Lincoln Raw

by DL Fowler

  “You got any bacon? Pork? I’ll give three dollars a barrel for pork.”

  The unsmiling crewman in the next boat shakes his head.

  “Make it five. Need the extra to buy a mask to cover this ‘ugly’ face.”

  She snorts a laugh. “I’ll do four, not a cent more.”

  I glance again at our neighbor and get a nod.

  I look at Allen who taps his nose with his finger.

  “Sold,” I say.

  Allen adds, “Let’s see your money before your man touches that barrel.”

  The Creole woman stuffs her hand into her ample bosom, digging for money.

  I look at Allen, “Is that Negro with her a slave?”

  He nods. “They’re Colored Creoles, not from Africa, different from other Negroes. Some own slaves. Down here, they’re mostly treated like white folks.”

  An angular little man in a gray, tailored suit is carrying a chicken by its feet, its wings flapping. He darts aboard and makes a beeline for a barrel of corn. Allen collars him while I take the woman’s payment.

  “Sorry, Ma’am,” I say. “This won’t do.”

  “What’s wrong?” she demands.

  I wave the bills at her. “There’s only three here.”

  “Can’t none of you backwoods boys count?”

  “My ciphering isn’t the problem.”

  A scruffy urchin boy races onto the boat and scrambles for an open barrel of sugar.

  I lunge and snatch him by the collar.

  The Creole woman orders her man to collect the barrel of pork.

  I block him, still holding the boy.

  The man stops in his tracks.

  I glare at the woman. “One more dollar.”

  She scowls as she pays, and I let her man pass.

  As for the boy, I take an ear of corn from one of the barrels, give it to him, and send him on his way.

  The next morning, Allen and I agree to take turns manning our floating store. He does the first shift and shoos me off to explore the city. I head in the direction the slave trader took his Negroes the evening before, and soon stumble onto a coffle of slaves being led away to market. I follow behind them.

  The slaves are herded through a door into a two story, red-brick building near the intersection of St. Louis and Charles Streets. Around the corner at the front entrance to the building, a man stands on a platform under a banner that says Auction. His slick black hair is combed straight back, and he’s wearing a freshly pressed tan suit. A bright red kerchief hangs out of his breast pocket.

  He points with a riding crop at a girl standing next to him. She’s wearing a light blue satin dress and white gloves coming up to her elbows. A silk shawl covers her shoulders, and her straight brown hair is coiled on top of her dainty head. She appears no older than my step-sister Mattie. Her angelic face turns ashen when she’s directed to drop the shawl. Her lightly-tanned skin is as fair as many folks in the crowd.

  The tan-suited man gives each of her breasts a squeeze and announces with a lecherous grin, “Ample, yet firm. This quadroon is quite the fancy girl.”

  I turn to a young man next to me who’s sporting a brocaded vest, under a black waistcoat with tails. “What’s a quadroon?”

  He studies me, first my hands then my hair. With a sneer he says, “A slave who could almost pass for white. Except, the skin’s a little off, and the hair’s a bit coarse—like yours.”

  I clench my teeth.

  The man on the platform asks, “Shall we start the bidding at five-hundred dollars?”

  The brocade-vested man shouts, “One thousand.” The pitch of his voice betrays his excitement.

  My stomach turns.

  An older man a few yards away calls out, “One thousand-two hundred.”

  A portly fellow with rosy cheeks and reddish tufts of hair ringing his bald crown blurts, “Can I inspect the merchandise close up before bidding?”

  The man on the platform shakes his head. “Sorry. Inspections were all done inside beforehand. Should’ve been here earlier.”

  “Fit for breeding?” the fat man asks.

  The auctioneer grins. “Very.”

  “One thousand-seven-hundred.” The brocade-vested man’s voice, louder and more pitched than before, sends chills down my spine.

  A collective gasp rises from the crowd.

  “Sold,” the auctioneer announces.

  The winning bidder turns to me and whispers, “I have a fantasy or two to indulge with that one.”

