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 the 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.