Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  It’s been the better part of a year since I’ve slept under Father’s roof for two consecutive nights, and Mama lights up at seeing me walk through the door with my sparse belongings slung over my shoulder. Father, on the other hand, pretends to ignore me. This night is no different from many others I’ve spent in the cramped cabin, reading by the fireplace under the glare of disapproval.

  I rise early the next morning and set out on foot for the day-long trek to Mr. Taylor’s place on Anderson Creek. I break out in a broad grin when he says he needs a ferryman. The river life has gotten in my blood. There’s even time for reading during waits between passengers.

  In early January of the next year, during a weather-created lull in ferry traffic, I’m up at Father’s, and Mama conscripts me to cure some freshly butchered pork. Father’s off hunting or whatever he does when he’s in one of his melancholy moods. Hunched over, draping strips of meat over rows of pegs, I push down memories of my pet pig’s slaughter years ago.

  When I’m summoned out of the hut, the frigid ground is still spotted with remnants of last week’s snow. The brittle grasses crunch underfoot. Smoke itches my eyes and hangs in my throat. Redmond, the youngest of the Grigsby boys, has been sent to deliver the news. A knot forms in my chest as the gravity etched on his face sinks in—his mouth drawn and chin quivering. He speaks haltingly. Sally and her infant son died in childbirth.

  I collapse onto a nearby log and bury my face in my hands, sobbing. As tears roll down my cheeks, a wave of heat flushes through my body. I jump off the log and race two miles to the Grigsby family’s home where Sally has been staying in recent weeks. Redmond barely keeps up with me. I crash through the door and charge at Aaron, not even glancing at Sally’s lifeless corpse. I grab him by the shoulders and shake him. He pulls back. My hands reach for his neck.

  “What did you do to her?” The pitch in my voice climbs with each word.

  Natty—the only good Grigsby—and his father lunge at me, wrapping their arms around my waist and chest. I throw them off.

  Aaron stumbles backwards stabbing the air with his finger as he points at me. “Are you mad?”

  The veins in my neck pulse. “Did you even send for the doctor?”

  Natty answers for him. “We sent for the doctor, but he was drunk, passed out, useless.”

  Old Man Grigsby chimes in. “We did everything we could. We did our best to save them.”

  I turn to him, “You never wanted her or her child to be a part of your family. You’re just as happy to see them dead and your boy, here, marrying someone else you think is more fit.”

  The room is hushed except for the buzzing of the Grigsby women huddled in a corner. My shoulders slump and my head droops as I walk slowly to Sally’s body. Tears trail down my cheeks as I gaze on her pale, angelic face. Gone with the color from her cheeks are the last remnants of my faith and hope. Providence is against me. Of course, Fate was not the sole author of her demise. There is plenty blame to go around—the Grigsby clan for their negligence, Father for dragging us into this God-forsaken wilderness, and me—for bringing a wretched curse onto the precious angels I love.

  The Grigsbys see to Sally’s prompt burial, assuring God’s Grace—if there is such a thing—will do its duty. Nonetheless, I lie awake on many stormy, windswept nights cringing at the thought of snow falling on her grave, hoping she rests deep enough and on high enough ground to keep her secure from flooding.

  Months after Sally’s death, a local merchant, James Gentry, offers me eight dollars a month to accompany his son Allen, a long, lean fellow like myself, on a twelve hundred mile float trip down the Mississippi. We’re to carry cured pork and other merchandise from Gentry’s store to markets in New Orleans. I accept his offer and busy myself helping Allen build a forty-foot flatboat for our trip. The work keeps my mind off of Sally.

  In mid-April we launch our rustic vessel into the unruly Ohio River at Gentry’s landing, waving good-bye to Allen’s sweet wife, Anna.

  Only a few nights previous, Allen, Anna, and I had been sitting on the deck of the nearly finished flatboat, reminiscing about my dear Sally. After a time, I grew sullen and fell silent. Several moments passed without anyone speaking before Anna pointed to the moon and said, “Look, the moon is going down.”

