THE FLASHMAN PAPERS
(in chronological order)
FLASHMAN
(Britain, India, and Afghanistan, 183942)
ROYAL FLASH
(England 1842-43, Germany 1847-48)
FLASHMAN'S LADY
(England, Borneo, and Madagascar, 1842-45)
FLASHMAN AND THE MOUNTAIN OF LIGHT
(Indian Punjab 184546)
FLASH FOR FREEDOM!
(England, West Africa, U.S.A., 1848-49)
FLASHMAN AND THE REDSKINS
(U.S.A. 1849-50 and 1875-76)
FLASHMAN AT THE CHARGE
(England, Crimea, and Central Asia, 1854-55)
FLASHMAN IN THE GREAT GAME
(Scotland, India, 1856-58)
FLASHMAN AND THE ANGEL OF THE LORD
(India, South Africa, U.S.A., 1858-59)
FLASHMAN AND THE DRAGON
(China, 1860)
* Also by George MacDonald. Fraser
Mr American
The Pyrates
The Candlemass Road
SHORT STORIES	HISTORY
The General Danced at Dawn	The Steel Bonnets:
McAuslan in the Rough	The Story of the AngloScottish
The Sheikh and the Dustbin	Border Reivers
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Quartered Safe out Here
*
The Hollywood History of the World
flashman ^ THE angel of THE lord
from The Flashman Papers, 185859
EDITED AND ARRANGED
by
George MacDonald Fraser
HARVILL
An Imprint of a.rperCo\[nsPublishers
First published in 1994 by Harvill
an imprint of HaTperCollinsPublishers
77-85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
246897531
 George MacDonald Fraser 1994
Maps drawn by Leslie Robinson with
illustrations by Ken Lewis
George MacDonald Fraser asserts the moral right
to be identified as the author of this work.
A CIP record for this book
is available from the British Library.
ISBN 0 00 273015 4
Photoset in Linotron Times Roman by
Rowland Phototypesetting Ltd, Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
HarperCollinsManufacturing Glasgow
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of the publishers.
ForKath,
ten times over
Explanatory Note
Of all the roles played by Sir Harry Flashman, V.C., in the
course of his distinguished and deplorable career, that of
crusader must seem the least likely. The nine volumes of his
Papers which have been presented to the public since their
discovery in a Midlands saleroom in 1966, make a scandalous
catalogue in which there is little trace of decent feeling, let
alone altruism. From the day of his expulsion from Rugby
School in the late 1830s (memorably described in Tom
Brown's Schooldays), Flashman the man fulfilled the disgraceful
promise of Flashman the boy; the toadying bounder
and bully matured into the cowardly profligate and scoundrel who, by chance and shameless opportunism, became one of
the most renowned heroes of the Victorian age, unwilling
leader of the Light Brigade, fleeing survivor of Afghanistan
and Little Big Horn, tarnished paladin of Crimea and the
Mutiny, and cringing chronicler of many another conflict,
disaster, and intrigue in which he bore an inglorious but
seldom unprofitable part.
So it is with initial disbelief that one finds him, in this
tenth volume of his memoirs, not only involved but taking
a lead in an enterprise which, if hopeless and misguided,
still shines with the lustre of heroic self-sacrifice and occupies
an honoured niche in the pantheon of freedom. John
Brown's raid on Harper's Ferry was a dreadful folly which
ended in bloody and inevitable failure and helped to bring
on the most catastrophic of all civil wars, yet its aim was a
great and worthy one; the road to hell was never paved with
nobler intentions. Needless to say, they were not Flashman's.
He came to Harper's Ferry with the utmost reluctance,
through the malice of old enemies and the delusions
of old friends, and behaved with characteristic perfidy in
every way but one: his eye for events and people was as
clear and scrupulous as ever, and it may be that his narrative
casts a new and unexpected light on a critical moment in
American history, and on notable figures of the antebellum
years - among them the President Who Never Was, a
legendary detective and secret agent, and the strange, terrible,
simple visionary, known to the world only by a name
and a song, who set out to destroy slavery with twenty men
and forty rounds apiece.
It is an amazing story, even for Flashman, but my confidence
in that honesty which he brought to his writing (if to
nothing else) seems to be justified by the exactness with
which his account fits the known facts. As with previous
packets of the Papers, I have observed the wishes of their
custodian, Mr Paget Morrison, and confined myself to
amending the author's spelling and providing footnotes and
appendices.
G.M.F.
FLASHMAN AND
THE ANGEL
OF THE LORD
As I sat by the lake at Gandamack t'other
day, sipping my late afternoon brandy in the sun, damning
the great-grandchildren for pestering the ducks, and
reflecting on the wigging I'd get from Elspeth when I took
them in to tea covered in dirt and toffee, there was a brass
band playing on a gramophone up at the house, a distant
drowsy thumping that drifted down the lawn and under the
trees. I guess I must have hummed along or waved my flask
to the old familiar march, for presently the villain Augustus
(a frightful handle to fix on a decent enough urchin, but no
work of mine) detached himself from the waterweed and
came to stand snottering before me with his head on one
side, thoughtful-like.
"I say, Great-gran'papa," says he, "that's Gory
Halooyah."
"So it is, young gallows," says I, "and Gory Halooyah is
what you'll catch when Great-grandmama sees the state of
you. Where the devil's your other shoe?"
"Sunk," says he, and gave tongue: '"Jombrown's body
lies a-moulderin' inna grave, Jombrown's body lies '"
"Oh! Gweat-gwampapa said a wicked word!" squeals
virtuous Jemima, a true Flashman, as beautiful as she is
obnoxious. "I heard him! He said 'd--1'!" She pronounced
it "d'l". "Gweat-gwanmama says people who say such fings
go to the bad fire!" Bad fire, indeed - my genteel Elspeth
has never forgotten the more nauseating euphemisms of her
native Paisley.
"He shan't, so there!" cries my loyal little Alice, another
twig off the old tree, being both flirt and toady. She jumped
on the bench and clung to my arm. " 'Cos I shan't let him
11
go to bad fires, shall I, Great-grampapa?" Yearning at me
with those great forge t-me-not eyes, four years old and
innocent as Cleopatra.
"'Fraid you won't have a vote on the matter, m'dear."
"'Devil' ain't a bad word, anyway," says John, rising
seven and leader of the pack. "The Dean said it in his sermon
last Sunday - devil! He said it twice - devil!" he repeated,
with satisfaction. "So bad scran to you, Jemima!" Hear,
hear. Stout lad, John.
"That was in church!'' retorts Jemima, who has the makings
of a fine sea-lawyer, bar her habit of sticking out her tongue.
"It's all wight in church, but if you say it outside it's vewwy
dweadful, an' God will punish you!" Little Baptist.
"What's moulderin' mean, Great-gran'papa?" asks
Augustus.
"All rotten an' stinkin'," says John. "It's what happens
when you get buried. You go all squelchy, an' the worms
eat you -"
"Eeesh!" Words cannot describe the ecstasy of Alice's
exclamation. "Was Jombrown like that, Great-grampapa,
all rottish-"
"Not as I recall, no. His toes stuck out of the ends of his
boots sometimes, though."
This produced hysterics of mirth, as I'd known it would,
except in John, who's a serious infant, given to searching
cross-examination.
"I say! Did you know him, Great-grandpapa - John
Brown in the song?"
"Why, yes, John, I knew him . . . long time ago, though.
Who told you about him?"
"Miss Prentice, in Sunday School," says he, idly striking
his cousin, who was trying to detach Alice from me by biting
her leg. "She says he was the Angel of the Lord who got
hung for freeing all the niggers in America."
"You oughtn't to say 'niggers'." Jemima again, absolutely,
removing her teeth from Alice and climbing across
to possess my other arm. "It's not nice. You should say
'negwoes', shouldn't you, Gweat-gwampapa? I always say
'negwoes'," she added, oozing piety.
12
"What should you call them. Great-grandpapa?" asks
John.
"Call 'em what you like, my son. It's nothing to what
they'll call you."
"I always say 'negwoes' -"
"Great-gran'papa says 'niggers'," observes confounded
Augustus. "Lots an' lots of times." He pointed a filthy
accusing finger. "You said that dam' nigger, Jonkins, the
boxer-man"
"Johnson, child, Jack Johnson."
"- you said he wanted takin' down a peg or two."
"Did I, though? Yes, Jemima dearest, I know Gus has said
another wicked word, but ladies shouldn't notice, you know -"
"What's a peggatoo?" asks Alice, twining my whiskers.
"A measure of diminution of self-esteem, precious . . .
yes, Jemima, I've no doubt you're going to peach to Greatgrandmama
about Gus saying 'damn', but if you do you'll
be saying it yourself, mind . . . What, Gus? Yes, very well,
if I said that about the boxer-man, you may be sure I meant
it. But you know, old fellow, when you call people names,
it depends who you're talking about . . ."It does, too. Flash
coons like Johnson1 and the riff-raff of the levees and most
of our Aryan brethren are one thing - but if you've seen
Ketshwayo's Nokenke regiment stamping up the dust and
the assegais drumming on the ox-hide shields, "'Suthu,
'suthu! 's-jee, 's-jee!" as they sweep up the slope to Little
Hand . . . well, that's black of a different colour, and you
find another word for those fellows. And God forbid I should
offend Miss Prentice, so ...
"I think it best you should say 'negroes', children. That's
the polite word, you see "
"What about nigger minstrels?" asks Alice, excavating my
collar.
"That's all right 'cos they're white underneath," says John
impatiently. "Shut your potato-trap, Alice - I want to hear
about John Brown, and how he freed all the . . . the negro
slaves in America, didn't he, Great-grandpapa?"
"Well, now, John ... no, not exactly ..." And then I
stopped, and took a pull at my flask, and thought about it.
13
After all, who am I to say he didn't? It was coming anyway,
but if it hadn't been for old J.B. and his crack-brained
dreams, who can tell how things might have panned out?
Little nails hold the hinge of history, as Bismarck remarked
(he would!) the night we set out for Tarlenheim . . . and
didn't Lincoln himself say that Mrs Stowe was the little lady
who started the great war, with Uncle Tom's Cabin^ Well,
Ossawatomie Brown, mad and murderous old horse-thief
that he was, played just as big a part in setting the darkies
free as she did - aye, or Lincoln or Garrison or any of them,
I reckon. I did my bit myself - not willingly, you may be
sure, and cursing Seward and Pinkerton every step of the
way that ghastly night . . . and as I pondered it, staring
across the lake to the big oak casting its first evening shadow,
the shrill voices of the grandlings seemed to fade away, and
in their place came the harsh yells and crash of gunshots in
the dark, and instead of the scent of roses there was the
reek of black powder smoke filling the engine-house, the
militia's shots shattering timber and whining about our ears
. . . young Oliver bleeding his life out on the straw . . . the
gaunt scarecrow with his grizzled beard and burning eyes,
thumbing back the hammer of his carbine . . . "Stand firm,
men! Sell your lives dearly! Don't give in now!" . . . and
Jeb Stuart's eyes on mine, willing me (I'll swear) to pull the
trigger . . .
"Wake up, Great-grandpapa - do!" "Tell us about
Jombrown!" "Yes, wiv his toes stickin' out, all stinky!"
"Tell us, tell us. . . I"
I came back from the dark storm of Harper's Ferry to the
peaceful sunshine of Leicestershire, and the four small faces
regarding me with that affectionate impatience that is the
crowning reward ofgreat-grandfatherhood: John, handsome
and grave and listening; Jemima a year younger, prim ivory
perfection with her long raven hair and lashes designed for
sweeping hearts (Selina's inevitable daughter); little golden
Alice, Elspeth all over again; and the babe Augustus bursting
with sin beneath the mud, a Border Ruffian in a sodden
sailor suit . . . and the only pang is that at ninety-one2 you
can't hope to see 'em grown . . .
14
"John Brown, eh? Well, it's a long story, you know - and
Great-grandmama will be calling us for tea presently . . .
no, Alice, he didn't have wings, although Miss Prentice is
quite right, they did call him the Angel of the Lord . . . and
the Avenging Angel, too . . ."
"What's 'venging?"
"Getting your own back . . . no, John, he was quite an
ordinary chap, really, rather thin and bony and shabby, with
a straggly beard and very bright grey eyes that lit up when
he was angry, ever so fierce and grim! But he was quite a kindly old gentleman, too "
"Was he as old as you?"
"Heavens, child, no one's that old! He was oldish, but
pretty spry and full of beans . . . let's see, what else? He
was a capital cook, why, he could make ham and eggs, and
brown fried potatoes to make your mouth water "
"Did he make kedgewee? I hate howwid old kedgewee,
ugh!"
"What about the slaves, and him killing lots of people,
and getting hung?" John shook my knee in his impatience.
"Well, John, I suppose he did kill quite a few people . . .
How, Gus? Why, with his pistols - he had two, just like the
cowboys, and he could pull them in a twinkling, ever so
quickly." And dam' near blew your Great-grandpapa's head
off, one second asleep and the next blasting lead all over
the shop, curse him. "And with his sword . . . although that
was before I knew him. Mind you, he had another sword,
in our last fight - and you'll never guess who it had once
belonged to. Frederick the Great! What d'you think of
that?"
"Who's Frederick the Great?"
"German king, John. Bit of a tick, I believe; used scent
and played the flute."
"I think Jombrown was howwid announced Jemima.
"Killing people is wrong}"
"Not always, dearest. Sometimes you have to, or they'll
kill you."
"Great-gran'papa used to kill people, lots of times,"
protests sturdy Augustus. "Great-gran'mama told me,
15
when he was a soldier, weren't you? Choppin' 'em up,
heaps of -"
"That's quite diffewent," says Jemima, with an approving
smile which may well lead me to revise my will in her favour.
"It's pwoper for soldiers to kill people." And pat on her
words came an echo from half a century ago, the deep
level voice of J.B. himself, recalling the slaughter of Pottawatomie
. . . "They had a right to be killed." It was a warm
afternoon, but I found myself shivering.
"Great-grandpapa's tired," whispers John. "Let's go in
for tea."
"What - tired? Not a bit of it!" You can't have grandlings
taking pity on you, even at ninety-one. "But tea, what?
Capital idea! Who's for a bellyful of gingerbread, eh? Tell
you what, pups - you make yourselves decent, straighten
your hair, find Gus's other shoe, put your socks on, Alice
- yes, Jemima, you look positively queenly - and we'll march up to tea, shall we? At least, you lot will, while I call the
step and look after remounts. Won't that be jolly? And we'll
sing his song as we go -"
"Jombrown's body? Gory Halooyah?"
"The very same, Gus! Now, then, fall in, tallest on the
right, shortest on the left - heels together, John, eyes front,
Jemima, pull in your guts, Augustus, stop giggling, Alice and
I'll teach you some capital verses you never heard
before! Ready?"
I don't suppose there's a soul speaks English in the world
who couldn't sing the chorus today, but of course it hadn't
been written when we went down to Harper's Ferry - J.B.'s
army of ragamuffins, adventurers, escaped slaves, rustlers
and lunatics. "God's crusaders", some enthusiast called us but
then again, I've read that we were "swaggering, swearing
bullies and infidels" (well, thank'ee, sir). We were twentyone
strong, fifteen white (one with pure terror, I can tell
you), six black, and all set to conquer Dixie, if you please!
We didn't make it at the time, quite - but we did in the end,
by God, didn't we just, with Sherman's bugles blowing thirty
miles in latitude three hundred to the main . . .
Not that I gave a two-cent dam for that, you understand,
16
and still don't. They could have kept their idiotic Civil War
for me, for (my own skin's safety apart) it was the foulest,
most useless conflict in history, the mass suicide of the flower
of the British-American race - and for what? Black freedom,
which would have come in a few years anyway, as sure as
sunrise. And all those boys could have been sitting in the
twilight, watching their Johns and Jemimas.
Still, I've got a soft spot for the old song - and for J.B.,
for that matter. Aye, that song which, the historian says,
was sung by every Union regiment because "it dealt not with
John Brown's feeble sword, but with his soul." His soul,
my eye - as often as not the poor old maniac wasn't even
mentioned, and it would be:
Wild Bill Sherman's got a rope around his neck,
An' we'll all catch hold an' give-itonehellofa-pull!
Glory, glory, hallelujah, etc. . . .
Or it might be "our sergeant-major", or Jeff Davis hanging
from a sour apple tree, or any of the unprintable choruses
that inspired the pious Mrs Howe to write "Mine eyes have
seen the glory".3 But all that's another story, for another
day ... in the meantime, I taught my small descendants
some versions which were entirely to their liking, and we
trooped up to the house, the infants in column of twos and
the venerable patriarch hobbling painfully behind, flask at
the high port, and all waking the echoes with:
John Brown's donkey's got an india-rubber tail,
An' he rubbed it with camphorated oil!
followed by:
Our Great-grandpa saved the Viceroy
In the - good - old - Khyber - Pass!
and concluding with:
Flashy had an army of a hundred Bashibazouks
An' the whole dam' lot got shot!
Glory, glory, hallelujah . . .