  My stomach knots as he goes forward to collect his property. I turn to another man nearby and ask, “How can a woman so fair be a slave?”

  “S’pose she was born a slave,” he says.

  “But why wouldn’t she be set free? She’d make someone a fine wife.”

  The man wrinkles his nose and squints at me. “Where you from?”

  “Indiana.”

  He snorts. “Figured as much.”

  I look back toward the platform.

  The balding, portly fellow leans in and says, “She’s worth a small fortune as a breeder, to say nothing of the pleasure she’ll bring him.” He leans close to me and whispers. “Fancy this. Any dalliance he conjures up can come true with just the snap of his fingers.” He backs away and strokes his chin as he gawks at the girl. “Imagine how fine her offspring will be with that planter’s white blood mixed in. She’ll earn back his investment a dozen times.”

  My jaw drops. “He’d sell his own children?”

  He laughs. “He wouldn’t make them his heirs, not that fellow. I mean, if a man plants a sugar cane field with his own hands, wouldn’t the crop be his to sell the same as if his slaves planted it?”

  I glare at him.

  He tips his hat and presses toward the platform. “I’ll be bidding on this next lot.”

  As the quadroon girl disappears with her new owner, she’s replaced by a family. The man is tall, shirtless, with skin as dark as I’ve ever seen, his massive chest and arms glistening. The woman wears a loose-fitting dress; her hair is bound up in a scarf. Two children, a boy and a girl, cling to her waist.

  The auctioneer motions for the man to step to center-stage. “We’ll start with him.”

  The woman wails, “Please, please. We’s fambly. My Mistress promise a’fore she die, you take us all together. I’s would be the best slave ever. Obeyin’ everthing— the chilluns too. Work day ‘n night. Please.”

  The auctioneer unhooks a long whip from his belt. “Shut up or I’ll take you inside and give you the whip.”

  The woman hunches over and keeps wailing.

  The auctioneer motions to the man. “Turn around.” The son still clinging to his mother, stretches one arm out to his father.

  As the large Negro stands with his bare back to us, the auctioneer points at him. “See, no marks. This one’s never been flogged, though his woman is gonna be if she don’t shut up.”

  When the slave turns around to face us again the woman’s moaning gets louder.

  The auctioneer continues. “This boy does what he’s told. Not going to find a better worker for your sugar cane fields.”

  I turn and head toward the wharf. I’ve not taken more than a dozen steps when someone from the crowd calls out, “One-hundred.”

  “We’ve got us some mighty serious bidders today,” the auctioneer chortles.

  The woman’s moans echo in my ears on my way toward our boat. My own dull skin causes me to wonder if any Negro blood runs through my veins. I glance at others around me, taking note of their complexion. If I ever get the chance, I’ll hit this injustice squarely in the head just as that old mare did to me years ago. I’ll just do the job more thoroughly than she did.

  After the last of our cargo is gone, Allen and I dismantle our flatboat and sell our wood to the Port. They’ll use the lumber for repairing and extending the docks. Who knows, someday I may return and walk on those deck planks again. Allen insists on stayi
ng a few days to explore the city. I indulge him, though I’d rather book passage on the first steamboat up river to home. For me, anything we see here will be tainted by visions of that slave market.

  Chapter Eight

  Work is scarce when I return from New Orleans, so Father insists I stay at the farm and help tend the fields unless I’m out looking for paying work. When I do find a job, he continues his practice of taking my wages at the end of the day.

  My step-sisters still live with Father and Mama, joined now by their new husbands, adding two more bodies. Elizabeth is married to Cousin Dennis Hanks. Mattie has wedded Dennis’ half-brother, Squire Hall.

  These days, the tiny smoking hut for curing meat would feel less confining than the cabin. What’s more, I’ve gone from sleeping on a bed too short for my body to curling up under animal skins on the floor. When everyone’s up and about, there’s no straight path from one end of the cabin to the other.

  Except for me, everybody belongs to someone else.