  “That’s not so,” I replied. “It doesn’t really go down—it just seems to. You see, the Earth turns from west to east, and the revolution takes us under, preventing us from seeing the moon. We do the sinking. The moon’s sinking is only an appearance.”

  She laughed and called me “odd.”

  I stood and told her she’s “silly,” then left her and Allen sitting on the boat.

  Two hours into our voyage, Allen and I confront the first evidence of the river’s guile; along the flooded shoreline another flatboat has gotten caught up among some partially submerged stumps in slack water. We throw them a rope as we pass, taking care not to get too close lest we meet the same calamity. Allen scurries to secure one end of the line to our gunwales as the men on the other boat do the same on their end. I plant my feet flat on the deck and put every sinew of my back into the ten-foot rudder pole in order to keep us in the current.

  As we pull the stranded boaters free, Allen quizzes them about their experience on the river. They’ve made three previous trips from Louisville down to New Orleans and warn us of dangers ahead. Allen studies their boat as it catches the river’s current and reminds me he has as much experience as the fools we just rescued.

  I stare at their cargo, half a dozen Negroes shackled together with chains. “Those poor fellows could drown if they fall into this river, weighted down by those irons.”

  Allen shrugs. “Not our problem.”

  “Aren’t their lives as precious to them as ours are to us?”

  “No sense borrowing someone else’s trouble.”

  I continue gazing at the slave trader’s boat and wonder whether President Adams, the abolitionist, can realize his vision for our country.

  On our journey down the Ohio—before reaching the great waters of the Mississippi—we tie up to shore each afternoon as the sun drops behind the trees. If we wait until dark to make land, we could miss spotting shoals and other obstacles. At dusk, good landings are hard to pick out along these wild, unsettled shorelines. It’s even harder with the river swollen beyond its banks. Experienced flatboat-men we’ve encountered tell us flooding is as bad as anyone can remember. They warn that whirlpools and eddies close to shore are uncommonly hazardous.

  Four days out, we approach the Ohio’s confluence with the Mississippi. Our course widens, nearly doubling in volume and increasing in speed and turbulence. Allen warns me of the behemoth we are about to encounter and how it will test my strength, which he claims is unmatched by any man he’s ever met.

  I mutter, “There are greater things than strong backs.”

  Our hull creaks and groans as we bob up and down over swells and dips. One plunge jolts us so hard I nearly lose my footing. I grip the rudder-oar tighter and wedge my boots into the gaps between deck planks.

  Soon a vast sea opens before us without a hint of shore in the distance, and a thunderous roar pummels my ears. The chop of the Ohio launches us headlong into the churning, swirling Mississippi. A whirlpool half the size of our boat gapes, intent on sucking us into its throat. The rudder thrashes in my hands as if possessed by demons, yanking my arms almost out of their sockets. Throwing my whole body into the pole, I remember the ravenous bowels of Knob Creek that nearly swallowed me up as a boy. It would have been the end of me if it wasn’t for good ol’ Austin Gollaher. I tell myself, “This one’s not going to get the better of me.”

  Allen clutches the corner post of the shelter at our stern. In an instant, the giant swirl whips us around and shoots us almost halfway across the Mississippi. As we float sideways, Allen sets the oars, and I feather the rudder. Once he’s got them set, I grab one oar in my left hand while managing the rudder with my righ
t, and he mans the other oar. We row feverishly toward the current.

  By the time the Mississippi takes us into its bosom and sweeps us along its course, my back is wracked with spasms, and I’m gasping for breath. I kneel and watch the river carry us along. To our left, the clear waters of the Ohio are shackled to the stronger, murky current. In less than two miles the Ohio’s whole identity is lost, consumed by the great, wide, muddy waters of its master.

  Soon the Mississippi calms and flattens. Its meandering course creates the perception that the sun is shifting positions in the sky, peering at us first from one direction, then another, and again another. The shorelines are mostly wilderness until we reach the fledgling town of Vicksburg on our left—a handful of newly raised brick homes and a church perched atop a cliff. According to Allen, “Under the Hill” is what they call the area along the bank below the bluff. It’s normally teeming with commotion—commerce, slave trafficking, and debauchery. Today, Under the Hill is partly submerged in flood waters, so human activity is sparse.

