Flight to Canada Read online

  “But—”

  “Don’t choo be buttin me! You gon pick some violets; that is, after you have come down and personally looked after the preparing of the breakfast for the men. Then … What else, Bangalang?”

  Bangalang picks up an in-Castle memo from the night-stand top. “Then there will be a garden poetry reading of Edgar Poe.”

  “I think for dat occasion you shall wear a bonnet and a cloak and some jewelry … some of dat nice golden jewelry. Maybe your goldbug pin.”

  “I gave that to Mr. Poe to pawn. He’s always seeking ‘loans,’ as he calls them. Says he can’t figure out royalty reports.”

  “Then after that I want you to come to my office, and I’ll have you fill out the details for the rest of the day, which will include a tea for some of the neighborhood belles, an outdoor cookie sale to help the po ’Federate hospital …”

  “But, Barracuda, don’t you see that that’s exploitin—”

  “You shush about the ‘sploitin.’ Now I want you to roll over.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  Barracuda, one eye shut, one eye open, is preparing a long hypodermic needle filled with cc’s of Valium.

  “What … what are you doing, Barracuda?”

  “This ain’t gon take but a little time. And don’t worry, it won’t hurt a bit. Just a little pinch.”

  “But, Barracuda …”

  “Barracuda wants her darlin to turn over now. Cooperate, I don’t have all day. A famous military man is coming for dinner tomorrow, and I have to prepare the menu. Tomorrow night while they’re dining I want you to make an appearance. When the men is lighting up the cigars, you will enter the room and make a few courtesies and stay until they have recited the ‘Ode to the Southern Belle.’ Tomorrow A.M. you will return to watering flowers, selling cookies, fanning yourself, fluttering your eyebrows and blushing at the flirtatious remarks of the Southern gen’mens. I want that drawl back, too. You sound too Yankee, that’s part of your problem. But tomorrow you goin to look fine. Like nothing ever happened. You gon look chaste—not too chaste, though, a wee bit coquettish, refined. Now turn over. You will be quality people again and quit yo old tomcat ways. Hrmph! Grumph!”

  “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.

  19

  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 t
he 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?”

  Brown smiled broadly. “I’d love to, lad. Do you have it with you?”

  “It’s in my cabin. I’ll be right back.”

  Quickskill ran to the cabin, almost knocking down one of the lakers, he was so excited. He dashed inside. “Quaw Quaw! Quaw Quaw! William Wells Brown—” She was lying on the bed, sobbing. He reached for her arm.

  “Don’t you touch me, Leave me alone. I was tired of reading Dickens and so I took your manuscript out of the suitcase. I read the poem. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t anyone?”

  “You loved him so, Quaw Quaw. I didn’t want to be the one. I don’t need to knock another man to gain a woman.”

  “But … I’ve been with this man since I was fourteen. He raised me. Sent me to school. Paid my bills. I loved him. But if I had known …” She breaks into sobs, burying her head in the wet pillow.

  Quickskill walked over to the dresser where the poem lay. He didn’t want her to learn about it this way. No, not this way.

  The Saga of Third World Belle

  Third World Belle

  My Indian Princess

  No one has the heart to tell

  You, so I will

  Your favorite pirate uses

  Your Dad’s great-chief’s skull

  As an ashtray

  And sold your Mom’s hand-knitted

  Robes to Buffalo Bill’s

  Wild West Show

  He buried your brother alive

  In a sealed-off section of the

  Metropolitan Museum

  To you he’s a “heavy” aesthete

  Born in ’27

  While I am a native mind riding

  Bareback, backwards through

  A wood of words and when I stumble

  I get my Ibo* up and hobble

  like a bloody-footed slave

  Traveling from Virginia to

  Ohio and if I stumble again

  I get my Cherokee up and smell

  My way to the clearing

  Your Apache temper snaps at me

  Even before I open my trap

  But I still love you my

  Mountain-climbing woman with

  A rope all around your waist

  My rider of Killer Whales

  I’m on a fox hunt for you baby

  Got my black cap and red coat on

  I’m on a fox hunt for you baby

  Got my black cap and red coat on

  Just like a coyote cassetting amorous

  Howls

  In Sugar Blues

  I airmail them to you

  In packages of Hopi Dolls

  Ah ouooooool Ah ouoooooo!

  * Ibos: a fiercely proud African tribe who’d rather cut their throats than be sold into slavery.

  20

  MOOOOTTTTHHHHHEEEEERRRR. MOOOOOTTTTTHHHHHEEEERRR.

  “What can that be?” Ms. Swille said at the dresser, turning her head around.

  Moooootttttthhhhhheeeeeerrrrr.