17
Spirited stuff, and it was just sheer bad luck that the
Bishop and other visiting Pecksniffs should already be taking
tea with Elspeth and Miss Prentice when we rolled in
through the french windows, the damp and dirty grandlings
in full voice and myself measuring my ancient length across
the threshold, flask and all. Very well, the grandlings were
raucous and dishevelled, and I ain't at my best sprawled
supine on the carpet leaking brandy, but to judge from his
lordship's disgusted aspect and Miss Prentice's frozen pincenez
you'd have thought I'd been teaching them to smoke
opium and sing "One-eyed Riley".
The upshot was that the infants were packed off in disgrace
to a defaulters' tea of dry bread and milk, Gus was
sent to bed early - oh, aye, Jemima ratted on him - and
when the guests had departed in an odour of sanctity, withdrawing
the hems of their garments from me and making
commiserating murmurs to Elspeth, she loosed her wrath
on me for an Evil Influence, corrupting young innocence
with my barrack-room ribaldry, letting them get their feet
wet, and did I know what shoes cost nowadays, and she was
Black Affronted, and how was she ever going to look the
Bishop in the face again, would I tell her?
Contrition not being my style, and useless anyway, I let
the storm blow itself out, and later, having ensured that La
Prentice was snug in her lair - polishing her knout and supping
gin on the sly, I daresay - I raided the pantry and
smuggled gingerbread and lemonade to the grandlings' bedroom,
where at their insistence I regaled them with the story
of John Brown (suitably edited for tender ears). They fell
asleep in the middle of it, and so did I, among the broken
meats on John's coverlet, and woke at last to the touch of
soft lips on my aged brow to find Elspeth shaking her head
in fond despair.
Well, the old girl knows I'm past reforming now, and that
Jemima's right: I'll certainly go to the bad fire. I know one
who won't though, and that's old Ossawatomie John Brown,
"that new saint, than whom nothing purer or more brave
was ever led by love of men into conflict and death", and
who made "the gallows glorious like the Cross". That's
18
Ralph Waldo Emerson on J.B. "A saint, noble, brave, trusting
in God", "honest, truthful, conscientious", comparable
with William Wallace, Washington, and William Tell - those
are the words of Parker and Garrison, who knew him, and
they ain't the half of his worshippers; talk about a mixture
of Jesus, Apollo, Goliath and Julius Caesar! On the other
hand ... "a faker, shifty, crafty, vain, selfish, intolerant,
brutal", "an unscrupulous soldier of fortune, a horse-thief,
a hypocrite" who didn't care about freeing slaves and would
have been happy to use slave labour himself, a liar, a criminal,
and a murderer - that's his most recent biographer
talking. Interesting chap, Brown, wouldn't you say?
A good deal of it's true, both sides, and you may take my
word for it; scoundrel I may be, but I've no axe to grind
about J.B.'s reputation. I helped to make it, though, by not shooting him in the back when I had the chance. Didn't
want to, and wouldn't have had the nerve, anyway.
You might even say that I, all unwitting, launched him on
the path to immortal glory. Aye, if there's a company of
saints up yonder, they'll be dressing by the right on J.B.,
for when the Recording Angel has racked up all his crimes
and lies and thefts and follies and deceits and cold-blooded
killings, he'll still be saved when better men are damned.
Why? 'Cos if he wasn't, there'd be such an almighty roar
of indignation from the Heavenly Host it would bust the
firmament; God would never live it down. That's the beauty
of a martyr's crown, you see; it outshines everything, and
they don't come any brighter than old J.B.'s. I'm not saying
he deserves it; I only know, perhaps better than anyone,
how he came by it.
19
You will wonder, if you're familiar with
my inglorious record, how I came to take part with John
Brown at all. Old Flashy, the bully and poltroon, cad and
turncoat, lecher and toady - bearing Freedom's banner aloft
in the noblest cause of all, the liberation of the enslaved and
downtrodden? Striking off the shackles at the risk of death
and dishonour? Gad, I wish Arnold could have seen me.
That's the irony of it - if I'd bitten the dust at the Ferry, I'd
have had a martyr's crown, too, on top of all the honours
and glory I'd already won in Her Majesty's service (by turning
tail and lying and posturing and pinching other chaps'
credit, but nobody knew that, not even wily old Colin
Campbell who'd pinned the V.C. on my coat only a few
months before). Oh, the Ferry fiasco could have been my
finest hour, with the Queen in mourning, Yankee politicos
declaiming three-hour tributes full of ten-dollar words and
Latin misquotations (not Lincoln, though; he knew me too
well), a memorial service in the Rugby chapel, the Haymarket
brothels closed in respect, old comrades looking
stern and noble . . . "Can't believe he's gone . . . dear old
Flash . . . height of his fame . . . glorious career before him
. . . goes off to free the niggers . . . not for gold or guerdon
. . . aye, so like him . . . quixotic, chivalrous, helpin' lame
dogs . . .ah, one in ten thousand ... I say, seen his widow,
have you? Gad, look at 'em bounce! Rich as Croesus, too,
they tell me ..."
There'd have been no talk of roasted fags or expulsion
for sottish behaviour, either. Die in a good cause and they'll
forgive you anything.
But I didn't, thank God, and as any of you who have
20
read my other memoirs will have guessed, I'd not have been
within three thousand miles of Harper's Ferry, or blasted
Brown, but for the ghastliest series of mischances: three
hellish coincidences - three, mark you! - that even Dickens
wouldn't have used for fear of being hooted at in the street.
But they happened, with that damned Nemesis logic that
has haunted me all my life, and landed me in more horrors
than I can count. Mustn't complain, though; I'm still here,
cash in hand, the grandlings upstairs asleep, and Elspeth in
her boudoir reading the Countess of Cardigan's Recollections (in which, little does my dear one suspect, I appear
under the name of "Baldwin", and a wild night that was,
but no mention, thank heaven, of the time I was locked
in the frenzied embrace of Fanny Paget, Cardigan himself
knocked on the door, I dived trouserless beneath the sofa,
found a private detective already in situ, and had to lie beside
the brute while Cardigan and Fanny galloped the night away
two feet above our heads. Dammit, we were still there when
her husband came home and blacked her eye. Serve her
right; Cardigan, I ask you! Some women have no taste).
However, that's a far cry from the Shenandoah, but before
I tell you about J.B. I must make one thing clear, for my
own credit and good name's sake, and it's this: I care not
one tuppenny hoot about slavery, and never did. I can't
say it's none of my biznai, because it was once: in my time,
I've raided blacks from the Dahomey Coast, shipped 'em
across the Middle Passage, driven them on a plantation and
run them to freedom on the Underground Railroad and
across the Ohio ice-floes with a bullet in my rump, to say
nothing of abetting J.B.'s lunatic scheme of establishing a
black republic - in Virginia, of all places. Set up an Orange
Lodge in the Vatican, why don't you?
The point is that I was forced into all these things against
my will - by gad, you could say I was "enslaved" into them.
For that matter, I've been a slave in earnest - at least, they
put me up for sale in Madagascar, and 'twasn't my fault
nobody bid; Queen Ranavalona got me without paying a
Penny, and piling into that lust-maddened monster was slavery, if you like, with the prospect of being flayed alive
21
if I failed to give satisfaction.* I've been a fag at Rugby, too.
So when I say I don't mind about slavery, I mean I'm easy
about the institution, so long as it don't affect me; whenever
it did, I was agin it. Selfish, callous, and immoral, says you,
and I agree; unprincipled, too - unlike the Holy Joe abolitionist
who used to beat his breast about his black brother
while drawing his dividend from the mill that was killing his
white sister - aye, and in such squalor as no Dixie planter
would have tolerated for his slaves. (Don't mistake me; I
hold no rank in the Salvation Army, and I've never lifted a
finger for our working poor except to flip 'em a tip, and
employ them as necessary. I just know there's more than
one kind of slavery.)
Anyway, if life has taught me anything, it's that the wealth
and comfort of the fortunate few (who include our contented
middle classes as well as the nobility) will always depend on
the sweat and poverty of the unfortunate many, whether
they're toiling on plantations or licking labels in sweatshops
at a penny a thousand. It's the way of the world, and until
Utopia comes, which it shows no sign of doing, thank God,
I'll just rub along with the few, minding my own business.
So you understand, I hope, that they could have kept
every nigger in Dixie in bondage for'all I cared - or freed
them. I was indifferent, spiritually, and only wish I could
have been so, corporally. And before you start thundering
at me from your pulpit, just remember the chap who said
that if the union of the United States could only be preserved
by maintaining slavery, that was all right with him. What's
his name again? Ah, yes - Abraham Lincoln.
And now for old John Brown and the Path to Glory,
not the worst of my many adventures, but just about the
unlikeliest. It had no right to happen, truly, or so it strikes
me when I look back. God knows I haven't led a tranquil
life, but in review there seems to have been some form
and order to it - Afghanistan, Borneo, Madagascar, Punjab,
Germany, Slave Coast and Mississippi, Russia and the back
o' beyond, India in the Mutiny, China, American war,
* See Flashman's Lady.
22
Mexico . .  and there, you see, I've missed out J.B.
altogether, because he don't fit the pattern, somehow. He's
there, though, whiskers, six-guns, texts, and all, between
India and China - and nought to do with either, right out
o' the mainstream, as though some malevolent djinn had
plucked me from my course, dipped me into Harper's Ferry,
and then whisked me back to the Army again.
It began (it usually does) with a wanton nymph in Calcutta
at the back-end of '58. But for her, it would never have
happened. Plunkett, her name was, the sporty young wife
of an elderly pantaloon who was a High Court judge or
something of that order. I was homeward bound from the
Mutiny, into which I'd been thrust by the evil offices of my
Lord Palmerston, who'd despatched me to India on secret
work two years before;* thanks to dear old Pam, I'd been
through the thick of that hellish rebellion, from the Meerut
massacre to the battle of Gwalior, fleeing for my life from
Thugs and pandies, spending months as a sowar of native
cavalry, blazing away at the Cawnpore barricade, sneaking
disguised out of Lucknow with a demented Irishman in tow,
and coming within an ace of being eaten by crocodiles, torn
asunder on the rack, and blown from a gun as a condemned
mutineer - oh, aye, the diplomatic's the life for a lad pf
metal, I can tell you. True, there had been compensations
in the delectable shape of Lakshmibai, Rani of Jhansi, and
a Victoria Cross and knighthood at the end of the day, and
the only fly in the ointment as I rolled down to Calcutta had
been the discovery that during my absence from England
some scribbling swine had published his reminiscences of
Rugby School, with me as the villain of the piece. A vile
volume entitled Tom Brown's Schooldays, on every page of
which the disgusting Flashy was to be found torturing fags,
shirking, toadying, lying, whining for mercy, and boozing
himself to disgraceful expulsion - every word of it true, and
all the worse for that.
It was with relief that I learned, by eavesdropping in
Calcutta's messes and hotels, that no one seemed to have
See Flashman in the Great Game.
23
heard of the damned book, or weren't letting on if they had.
It's been the same ever since, I'm happy to say; not a word
of reproach or a covert snigger, even, although the thing
must have been read in every corner of the civilised world
by now. Why, when President Grant discovered that I was
the Flashman of Tom Brown he just looked baffled and had
another drink.
The fact is, some truths don't matter. I've been seventy
years an admired hero, the Hector of Afghanistan, the chap
who led the Light Brigade, daredevil survivor of countless
stricken fields, honoured by Queen and Country, V.C. and
Medal of Honour - folk simply don't want to know that such
a paladin was a rotter and bully in childhood, and if he
was, they don't care. They put it from their minds, never
suspecting that boy and man are one, and that all my fame
and glory has been earned by accident, false pretence, cowardice,
doing the dirty, and blind luck. Only I know that.
So my shining reputation's safe, which is how the public
want it, bless 'em.
It's always been the same. Suppose some learned scholar
were to discover a Fifth Gospel which proved beyond doubt
that Our Lord survived the Cross and became a bandit or a
slave-trader, or a politician, even - d'you think it would
disturb the Christian faith one little bit? Of course not;
'twouldn't even be denied, likely, just ignored. Hang it, I've
seen the evidence, in black and white in our secret files,
that Benjamin Franklin was a British spy right through the
American Revolution, selling out the patriots for all he was
worth - but would any Yankee believe that, if 'twas published?
Never, because it's not what they want to believe.4
I reached Calcutta, then, to find myself feted on all sides
- and there was no shortage of heroes to be worshipped
after the Mutiny, you may be sure. But no other had the
V.C. and a knighthood (for word of the latter had leaked
out, thanks to Billy Russell, I daresay), or stood six feet two
with black whiskers and Handsome Harry's style. I'd had
my fill of fame in the past, of course, and was all for it, but
I knew how to carry it off, modest and manly, not too bluff,
and with a pinch of salt.
24
I'd supposed it would be straight aboard and hey for Merry
England, but I was wrong. P. and 0. hadn't a berth for
months, for the furloughs had started, and every civilian in
India seemed to be leaving for home, to say nothing of ten
thousand troops to be shipped out; John Company was hauling
down his flag at last, India was passing under the rule
of the Crown, everything was topsy-turvy, and even heroes
had to wait their turn for a passage to Suez and the overland
route - at a pinch you could get a ship to the Cape, but that
was a deuce of a long haul. So I made myself pleasant around
the P. and 0. office, squeezed the buttocks of a Bengali
charmer who wrote letters for the head clerk and had her
dainty hands on his booking lists, tempted her with costly
trinkets, and sealed the bargain by rattling her across his
desk while he was out at tiffin ("Oh, sair, you are ay
naughtee mann!"). And, lo, ben Flashy's name led all the
rest on a vessel sailing two weeks hence.
I was dripping with blunt, having disposed of my Lucknow
loot and banked the proceeds, but there wasn't a bed to be
had at the Auckland. Outram pressed me to stay with him
- nothing too good for the man who'd smuggled his message
through the pandy lines to Campbell - but I shied; only the
fast set stayed up after ten in "Cal" in those days, and I
guessed that chez Outram it would be prayers at nine and
gunfire and a cold tub at six, and I didn't fancy above half
scrambling out in the dark to seek vicious diversion. I played
| it modest, saying I knew his place would be full of Army
and wives, and I'd rather keep out o' the way, don't you
know, sir, and he looked noble and patted my shoulder,
saying he understood, my boy, but I'd dine at least?
I put up at Spence's, a "furnished apartment" shop with
a table d'hote but no bearers even to clean your room, so
bring your own servant or live like a pig. It served, though,
and I could haunt the Auckland of an evening, seeking what
I might devour.
I'd been two years without Elspeth, you see, and while
they hadn't been celibate quite, what with Lakshmi and
various dusky houris here and there, and only the buxom Mrs Leslie at Meerut by way of variety, I was beginning
I 25
to itch for something English again, blonde and milky for
preference, and not reeking of musk and garlic. So the
moment I saw Lady Plunkett (for her husband had a title) on
the Auckland veranda, I knew I'd struck gold, which was
the colour of her hair, with complexion to match. Beside
Elspeth you'd not have noticed her, but she was tall and
plump enough, with a pudding face and a big mouth, drooping
with boredom, and once I'd caught her eye it was plain
sailing. Believe it or not as you like, she dropped her handkerchief
by my chair as she sailed out of the dining-room
that evening (a thing I thought they did only in comic skits
on the halls), so I told a bearer to take it after the mem-sahib,
satisfied myself that her husband was improving his gout
with port in company with other dodderers, and sauntered
up to her rooms on the first floor.
To cut a long story short, we got along splendidly, and I
had slipped her gown to her hips and was warming her up,
so to speak, when the door opened at my back, her eager
whimpers ended in a terrified squeak, and I glanced round
to see her lord and master, who shouldn't have been up for
hours, tottering across the threshold, apparently on the
verge of apoplexy. Well, I'd been there before, but seldom
in more fortunate circumstances, for I was still fully clad,
we were both standing up, and she was half-hidden from his
gooseberry gaze. I hastily surrendered her tits, and glared
at him.
"What the devil d'ye mean by this intrusion, sir?" cries
I. "Begone this instant!" And to my paralysed beauty I continued:
"There is only the slightest congestion, marm, I'm
happy to say; nothing to occasion alarm. You may resume
your clothing now. I shall have a prescription sent round
directly . . . Sir, did you not hear me? How dare you interrupt
my examination? Upon my word, sir, have you no
delicacy - out, I say, at once!"
He could only gobble in purple outrage while I chivvied
her behind a screen. "That's my wife!" he bawls.
"Then you should take better care of her," says I, whipping
out a dhobi-list and scribbling professionally. "Fortunately
my room is close at hand, and when I was summoned
26
nr lady was suffering an acute palpitation. Not uncommon dose city climate - nothing serious, but unpleasant enough
h'm three grains should do it, I think . . . Has she had
these fits before?"
"I ... I don't know!" cries he, wattling. "What? What?
Maud what does this mean? Who - why - are you a doctor,
sir?" '
"MacNab, surgeon, 92nd," says I, mighty brisk, ignoring
the mewlings from behind the screen and his own choking
noises. "Complete rest for a day or two, you understand;
no undue exertion. I shall send this note to the apothecary."
I pocketed my paper, and sniffed, looking stern. "Port, sir?
Well it's no concern of mine if you choose to drink yourself
under ground, but I'd say one invalid in the family is enough,
hey?" I addressed the screen. "To bed at once, marm! Two
teaspoonfuls when the boy brings the medicine, mind. I shall
call in the morning and look to find you much improved.
Good-night - and to you, sir."