  Near nightfall, we put in at a place known as Rodney, also called “Petit Gulf,” where the waterfront contains one surprise after another. Even the visiting boatmen have donned colorful costumes in reds, yellows, greens, and blues to match the riverfront inhabitants. Allen tells me these alien appearing folks are Cajuns—a half-breed mix of French Acadians and local Indians.

  I talk Allen into standing guard over our cargo while I explore the carnival of activity. I’m drawn to a large flatboat docked nearby which does double-duty as a theatre. A family named Chapman performs plays onboard each evening. When I hear they’ll be doing Shakespeare’s King Lear at nightfall, I rush back to our boat for a bushel of corn to trade for admission. Allen needles me about wasting valuable cargo on idiotic entertainment. There’s only wonderment and no foolishness that night as the actors perform their solemn scenes on the torch-lit floating stage.

  From Rodney we slow our pace and keep a keen eye out for opportunities to sell our wares or trade for anything we think will command a better price in New Orleans. We stop at any landing that isn’t inundated by flood waters. My heart is pinched at the sight of slaves being led in chains through the waterfront marketplaces or laboring in the fields. They remind me that Father owns the wages for my toil on this great river.

  Three weeks into our journey we anchor along the Sugar Coast about sixty miles above New Orleans. We linger in the area for the next several days, selling stock and bartering with the local plantations for sugar. The last evening before continuing on to New Orleans, we tie up along the shore at Madame Busham’s Plantation, six miles below Baton Rouge.

  During the night, Allen and I awaken to a ruckus on deck. In the moonlight, we see seven burly men with glistening black skin rummaging through our cargo.

  Allen jumps out of our shelter to challenge them. I’m right on his heels.

  Allen shouts, “Get off our boat.”

  They drop our goods and turn to face us.

  Again, Allen orders them off the boat.

  They charge us.

  I lunge at the largest one, locking my arms around his massive chest and lifting him off his feet.

  He bangs his forehead into mine, drawing blood from just above my eye.

  I hurl the big Negro onto two of his cohorts.

  As the bunch tumbles to the deck Allen yells, “Abe, get the guns.”

  Even though we have no weapons, I charge back into the shelter, doing my best to sell Allen’s ruse.

  With no further ado, the seven jump off our boat and scramble through the water to shore.

  We collapse to our knees, breathless. Allen wheezes, “Thought we were as good as dead.”

  I nod. “Wonder where they came from.”

  Allen rubs the back of his neck. “Runaways.”

  “What do you think they were up to?”

  Allen grunts. “Killing us. Stealing food and weapons, if we had any. Taking anything they’d need to outrun their masters.”

  “Running to where?”

  Allen stands up. “North. Canada. Freedom. ’Course most likely, a patrol will catch ’em and drag ’em back for a good whipping.”

  I get up and gaze at the plantation. Beyond the fields of cane and rows of shanties, the mansion is lit up like a priceless jewel. “Think they’ll be back?”

  “Not a chance,” he says. “They’re running as fast and as far away as they can.”

  I shake my head and wipe the blood from my brow. “Just the same, I’ll feel safer dodging snags on the river at night than tied up here.”

  Allen agrees, and we weigh anchor with due haste, finding the heart of the current before either of us can blink. Even as we keep a keen eye out for obstacles in the water, our thoughts remain pinned to images of those Negroes and their intent to murder us.

  New Orleans is a full eight to ten hours away—a good half of that time we’re casting about blind. Two hours down river I chuckle and turn to Allen. “Counting the day I was born, that’s the fifth time I’ve almost died, and there were three other times I wished I had.”

  On approaching the Port of New Orleans late in the afternoon, Allen points to the grand homes perched on the high ground to our left. A bit later, we come to the beginning of the flatboat-stores docked end-to-end along the wood-planked wharf. They line the river’s course as it sweeps east then bends north. Allen tells me to keep out in the current while he scans the shore for a vacant slot. We’ve plenty of time, he says. Most of the activity is about a mile downstream.