  Then she saw a foot—no, not really a foot but some strange reticulated claw—entering the room from the wall opposite her. And then a clammy-looking hand … well, not exactly a hand. It was a human figure, but not exactly; the skin belonged to that of a crocodile, but the head—oh no—the head, it was Mitchell’s head. Mitchell, the anthropologist; it was his head.

  “Mitchell, you’re supposed to be in the Congo. What on earth are you doing in that outfit?”

  “I hate to greet you in this awful state, Mother, but, well, you see, I was killed.”

  “Killed! My son! You were … they told me that you had extended your stay in the Congo. Killed!” She begins to sob.

  “I know, Mom,” the creature says, now having moved to next to where she’s seated in front of the mirror. “They never tell you anything. But my body was never found. The Snake Society was mean, and they, well, they have some strange ideas about the supernatural. You don’t hear them longing for ‘hebbin,’ as the kinks call it here. They threw me to this crocodile called Aldo. He ate everything but my head … He …”

  “Oh, oh, oh! No! Please, Mitchell, they didn’t.”

  “You can’t blame them, Mom. They condemned me to go about in this outfit for eternity. It’s cold where I am. A cold-blooded place, as they say in Sacramento. The other side. Boy, are the smokes going to be in for a surprise. I had to tell you this, Mother; I know that even the little picks who remove the worms from the tobacco know more about what’s going on here than you do. The smokes do the same thing there that they do here, only overtime. The unglorious occupations. You see, they found out that I wasn’t really on an anthropology expedition but was checking things for Dad. Your husband, my father, is one macabre fiend. No wonder he has Poe down here all the time. Do you know what he did?”

  “What did he do, son?”

  “Sent my head to the National Archives and took it off his taxes.”

  “Oh, son, did he do that?”

  “I didn’t want to meddle in the internal affairs of the Congo. He had me spending my time making resources maps. All I wanted to do was bring back some shrunken heads for my museum collection. You know, the one uptown that Dad gave me.”

  “I’m furious. Son, do you see me shaking? Do you see what a terrible state I’m in? That smoke, Mammy Barracuda, just makes my life miserable. I have no authority any more, and when I do exercise my functions she says things like ‘Dit out of my way,’ or ‘Dit out of my kitchen.’ She has some strange hold on Master Swille.”

  “That’s not all, Mother. He has this film library. When his friends were riding high before the war, he’d invite them up here. He showed terrible pictures of slaves being tortured and killed. Close-ups of them biting each other’s ears off. His friends would watch this, drink Tennessee whiskey and eat box lunches. It was awful.”

  “No, no, spare me.”

  “And not only that. He flogged Queen Victoria. Yet she refused to give him a title.”

  “What!”

/>   “That’s when you were away in New York on behalf of one of the Beecher causes. He was in England on business. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert visited Dad for the purpose of his loaning England some money so that they could buy Burma. Well, Barracuda found a copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin in her room, and Dad had her fettered before the whole establishment. Others say that the Queen refused him a barony. And Mom, Dad’s gotten mixed up with this Lord Gladstone who’s a friend of Marquis de Sade who is introducing some new pastime for the rich called Sadism.”

  “What on earth is that, son?”

  “Something to do with whips. But sometimes screws. Sadists have closets full of lashes. They trade fettering devices.”

  “But we do that all the time down here, son.”

  “That’s why Gladstone came out for the Confederacy.”

  “Why … I don’t follow.”

  “Gladstone is a leading Sadist. He’s into flagellation. He … he whips himself, Mother, tortures and beats himself.”

  “Oh my God, you mean your father is mixed up with that outfit?”

  “Yes, Mother. They want to make the South into their headquarters so that all of their followers can come here and practice their ways without being persecuted. They’ve referred to Virginia as the Sadist’s Canada. Well, they had the Queen of England whipped, Mother. The Sadists have about captured the Crown. They’re all over the world, whipping people in the name of England. Whipping. Screaming. Beating people for the Queen.”

  “Zounds! What horrors!”

  “Victoria’s old whale-white skin started spotting red. Then they blotched her, wringed her. And they stretched her. And Prince Albert stood there real dignified, Mother. Real dignified. And under so much stress. And speaking of stress, Mother, they brought in that stud, Big Jim. Mother, you know the one who goes about saying motherfuck a motherfucker all the time. Then it got kinky, Mom. Real kinky. They really needed that loan bad, but Dad didn’t get the barony. He’s now trying to get a circle of corrupt lords to persuade the Queen to bestow one upon him. He’s a saber-toothed guppy, Mom. Look at me. I have to go through eternity this way. You know, it’s hard to get crocodile skin clean, real hard. Dirt digs deep in the scales. I can’t control the tail. All I wanted to do was hunt some heads for my museum collection. Now look … I talk in this evil nasal twang.”