Never let 'em get a word in, you see. I was out and downstairs
before he knew it, reflecting virtuously that that was
another marriage I'd saved by quick thinking - if he believed
her, which I'd not have done myself. But, stay . . . even if
he did, he'd find out soon enough that there was no Dr
MacNab of the 92nd, and start baying for the blood of the
strapping chap with black whiskers, and Calcutta society
being as small as it was, he was sure to run me down - and
then, scandal, which would certainly tarnish my newly-won
laurels ... my God, ifPlunkett roared loud enough it might
even reach the Queen's ears, and where would my promised
knighthood be then? But if I could slide out now, undetected
- well, you can't identify a man who ain't there, can you?
All of a sudden. Westward ho! without delay seemed the
ticket - and scandal wasn't the only reason. Some of these
ancients with young high-stepping consorts can be vicious
bastards, as witness the old roue who'd sicked his bullies
after me for romping Letty Lade in the cricket season of '45
~ and he hadn't even been married to her.
So now you see Flashy at the Howrah docks in the misty morning, with his dunnage on a hand-cart, dickering for a
27
passage to the Cape with a Down-east skinflint in a tile hat
who should have been flying the Jolly Roger, the price he
demanded for putting into Table Bay. But he was sailing
that day, and since tea for New York was his cargo it would
be a fast run, so I stumped up with a fair grace; after all, I
hadn't put cash down for the passage arranged by the
Bengali hint, and I didn't grudge her the trinkets; my one
regret was that I hadn't boarded the Plunkett wench ... I
hope he believed her.
It was about a month to the Cape, with the taffrail under
most of the way, but not too bad until we neared Algoa
Bay, when it began to blow fit to sicken Magellan. I've never
seen so much green water; even less cheering was the sight
of a big steamer lying wrecked on a reef off Port Elizabeth,5 and I was a happy man when we'd rounded the Cape and
opened up that glorious prospect which is one of the wonders
of the seas - the great bay glittering in the sunlight with a
score or more of windjammers and coasters and a few
steamers at anchor, and beyond them the "table-cloth" of
cloud rolling down the flank of the Mountain to Signal Hill,
and guns booming from the Castle to salute a man-of-war
putting out, with crowds fluttering hats and scarves from
Green Point.
Once ashore I engaged a berth on the Union mail steamer
sailing the following week, put up at the Masonic, and took
a slant at the town. It was busy enough, for the Australian
gold rush of a few years back, and the Mutiny, had set the
port booming, but the town itself was a damned Dutchlooking
place with its stoeps and stolid stucco houses, most :
of which are gone now, I believe, and the great church clock |
tower which looks as though it should have an Oom Paul '
beard round its face. It had been a wild place in the earlies, i
the "tavern of the seas", but now it was respectable and i
dull, and the high jinks were to be had at Grahamstown, far |
away up the coast, where the more sensible Britons lived '
and the Army was quartered - what there was of them, for ^ the Governor, George Grey, had stripped the Colony of |
28 1
men guns, and stores for the Mutiny, and the old Africa
hands in the hotel were full of foreboding over their pipes
and stingo, with the country arse-naked, as one of them put
it and the usual trouble brewing to the north.
"We'll have the Kaffirs at our throats again ere long, see if we don't," says one pessimist. "Know how many wars
they've given us, colonel, thanks to the damned missionaries?
Eight - or is it nine? Blessed if you don't lose count!
To say nothin' o' the Dutch - not that they haven't got their
hands full, by all accounts, an' serve the miserable beggars
right! They'll be howlin' for you redcoats presently, mark
my words!" g|
"You never saw a Boer ask help from a Briton yet!" scoffs
another. "Nor they needn't - they'll give the Basutos the
same pepper they gave John Zulu, if Moshesh don't mind
his manners."
"You never know," laughs a third, "maybe the dear
Basutos'll do the decent thing an' starve themselves to
death, what?"
"Not old Moshesh - that's a Bantu who's too smart by
half, as we'll find out to our cost one o' these days."
"Oh, Grey'll see to him, never fear - an' the Boers, if only
London will let him alone. Any more word of his goin'?"
"You may bet on it - if the Colonial Office don't ship him
home, the doctor will. I don't like his colour; the man's
played out."
"Well, he can go for me. We bade good riddance to
Brother Boer years ago - why should we want him back?"
These are just scraps of talk that I remember, and no
doubt they're as Greek to you as they were to me, but being
a curious child I listened, and learned a little, for these
fellows - English civilians and merchants mostly, a Cape
Rifleman or two, and a couple of trader-hunters down from
the frontiers - knew their country, which was a closed book
to me, then, bar my brief visit to the Slave Coast, and that
was years ago and a world away from the Cape. Truth to
tsll, Africa's never been my patch, much; I've soldiered on ^eldt and desert, and seen more of its jungle than I cared OF , but like our statesmen I've always thought it a dam'
29
nuisance. Perhaps Dahomey inoculated me against the
African bug which has bitten so many, to their cost, for it
breeds grand dreams which often as not turn into nightmares.
It was biting hard at this time, not least on Grey, the
Governor, and since he was to play a small but crucial part
in my present story, I must tell you something of him - but
I can't do that without first telling you about South Africa,
as briefly as may be. It won't explain the place to you (God
Himself couldn't do that), but it may lead you to wonder if
two damned dirty and costly wars mightn't have been
avoided (and who knows what hellish work in the future?)
if only those Reform Club buffoons hadn't thought they knew better than the man on the spot.
You have to understand that in '59 Africa was the last
great prize and mystery, an unmapped hinterland twice the
size of Europe where anything was possible: lost civilisations,
hidden cities, strange white tribes - they were no joke
then. Real exploration of the dark heart of the continent had
just begun; Livingstone had blazed his trails up and down
it and across, farther north Dick Burton was making an ass
of himself by not finding the source of the Nile, but the broad
steady inroad was from the south, where we'd established
ourselves. The Dutch settlers, not caring for us much, had
trekked north to found their own Boer republics in lands
where they met hordes of persevering black gentlemen
coming t'other way; they fought the Zulus and Basutos (and
each other) while we fought the Kaffirs to the east, and
everything was dam' confused, chiefly because our rulers at
home couldn't make up their minds, annexing territories and
then letting 'em go, interfering with the Boers one minute
and recognising their independence the next, trying to hold
the ring between black and white and whining at the
expense, and then sending out Grey, who brought the first
touch of common sense - and, if you ask me, the last.
His great gift, I was told, was that he got on splendidly
with savages - even the Boers. He'd been a soldier, explored
in Australia, governed there and in New Zealand, and saw
at once that the only hope for southern Africa was to reunite
Briton and Boer and civilise the blacks within our borders,
30
which he'd begun to do with schools and hospitals and caching them trades. In this he'd been helped by one of those lunatic starts which happen among primitive folk: in
'57 a troublesome warrior tribe, the 'Zozas, had got the
notion that if they destroyed all their crops and cattle, the
pods would send them bumper harvests and even fatter
herds and all the white men in Africa would obligingly
drown themselves; accordingly, the demented blighters
starved themselves to death, which left more space for white
settlement, and the surviving 'Zozas were in a fit state to be
civilised.6 Meanwhile Grey was using his persuasive arts to
charm the Boers back under the Union Jack, and since our
Dutch friends were beginning to feel the pinch of independence
- isolated up yonder, cut off from the sea, worn out
with their own internal feuding, and fighting a running war
against the Basutos (whose wily chief, Moshesh, had egged
on the 'Zozas's suicide for his own ends) - they were only
too ready to return to Britannia's fold.
That was the stuff of Grey's dream, as I gathered from
my fellow-guests at the hotel - a united South Africa of
Briton, Boer, and black. Most of my informants were all for
it, but one or two were dead against the Boers, which put
one grizzled old hunter out of all patience.
"I don't like the Hollanders any better'n you do," says he,
"but if whites won't stand together, they'll fall separately.
Besides, if we don't have the Boers under our wing, they'll
go on practisin' their creed that the only good Bantu's a
dead one - or a slave, an' we know where that leads - bloody
strife till Kingdom Come."
"And what's Grey's style?" asks a fat civilian. "Teach
'em ploughing and the Lord's Prayer and make 'em wear
trowsers? Try that with the Matabele, why don't you? Or
the Zulu, or the Masai."
"You've never seen the Masai!" snaps the old chap. "Anyway,
sufficient unto the day. I'm talkin' about settlin' the Bantu inside our own borders "
We should never ha' given 'em the vote," says a Cape ^neman. "What happens when they outnumber us, tell me
hat?" This was an eye-opener to me, I can tell you, but it's
31
true - every man-jack born on Cape soil had the vote then
whatever his colour; more than could be said for Old
England.7
"Oh, by then all the Zulu and Mashona will be in tight
collars, talking political economy," sneers the fat chap. He
jabbed his pipe at the hunter. "You know it's humbug! They
ain't like us, they don't like us, and they'll pay us out when
they can. Hang it all, you were at Blood River, weren't you?
Well, then!"
"Aye, an' I back Grey 'cos I don't want Blood River o'er
again!" cries the hunter. "An' that's what you'll get, my
boy, if the Boers ain't reined up tight inside our laager! As
for the tribes . . . look here, I don't say you can civilise a
Masai Elmoran now . . . but they're a long way off. Given
time, an' peaceful persuasion when we come to 'em - oh,
backed up by a few field pieces, if you like - things can be
settled with good will. So I reckon Grey's way is worth a
try. It's that or fight 'em to the death - an' there's a hell of
a lot o' black men in Africa."
There were murmurs of agreement, but my sympathies
were all with the fat chap. I don't trust enlightened proconsuls,
I'd heard no good of the Boers, and fresh from
India as I was, the notion of voting niggers was too rich for
me. Can't say my views have changed, either - still, when
I look back on the bloody turmoil of southern Africa in my
lifetime, which has left Boer and Briton more at loggerheads
than ever, the blacks hating us both, and their precious
Union fifty years too late, I reckon the old hunter was right:
Grey's scheme was worth a try; God knows it couldn't have
made things worse.
But of course it never got a try, because the home government
had the conniptions at the thought of another vast
territory being added to the Empire, which they figured was
too big already - odd, ain't it, that the world should be
one-fifth British today, when back in the '50s our statesmen
were dead set against expansion - Palmerston, Derby,
Carnarvon, Gladstone, aye, even DTsraeli, who called
South Africa a millstone.
While I was at the Cape, though, the ball was still in the
32
I
air- they hadn't yet scotched Grey's scheme of union and
railed him home, and he was fighting tooth and nail to get
his way. Which was why, believe it or not, I found myself
hidden to dine with his excellency a few days later - and
that led to the first coincidence that set me on the road to
Harper's Ferry.
 When I got the summons, aha, thinks I, he wants to trot
the Mutiny hero up and down before Cape society, to raise
their spirits and remind 'em how well the Army's been doing
lately. Sure enough, he had invited the local quality to meet
me at a reception after dinner, but that wasn't his reason,
just his excuse.
We dined at the Castle, which had been the Governor's
B residence in the days of the old Dutch East India Company,
and was still used occasionally for social assemblies, since it
 had a fine hall overlooked at one end by a curious balcony
 called the Kat, from which I gather his Dutch excellency
had been wont to address the burghers. I duly admired it
before we went to dinner in an ante-room; it was a small
party at table, Flashy in full Lancer fig with V.C. and
assorted tinware, two young aides pop-eyed with worship,
and Grey himself. He was a slim, poetic-looking chap with
saintly eyes, not yet fifty, and might have been a muff if you
hadn't known that he'd walked over half Australia, dying of
thirst most of the time, and his slight limp was a legacy of
an Aborigine's spear in his leg. The first thing that struck
Ryou was that he was far from well: the skin of his handsome
face was tight and pallid, and you felt sometimes that he was
straining to keep hold, and be pleasant and easy. The second
thing, which came out later, was his cocksure confidence in
G. Grey; I've seldom known the like - and I've been in aroom
with Wellington and Macaulay together, remember.
He was quiet enough at dinner, though, being content to
^tch me thoughtful-like while his aides pumped me about
^y Mutiny exploits, which I treated pretty offhand, for if
1 m to be bongered* let it be by seniors or adoring females.
1 found Grey's silent scrutiny unsettling, too, and tried to
Mattered (Zulu).
r
33

turn the talk to home topics, but the lads didn't care for the
great crusade against smoking, or the state of the Thames
or the Jews in Parliament;8 they wanted the blood of
Cawnpore and the thunder of Lucknow, and it was a relief
when Grey sent them packing, and suggested we take our
cigars on the veranda, a
"Forgive my young men," says he. "They see few heroes
at the Cape." The sort of remark that is a sniff as often as
not, but his wasn't; he went on to speak in complimentary
terms of my Indian service, about which he seemed to know
a great deal, and then led the way down into the garden,
walking slowly along in the twilight, breathing in the air
with deep content, saying even New Zealand had nothing
to touch it, and had I ever known anything to compare?
Well, it was balmy enough with the scent of some blossom
or other, and just the spot to stroll with one of the crinolines
I could see driving in under the belfry arch and descending
at the Castle doorway beyond the trees, but it was evidently
heady incense to Grey, for he suddenly launched into the
most infernal prose about Africa, and how he was just the
chap to set it in order. 
You may guess the gist of it from what I've told you
already, and you know what these lyrical buggers are like
when they get on their hobby-horses, on and on like the
never-wearied rook. He didn't so much talk as preach, with
the quiet intensity of your true fanatic, and what with the |
wine at dinner and the languorous warmth of the garden,
it's as well there wasn't a hammock handy. But he was the
Governor, and had just fed me, so I nodded attentively and
said "I never knew that, sir," and "Ye don't say!", though
I might as well have hollered "Whelks for sale!" for all he
heard. It was the most fearful missionary dross, too, about
the brotherhood of the races, and how a mighty empire must
be built in harmony, for there was no other way, save to
chaos, and now the golden key was in his hand, ready to be
turned.9
"You've heard that the Orange Volksraad has voted for
union with us?" says he, taking me unawares, for until then
he'd apparently been talking to the nearest tree. Not
34
knowing what the Orange Volksraad was, I cried yes, and
nt before time, and he said this was the moment, and
brooded a bit, a la Byron, stern but gleaming, before turning
on me and demanding:
"How well do you know Lord Palmerston?"
Too dam' well, was the answer to that, but I said I'd met
him twice in the line of duty, no more.
"He sent you to India on secret political work," says he,
and now he was all business, no visionary nonsense. "He
must think highly of you - and so he should. Afghanistan,
Punjab, Central Asia, Jhansi ... oh, yes, Flashman, news
travels, and we diplomatics take more note of work in the
intelligence line than we do of . . ."He indicated my Cross,
with a little smile. "I have no doubt that his lordship values
your opinion more than that of many general officers. Much
more." He was looking keen, and my innards froze, for I'd
heard this kind of talk before. You ain't getting me up
yonder disguised as a Zulu, you bastard, thinks I, but his
next words quieted my fears.
"I am not persona grata at home, colonel. To be blunt,
they think me a dangerous dreamer, and there is talk of my
recall - you've heard it bruited in the town, I don't doubt.
Well, sir," and he raised his chin, eye to eye, "I hope I have
convinced you that I must not be recalled, for the sake of
our country's service - and for the sake of Africa. Now,
[Lord Palmerston will not be out of office long, I believe.10
Will you do me the signal favour, when you reach home, of
seeking him out and impressing on him the necessity - the
imperative necessity - of my remaining here to do the work
that only I can do?"
I've had some astonishing requests in my time - from
women, mostly - but this beat all. If he thought the unsought
opinion of a lowly cavalry colonel, however supposedly
heroic and versed in political ruffianing, would weigh a jot
^ith Pam, he was in the wrong street altogether. Why, the
nought of my buttonholing that paint-whiskered old fox
^th "Hold on, my lord, while I set you right about Africa"
was stuff tor Punch. I said so, politely, and he fixed me with
nat ^ely gazelle eye and sighed.
I 35
"I am well aware that a word from you may carry little
weight - all I ask is that . . . little. His lordship has not
inclined to accept my advice in the past, and I must use
every means to persuade him now, do you not see?" He
stared hard at me, impatient; there was a bead of sweat on
his brow - and suddenly it came to me that the man was
desperate, ready to snatch at anything, even me. He was
furious at having to plead with a mutton-headed soldier (he,
Sir George Grey, who alone could save Africa!), but he was
in that state where he'd have tried to come round fl
Palmerston's cook. He tried to smile, but it was a wry grim-
ace on the pale, strained face. "Decisions, you know, are
not always swayed by senators; a word from the slave in the
conqueror's chariot may turn the scale." Gad, he could pay _
a compliment, though. "Well, Colonel Flashman, may I I
count on you? Believe me, you will be doing a service to
your country quite as great as any you may have done in
the past."
I should have spat in his eye and told him I didn't run
errands for civil servants, but it's not every day you're toad- j
ied by a lofty pro-consul, patronising jackanapes though he m may be. So I accepted his hand-clasp, which was hard (but
damp, I noted with amusement), marvelling at the spectacle
of a proud man humbling himself for the sake of his pride,
and ambition. All wasted, too, for they did recall him - and
then Pam reinstated him, not at my prompting, you may be
sure. But his great African dream came to nothing.
