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.”