Middle Passage

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Praise for Middle Passage,

1990 Winner of the National Book Award

"Heroic . . . engrossing . . . in the tradition of Billy Budd and Moby Dick . . . fiction that hooks into the mind."

—The New York Times Book Review

"A rousing adventure yarn that resonates with and echoes the spirit of early sea stories . . . Johnson has fashioned a tale of travel and tragedy, yearning and history, and done so from a different, rarely explored viewpoint. . . . Middle Passage is a story of slavery, often brilliant in its structure and riveting in the way it’s told."

—San Francisco Chronicle

"Middle Passage is both unexpectedly funny and highly intellectual."

—The Washington Post

Highly readable . . . by turns mimicking historical romance, slave narrative, picaresque tale, parable, and sea yarn, indebted to Swift, Coleridge, Melville, and Conrad.

—Los Angeles Times Book Review

A vivid and compelling work.

—Essence

A fascinating allegory of the way black and whites came together in this country . . . Johnson’s remarkable novel challenges us.

—USA Today

A savage parable of the black experience in America . . . blending confessional, ship’s log, and adventure . . . in luxuriant, intoxicating prose.

—Publishers Weekly

"Middle Passage resonates . . . a spirited adventure tale daringly spun off the realm of myth."

—Newsday

To Joan

for the last twenty-two years

INTRODUCTION

What Charles Johnson has—and can do with it—is much easier to say than to replicate or imitate. Actual artists have always been that way, able to create something so original and so futuristic, shaping the reading backward to myth and forward to the stations of timeless dreams, but in a seemingly effortless way. William Faulkner said that what one attempts to do is to bottle the flame and presence of life which is always moving even though sitting still on the page.

I was with Charles Johnson at the Plaza Hotel the night he won the National Book Award for Middle Passage. He spoke quite generously about Ralph Ellison on that storied night. The marvelous Saul Bellow also attended, as did our most productive writer of high class and adventurous fiction, Joyce Carol Oates.

It is hard to go wrong when attempting to deal with a writer such as Charles Johnson who combines the physical realities with the internal mysteries of sensibility so well. His command of the language is so omni-directional that he creates a nineteenth-century seaman and adventurer, a curious minded man in a time when the world was made to heel before technology, mystic explanations, and the intertwined facts of slaving and slavery. Any character on a slave ship from New Orleans in the 1840s had to face all of that and muse over multiple meanings, inevitable among all humans, even men making their living selling other men.

Melville and Twain went into that struggle and left the opposition—chaos—with some serious wounds within the aesthetic context. Their greatest heir may well have been William Faulkner, who understood that facing the weight and airborne force of the sometimes-subterranean black American was essential to getting a full grip on American literature. That actual Negro brought the dream of originality to the writer willing to work the imagination in that direction, which is what Charles Johnson has done in this book now celebrated for over twenty-five years.

Middle Passage is a tale about slavery at both ends, at the home front and the bush of a primitive land. The novel fulfills Faulkner’s description of an aim available to every writer, The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life, by the artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life. Since man is mortal, the only immortality possible for him is to leave something behind him that is immortal since it will always move.

Johnson’s writing stands up well against expensive parlor tricks because of his poetic imagination, the truest defender of human sensibility. The reader is pushed into another world that could or might not have ever existed but seems to have because we recognize all of the people, all of their preferences, and the ongoing fact that each sits atop a gaggle of experience that always remains in place, whacky, wilted, or sporadic—open to other beliefs or systems of human organization. Sailors like those in Middle Passage had to understand that there was always what is now called diversity. Johnson shows that anyone believing in complete purity is basically a complete fool—and has been since time immemorial. Early in Moby-Dick, Ishmael speaks up for human variety because the tale he is telling was as full of various types as any mythic tale.