  To avoid chores I trek into Gentryville, a couple miles away, to search for any work that pays a few cents an hour. Any job that will take me out from under Father’s roof is preferable. Crewing on a steamboat would be ideal, but my age is against me. Operators don’t want anyone who’s younger than twenty-one.

  Often on my way to town, a little ditty comes to mind that reflects Father’s political views, which are shared by many of our neighbors. I’m not sure, though, that I agree with the sentiments any longer.

  Let auld acquaintance be forgot

  And never brought to mind.

  May Jackson be our president

  And Adams left behind.

  Most days there’s no paid work to be had, so I linger at Jones’ General Store and peruse the only newspaper to be had for several miles. When customers are scarce, the proprietor—a pudgy, blue-eyed bookworm named William Jones—engages me in conversation about Shakespeare, great books, politics and events reported in the news. After a few weeks Jones hires me to clerk in his store on the rare occasion when business is brisk.

  I begin staying late after the store closes, jawing with Jones and other young men about the week’s news. Stories about President Adams, The Abolitionist, grab my fancy. I become firmer in my belief that it’s Jackson who ought to be left behind. Four more years of Adams could bring an end to slavery, and every man would be paid for his labors. Schools would be built so children everywhere can learn to read, write, and cipher. We’d have new canals, bridges, and roads to speed commerce across our growing nation.

  One autumn evening I yield to Mama’s plea to make it home for supper. During our meal Father looks up from his plate and rails against President Adams. “The ol’ crook is fixin’ to tax us poor folks and sell off public lands to pay for another of his pipe dreams.”

  “What’s wrong with more canals and roads?” I say. “Seems sensible to me.”

  “Rumor is ya been readin’ trash newspapers over at Gentryville. Wastin’ time and fillin’ yer head with dung.”

  I roll my eyes. “Maybe you should learn to read. Broaden your horizons.”

  “Too much nonsense rollin’ around in yer head jest makes ya stupider and—and lazy. What this country needs is a man like Jackson. Git rid of the bank. Let us ordinary folk live our lives. Stay outta our hair.”

  I lean back on my stool. “He’ll keep slavery spreading, costing ordinary folks like us the chance to work for fair wages.”

  “I’m agin’ slaves like any other good Primitive Baptist. Ain’t votin’ fer no head-in-the-clouds Whig. Give me a common sense Jackson man any day.”

  “But Adams is against slavery, and Jackson’s a slaver. It’s men like Jackson who keep slavery going and hold back families like ours so we can’t get ahead.”

  Father pounds his fist on the table. “I’m a Jackson man. No different from our neighbors. No different from my upbringin’. If’n ya had any respect fer yer upbringin’, ya’d be a Jackson man, too.”

  “Next year there’ll be an election. Reckon we’ll find out then how the folks feel about progress.”

  He glares at me. “Just so Adams don’t cheat Jackson outta it like he did last time.”

  I get up from the table and start for the door, remembering a verse from the Proverbs in Mother’s Bible.

  Answer not a fool according to his own folly, lest thou also be like unto him.

  “Where ya goin’?” he grumbles.

  “Out.”

  The air is nippy as I study the western horizon on my two mile trek into Gentryville. Even without company, a thousand-plus mile flatboat trip down the Mississippi couldn’t be any lonelier than this place.

  Jones’ store is sitting alone on the wood plank porch of his store when I arrive.

  I point to the empty crates. “Where are the rest?”

  He chuckles. “They only come to hear you spin yarns and tell jokes.”

  I take the crate next to him and have a seat. “Doesn’t matter. All they want is entertainment.”

  “Thought you like putting on a show.”

  “Naw, storytelling just makes my isolation tolerable. It distracts me from the emptiness in here.” I lay my hand on my chest. “You’re my only true friend, the only one I find pleasure in talking with.”

  We sit in silence for a long while—me staring into the horizon, him reading.

  After a while I look at him. “What’re you reading?”

  He closes the cover, using a finger to mark his place, and shows me the title.

  “Ah … Hamlet.”

  He peers over his spectacles. “Reminds me of you.”

  How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

  I shake my head.