That's by the way, and if I've told you of Grey and Africa "
at some length, well, I'm bound to record these things, and
it was a queer start altogether, and he was an odd bird but
the point is that if he hadn't thought he could use me,
he'd never have dined me that night, or shown me off to
Cape society . . . and I'd never have heard of Harper's
Ferry.
The last carriages had arrived while we talked, so now it
was Flashy on parade in the hall before society assembled.
Grey made me known from the Kat balcony, to polite
applause, and led me down the little staircase to be admired
and gushed over; there must have been thirty or forty under
36
. chandeliers, and Grey steered me among them; I gave 1 v bluff manly smile, with a click of the heels or an elegant
rlination, depending on their sex, but when we came to a ' roup by the piano, I thought, hollo, this is far enough.
^ She was seated at the keyboard, playing the last bars of
a waltz, tra-la-ing gaily and swaying her shoulders to the
music" they were the colour of old ivory, flaunting themselves
from a silvery-white dress which clung to her top
hamper in desperation. She laughed as she struck the final
flourish, and as those nearest patted their palms she bowed
and turned swiftly on the stool, smiling boldly up at me and
extending a slim gloved hand as though she had timed the
action precisely to Grey's introduction. I didn't hear the
name, being intent on taking stock: bright black eyes alight
with mischief, that dark cream complexion (touch o' the tar
brush, I fancied), glossy black hair that swung behind her
in a great fan - a shade too wide in the mouth for true
beauty, and with heavy brows that almost met above a slim
aquiline nose, but she was young and gay and full of sauce,
and in that pale, staid assembly she was as exotic as an
orchid in a bed of lettuce, with a shape to rival Montez as
she sat erect, sweeping her skirt clear of the piano stool.
"Oah, I should have played a march in your honour, Sir
Harree - nott a waltz!" cries she. Chi-chi, beyond doubt,
with that shrill lilt to her voice, and mighty pert for a colonial
miss. I said gallantly 'twas all one, since in her presence I
was bound to look, not listen - and I knew from the way
she fluttered her lids, smiling, and then raised them, wide
and insolent, that we were two of a mind. Her hand tightened,
too, when I pressed it, nor did she withdraw it as Grey made another introduction, and I saw she was glancing with
amusement at the chap who'd been turning her music, whom
I hadn't noticed. "My father," says she, and as I faced him
realised with an icy shock where I'd seen her dark brows snd arched nose before, for I was staring into the pale
terrible eyes of John Charity Spring.
I	37
It's a shame those books on etiquette don't
have a chapter to cover encounters with murderous lunatics
whom you'd hoped never to meet again. I could have used
one then, and if you've met J. C. Spring, M.A., in my
memoirs, you'll know why. This was the mad villain who'd
kidnapped me to the Slave Coast on his hell-ship in '48 (on
my own father-in-law's orders, too), and perforce I'd run
black ivory with him, and fled from she-devil Amazons, and
been hunted the length of the Mississippi, and lied truth out
of Louisiana to keep both our necks out of a noose.* The
last time I'd seen him he'd been face down in a bowl of trifle
in a New Orleans brothel, drugged senseless so that he could
be hauled away and shanghaied - to Cape Town, bigod!
Had he been here ever since - how long was it? Ten years
almost, and here he was, brooding malevolently at me from
those soulless eyes, while I gaped dumbstruck. The trim
beard and hair were white now, but he was as burly as ever,
the same homicidal pirate whom I'd loathed and dreaded;
the weal on his forehead, which darkened whenever he was
preparing to spill blood or talk about Oriel College, was
glowing pink, and he spoke in the old familiar growl.
"Colonel and sir, now, eh? You've risen in rank since I
saw you last - and in distinction, too, it seems." He glowered |
at my medals. "Bravely earned, I dare say. Ha!"
Grey wasn't a diplomat for nothing. "You are acquainted?"
says he, and Spring bared his fangs in his notion of a smile.
"Old shipmates, sir!" barks he, glaring as though I were a
focsle rat. "Reunited after many years, eh, Flashman? Aye,
* See Flash for Freedom! and Flashman and the Redskins.
38
atis superveniet quae non sperabitur horaV* He wheeled on t'e daughter - Spring with a daughter, my God! - and I dropped
her hand like a hot rivet. "My dear, will you not play your
pw Scarlatti piece for his excellency, while the Colonel and
I renew old acquaintance - charming, sir, I assure you! Such
delicacy of touch!" And in an aside to me: "Outside, you!"
He had my arm in a grip like a steel trap, and I knew better than to argue. Maniacs like Spring don't stand on
ceremony for mere governors - four quick strides and he
had me on the veranda, and as he almost threw me down
the steps to the shadowy garden my one thought was that
he was going to set about me in one of his berserk rages I
could guess why, too, so I wrenched clear, babbling.
"I'd nothing to do with your being shanghaied! It was
Susie Willinck - I didn't even know she was going to "
"Shut your gob!" Oriel manners still, I could see. He
shoved me against a tree and planted himself foursquare,
hands thrust into pockets, quarter-deck style. "You needn't
protest innocence to me! You'd never have the spine to slip
me a queer draught - aye, but you'd sit by and see it done,
you mangy tyke! Well, nulla pallescere culpa,^ my decorated
hero, for it doesn't matter a dam, d'ye see? Fuit Ilium,^ if
you know your Virgil, which you never did, blast you!"
So he was still larding his conversation with Latin tags -
he'd been a mighty scholar, you see, before they rode him
out of Oxford on a rail, for garrotting the Vice-chancellor
or running guns into Wadham, likely, tho' he always claimed
it was academic jealousy.
"Well, what the devil are you blackguarding a chap for,
then?" The horror of meeting him, and being rushed out
headlong, had quite unmanned me - but this was civilisation,
dammit, and even he daren't offer violence, much. "By God,
Spring!" cries I, courage returning, "you'd best mind your
manners! This ain't Dahomey, or your bloody slave-deck,
and I'm not your supercargo, either "
^ he happy hour will come, the .more gratifying for being unexpected. ', of to turn pale on an imputation of guilt - Horace.
- roy has been (i.e., the reason for dispute no longer exists).
I 39
"Hold your infernal tonguee!" He thrust his face into mine,
pale eyes glittering, and his sscar pulsing like a snake. "Take
that tone with me and, by Goad, you'll wish you hadn't! Bah!
Think you're safe, don't you,, because mortuo leoni et lepores
insultant* is that it?"
"How the hell do I know?? Can't you speak English?"
"Well, the lion may be oldi, mister, but he ain't dead, and
he can still take you by youir dirty neck and scrag you like
the rat you are!" He grippecd my collar, leaning closer and
speaking soft. "I don't knovw what ill wind blew you here,
nor I don't care, and I've no (quarrel with you - yet - because
you're not worth it, d'ye see'?" He began to shake me, gritting
his teeth. "But I'm tellling you, for the good o' your
health, that while you contimue to foul the Cape with your
scabrous presence - you'll stteer clear of my daughter, d'ye
hear me? Oh, I saw you leerring yonder, like the rutting hog
you are! I know you "
"Damn your eyes, I only said 'How-de-do' "
"And I'm saying 'How-de-don't'! I know it means nothing
to vermin like you that she'ss seventeen and convent-reared
and pure!" That was what The thought; I'd seen the look in
her eye. "So you can spare me your indignant vapourings,
ye hear? Aye, fronti nullafides-^ might ha' been coined for
you, you lecherous offal! Dicdn't I see you tup your way from
Whydah to the Gulf?" His sscar was warming up again, and
his voice rising to its custon-nary bawl. "And that fat slut in
Orleans - did you have the gall to marry her?"
"Hush, can't you? Certainly not!" In fact, I had; my
second bigamy - but he'd opposed the match, being a Biblethumper
like so many blackguards, and I knew if I admitted
it I'd have his teeth in my tlhroat.
"I'll wager! Bah, who's ito believe you - lie by nature,
don't you!" He stepped hack, snarling. "So . . . you're
warned! Steer clear of my girl, because if you don't ... by
the Holy, I'll kill you!"
I believed him. I remembered Omohundro with two feet
* The lion being dead, even hares pan insult him.
t There is no faith to be placed in the countenance.
40
pf steel through his innards - and Spring had only just met
him- Now, my carnal thoughts had vanished like the morning (jgw before the warmth of the fond father's admonition, and
It was with relief and true sincerity that I drew myself up,
straightened my tunic, and spoke with quiet dignity.
"Captain Spring, I assure you that my regard for your
daughter is merely that of a gentleman for a charming lady."
Hearing his jaws grate at what he took for sarcasm, I added
hastily: "By the way, how is Mrs Spring - in excellent health,
I trust?"
"Mrs Spring is dead!" snaps he - and, d'ye know, I was
quite put out, for she'd been a harmless old biddy, played
the harmonium at sea-burials, used to chivvy her diabolic
spouse to wear his muffler when he went a-slaving, mad as
a hatter. "And that is not her daughter. Miranda's mother
was a Coast Arab." His glare dared me to so much as blink.
I'd been right, though: half-caste.
"Miranda, eh? Delightful name . . . from a play, ain't it?"
"Jesus wept!" says he softly. "Arnold must ha' been proud
of you!" He considered me, cocking his white head. "Aye
. . . perhaps he would've been, at that. . . you've done well
- by appearances, anyway." His voice was almost mild - but
he was like that, raging storm and then flat calm, and both
terrifying. I'd seen him lash a man almost to death, and then godown to afternoon tea and a prose about Ovid, with the
victim's blood on his sleeve. The hairy heel was never absent
|long, though. "Aye," says he sourly, looking me up and
down, "I wish I'd a guinea for every poor bastard whose
bones must ha' gone to the making of your glorious pedestal. Gaudetque viam fecisse ruina* I'll lay!"
Seeing he was out to charm, I said that he seemed to have
done pretty well himself - for he was looking mighty prosperous,
suitings of the finest and diamonds on his daughter,
and I was curious. He scratched his beard, sneering.
"Well enough. That fat strumpet of yours did me a good ^rn, trepanning me to profit and position, 'though she didn't
know it. Yes, my bucko, I'm warm - and I draw enough
* LJ
rte rejoices to have made his way by ruin - Lucan.
41
water in this colony, as you'll find if you cross me. Felicittas
habet multos amicos* you know!"
I didn't, but couldn't resist a gibe of my own. "Not in blaick
ivory these days, though, I'll bet!" For a second the wild spairk
flickered in the empty eyes, and I prepared to dodge.
"You'll open that trap o' yours once too often!" growls
he. "You're sailing on the next mail, I take it? You'd bettter
- and until then, keep your distance, d'ye hear? Good-niglht,
and be damned to you!"
Shipmate o' mine, thinks I, as he stamped back to tlhe
house; I was wet with sweat, and it was with profound reliief
that I saw his carriage leave a few moments later, my hallfcaste
charmer trilling with laughter and the Scourge of tlhe
Seas with his hat jammed down and snarling at the coache;e.
I ventured in again, but it was a half-hearted hero wlho
acknowledged the compliments of the assembly, I can tiell
you; the coming of Spring is something you don't get ovfer
quickly, and Grey eyed me curiously when I took my leav^e.
"Interesting man - I had no notion you knew him in mis
trading days. Oh, he farms now, owns great acres abomt
Grahamstown, and is quite the nabob - must be one of tlhe
wealthiest men in the colony, I daresay, has his own yaclht
to bring him down from Port Elizabeth. His daughter is
charming, is she not?" An instant's hesitation, then: "Captain
Spring is a considerable classic, too; his lectures on the latifundia were widely attended last year. He is on the boaird
of public examiners, you know, and is forever pressing ms
to found a university here."
I decided to do J.C. a bit of good, in return for the scan-e
he'd given me. "Ah, he misses the cloisters I suppose - you
know they unfrocked him, or whatever they do, at Oxford?
Never got over it, poor old chap, named his ship the Balluol
College - slaver, she was, and a pirate, they say. He's wanted
for murder in Louisiana, too."
He didn't even stir a patrician brow. "Indeed . . . ah,
well. A very good-night to you, colonel. . . and my warmeist
regards to Lord Palmerston."
Happiness has many friends.
42
That was how much I shocked him. The fact was, you see,
that so many chaps who'd been little better than brigands in
the earlies - fellows like Brooke and the Taipans and the
South Sea crowd - had become upstanding pillars of society
in their mellow years, that no one would care a fig if Spring
had founded his fortune shipping niggers - not if he was going
to apply it to good works like a new university, and went to
morning service regular. As old Peacock says, respectable
means rich - look at that slippery diamond-slinger Rhodes.
What price the Spring Chair of Practical Philosophy? I'd give
the inaugural lecture myself, on how he tried to drop blacks
overboard before the patrollers boarded him.
That he was filthy rich was confirmed by gossip in the
town. "He could write a draft for a million," I was told, and
"I'd hate to be the man that bilked him of a river, though,"
says another, from which I gathered that my beloved old
commander's belaying-pin reputation still stuck to him, however
loud he hollered in church. So it was a relief when I
heard he'd gone back to Grahamstown, out of harm's way,
leaving the lovely Miranda to queen it at his fine house by
the sea, where she was wont to entertain the younger set of
whom I was not going to be one, I may tell you. Delectable
she might be, but even Helen of Troy would lose her allure
if the price of her favours was liable to be a dip in the bay
with a bag of coal on your feet. No, I was not tempted . ^ .
... until the day before I was due to sail, when a note
Swas delivered at the hotel. It read:
My dear Sir Harry - altho' I believe I should not
style you so just yet, still everyone knows, and I have
not so many Gallant Knights of my acquaintance that
I can forego the pleasure of addressing you again as Dear
Sir Harry!
Our meeting was cut so short by Papa that I shall
feel myself altogether neglected if you do not call
before you leave for Home, which I believe you do
on tomorrow's mail. We intend a "Sea-picnic" today,
and 'twill not be complete without the handsomest
colonel in the Army! There! I have no shame at all,
43
you see' Do co^' and ^iy your admirer, and
soon to be, I hop' your friend,
Miranda Sprir^ P S Pana rnnt1111165 at Grahamstown, but we have
the Ariel for oi-1' P1^- I sha11 send a carriage at
noon - please, 1^ k not return ^P^'
Well, this was a i^ an(i easy miss, if you like for no
Mama of Simla or Pelgravia would have permitted a.bdlet as warm as this on^ she might as well have added ' P^P.S.
Bed at ten sharp". P"t then, she had no Mama - and Papa
was seven hundred miles away, bless his black heart .
he'd warned her off. that was P11""' but thls was a filly who d
delight in defiance, ^rom what rd seen of her andshe wanted the "hands^"^ colonel in the Army ' to ' gratify
her the saucy litti^ ranker, and who could blame her? I
tingled at the thought of those soft shoulders and the wanton
glint in the black ^es - ^ but what about the bale-fire
glint in dear Papa'^ Fora second I ^ed but n0'1 couldn't let this on ^P "y- , , ,
Don't mistake m6 " rm not one of those who count danger
an added spice ^ of a11 in houghmagandie, as Elspeth
used to call it whenever I got her tipsy. But here, while there
was no risk at all, there would be a special zest to romping
Spring's daughter - the Rty was that he'd never know . . .
unless I wrote hirfl a llne when I was safe in England . . .
"Dear Prospero have '"ogered Miranda. 0, brave new
world' The weather continues fine. Yours ever, Caliban."
He'd absolutely dis of r^- Better stl11' she vu^- Present
him with a little suP^B^0 nine months hence ^ that
would be an interesting infant, Flash-Spring with a dash of
fellaheen. Oh, m^Y thoughts'
I made my package t^" and ^ere. whistling, and settled
up for the best pl^" would be to outstay the other guests,
gallop the night a^V' kiss her a t^'^ul farewell, and tool
straight down to the mail ender- rd b^ halfway home before
the swine was back from Grahamstown - oh, I must let him
know, somehow! ^d never dare come back to ^g^^ to
seek revenee would he? I had another qualm at the
44
memory of those glaring eyes and murderous fury . . . well,
we'd see.
The carriage was there sharp on twelve, Malay coachman
and all, and I was in prime fettle as we bowled through the
suburbs, which were a great contrast to the shabby port,
being very grand even in those days, with shady avenues of
oak and clumps of silver-trees, and fine houses among the
green; it was Cape summer, and the whole countryside was
ablaze with garden blossoms and the famous wild flowers.
Chateau Spring, which stood by the sea, was even more
splendid than I'd imagined, a lofty white colonial mansion
in wide grounds fit to rival Kew, with a marble bathing pool" secluded among rhododendrons, and as I waited in the airy
hall, admiring the circular sweep of the double staircase and
inhaling the blissful aroma of money, I reflected that there's
no gain like the ill-gotten; it beats honest accumulation
hands down.
I'd expected the place to be alive with company, but there
wasn't a soul except the ancient black butler who'd gone to
announce me - and I found myself wondering about that
capital "H" she'd put on "home" in her note. She was halfcaste,
you see, and they put far more stock in being "English"
than we who take it for granted ... so she'd spelled
it "Home" - where she'd never been, and likely never would
be. Not that being "coloured", as they call it down yonder,
I mattered much in those days, not with a white father who
could have bought Natal and would have kicked the life out
of anyone who didn't treat his daughter like a duchess . . .
still, I wondered how many Mamas with eligible sons regretted
previous engagements. And I was just concluding hornily
that I was probably the only guest, when:
"Sir Harree!" Here she was, sailing down the staircase,
and I took in breath at the sight of her. She was wearing a
dress of pale muslin, sari-style, that clung like a gauzy skin
but flounced out below the knee above thonged sandals;
one ivory shoulder and both arms were bare, and as she
swept towards me with a swift graceful stride the flimsy n^tenal outlined her figure - gad, it was all there. She carried a long scarf of black silk over one arm - and then to my
45
astonish ^nent! saw it was her hair, gathered in from behind.