  As we float past the array of docked boats, the waterfront gets more crowded and we inhale increasingly foul odors. Allen explains that most flatboat merchants live on their vessels and dump their spoiled cargo and human refuse directly into the river. As the river turns and the current flows northward, their garbage lingers in slack water and rots. Allen says the city tries to hold down the dumpage by imposing a five dollar per day fine on flatboats that stay past eight days after docking.

  A half mile later he warns me we better find a spot soon. The Frenchmen who rule the city have their homes downriver from Notre Dame Street. If we put in past there, we’ll be fined twenty dollars. On top of keeping us away from their upper-class district, another purpose of the steep fine is to prevent itinerant vendors like us from encroaching on the shopping districts that lie beyond Notre Dame. The local merchants fear that our lower prices will lure customers away.

  Allen points to a boat pulling away from the dock, and I angle toward the newly vacated spot, fighting the current as it tries to drag us downriver. Allen helps me pull, and with a mighty effort we maintain our course. However, we’re not the only ones intent on mooring there. Another flatboat closer to shore is challenging us, though it’s farther upstream. When we reach shallow enough water, Allen does the oaring singlehandedly while I grab a pole and push us along in earnest. It’s a close call, but we win the race, cutting off the other boat by a hair. At that point, I bring the bow around so we’re aligned with the wharf. After checking to make certain there’s ample clearance to avoid collisions with the boats forward and aft, I pole sideways to the dock.

  Allen jumps ashore to tie us down while I stow my pole and begin looking around at our neighbors. On the forward boat, two uniformed men are rummaging through crates and barrels.

  I nod toward the officials and ask Allen, “What’s up?”

  “Inspectors,” he whispers.

  I glance aft at our other neighbor’s deck. No officials onboard. One of the crew is dangling ears of corn from strings tied to a pole. “Haloo there,” I call out.

  The man waves.

  “Where from?” I ask.

  “Kaintuck’” he says, unsmiling.

  Cursing erupts from the forward boat. I turn. A burly, redheaded crewman is restraining a companion who’s shouting and waving his hands in the air. The inspectors are off-loading the boat’s cargo.

  Allen steps back aboard our boat. “If they find
damaged or spoiled goods, they confiscate them and auction them off. Proceeds go to the Port.” He bends down and unties a barrel of pork we’d secured for our journey downriver.

  “Any other rules?”

  “Can’t smoke meat on board.”

  The unsmiling crewman to our aft calls over to us. “Been hearin’ stories ‘bout some fellow burnt up his boat last month. Cookin’ on board. Cudda set the whole wharf and half the city ablaze.” He turns away, shaking his head.

  A ruckus grabs my attention from several boats away. A sow and her piglets are being offloaded from a flatboat. After watching the buyer herd the critters up over the levee, my gaze wanders. Docked upriver, is the pilot we pulled out of slack water up on the Ohio. He’s leading the Negro slaves he’s brought down from Kentucky off his boat—all shackled to one long chain.

  I turn to Allen who’s wrestling with another barrel of pork. “What do you reckon that fellow is doing with those Negroes?”

  He follows my hand.

  “Looks like he’s headed towards Hewlett’s Exchange.”

  My jaw tightens.

  A large Negro woman’s voice rises above all the other noises as she trundles down the levy toward the dock. Her billowing dress, imprinted with purple, red and, green flowers, grabs my attention as does the strange babble spilling from her lips. She’s followed by an equally dark-skinned man wearing a loosely fitted black suit, white shirt, and a tie.

  “Hey you,” she calls out, or at least that’s what it sounds like she says.

  I turn to Allen. He whispers, “Colored Creole. Accent is French.”

  I look back at her. Her companion is standing to one side behind her, his head lowered.

  She laughs. “Yes, Ugly. I’m talking to you.”

  I glare at her.

  “Where you boys from?”

  Allen stands up straight. “Indiana.”