Johnson steps away from Melville through his harsh and beautiful rendering of his hero’s romance with his wife, a relationship determined by her intelligence, sweet words, and ordinary looks; no great wonder woman of attraction, she still has him before he knows it and is perfectly convincing to the reader. Her understanding of the essential importance of charm avoids the clichés of our time and is well handled by Johnson. He puts a woman and her sailor husband on another level, in which we respect the young seaman’s taste, but understand as well his adolescent qualities that must mature if he is to make it through forthcoming adventures.

Twenty-five years after being as graceful on the page and humorously savage as Johnson was, the younger and less decidedly shocking for the fun of it, our champion writer tried as Faulkner did and Ellison did to show American writers that race is only a luminous spot on the page if the writer brings a broad enough scope to speak now and forever for human interest, the greatest subject of them all.

Stanley Crouch

December 31, 2014

Homo est quo dammodo omnia

Saint Thomas Aquinas

What port awaits us, Davy Jones’

or home? I’ve heard of slavers drifting, drifting,

playthings of wind and storm and chance,

their crews

gone blind, the jungle hatred

crawling up on deck.

Robert Hayden

Middle Passage

Who sees variety and not the Unity wanders

on from death to death

Brihad-aranyaka Upanishad

Laud Deo

Journal of a Voyage intended

by God’s permission

in the Republic, African

from New Orleans to the Windward

Coast of Africa

Entry, the first

JUNE 14, 1830

Of all the things that drive men to sea, the most common disaster, I’ve come to learn, is women. In my case, it was a spirited Boston schoolteacher named Isadora Bailey who led me to become a cook aboard the Republic. Both Isadora and my creditors, I should add, who entered into a conspiracy, a trap, a scheme so cunning that my only choices were prison, a brief stay in the stony oubliette of the Spanish Calabozo (or a long one at the bottom of the Mississippi), or marriage, which was, for a man of my temperament, worse than imprisonment—especially if you knew Isadora. So I went to sea, sailing from Louisiana on April 14, 1830, hoping a quarter year aboard a slave clipper would give this relentless woman time to reconsider, and my bill collectors time to forget they’d ever heard the name Rutherford Calhoun. But what lay ahead in Africa, then later on the open, endless sea, was, as I shall tell you, far worse than the fortune I’d fled in New Orleans.

New Orleans, you should know, was a city tailored to my taste for the excessive, exotic fringes of life, a world port of such extravagance in 1829 when I arrived from southern Illinois—a newly freed bondman, my papers in an old portmanteau, a gift from my master in Makanda—that I dropped my bags and a shock of recognition shot up my spine to my throat, rolling off my tongue in a whispered, Here, Rutherford is home. So it seemed those first few months to the country boy with cotton in his hair, a great whore of a city in her glory, a kind of glandular Golden Age. She was if not a town devoted to an almost religious pursuit of Sin, then at least to a steamy sexuality. To the newcomer she was an assault of smells: molasses commingled with mangoes in the sensually damp air, the stench of slop in a muddy street, and, from the labyrinthine warehouses on the docks, the odor of Brazilian coffee and Mexican oils. And also this: the most exquisitely beautiful women in the world, thoroughbreds of pleasure created two centuries before by the French for their enjoyment. Mulattos colored like magnolia petals, quadroons with breasts big as melons—women who smelled like roses all year round. Home? Brother, for a randy Illinois boy of two and twenty accustomed to cornfields, cow plops, and handjobs in his master’s hayloft, New Orleans wasn’t home. It was Heaven. But even paradise must have its back side too, and it is here (alas) that the newcomer comes to rest. Upstream there were waterfront saloons and dives, a black underworld of thieves, gamblers, and ne’er-do-wells who, unlike the Creoles downstream (they sniffed down their long, Continental noses at poor, purebred Negroes like myself), didn’t give a tinker’s damn about my family tree and welcomed me as the world downstream would not.

In plain English, I was a petty thief.