"Sir p-^1'1^!" again, with a glowing smile and her free
hand ext^11"^ and since we were alone and I was bursting
with bu^^ l ressed my lips to her fingers - and nuzzled
swiftly t^P ne naked arm in Flashy's flank attack, across
shoulder anu eck to her cheek and fastened on her full re- d
lips. She cllun: even gasp; after a second her mouth opened
wide, an ^n I drew her in with a hand on her rump sne clung li a od 'un while I kneaded avidly and breathed
in her h^^Y ferfume . . . and then the blasted butler's step
sounded at tn stairhead, and she broke away, flushed and
laughing > ^"quickly drew herself up, mock demure.
"How","^!, Sir Harree?" says she, bobbing a curtsey.
"So kin0 ^you to coll! May I offer you some . - .
refreshn^"17'
"Anoth61" c the same, marm, if you please," says I, and
she burst out ^iughing and drew me out onto a shady veranda
comman^11^ } splendid view of the sunlit Bay. There was
a low tat510 ^h liquor and tidbits (for two, I noticed), and
cushion^- ^an swing-chairs, and when the butler had
poured ^s ^^i slings and tottered away, she made pretty
work of ^^ig herself, shrugging this way and that to di splay
her ^^P^ and sweeping that wondrously long hair over
the back ^ h^r seat - I'd known at first sight that she was
a great s^^'^f, and now she raised her glass with a flourish
in smilin^ .^le.
"Thatt is ^ed brandy and orange, Sir Harree! Your
favourite in ^v/ Orleans, so Papa told me . . . among other
things, o^ y^s!"
"Did ^e' "Sw? Observant chap, Papa." How the blazes
had he c01^6 ^ tell her that? "But you mustn't believe all
he tells V011' You know."
"Oah, but ] want to!" cries she, quite the rogue. "Such a shockifS ^aracter he gave you, you can nott imagine I"
She sat efect' fcounting on slim fingers. "Lett me see . . . Cftt your nau^"1^ ways, drinking, and smoking and . . . that you
are a veri"6 ^imeless rake - but he would give no particular's,
was that nott mean of him? . . . oah, and that you were a
46
j,gl and told stretchers - and he said you were ^ scou1,^ _ ^vhich I did nott believe, you are so famous most co^. you believed the rest, eh?" ^ " 'tt of carse. Sir Harree!" Her voice had the n^ .
rng that can be delightful in a woman, but in e
sln^, .pent the chi-chi vowels slipped out hot and str exclQ^ an instant the ivory skin seemed a shade darker on^' an ^karp nose and heavy brows more pronounced, a^ a 1 enured and prattled - and I admired the stirring curv. s e breast and hip under the flimsy muslin: never min^0
sture lt comes from, it's the meat that matters. e
"Papa said, of oil the bad men he had known, you auite the worst!" She shook her head, wide-eyed. "^ ere carse I must see for myself, you knoaw? Are you so v^
wicked . . . Harree?" vrree
"Here, I'll show you!" says I, and lunged at her, bu drew back, with a pretty little comical flutter toward;,, e hall, where I supposed the butler was lurking, and pr^ e me to try the tidbits, especially a great sticky bovi^"
creamed chocolate - in summer! - which she spooned '
herself with gluttonous delicacy, between sips at her ^mto teasing me with sidelong smiles and assuring me thai ^'
mixture was "quite heavenlee". the
Well, women flirt all ways to bed: there are the kii
who like to be tickled, and the cats who must be co^0"8 while they pretend to claw, and the tigresses who have^ one end in mind, so to speak. I'd marked Miranda Sh0"" as a novice tigress at our first meeting, and our grappi""^
fhe hall had shown her a willing one; if it amused h^ in P^y the wanton puss, well, she was seventeen, and a chj r to and they're a theatrical breed, so I didn't mind - so lok0111' s e didn't prove a mouse, as some of these brazen chii ^ as at the first pop of a button. She seemed nervous and r8 ^ "gether - yet was there a gleam of triumph in the ^ ndy ^'le? Aye, probably couldn't believe her luck. ^s1"
he'^ ^P3 warned you off' did he? And did he tel) ."sworn to kill me if I came near you?" V0"
it i ^' yess! Jollee exciting! He is so jealous, you ki.
s a great bore, for he has kept away oil sorts of br ow'
^ys 47
'
men, I mean - ollways thee ones I like best, too! Nott saying
he would kill them, you understand," she giggled, "but you
know how he can be."
"M'mh . . . just an inkling. Cramps your style, does he?"
She tossed her head and dabbed cream from her lips with
a fold of her dress. "Nott when he is in Grahamstown!"
"When the cat's away, eh? Finished your pudding, have
you? Very good, let's play!" I made another lunge, and got
home this time, seizing her bosom and stopping her mouth,
and the lustful slut lay there revelling in it, thrusting her
tongue between my teeth, with never a thought for the
butler, and I was wondering how we were going to perform
the capital act on a cane swing only four feet long, when
she purred in my ear: "Once upon a time, the cat came
home . .."
Fortunately the swing was anchored, or we'd have been
over.
"What! D'youmean"
"Oah, not from Grahamstown, sillee! Papa was here, in
town, but not expected. It was two years ago, when I was
onlee fifteen, and quite stupid, you knoaw - and there was
a French gentleman from Mauritius, much older, but whom
I liked ever so ... And Papa flew into a great rage, and
forbade him to see me - but then Papa was absent, and
Michel came to the house ... to my room, quite late . . .
and Papa came home from the club, quite early ..."
"Jesus! What then?"
"Nothing, then . . . Papa looked at him, in that way he
has, and said 'You're receipted and filed, mister', and Michel
laughed at him, and went away." You're a better man than
I am, Michel, thinks I. "And a little time after, they found
poor Michel on Robben Island. He had been flogged to
death with a sjambok."
Just what a fellow needs to hear when he's coming to the
boil, you'll agree - but I'm the lad who bulled a Malay
charmer in the midst of a battle on the Batang Lupar, regardless
of shot and steel - and now the wicked bitch was halfway
down my throat, and rummaging below-stairs with an expert
hand. And while I didn't doubt her story, knowing her fiend
48
of a father, I knew she'd told it only to plague me. And
Spring was in Grahamstown - I'd inquired.
"I'll give you sjambok, my lady!" growls I, and lifted her
bodily out of the swing, but even as I cast about for galloping
room, she left off gnawing at me and panted: "Wait ... let
me show you!" I set her down, and she seized my hand,
hurrying me down to the garden and through a screen of
shrubs to a small stone jetty beyond, and there was the
smartest little steam yacht moored, all brass and varnish
shining in the sun, and not a soul aboard that I could
see.
"For our picnic," says she, and her voice was shrill with
excitement. She led the way up the swaying plank, and I
followed, slavering at the plump stern bobbing under the
muslin, and down into the cool shadows of a spacious cabin.
I seized her, fore and aft, but she slipped from my lustful
grasp, whispering "A moment!" and slammed a door in my
face.
While I tore off my clobber, I had time to look about me,
and note that J. C. Spring, M.A., did himself as well afloat
as he did ashore. There was polished walnut and brocade,
velvet curtains on the ports, fine carpet and leather furniture,
and even a fireplace with a painting of some Greek idiots in
beards - it was a bigger craft than I'd realised, and rivalled
the one in which Suleiman Usman had carried us to Singapore;
through an open door I could see a lavatory in marble
and glass, with a patent showerbath, which for some reason
made me randier than ever, and I pounded on her door,
roaring endearments; it swung open under my fist, and there
she was, on t'other side of the bed, posed with her back to
the bulkhead. For a moment I stood staring, and Spring and
old Arnold would have been proud of me, for my first
thought was "Andromeda on her rock, awaiting the
monster, ha-ha!" which proves the benefit of a grounding
in the classics.
She was stark naked - and yet entirely clad; for she had
cinched in her long hair with a white ribbon round her neck,
so that it framed her face like a cowl, while beneath the
ribbon it hung in a shimmering black curtain that covered her
49
almost to her ankles. Her arms were spread out, desperatelike,
on the panelling, and as I goggled she pushed one knee
through the silky tresses and pouted at me.
We never went near the bed, for it would have been a
shame to disturb her tableau vivant, much; I just heaved her
up and piled in against the panels, grunting for joy, and I'll
swear the boat rocked at its moorings, for she teased no,
longer when it came to serious work, and I wasn't for lingering
myself. It was splendid fun while it lasted, which was
until she began to shudder and scream and tried to throttle
me with her hair, so I romped her up and down all the way
to the lavatory, where we finished the business under the
patent showerbath, once I'd got the knack of the dam' thing,
which ain't easy with a mad nymph clinging to your manly
chest. Most refreshing it was, though, and brought back
memories of Sonsee-Array, my Apache princess, who was
partial to coupling under waterfalls - which is deuced cold,
by the way, and the pebbles don't help.
Miranda Spring knew a trick worth two of that, for when
we'd come to our senses and towelled each other dry, with
much coy snickering on her part, she showed me to a little
alcove off the main cabin where an excellent collation was
laid out under covers, with bubbly in a bucket. We recruited
our energies with lobster and chicken, but when I proposed
that we finish off the wine on deck, she came all over languid
and said we would be "ever so comfee" on the bed - and if
you'd seen that exquisite young body artfully swathed in
her hair, with those fine ivory poonts thrusting impudently
through it, you'd have agreed.
But she must finish her dessert, too - like all chi-chis she
had a passion for sugary confections - so she brought it to
bed, if you please, and gorged herself on eclairs and cream
slices while I fondled her, well content to play restfully for
a change. Not so madam; being a greedy little animal, she
must satisfy both her appetites at once, and call me conservative
if you will, I hold that a woman who gallops you while
consuming a bowl of blancmange is wanting in respect. I left
off nibbling her tits to rebuke her bad form, but the saucy
little gannet stuck out her tongue and went on eating and
50
cantering in a most leisurely fashion. Right, my lass, thinks
I, and waited until she'd downed the last cherry and licked
the spoon, settled herself for a rousing finish, and was beginning
to moan and squeal in ecstatic frenzy - at which point
I gave an elaborate yawn, hoisted her gently from the saddle,
and announced that I was going on deck for a swim.
She squawked like a staggered hen, eyes still rolling.
"Sweem? Wha' . . . now? But . . . but . . . oah, no, no,
nott yett-"
"Why not? Better than all this boring frowsting in bed,
what? Come along, a dip'll do you no end of good." I gave
them a playful flip. "Keep you in trim, you know."
"5oreeng?" If you can imagine Andersen's Mermaid
moved from dazed bewilderment to screaming passion in an
instant, you have Miranda. "Boreeng? Me? Aieee, you . . .
you -" But even as I prepared to parry a clawing attack, to
my amazement her rage gave way to sudden consternation,
and then her arms were round my neck and she was pleading
frantically with me to stay, kissing and fondling and exerting
her small strength to pull me down.
"Oah, no, no, please, Harree, please don't go - please, I
am ever so sorree! Oah, I was wicked to tease - you mustn't
go up, nott yett! Please, stay . . . love me, Harree, oah
please, don't go!"
"Changeable chit, ain't you? No, no, miss, I'm going
topsides for a swim, and some sunshine "
"No, no!" It was a squeal of real alarm. "Please, please,
you must stay here!" She fairly writhed on to me, gasping.
Well, I've known 'em eager, but this was flattery of the most
persuasive kind. "Please, please, Harree . . . love me now, oah do!"
"Wel-11 . . .no, later! If you're a good little girl, after my
swim "
"No, now! Oah, I shall be a badd big girl!" She gave a
whimper of entreaty. "Stay with me, and I will be verree badd! Don' go, and I will . . ." She put her lips to my ear,
giggling, and whispered. I was so taken aback I may well
have blushed.
"Good God, I never heard the like! Why, you abandoned
51
brat! Where on earth did you hear of such . . . ? At school'. I don't believe it!" She nodded gleefully, eyes shining, and
I was speechless. Depraved women I've known, thank
heaven, but this one was barely out of dancing class, and
here she was, proposing debauchery that would have scandalised
a Cairo pimp. Heavens, it was new to me, even, and
I told her so. She smiled and bared her teeth.
"Oah, then you will certainlee nott go on deck just yett!"
whispers she. "You will stay with wicked Miranda, yess?"
Well, a gentleman should always indulge the whims of the
frail sex, even if it does mean foregoing a refreshing swim,
but I confess that if I hadn't been a degenerate swine myself,
her behaviour thereafter would have shocked me. I'd have
thought, at thirty-six and having enjoyed the attentions of
Lola Montez, Susie Willinck, my darling Elspeth, and other
inventive amorists too numerous to mention, that I'd nothing
to learn about dalliance, but by the time young Miranda
(seventeen, I mean to say!) had had her girlish will of me,
and I was lying more dead than alive in the showerbath, I
could barely gasp one of Spring's Latin tags: "Ex Africa
semper aliquid novi* by gum!"
I must have managed to crawl back to the bed, for when
I woke it was growing dusk, and Miranda was dressed and
wearing an apron, humming merrily as she cooked omelettes
in the galley for our supper, while I lay reflecting on the lack
of supervision in colonial finishing schools, and wondering if
I'd be fit for more jollity before the mail tender left in the
morning. I ate my omelette with a trembling hand, but when
she teased me into sharing asparagus with her, nibbling
towards each other along the spear until our mouths met, I
began to revive, and was all for it when she said we should
spend the night aboard, and her butler would see my traps
taken down to the wharf in good time.
"But I shall be quite desolate at parting, for I have never
knoawn anyone as jollee as you, Harree!" cries she, stroking
my whiskers. "You are ever so excessivelee wicked - far
worse than Papa said!"
* Out of Africa there is always something new.
52
J'i"!
' "Then we're a pair. Tell you what - let's take a turn on
deck, and then we'll play picquet - and if you cheat, I'll tie
you up in that Raphunzel hair of yours, and show you what
wickedness is."
"But I am thee greatest cheat!" laughs she, so we went on
deck, and I had to tell her the story of Raphunzel, which
she'd never heard, while she nestled against me by the rail
in the warm darkness, with the water chuckling against the
hull and the last amber glow dying above the western rim.
It was the place to linger with a girl, but presently it grew
chilly, so we went down to our hand of picquet. She was no
cheat at all, though, so I had to teach her, but once or twice
I wondered if her mind was on the game at all, for she kept
glancing at the clock, and when it struck she started, and
fumbled her cards, and apologised, laughing like a schoolgirl
- "clumsee Clara!"
The nursery exclamation reminded me what a child she
was - Lord love us, I'd been married before she was born.
Aye, and a damned odd child, behind the vivacious chatter
and mischievous smile, with her Babylonian bedroom
manners. Peculiar lusts are supposed to be a male prerogative
(well, look at me), but the truth is we ain't in it with
the likes of the Empress Tzu-hsi or Lola of the Hairbrush
or that Russian aunt I knew who went in for flogging'in
steambaths ... or Miranda Spring, not yet of age, smiling
brightly to cover a little yawn. Jaded from her mattress exertions,
no doubt; we'll brisk you up presently, thinks I, with
a few of those Hindu gymnastics that Mrs Leslie of Meerut
was so partial to ...
There was a vague sound from somewhere outside, and
then a heavy footfall on the deck over our heads. The butler
from the house, was my first thought - and Miranda dropped
a card in shuffling, retrieved it, and offered me the pack to
cut.
"Who is it?" says I, and she glanced at the clock. Suddenly
I realised she was trembling, but it was excitement, not fear,
and the smile in the black eyes was one of pure triumph.
"That will be Papa at last," says she.
53
There is, as that sound chap Ecclesiastes
says, a time to get, and if I've reached the age of ninety-one
it's because I've always been able to recognise it. I was afoot
on the word "Papa" and streaking for the bed-cabin, where
I knew there was a window; I wrenched the door open and
raced through - into the bloody lavatory, and by the time I
was out again it was too late: the biggest Malay I've ever
seen, a huge yellow villain clad only in duck trowsers and
with arms like hawsers, was at the foot of the companion,
making way for John Charity Spring in full war-paint - reefer
jacket, pilot cap, and a face like an Old Testament prophet.
He took in the scene, hands thrust into pockets, and growled
to the Malay.
"On deck. Jumbo, and if he sticks his neck out, break it!"
He turned his glare on Miranda, who was still seated, the
pack in her hands, and barked at her: "Did this thing molest
you?"
She riffled the cards, cool as you like, while my bowels
dissolved. "No, Papa. He did nott."
"He tried though, I'll lay! I know the villain!" His voice
rose to its accustomed roar. "Did he lay his vile hands on
you? Answer me!"
Oh, Christ, I thought, it's the finish - but she simply
glanced at me with infinite scorn, shrugged her slim shoulders,
and made an inelegant spitting noise. Spring stood
breathing like a bellows, his wild eyes moving from one to
other of us; I knew better than to utter a denial - and I
didn't laugh, either, like rash Michel.
