Read Flight to Canada for Free Online Page B

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. “Well,” 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
    I NSIDE 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