How I fell into this life of living off others, of being a social parasite, is a long, sordid story best shortened for those who, like the Greeks, prefer to keep their violence offstage. Naturally, I looked for honest work. But arriving in the city, checking the saloons and Negro bars, I found nothing. So I stole—it came as second nature to me. My master, Reverend Peleg Chandler, had noticed this stickiness of my fingers when I was a child, and a tendency I had to tell preposterous lies for the hell of it; he was convinced I was born to be hanged and did his damnedest to reeducate said fingers in finer pursuits such as good penmanship and playing the grand piano in his parlor. A Biblical scholar, he endlessly preached Old Testament virtues to me, and to this very day I remember his tedious disquisitions on Neoplatonism, the evils of nominalism, the genius of Aquinas, and the work of such seers as Jakob Böhme. He’d wanted me to become a Negro preacher, perhaps even a black saint like the South American priest Martín de Porres—or, for that matter, my brother Jackson. Yet, for all that theological background, I have always been drawn by nature to extremes. Since the hour of my manumission—a day of such gloom and depression that I must put off its telling for a while, if you’ll be patient with me—since that day, and what I can only call my older brother Jackson’s spineless behavior in the face of freedom, I have never been able to do things halfway, and I hungered—literally hungered—for life in all its shades and hues: I was hooked on sensation, you might say, a lecher for perception and the nerve-knocking thrill, like a shot of opium, of new experiences. And so, with the hateful, dull Illinois farm behind me, I drifted about New Orleans those first few months, pilfering food and picking money belts off tourists, but don’t be too quick to pass judgment. I may be from southern Illinois, but I’m not stupid. Cityfolks lived by cheating and crime. Everyone knew this, everyone saw it, everyone talked ethics piously, then took payoffs under the table, tampered with the till, or fattened his purse by duping the poor. Shameless, you say? Perhaps so. But had I not been a thief, I would not have met Isadora and shortly thereafter found myself literally at sea.

Sometimes after working the hotels for visitors, or when I was drying out from whiskey or a piece of two-dollar tail, I would sneak off to the waterfront, and there, sitting on the rain-leached pier in heavy, liquescent air, in shimmering light so soft and opalescent that sunlight could not fully pierce the fine erotic mist, limpid and luminous at dusk, I would stare out to sea, envying the sailors riding out on merchantmen on the gift of good weather, wondering if there was some far-flung port, a foreign country or island far away at the earth’s rim where a freeman could escape the vanities cityfolk called self-interest, the mediocrity they called achievement, the blatant selfishness they called individual freedom—all the bilge that made each day landside a kind of living death. I don’t know if you’ve ever farmed in the Midwest, but if you have, you’ll know that southern Illinois has scale; fields like sea swell; soil so good that if you plant a stick, a year later a carriage will spring up in its place; forests and woods as wild as they were before people lost their pioneer spirit and a healthy sense of awe. Only here, on the waterfront, could I recapture that feeling. Wind off the water was like a fist of fresh air, a cleansing blow that made me feel momentarily clean. In the spill of yellow moonlight, I’d shuck off my boots and sink both feet into the water. But the pier was most beautiful, I think, in early morning, when sunlight struck the wood and made it steam as moisture and mist from the night before evaporated. Then you could believe, like the ancient philosopher Thales, that the analogue for life was water, the formless, omnific sea. Businessmen with half a hundred duties barnacled to their lives came to stare, longingly, at boats trolling up to dock. Black men, free and slave, sat quietly on rocks coated with crustacea, in the odors of oil and fish, studying an evening sky as blue as the skin of heathen Lord Krishna. And Isadora Bailey came too, though for what reason I cannot say—her expression on the pier was unreadable—since she was, as I soon learned, a woman grounded, physically and metaphysically, in the land. I’d tipped closer to her, eyeing the beadpurse on her lap, then thought better of boosting it when I was ambushed by the innocence—the alarming trust—in her eyes when she looked up at me. I wondered, and wonder still: What’s a nice girl like her doing in a city like this?