"Aye, I'll swear he did, though! Didn't you, you lousy
lecher!" He strode to confront me, jerking his fists from his
54
pockets, his jaw working in fury. "Didn't you? By God "
"Oh, Papa! Of course he tried to kiss mee! Do you think
he is the first? I am nearly eighteen, you knoaw!" If ever a
voice stamped its foot, hers did; she sounded like an
impatient governess. "I am nott a child! What were you
expecting, after oil?" She tossed her head. "But he is just
a great bullee . . . and a great coward, as you said."
His breath was rasping on my face, and his eyes were like
a mad dog's, but suddenly he wheeled about, stared at her,
and then strode to a cupboard on the bulkhead and dragged
out a large volume which I recognised in amazement as a
Bible. He slammed it down on the table beside her.
"Miranda," says he, and his voice was hoarse, either with
rage or fatherly concern. "My child, it grieves me to do
this, but I must! Swear to me on this Book that no ... no
unworthiness, no impropriety, passed between you and this creature-"
"Oh, Papa, what a fuss! Oil about notheeng! This is so
sillee "
"Silly be damned!" bawls paterfamilias. "Put your hand
on the blasted Book, girl!" He seized her wrist and slapped
her palm on the Bible. "Now, make your oath - and take
care . . . aye, quid de quoque viro, et cui dicas, saepe caveto* mind - even with a rat like him! Swear!"
I braced myself to leap for the ladder, resolved to kick
the appalling Jumbo in the crotch, God willing, for while
the dear child had lied splendidly thus far, I knew she was
convent-reared on all that hellfire and mortal sin bilge, and
wouldn't dare perjure - and I stopped in the nick of time,
for she was giving an angry little shrug, looking Papa sulkily
in the eye, and swearing by Almightee Godd that she had
repelled my clumsy advances with ease and it would take a
better man than Flashy to drag her into the long grass, or
words to that effect. Spring ground his teeth in relief, and
then spoke two words I'll wager he'd never uttered in his
life before.
Take special care what you say of any man, and to whom it is said -
Horace.
55
"Forgive me, my child. I never doubted you - but I know
this scoundrel, d'ye see . . . ?" He turned his dreadful face
to me, and if hair and claws had sprouted from his hands,
I'd not have wondered. "It would break my heart," snarls
he, "if I thought ... but there! God bless you, child." He
bussed her resoundingly on the forehead, and the little trollop
gave him a smile of radiant purity. "You are the bravest
of girls and the dearest of daughters, quern te Deus esse
jussit.* Now, go along to bed, and give thanks to Him who
has guarded you this day."
"Good-night, dear Papa," says she, and kissed the brute.
She walked to the companion - and God help us, as she
passed me she pursed her lips in a silent kiss, and winked.
Then she was gone, and Spring hurled the Bible into its
cupboard and glared at me.
"And you, if you ever pray, which I'm damned sure you
don't, can give thanks for the innocence of a good woman!
A novelty in your filthy experience, is she not?" Well, novelty
was the word for Miranda, no error, if not innocence.
"Aye, she's as pure as you are vile, as straight as you are
warped, as brave as you are . . . bah! And she don't lie,
either!" He gave his barking laugh. "So you needn't stand
quaking, my hero! Sit down!"
Now, I'd stood mum and paralysed through the astonishing
scene I've just described, because that's what you do
when J. C. Spring is on the rampage. Why the devil he
wasn't in Grahamstown hadn't crossed my mind - I'd been
too busy thanking God that his daughter was a complete
hand, and that the old monster had swallowed her tale whole
- but since he had, why, all was well, surely, and I could
depart without a stain on my character. I recalled my wits
and met his eye, two damned difficult things to do, I can
tell you.
"Thank'ee, but I think I'll take my leave, if-"
"You'll do no such thing!" bawls he. "Now that you're
here, you'll stay awhile, and give me the pleasure of your
blasted company! Sit, damn you!"
* What God commanded you to be.
56
I sat, believe me, and he gave a great white-whiskered
grin, chuckling, and poured two stiff tots from the decanter
on the buffet. "No orange this time, I think," sneers he.
"Ye'll want it straight, if I'm a judge. Cigar? Or cheroot?
You Far Rasters like 'em black, I believe ... go on, man
- utrum horum mavis accipe* and take your ease! Your
health - while you've got it!"
I downed the brandy as if it was water, for I'd seen Spring
jovial before, and knew what could come of it. He seated
himself opposite me at the table, sipped and wiped his whiskers,
and eyed me with genial malevolence. I'd as soon be
smiled at by a cobra.
"So ye didn't heed me," says he. "Well, ye've more
bottom than ever I gave you credit for. And if you were half
the man you look, instead of the toad I know you to be ...
I'd not blame you. Miranda is a maid to bewitch any man.
I'm proud o' that girl, Flashman, with good cause . . . and
if I thought ye'd laid a finger on her ..." suddenly the
hellish glare was back in his eyes, and his scar was pulsing
"- I'd serve you as I served another reptile that tried to
defile her, by God, I would!" He smashed his fist on the
table. "I found her fighting for her chastity - aye, in her
own chamber, by heaven - with a foul seducing frog-eating
son-of-a-bitch who sought to have his vile way with her when
my back was turned! My daughter, the bastard!" There was
spittle on his beard. "What d'ye say to that, hey?"
| When a maniac inquires - answer. "Damnable! French,
was he? Well, there you are "
"D'ye know what I did to him?" His voice was soft now,
but the empty eyes weren't. "I stripped him stark, and cut
the life out of him - sixty-one strokes, and you wouldn't
have known he was human. Murder, you'll say "
"No, no, not at all - quite the "
"- but the fact is, Flashman, I was beside myself!" cries
this raving ogre. "Aye, homo extra est corpus suum cum
irascitur,^ you remember ..."
Take whichever you prefer.
+ An angry man is beside himself.
57
"Absolutely! May I trouble you for the brandy,
captain "
"There were those suspected me - d'ye think I gave a
dam? It was just, I tell you! Condign punishment, as the
articles say . . . and that lass of mine, that young heroine I'll
never forget it, never! Fighting like a tigress against that
beast's base passion . . . but not a tear or a tremor . . .
thank God I came in time!"
You should have seen her base passion a few hours ago,
thinks I, and quailed at the memory . . . God, if ever he
found out! He sipped brandy, growling, came out of his
reverie of Miranda-worship, and realised he'd been confiding
in the scum of the earth.
"But you were no threat to her!" He curled his lip. "No,
not you - ye see, Flashman, I could trust her virtue to be
stronger even than your depravity, else I'd never ha' let you
within a mile of her, let alone permit her to beguile you
here! Aye, that jars you! Oh, you've been had, my son!"
For an instant the pale eyes were alight with triumph, then
he was scowling again. "But I've been through hell this day,
knowing she was within your reach; my skin crawls yet at
the thought of it. . . but she's my daughter, steel true, blade
straight, and too much for you or a dozen like you!"
It hit me like a blow. I'd known there was something
horribly amiss when he'd arrived unexpected, but then
Miranda had quieted him, and he'd been civil (for him), and
only now was it plain that I'd been trapped, most artfully
and damnably, by this murderous pirate and his slut of a
daughter - but why? It made no sense; he had no quarrel
with me - he'd said so, in those very words.
"What d'ye mean? What d'ye want of me? I've done nothing,
you heard her "
"Nothing, you say? Oh, you've done nothing today, I
know that - or you'd not be alive this moment! But think
back ten years, Flashman, to the night when you and your
conniving whore Willinck crimped me out of Orleans "
"I'd no hand in that, I swear! And you told me "
"- that I bore no grudge?" His laugh was a jeering snarl.
"More fool you for believing me - but your wit's all in your
58 ^
loins and belly, isn't it? You can't conceive what it meant
for a man of my breeding - my eminence, damn your eyes!
- a scholar, a philosopher, honoured and respected, a man of
refinement, a master and commander even in the degraded
depths of a slave-ship - a man born to have rule - aye, better
to reign in hell than serve in heaven!" roars he, spraying me
with his incoherent rage, so consumed by it that for once
Latin quotation failed him. "To be hounded before the mast
by scum who wouldn't have pulley-haulied on my ship,
herded with filthy packet rats, fed on slop and glad to get
it, threatened with the cat, by Jesus - aye, stare, rot you! I,
John Charity Spring, Fellow of Oriel . . . damn them all to
hell, thieves, trimmers and academic vermin ..." His voice
sank to a hoarse whisper, for he was back on the Oxford
tack again, contemplating his ruined career, his berserk fit
over, thank God, for I'd never seen him worse. He took a
huge breath, filled his glass, and brooded at me.
"I cleaned the heads on that ship, Flashman - all the way
to the Cape." His tone was almost normal now. "Thanks to
you. And d'ye think a day has passed in ten years when I
haven't remembered what I owe you? And now . . . here
you are, at last. We may agree with Horace, I think - Raro
antecedentem scelestum deseruit pede poena claudo. I see
from your vacant gape that you're no better acquainted with
his works than you were on the College, damn your ignorance!
- so I'll tell you it means that Justice, though moving
slowly, seldom fails to overhaul the fleeing villain." He
shoved the bottle at me. "Have some more brandy, why
don't you? Your flight's over, bucko!"
This was desperate - but terrified as I was, I could see
something that he had overlooked, and it spurred me now
to unwonted defiance, though I came to my feet and backed
away before I voiced it.
"Keep your bloody brandy - and your threats, 'cos they
don't scare me, Spring! I don't know what your game is, but
you'd best take care - because you've forgotten something!
I'm not a friendless nobody nowadays - and I ain't some
poor French pimp, neither! You think you draw water?
Well, you ain't the only one!" A heaven-sent thought struck
59
me. "Your governor, Grey, has charged me - Sir Harry
Flashman, V.C., K.B., and be damned to you! - with a
personal message to Lord Palmerston, d'ye hear? So you
can come off your blasted quarter-deck, because you daren't
touch me!" I cast a quick glance at the companion, ready
to run like hell.
The pale hypnotic eyes never blinked, but his mouth
twisted in a grin. "My, what a dunghill rooster we've grown,
to be sure! Vox et prceterea nihil!* But you've forgotten
something, too. No one saw you come aboard here. It was
a hired rig that brought you to my house - and my servants
are safe folk. So if the distinguished Flashman, with all his
trumpery titles, were to disappear . . . why, he sailed on the
mail for home! And if, by chance, word came months from
now that you never boarded the mail ... a mystery! And
who more baffled than your old shipmate, John Charity
Spring? What, silent, are we? Stricken speechless?"
He pushed back his chair and reached a flask from the
buffet. "You'd better try some schnapps, I think. There . . .
don't bite the glass, you fool! Drink it! Christ, what a craven
thing you are! Sit down, man, before you fall - vitiant artus
cegrce contagia mentis,^ as Ovid would say if he could see
you. And rest easy - I'm not going to harm a hair of your
precious head!"
That was no comfort at all, from him; I knew that diseased
mind too well - he meant me some hideous mischief, but I
could only wait shuddering until he told me what it was,
which he was preparing to do with sadistic relish, brimming
my glass and resuming his seat before he spoke.
"When I heard you'd landed, it was a prayer answered.
But I couldn't see how to come at you, until Miranda showed
the way - oh, she has all my confidence, the only creature
on earth in whom I put trust. 'Let me beckon him,' says she
- and didn't she just, on that first night at Government
House! It was gall to my soul to see it - my girl . . . and
you, you dirty satyr! A dozen times I would ha' cried it off,
* [You are] a voice and nothing more.
t When the mind is ill at ease, the body is somewhat affected.60
for fear of what harm might come to her, but she laughed
away my doubts. 'Trust me, Papa!' My girl! D'ye wonder I
worship the earth she treads on? Would you believe," he
leaned forward, gloating, " 'twas she advised I should warn
you off! 'He'll come all the faster, to spite you ... if he
thinks it safe', says she. She knew you, d'ye hear - oh, yes,
Flashman, she knows all my story, from Oxford to the
Middle Passage - and she's as bent on settling her father's
scores as he is himself! We have no secrets, you see, my girl
and I."
I could think of one. Oh, she'd tricked me into his
clutches, right enough - but she'd humbugged him, too,
whoring away like a demented succubus while he was biting
his nails over her supposed virtue. And the doting old lunatic
believed her. God knew how many she'd been in the bushes
with, his stainless virgin ... if only I'd dared to tell him!
Suddenly I felt sick, and not only with fear; something was
wrong with my innards . . .
"And you came to the bait, like the lustful swine you
are," says Spring. "And it's time to cast our accounts and
pay, eh, Flashman?"
You know me. With any other of the monsters I'd known,
I'd have pleaded and whined and tried to buy off - but he
was mad, and my mind seemed to be growing numb.
Another wave of nausea came over me, my head swam, and
| I took a stiff gulp of schnapps to steady myself.
"Belay that!" growls Spring, and snatched the glass from
me. "I don't want you dead to the world before I've done."
He seized my wrist. "Sit still, damn you . . . ha! pulse slugk;
gish.
Very good." He dropped my hand and sat back, and
 as the sick fit shook me again, I saw that he was smiling.
"Now you know what a crimped sailorman feels like,"
t says he. "Yes, the schnapps is loaded - just like the mixture
that fat tart slipped to me in Orleans. I believe in eye for
eye, you see - no more, no less. You shipped me out,
drugged and helpless, and now you're going the same way
-you can live on skilly and hard-tack, you can try your V.C.
and K.B. on a bucko mate, you can have your arse kicked
,from here to Baltimore, and see how you like it, damn your
61
blood!" His voice was rising again, but he checked himself
and leaned forward to thumb up my eyelid - and I couldn't
raise a hand to stop him.
"That's right," says he. "Baltimore, with a skipper of my
acquaintance. If I were a vindictive man, it would ha' been
Orleans, but I'm giving you an even chance, d'ye see? Baltimore's
about right, I reckon. You've been there before - so
you know what's waiting for you, eh?"
He stood up, and I tried to follow, but my legs wouldn't
answer. I heaved - and couldn't move a muscle, but the
horror of it was that I could see and hear and feel the sweat
pouring over my skin. God knows what poison he'd fed me,
but it had gripped me all in an instant; I tried to speak, but
only a croak came out. Spring laughed aloud, and stooped
to me, the demonic pale eyes gleaming, and began to shout
at me.
"Hear this, damn you! You'll go ashore, derelict and penniless
- as I did! And word will go ahead of you, to the
police, and the federal people, not only in Baltimore, but
in Washington and Orleans! You'll find they have fine long
memories, Flashman - they'll remember Beauchamp Millward
Comberi The U.S. Navy have their file on him, I daresay
- perjury, impersonation, and slave-trading . . . but
that's nothing, is it? You're wanted for slave-stealing, too,
as I recall, which is a capital offence - and they're a dam'
sight hotter on it now than they were ten years ago, even!
And then there's the small matter of complicity in the murder
of one Peter Omohundro - oh, it's quite a score, and I
don't doubt there's more that I don't know about!"
He stood straight, and now he seemed to have swollen
into a ghastly giant, white-bearded and hideous, who struck
at me, but I couldn't feel the slaps, although they were jarring
my head right and left.
"See how much good your medals and honours and the
brave name of Sir Harry Flashman does you when the
Yankee law has you by the neck! Aye, olim meminisse juvabit,
rot you . . . I" His bellowings were growing fainter.
"Crawl or run or worm your way out of that! If you can good
luck to you! Bon voyage, you son-of-a-bitch . . . I"
62
The pounding in my ears blotted out all other sounds, and my sight was going, for I could no longer make out his
form, and the cabin lights were dwindling to pin-points. The
nausea had passed, my senses were going - but I remember
clear as day my last thought before I went under, and
'twasn't about Spring or Miranda or the hellish pickle awaiting
me. No; for once I'd recognised his quotation - it had
been framed on the wall of the hospital at Rugby, where I'd
sobered up on that distant day when Arnold kicked me out
. . . "Olinr meminisse juvabif" ,* and dooced appropriate,
too. Seneca, if memory serves.
It will be pleasant to remember former troubles - Virgil (not Seneca).
63
Three times in my life I've been shanghaied,
and each time there was a woman in the case -
Miranda Spring, Phoebe Carpenter, and Fanny Duberly,
although I acquit pretty little Fan of any ill intent, and the
occasion in which she was concerned saw me trepanned with
my eyes open; on the two others it was Flashy outward
bound with a bellyful of puggle from which I didn't awake
until we were well out to sea, and there's no worse place to
come to than below deck on a windjammer when the skipper's
in a hurry.
This one was an American with a broken nose and a beard
like a scarf beneath his rock of a chin; my heart sank at the
sight of him, for he had Down-easter12 written all over him.
I'd hoped, when I crawled out of the stuffy hole in which I
found myself and puked my heart out on a deck that seemed
to be near perpendicular, that I'd find a good corruptible
Frog or Dago on the poop, but Spring had chosen his man
well, damn him. This one had eyes like flint and whined
through his nose.
"Spew over the side, cain't ye!" was his greeting as I
staggered up out of the scuppers and held on for my life; he
stood braced without support in a gale that was bringing
green sea over the rail in icy showers, soaking me in an
instant, but at least it washed my tiffin and supper away.