  He stands and starts inside the store. “Do you need anything?”

  “Whiskey.”

  “Thought you didn’t drink.”

  I stand up, too. “Maybe it’s time I started.”

  After we spend several hours drinking and talking Hamlet, I stumble home.

  A few weeks later, everyone in the community—except the Lincolns—is invited to an infare celebrating the double wedding of two of the Grigsby’s sons, Reuben, Jr. and Charles. To feed my lingering resentment, I recruit one of the guests to help me pull off a prank.

  During the wedding feast my co-conspirator sneaks upstairs and exchanges the beds which have been deliberately prepared for the two couples by the elder Mrs. Grigsby. When the celebrations are finished, and the bulk of the guests have drifted back to their homes, attendants escort the brides to their respective beds, which they at once identify by their familiar furnishings. Upon hearing the attendants’ word that the girls are ready to receive their husbands, Mrs. Grigsby directs her sons upstairs according to her earlier arrangement, one to the bed on the right and the other to the left.

  As the family lounges downstairs, their ears peeled for the sounds of marital consummation, they’re accosted by a frantic commotion. Racing upstairs, they find the two boys in a pile on the floor as their brides sit wailing in their beds, covers drawn up to their chins. When the confusion is unraveled and the crying abates, the family stands ashamed over the egregious error.

  Not content for the scandal to remain a secret among the Grigsbys, I write a satirical account of the matter in biblical style. My piece finds broad circulation in the community. The townspeople come to call my composition The Chronicles of Reuben. Some claim it is more widely read and memorized than the Bible.

  Encouraged by folks’ reactions to my publication of the Chronicles, I heap injury upon insult with the following rhyme directed at another of the Grigsby boys, William, ridiculing his ineptitude in relations with the fairer sex.

  I will tell you a joke about Joule and Mary

  Tho’ it’s neither a joke nor a story.

  For Reuben and Charles has married two girls

  But Billy has married a boy.

  The girls he
had tried on every side

  But none could he get to agree.

  All was in vain, he went home again

  And since that he is married to Natty.

  William’s humiliation is so complete he insists we settle the score with our fists. When I point out the unfairness of such a contest and the unlikelihood of him prevailing against someone of my size and strength, he agrees to fight my step-brother John in my place.

  Nearly all the young folks from Little Pigeon Creek show up at the designated site over in Warrick County. It’s outside our local constable’s jurisdiction and beyond the reach of any grand jury. Several boys hold me back from the fracas, but as John is getting himself thrashed, I break free and charge Grigsby. After throwing him off, I proclaim myself “the big buck at the lick,” only to draw the whole crowd into a general melee.

  Chapter Nine

  The advent of my twenty-first year finds me slump-shouldered as I tread through Little Pigeon Creek. My long-awaited emancipation has been delayed. Mama begs me to accompany her and Father, who has decided to remove some two hundred miles west to Illinois. This announcement comes in spite of our having recently started building a new cabin on the Indiana homestead.

  I search Mama’s face and join in her distress. Father is too old to take on the journey and carve out a new home in the Illinois wilderness unassisted. His various infirmities of age will not allow it. I agree to go. Besides, there’s little promise for me here in Little Pigeon Creek.

  Dennis Hanks and his wife, Mama’s daughter Elizabeth, have already moved their young family west to join up with another of Mother’s cousins, John Hanks. After the milk-sick disease struck our community for a second time, Dennis set his mind on leaving. He endured enough misery when an earlier epidemic claimed his surrogate parents and my angel mother. John Hanks claims there are abundant opportunities out west, and Father’s scheme to settle there suits Mama, who yearns to reunite with her daughter and grandchildren.

  As soon as winter starts to thaw, Father sells off his livestock, except for a team of oxen, and uses the entire proceeds to pay off his debts. Penniless, he trades the farm for a horse. For our conveyance we use a crude, hand-built wagon with wheels made of three-foot wide, solid oak rounds, somewhat uneven in size. It’ll carry the three of us, my dog, and a few possessions.