She was, in fact, as out of place in New Orleans as Saint Teresa would be at an orgy with de Sade: a frugal, quiet, devoutly Christian girl, I learned, the fourth daughter of a large Boston family free since the Revolutionary War, and positively ill with eastern culture. An educated girl of twenty, she thought it best to leave home to lighten her family’s burden, but found no prospects for a Negro teacher, and female at that, in the Northeast. She came south by coach, avoiding the newfangled trains after reading an expert say that traveling at over twenty miles an hour would suffocate all aboard when the speed sucked all the air from the cars. Once in New Orleans, she took a job as a nursery governess for the children of Madame Marie Toulouse, a Creole who had spent her young womanhood as the mistress of first a banker, then a famous actor, a minister, and finally a mortician. Why these four? As Madame Toulouse told Isadora, she’d used the principle of one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, and four to go, and they’d left her generous endowments that she invested in a hotel at Royal and Saint Peter’s streets. But Isadora was not, I’m afraid, any happier living in a Creole household than I would have been. They were beautiful; she was bookish. They were society here; she was, as a Northerner, the object of polite condescension—the Toulouses, in short, could afford the luxury of stupidity, the blind, cowlike, chin-lifted hauteur of Beautiful People. And such luxury Isadora had never known. You had the feeling, once you knew her, that she’d gambled on knowledge as others gambled on power, believing—wrongly, I think—that she had little else to offer. She let herself get fat, for example, to end the pressure women feel from being endlessly ogled and propositioned. Men hardly noticed her, pudgy as she was, and this suited Isadora just fine. She had a religious respect for Work. She was a nervous eater too, I guess, the sort of lonely, intelligent woman who found comfort in food, or went to restaurants simply to be treated kindly by the waiters, to be fussed over and served, to be asked, Is everything all right here?

Yet she was pretty in a prim, dry, flat-breasted way. Isadora never used make-up. At age five she had been sentenced to the straightening comb, and since then kept her hair pinned back so tightly each glossy strand stood out like wire, which also pulled back the skin at her temples, pushing forward a nose that looked startlingly like a doorknob, and enlarging two watery, moonlike eyes that seemed ever on the verge of tears. No, she wasn’t much to look at, nor was the hotel room where she lived with eight one-eyed cats, two three-legged dogs, and birds with broken wings. Most often, her place had a sweet, atticlike odor, but looked like a petshop and sometimes smelled like a zoo. Isadora took in these handicapped strays, unable to see them left unattended, and each time I dropped by she had something new. No, not a girl to tell your friends about, but one reassuring to be with because she had an inner brilliance, an intelligence and clarity of spirit that overwhelmed me. Generally she spoke in choriambs and iambs when she was relaxed, which created a kind of dimetrical music to her speech. Did I love Isadora? Really, I couldn’t say. I’d always felt people fell in love as they might fall into a hole; it was something I thought a smart man avoided.

But some days, after weeks of whoring and card games that lasted three days and nights, I found myself at her hotel room, drunk as Noah, broke and bottomed out, holding a bouquet of stolen flowers outside her door, eager to hear her voice, which was velvety and light like water gently rushing nearby. We’d sit and talk (she abhorred Nature walks, claiming that the only thing she knew about Nature was that it itched), her menagerie of crippled beasts crawling over her lap and mine. Those afternoons of genteel conversation (Isadora wouldn’t let me do anything else) we talked of how we both were newcomers to New Orleans, or we took short walks together, or we’d dine at sidewalk cafés, where we watched the Creoles. My earliest impressions of the Cabildo, the fancy-dress quadroon balls and slave auctions arranged by the firm of Hewlett & Bright each Saturday at the new Exchange Market (ghastly affairs, I must add, which made poor Isadora a bit ill), were intertwined with her voice, her reassuring, Protestant, soap-and-water smell. Aye, she was good and honest and forthright, was Isadora. Nevertheless, at other times she was intolerable. She was, after all, a teacher, and couldn’t turn it off sometimes, that tendency to talk in propositions, or declarative sentences, to correct my southern Illinois accent, with its squashed vowels and missing consonants, and challenge everything I said on, I thought, General Principle.

Rea-a-ally, Rutherford,