"Do that in a calm an' ye'll swab it up yourself, mister! Now,
git back below till ye can stand straight, an' keep out o' the
way, d'ye hear?"
It's not easy to conduct negotiations on a spray-lashed
deck during a howling tempest, but I was wasting no time.
"A hundred pounds if you'll take me to Port Nolloth or
64
Walfish Bay!" I'd no notion where we were in the South
Atlantic, but I doubted if we were far out as yet, and any
port would do so long as it wasn't Baltimore - or the Cape,
with Spring infesting the place. "Five hundred if you'll carry
me to England!"
"Got it on ye?" shouts he. I hadn't; I'd been stripped
clean of cash, papers, even my cheroot-case.
"You'll have it the moment we drop anchor! Look, a
thousand if you set me down anywhere between Brest and
London - it don't have to be English waters, even!"
That was when he knocked me down, grabbed me by the
belt, and heaved me aft; I'm over thirteen stone, but I might
have been his gunny-sack. He threw me into his cabin,
kicked the door to, and watched me crawl to my feet.
"That's the short way of tellin' you I ain't for sale," says
he. "Least of all to a lousy Limey slave-stealer."
Even in my distempered state, that sounded damned odd.
"You ain't a Southerner! You're a Yankee, dammit!"
"That I am," says he. "An' I make my livin' 'tween Benin
an' Brazil, mostly - that satisfy ye?" A slaver, in other
words, if not this voyage. Trust Spring. So I tried another
tack.
"You'll hang for this, d'ye know that? You're a kidnapper,
and I'm Sir Harry Flashman, colonel in the British Army,
and "
"Spring told me that's what ye'd say, but you're a liar an'
he ain't. Your name's Comber, an' in the States they've got
warrants out for you for everythin' 'cept pissin' in the street
- Spring told me that, too! So any hangin' there is, you'll
do it."
"You're wrong, you fool! I'm telling the truth, you
Yankee idiot - don't hit me "
He stood over me, rubbing his knuckles. "Now, you listen,
mister, 'cos I'm runnin' out o' patience. John C. Spring is
my friend. An' when he pays an' trusts me for a job, I do
it. An' you're goin' to Baltimore. An' we'll lay off Sparrow's
Point a couple o' days while the letters he give me goes
ashore, to let the traps know you're comin'. An' then you go. An' till then you'll work your passage, an' I don't give
65
two cents' worth of a Port Mahon sea-horse's droppings if
you're Comber or Lord Harry Flasher or President Buchanan!
Savvy? Now you git up, and walk along easy to the
focsle - it's that way - an' give your callin' card to Mr Fitzgibbon,
who's the mate, an' he'll show you to your stateroom.
Now - skat!"
Having felt his fist twice, I skatted, and so began several
weeks of vile hard work and viler food, but if you've been
a slave to the Malagassies, or lain in a bottle-dungeon in
India, or been toasted on a gridiron, or fagged for Bully
Dawson - well, you know things could be worse. I'd been
a deckhand before, but I didn't let on, so I was never sent
aloft; Fitzgibbon, and the skipper, whose name was Lynch,
were first-rate seamen, so far as I'm a judge, and the last
thing they wanted was some handless farmer hindering
work, so I was tailing on and hauling and holystoning and
greasing and painting and tarring and doing any of the countless
unskilled menial tasks of shipboard - oh, I cleaned the
heads, too - and because I knew better than to shirk, I
rubbed along well enough, bar sea-sickness which wore off
after a week, and inedible tack, and being played out with
fatigue, and driven half-crazy by that hellish creaking and
groaning din that never ceases on a sailing packet; you get
used to that, too, though. The focsle gang were a hard-bitten
crowd, Scowegians and Germans, mostly, but I was big and
strong enough to be let alone, and I didn't encourage conversation.

You may think I make light of it - being kidnapped and
pressed into sea-slavery, but if I've learned anything it's that
when you have no choice, you must just buckle down to
misfortune . . . and wait. It was all sufficiently beastly, to
be sure, but d'ye know, I reckon Spring was cheated of that
part of his vengeance; as I've said, I'd been through hell and
back before in my chequered life, far worse than Spring had,
and being a packet-rat was that much less of an ordeal to
me than it must have been to him. He thought he was Godalmighty,
you see, lording it over riff-raff by virtue of his
"eminence" as he'd called it, by which I guess he meant his
master's ticket and his M.A. and simply being the great John
66
Charity Spring, classical don and Fellow of Oriel, damn your
eyes. Now, I am riff-raff, when I have to be, and so long as
I can see a glimmer at the end of the passage, well, dum
spiro spero* as we scholars say. Having his high-table arse
kicked must have had Spring gnawing the rigging; I took
care not to be kicked. His haughty spirit rebelled; I ain't got
one.
Another thing that cheered me up was my belief that
Spring, being mad as a weaver to start with, had let his
harboured spite get the better of his few remaining wits; if
he thought he was dooming me to death or the chain-gang
by packing me off to the States, he was well out of reckoning.
What he had said about my American embarrassments was
true enough, but that had been a long time ago; it's a painful
story, but in case you haven't read it in my earlier memoirs,
I'll give you the heads of it here.
Ten years back, when Spring's slaver, the Balliol College, with Flashy aboard as reluctant supercargo, had been captured
off Cuba by an American patrol, I'd deemed it prudent
to assume the identity of Beauchamp Millward Comber
(don't laugh, it was his name), our late third mate, who'd
told me on his deathbed that he was an Admiralty agent who
was only sailing with Spring to spy on his slaving activities. If
you think I'm stretching, the U.S. Navy didn't; Comber's
papers saw me through, but it was touch and go, so I'd
slipped my cable and looked for a way home. I thought I'd
found one when the Underground Railroad, a clandestine
troupe of lunatics who ran escaped slaves to Canada, got
their hands on me - they had ears everywhere, even in the
U.S. Navy Department - and offered to help me North if
I'd take ^n important runaway nigger with me to freedom.
That enterprise had ended with me going over one rail of
a Mississippi steamboat while the darkie, with a slavecatcher's
bullet in him, had gone over t'other. Subsequently
I'd been overseer on a plantation, lost my situation for
rogering the lady of the house, escaped North with a female
octoroon slave who'd killed two men en route, been shot in
While I breathe I hope.
67
the backside by pursuers while crossing the Ohio River,
found refuge with Congressman Abraham Lincoln who'd
dragooned me into testifying at the adjudication on Spring's
slave-ship in New Orleans, been unwillingly reunited with
my dear old commander who had then murdered one Omohundro
in a pub, fled with him to seek shelter with a whore
of my acquaintance who'd obligingly had old J.C. shanghaied
. . . and had at last won back to England, home, and
beauty via the Great Plains, an Apache village, and San
Francisco, slightly out of breath. Honestly, I'd have been
better going into the Church, or banking, or politics, even.
In any event, that's how the sparks flew upward on my
first visit to America - and you can see Spring's point. In
my brief sojourn I'd been an impostor and perjurer (as
Comber), stolen slaves (under the names of Prescott,
Arnold, and, I rather think, Fitzroy Howard or something
like that), and was wanted for murders I hadn't committed
in Mississippi, or it may have been Tennessee for all I know,
as well as for aiding and abetting (which I hadn't done,
either) Spring's stabbing of Omohundro. An impressive
tally, I concede, and none the better for being all entirely
against my will.
However, I doubted if the U.S. Navy was much concerned
with the fugitive Comber at this late date, and I'd no intention
of going near the Mississippi. I wasn't wanted in Maryland,
where Baltimore is; let me present myself to a British
consul there, or in Washington, which was only forty miles
away, and I was on easy street. The great thing, you see,
was that I wasn't Comber (or Prescott or those other chaps),
but I was Sir Harry Flashman, not unknown by name and
fame, and once I was under our embassy's13 wing, warrants
from far-flung states for the arrest of non-existent Combers,
etc. would matter not at all. Not in Washington or the North,
at least; if I were fool enough to venture South, where there
might be witnesses to identify me, that would be a different
and damned unpleasant kettle of fish; as Spring had pointed
out, my rank and heroic stature at home wouldn't weigh
much with a Louisiana jury.
So you can see why I wasn't over-troubled about what lay
68
ahe^d; indeed, my preoccupation was how to pay Spring out
when I was safe home in England. The evil-eyed bastard
had terrified, drugged, and kidnapped me, subjected me to
the gruelling misery of packet-ratting, and done his damnedest
t:o deliver me to an American gallows; well, he was going
to r}ie the day. Straight prosecution was out of the question:
it would take too long, likely uncover past history which I'd
rather keep dark, and almost certainly fail in the end - the
whole business was too wild, and the thought of returning
to testify at the Cape, with Spring frothing at me across the
court. . . no, I'd prefer not. Especially since the most artistic
revenge had already occurred to me: a detailed account, to
the address of J. C. Spring, M.A., of the contortions which
his saintly Miranda and I had performed aboard dear Papa's
yacht - that would bring a blush to his cheek. It would
destroy him, wound him to the depths of his rotten soul,
probably drive him crazy altogether. He might even murder
her, and swing for it - well, the bitch deserved it. No . . .
she'd swear blind that I was lying out of spite, and he'd
believe her, or pretend to ... but in his heart he'd always
know it was the truth. Aye, that would teach him that
Flashy's a critter best left alone because, as Thomas Hughes
pointed out, he can find ways of striking home that you ain't
even thought of.
Now I'll not weary you with any further relation of Life
at Sea when Uncle Harry was a Lad, but hasten on to Chesapeake
Bay, which I reckon we reached in about eight weeks,
but it may have been more.14 I made two further attempts
to suborn Captain Lynch, promising him Golconda if he
would put me down at New York or Boston, but I might as
well have talked to the mast; I believe my speech and bearing,
and my conduct aboard, had sown some doubt in his
mind, for he didn't hit me on either occasion, but perhaps
because he was a man of his word, as some of these half-wit
shellbacks are, or more likely because Spring had a hold on
him. he wasn't to be budged. "You're goin' to Baltimore
even if the Chesapeake's afire, so ye can save your wind!"
says he, and that was that.
_ We lay two days in the bay, and I didn't doubt that
B 69
Spring's letters had gone ashore with the pilot. Now that the
grip had come, all my assurance had melted like snow off
a dyke, and I was in a fine funk again, dreaming hideous
nightmares in which I was swimming slowly towards a misty
jetty on which stood Yankee peelers brandishing warrants
made out for "the handsomest man in the Army" and jangling
their handcuffs, and all my American ill-willers were
there, singing jubilee - Omohundro, and the squirt Mandeville
who'd caught me galloping his wife, and Buck the slavecatcher
and his gang, and the poker-faced Navy man whose
name I'd forgotten, and blasted George Randolph, the runaway
nigger I'd abandoned, and vague figures I couldn't
make out, but I knew they were the Cumanches of Bent's
Fort and Iron Eyes who'd chased me clear across the Jornada,
and then somehow I was in the adjudication court at
Orleans, but instead of the wizened little adjudicator it was
Spring on the bench, in gown and mortar board waving a
birch and shouting: "Aye, there he is, the great toad who
ravishes daughters and can't construe Horace to save his
soul, Flashmanum monstrum informe ingens et horrendum* mark him well, ladies and harlots, for Juvenal never spoke
a truer word, omne in prcecipiti vitium stetit,^ by thunder!"
and when I looked at the jury, they were all the American
women I'd betrayed or discarded - fat Susie weeping,
Sonsee-Array sulking, the French nigger Cleonie whom I'd
sold to the priest at Santa Fe, willowy Cassy looking down
her fine nose, coal-black Aphrodite and the slave-women at
Greystones, but their faces were all turned to the bench,
and now it wasn't Spring who sat there, but Arnold in a
pilot cap glowering at me, and then Miranda was tripping
up beside him, swirling her hair about her like a cloak, giggling
as she stooped to whisper in his ear, but it wasn't his
ear, it was Congressman Lincoln's, and I saw his ugly face
scowl as he listened, nodding, and heard his drawl as he said
that reminded him of a story he'd heard once from an
* The monster Flashman, shapeless, huge and horrible (adapted from
Virgil's description of Polyphemus).
+ Every kind of vice has reached its summit.
70
English naval officer who didn't know what club-hauling
meant . . .
* * *
I came back to waking very slowly, with sense stealing over
me like a sunrise, almost imperceptibly, growing gradually
conscious of a throbbing ache in my temples and a dryness
in my mouth and throat that was truly painful. There was
someone beside me, for I could feel the warmth of a body,
and I thought "Elspeth" until I remembered that I was in a
ship at sea, bound for Baltimore and that awful nightmare
which thank God was only a dream after all, conjured up
out of my fears. But there was no motion about the place
on which I lay, no gentle rocking as there should have been
as we lay at anchor in the Chesapeake; I opened eyelids that
seemed to have been glued together, expecting to see the
knot-hole in the floor of the bunk above me, as I'd seen it
with every awakening for the past many weeks. It wasn't
there, and no bunk either; instead there was a dingy white
ceiling, and when I turned my head there was a bare wall
with a grimy window.
I was ashore, then . . . but how, and for how long? I tried
to conjure up my last memory of shipboard, but couldn't
with the ache in my head, and to this day I don't know how
I left the ship, drunk, drugged, or sandbagged. At the time,
it didn't signify anyway, and even as I reached that conclusion
a woman's voice said:
"Hollo, dearie! Awake, are ye? Say, didn't you have a
skinful, though!"
An American cackle, piercing my ear, and I shuddered
away by instinct, which was sound judgment, for if I felt
dreadful, she looked worse, a raddled slattern grinning her
stinking breath into my face, reaching out a fat hand across
my chest. I almost catted on the spot, one thought
uppermost.
"Did I . . . ? Have we ... ?" It came out in a faint croak,
and she leered and heaved herself half across me. The paint
on her face looked about a week old, and her awful bulk
was clothed only in a grubby shift.
I 71
"Ye mean ... did you and me ... ?" She loosed another
braying laugh, displaying bad teeth. "No, dearie, we didn't
. . . yet. You've bin snorin' your big head off all night. But
you're awake now ... so how 'bout my present . . . ?"
"Get away from me, you pox-ridden slut!" Another
hoarse whisper, but I had strength enough to thrust her
away, and tumbled over her to the floor. I scrambled up,
dizzy, and almost fell again, staring about me at a big,
unbelievably foul whitewashed room, in which there were
about a dozen beds containing various beings, male and
female, in squalid undress. The stench of stale tobacco and
unwashed humanity took me by the throat, and I blundered
for the door, falling over a frantically courting couple on the
floor, and followed by shrill obscenities from my bedmate.
I found myself on a bare landing, confronting a goggling
darkie with a bucket in his hand.
"Where the hell am I?" I inquired, and had to repeat
myself and take him by the collar before he stammered,
rolling his eyes:
"Why, boss, you' in de Knittin' Swede's!"
Only later did I know what he'd said; at the time it
sounded like gibberish.
"What town is this?"
"Why . . . why, dis Baltimo', boss! Yassuh, dis Baltimo',
honnist!"
I let him go and stumbled down two flights of stairs, with
no notion but to get out of this beastly place without delay.
There were other doors, some of them open on to sties like
the one I'd left, and various creatures on the landings, but
I didn't pause until I bore up unsteadily by a big wooden
counter on the ground floor, and I think there was a taproom,
too, but what mattered was that there was a street
door ahead of me, and open air.
There were a number of seamen lounging at the counter,
and behind it, sitting on a high stool, was a figure so unlikely
that I thought, I'm still drunk or dreaming. He was big and
ugly, with a nose that had been spread half across his face,
probably by a club, there wasn't a hair on his phiz or gleaming
skull, the huge arms protruding from his vest were
72
ro^..
covered with tattoos, but what took the eye was that he was
clicking away with knitting needles at a piece of woollen
work - not a common sight in a waterfront dosshouse. He
purled, or cast off, or whatever it is that knitters do when
they want to take a breather, and nodded to a fellow in a
striped shirt who was laying some coins on the counter. Then
he looked at me, and I realised that the loungers were doing
the same, in a most disconcerting way.
I had got some sense back now, and saw that this was
plainly the receipt of custom, where guests settled their
accounts and ordered up their carriages. Equally plainly, I'd
spent the night on the premises, but when I put a hand to
my pocket, the bald head shook emphatically.
"You paid for, Yonny," says the Knitting Swede. "You
wan' some grub yust now?"
I declined, with thanks, and he nodded again. "You got
a ship, maybe?"
I was about to say no, but one look at the loungers stopped
me: too many ferret eyes and ugly mugs for my liking, and
I'd no wish to be crimped a second time. I said I had a ship,
and a greasy disease in a billycock hat and brass watch-chain
asked:
"What ship would that be, sailor?"
"The Sea Witch, and I'm Bully Waterman,15 so get the
hell out of my way!" says I. Being over six feet and heavy
set has its uses, and I was out in the street and round the
corner before he'd had time to offer me a drink and a billy
behind the ear. You didn't linger in establishments like the
Knitting Swede's, not unless you fancied a free holiday in a
whaler for the next couple of years. I walked on quickly,
reflecting that it had been considerate of Lynch to pay my
lodging; but then, it may have been a club rule that insensible
members had to be settled for in advance.
