of good.”
“She didn’t treat us very well; told us to abandon her kitchen.”
Lincoln laughs. “You know, I can’t help thinking sometimes that the rich are retarded. That Swille couldn’t go to the bathroom, I’ll bet, without an escort or someone showing him the way. And do you know what he subsists on?”
“What, sir?”
“Slave mothers’ milk.”
“What?”
“It’s supposed to reverse the aging process. Said he got the idea from some fellow named Tennyson. Sir Baron Lord Tennyson. Sounds like one of those fellows we used to beat up and take lunch money from back in Springfield. Anyway, Swille says he got the solution from the hormone of a reptile, and that this Tennyson fellow wrote a poem about it. One depressing work, if you’d ask my opinion. All about immortality and ennui. These people down here don’t seem to do nothin but despair. This Tenn
yson guy was talking about flowers a lot. Do you know of him? Is he all right? And who is this ennui feller?”
“Ennui means … well … it’s like a languor, a general discontent concerning the contemporary milieu. Tennyson, he’s an aesthete, Mr. President.”
“Well, I’ll be as dull as a Kansas moon. You say he’s what?”
“An aesthete. He knows about flowers, reads poetry aloud lying on French Impressionist picnic grass. Visits the lofts of painters. Attends all of the openings. Is charming and fascinating with the women.”
“Well, I don’t think that this Swille fellow’s got all of his potatoes. He said something about a town named Camelot. Where is this town, aide? How far away is this town Camelot? Is it a train stop? Is it in Virginia?”
“Camelot is the mythical city of the Arthurian legend, Mr. Lincoln.”
“Well, I’ll be a flying fish on a worm tree. This Swille kept talking about the place and about how a king was going to rule America. I think he was trying to buy me off. That’s my last dealings with him. His kind make you feel like … what’s the name of the character in Mrs. Stowe’s novel?”
“Uncle Tom, sir?”
“That’s it. They have you tommy to them. The man started to talk strange, a lot of scimble-skamble, about knighthood and the ‘days that were’ … Hey, what the hell’s going on down here, anyway? Did you hear all that screaming back there? Nobody even noticed. I didn’t say nothin cause I figured if nobody noticed it, then I must be hearing things. Did you notice it, aide, all that screaming going on back there?”
Lincoln rested his head against the window and looked out into the Virginia night, the blackest night in the South. There was an old folk art cemetery with leaning tombstones behind an ornate black wrought-iron fence. A woman in white floated across the cemetery. A wolf howled. Bats flew into the dark red sun.