I walked for two minutes, and felt so groggy that I had to
sit down on a barrel at the mouth of an alley, where I took
stock. I knew I was in sailortown, Baltimore, but that was
all. The growth on my chin told me I hadn't been ashore
above twenty-four hours. Whatever information Spring had
sent to the authorities must have been in their hands for two
73
days by now, and no doubt it would contain an excellent
description, even down to my clothes. These consisted of a
shirt and trousers, boots, and a canvas jacket, the crease
not improved by a night in that verminous hole I'd just
escaped from. (I've since learned, by the way, that it was
quite celebrated among the less discriminating seafarers; if
you'd stopped at the Knitting Swede's you could dine out
on it in every shebeen from Glasgow to Sydney.)16
Now, I doubted if the authorities would be scouring the
streets for Beauchamp Millward Comber, but the sooner I
was under the protection of my country's flag, the better. A
port the size of Baltimore must surely have a British consul,
or some kind of commercial representative at least, who
shouldn't be too difficult to find; he might look askance at my
appearance, but it would have to do, since Captain Lynch's
generosity hadn't run the length of leaving a single damned
penny, or anything else, in my pockets. It wouldn't make
my bona fides any easier to establish, but I'd meet that
trouble when I came to it.
Although I'd been in Baltimore before, with the U.S.
Navy folk, I'd no notion of how the town lay, so I took a
slant along the street, which was bustling with business round
the chandlers' shops and warehouses, and approached a
prosperous-looking old gent to inquire the way to the centre
of town. I'd barely got a word out when he rounded on me.
"You goddam leeches, can't you work for a change!" cries
he. "I declare you're stout enough!" He slapped ten cents
into my hand and strode on, leaving me wondering if it
would buy me a shave . . . and now that my head was clearing,
I found I was almighty hungry . . .
D'you know, within an hour I was richer by four dollars,
and a splendid new vocabulary - the first time I ever heard
the word "bum" mean anything but backside was on that
morning. The beauty of it was, I didn't have to beg, even:
my dishevelled clothing, unshaven chin, and most charming
smile, with a courteous finger raised to the brow, marked
me as a mendicant, apparently, and for every nine who
brushed past, a tenth would drop a few coppers in my palm.
Damned interesting, I found it. Women were altogether
74
more generous than men, especially as I moved uptown;
when I approached two fashionable young misses with "Pardon
me, marm" and a bow, one of them exclaimed "Oh, my!" and gave me fifty cents and a fluttery look before they
hurried away tittering. I left off, though, when I became
aware that I was being watched by a belted constable with
a damned disinheriting moustache, but I've calculated since
that I could have cleared ten thousand dollars a year on
the streets of Baltimore, easy, which is two thousand quid,
sufficient to buy you a lieutenancy in the Guards in those
days - and from the look of some of them, I'd not be surprised.

I was still no nearer finding the consul, and the constable
had given me a scare, so after a shave and brush-up and
a hearty steak and eggs at a chop-house, I looked for a
fellow-countryman - and the sure way to do that in America
in those days was to find a Catholic church. I spotted one,
noted that the name of its priest displayed on the gilt board
was Rafferty, made my way through the musty wax-andimage
interior, and found the man himself delving like a
navigator in the garden behind the church, whistling "The
Young May Moon" in his shirt-sleeves. He greeted me with
a cry of "Hollo, me son, and what can I be doin' for ye on
this parky day?" a jaunty little leprechaun with a merry eye.
I asked my question and he pulled a face. "Faith, now,
an' I don't know there's any such crater in Baltimore," says
he. "Jist off the boat, are ye?" The shrewd blue eyes took
me in. "Well, if 'tis diplomatic assistance ye're seekin',
Washington'11 be the place for you, where our minister is.
He's new come, an' all, they tell me - Lyons, his name is,
an English feller. He'll be your man, right enough. And
what would ye say, yes or no, to a cup o' tea?"
Seeing him so affable, and with only two dollars in my
pocket, it struck me that if I played smooth I might touch
him for the fare to Washington, so I affected the faintest of
brogues and introduced myself as Grattan Nugent-Hare
(who was rotting safely in a cottonwood grove somewhere
south of Socorro) of the Rathfarnham and Trinity College,
lately arrived to join my brother Frank, who held a minor
I 75
position in a Washington bank. Unfortunately, I had been
set upon soon after landing the previous night, and was without
cash or effects. He opened eyes and mouth wide.
"D'ye tell me? Dear God, what's the worid comin' to?
An' you wi' your foot barely on the ground, and from
Dublin, too! Have ye been to the police, man dear? Ye have
- an' got little good o' them? Aye, well, they'/e a hard row
to hoe, wi' some queer ones in this town, I'll tell ye! They
wouldn't know of a British consul, neither . . . ? No, no . . .
it's a wonder they didn't think to steer you to a fellercountryman,
at least - there's enough of English and ourselves
hereabouts, God knows. But they didn't; ah, well.
But come away an' we'll have that dish o' tea while we think
what's best to be done. An' how's the Liffey iookin', eh?"
I sat in his kitchen while he prattled Irishly and made tea.
Since I'd never been in Dublin in my life, I found it safest
to let him run on, with a cheery agreement from time to
time, waiting an opportunity to state my needs, but he didn't
give me one, being content to prose sentimentally about the
"ould country", until:
"An' ye're in the banking line yourself, are ye?" says he
at last. "Ah, well, ye're in the right furrow in Ameriky; fine
grand opportunities for a gentleman like yourself, so there
are; it's a commercial world, so it is, a commercial world,
but none the worse for being' that if the trade's honest an'
the word's good! An' ye're a Trinity man, too!" He chuckled
wistfully. "Ah, this is a country of grand prospects, but I
wonder could a man do better than sit in the ould College
court contemplatin' the trees on St Stephen's Green on a
summer's evenin'? You'd be there about '45, am I right?"
I made a hasty calculation and said, rather earlier, '43.
"Then ye would know ould Professor Faylen!" cries he.
"A fine man, that, an' a grand Hebrew scholar, so they said,
not that I'm a judge. He would still be about in your day,
was he not?"
I can smell a false lead as fast as anyone, but he was such
a happy simpleton that I decided it was safe to say I hadn't
studied under Faylen myself, but knew of him. He nodded
amiably, and sighed.
76
"Ah, well, here amibann' on, an' youitchin' ^ . ,
your way to Washington,,^ but with your pockets ^. let. Well, man deai.l^er thinkin' yonder that p^ 
makin' ye a small loanfon,,,train ticket, but d'ye kr>o p,
be party to an awfulsimfi^at, so I would. Ye se^  ; he,
shaking his pawkyoi^ "the day yefindapriesf .^,
in the court at Trinity isa^'n be able to skate over ^ .,.
Bay from Bray to Ealbnn- an' as for seem' St St^^,
Green from the court, weiiioubt if even ould Fayle'.' see that far from heaven.we he's beenthisfive-a^.,,.0 years, God rest his soul, if tellin' me ye were a b^, ty he added sorrowfully, ..,^ ^id spurs an- brass ^ . stickm out all over ye'. n, will ye take another di-o. ,.'
...w/rf^an'tellnieAtoutit?" a _You wouldn't befe it if I did;' says 1, ^
^hank'ee for the tea, pe, and I'll bid you a v^1^
"Stop stop!" cries he. sit down, man dear, an' ^,
takm offence at anouldnn jist because he knows ^ .
Park shoulders when he.es them! Come, now, ^ oemx
^th^fit^011' tea- canlirlot see rm burstln'to know the
His smile was so eag^nd friendly that I fou^ , ^mg m turn. "^atakes you think I'll tell t^
I d '^hy .shouldn't ye? ^11 come to no harm from ^ ^ I do. An' if ye don't - ^ ^ t to have no ^r^^
Now then - whut's this houldn't believe? Jist you Mal,? Very well . . . l^ ^^ ^rmy officer, I ^/^ way home from India, was waylaid at Cape ^0^ de'T? ^ a ^^ arrived here yeste^ ar^ de tltute ~ but thanks toyou I know ^here to ^ m
bSTat"110'11 ^ back to England- ^^ou
^"^y^011^ I not' It fits ye better than all ^ shme about bankin' ^^ ^ say that for i^11;
your name, my son-)" s I ^k^yTe^S" why ' sl('"lt'"'l le" I-" - -o 77
"An' why didn't ye ask direction from the first policeman
ye saw?" I still said nothing, and he nodded, no longer smiling.
I rose again to go, for the sooner I was out of this, the
better, but he stayed me with a hand on my sleeve. "Ye'll
tell me no more? Well, now, just bide a minute while I think
about . . . no, don't go! Ye want the fare to Washington,
don't ye?"
I waited, while he cogitated, chin in hand, eyes bright as
a bird's.
"Tell ye whut I think. Ye're an officer, an' a bit of a
gentleman - I know the look. An' ye're a runner - now,
now, don't be addin' to your sins by denyin' it, for I had a
parish in Leix in the Great Trouble, an' I know that look,
too - aye, twice as long in the leg as ye would be if I put a
fut-rule on ye! An', man dear, ye're a desperate liar . . .
but who's not, will ye tell me? But ye're civil, at least - an'
ye're Army, an' didn't me own father an' two uncles an' that
other good Irishman Arthur Wellesley follow the flag across
Spain togither - they did!" He paused, and sighed. "Now,
ye're a Protestant, so I can't penance ye for tellin' lies. But
since I'm dreadful afflicted wid the rheumatics, and can't
abide diggin' at all, at all... well, if ye can sink your gentlemanly
pride an' finish them two rows for me, why, t'will be
for the good o' your soul an' my body. An' there'll be ten
dollars to take ye to Washington - nine an' a half in loan,
to be repaid at your convenience, an' fifty cents for your
labour. Well . . . what say ye, my son?"
Well, I needed that ten dollars . . . but who'd have
thought, when Campbell pinned my Cross on me, that seven
months later I'd be digging a bog-trotter's garden in Maryland?
Father Rafferty watched me as I turned the last sods,
observing dryly that it was plain to see I was English from
the way I handled a spade. Then he gave me a mug of beer,
and counted ten dollars carefully into my palm.
"I'll walk ye to the station," says he. "No one'll look twice
at ye when ye're keepin' step wid the Church. An' I can see
ye don't get on the wrong train, or lose your money, or go astray anyways, ye know?"
He put me on the right train, sure enough, but the rest
78
of his statement proved as wrong as could be. Someone q.^
look at us, but I didn't notice at the time, possibly beca^
I was busy parrying Rafferty's artful questions about ^
Army and India - at least I could satisfy him I was telli.
the truth about those. v
"Ask at the Washington station where the British min, ,
ter's to be found," he advised me, "an' if they don't kno^'
make your way to Willard's Hotel on Fourteenth Street, a,
they'll set ye right. It's the great place, an' if they turn l
their noses at your togs, jist give 'em your Hyde Park s}va p
ger, eh? 6
"But mind how ye go, now!" cries he, as I mounted tk
step to the coach. "Twill be dark by the time ye get in, a6
'tis a desperate place for garotters an' scallywags an' th
like! We wouldn't want ye waylaid a second time, wou]^
we?" u
Gratitude ain't my long suit, as you know, but he'd see
me right, and he was a cheery wee soul; looking down n
the smiling pixie face under the round hat, I couldn't heL
liking the little murphy, and wondering why he'd been '
such pains on my behalf. It's a priest's business, of course
to succour the distressed sinner, but I knew there was nior'
in it than that. He was a lonely old man, far from hom^
and he was Irish, and had guessed I was on the run, and r
was Army, like his father and uncles. And he had taken t.
me, as folk do, even when they know I'm not straight.
"I wish ye'd tell me your name, though!" says he, wheh
I thanked him. I said I'd send him my card when I repair
the ten dollars.
"That ye will!" cries he heartily. "In the meantime
though - your Christian name, eh?"
"Harry."
"I believe ye - ye look like a Harry. God knows ye didn't
look like - what was't? - Grattan? Grattan the banker iron)
the Rathfarnham - the impidence of it!" He laughed, anri
looked wistful. "Aye, me - sometimes I could wish I'd been
a rascal meself."
"It's never too late," says I, and he spluttered in delight
"Git away wid ye, spalpeen!" cries he, and stood waving
79
as the train pulled out, a littl< black figure vanishing into
the hissing steam.
I reckon Father Rafferty was^e of those good fools who
are put into the world to grea;g ^e axles for people like
me. They charm so easy, if you i^y ^ right, and the bigger
a scoundrel you are the more t^y'n p^ themselves out for
you, no doubt in the hope th,t ^ you ^o reform, they'll
get that much more treasure m heaven for it. You may be
astonished to know that I did r;pay ^e loan, later on, but
in no spirit of gratitude or oblivion, or because I'd quite
liked the little ass. No, I paid clause I could easily afford
it, and there's one rule, as a practising pagan, that I don't
break if I can help it - never ofi^d the local tribal gods; it
ain't lucky.
It was dark when we pulled inl^ Washington, and the conductor
had never heard of the B^sh ministry; oh, sure, he
knew Willard's Hotel, but plam|y wondered what business
this rumpled traveller without a h^ could have at such a select
establishment. He was starting tOgiyg ^e reluctant directions
when a chap who'd alighted from ^e train directly behind me
said if it was Willard's I wanted, ^y, he was going that way
himself. He was a sober-looking y^ng fellow, neatly dressed,
so I thanked him and we went out of the crowded station into
a dark and dirty Washington even^g.
"It's close enough to walk if ^ou don't mind the rain,"
says my companion, and since i^ seemed only prudent to save my cash, I agreed, and we s^ off. It wasn't too damp,
but Washington didn't seem to h^e improved much in ten
years; they were still building the y^e, and making heavy
weather of it, for the street we flowed was ankle-deep in
mud, and so poor was the light^g that you couldn't see
where you were putting your fe^ ^e jostled along the
sidewalk, blundering into people^ ^nd presently my guide
pulled up with a mild oath, glanced about him, and said
we'd be quicker taking a side-sti.eet. it didn't look much
better than an alley, but he led ^e way confidently, so I
ploughed on behind, thinking nq g^ _ ^d suddenly he
lengthened his stride, wheeled round to face me, and
whistled sharply.
80
t, . 1,1 i. At t a ,ith my mouth open. I turned
I m too old a hand to stand v/'. ' ir r i. u a r  , , -^mg myself for having been
to flee for the main street, cui7  -. i, ... r ,. ,1
., , , , ,., o ft f'ty s warning about footpads
so easily duped, and after Raffe' i rp , , a
i * ^ a a- ^cks. Two dark figures were
too - and stopped dead in my u , , ,. . .  . ,
, , , . ir , . r ' 1 had time to turn again to
blocking my way, and before 7. , , & ,
, 6 - ,-' , . ,,,, larger one stepped forward,
rush on my single ambusher, tw - ,, , rr , , ,,
, , 7 6 . , .. , , (t wasnt to strike; he held
but when he raised his hands , . . , ...
, i  ^ (-estraming gesture, and his
them palms towards me in a ^ ^
voice when he spoke was quiet< ^^ ^ ^ _
"Good evenmg, Mr Combel- ^ ^ ^^,,,
you mayn t believe it, but this ' 81
For a split second I was paralysed in mind
and body, and then came the icy stab of terror as I thought:
police! . . . Spring's letters, my description, the alarm going
out for Comber - but then why had the young man not
clapped his hand on my shoulder at the station . . . ?
"Guess you don't remember me," says the big shadow.
"It's been a whiles - N'awlins, ten years ago, in back of
Willinck's place. You thought I was Navy, then. I took you
to Crixus, remember?"
It was so incredible that it took me a moment to recall
who "Crixus" was - the Underground Railroad boss whose
identity I never knew because he hid it under the name of
some Roman slave who'd been a famous rebel. Crixus was
the little steely-eyed bugger who'd dragooned me into running
that uppity nigger Randolph up the river, and dam'
near got me shot - but it wasn't possible that he could know
of my presence now, within a day of my landing . . .
"He's waitin' to see you," says the big fellow, "an' the
sooner we get you off the streets, the better. We've got a
closed cab "
"I don't understand! You're quite mistaken, sir - I know
of nobody called . . . Cricket, did you say?" I was babbling
with shock, and he absolutely laughed.
"Say, I wish I could think as quick as you do! Ten years
ago. Billy," says he to his companion, "when we jumped
this fellow, he started talkin' Dutch} Now, come along, Mr
Comber-'cos I'd know you anywhere, an' we're wastin'
time and safety." His voice hardened, and he took my arm.
"We mean you no harm - like I once told you, you're the
last man I'd want to hurt!"
82
Sometimes you feel you're living your life over again. It
was so now, and for an uncanny moment I was back in the
alley behind Susie's brothel, with the three figures
materialising out of the darkness . . . "Hold it right there,
mister! You're covered, front and rear!" I knew now it was
no use bluffing or running; for good or ill, they had me.
"It wasn't Dutch, it was German," says I. "Very well, I'm
the man you call Comber, and I'll be happy to take your
cab - but not to Mr Crixus! Not until I've been to the British
ministry!"
"No, sir!" snaps he. "We got our orders. An' believe me,
you'll be a sight safer with us than in the British ministry,
not if your whole Queen's Navy was guarding it! So come
on, mister!"
God knew what that meant, but it settled it. Whatever
Crixus wanted - and I still couldn't take in that he'd got word
of me (dammit, he should have been in Orleans, anyway) or
that these fellows were real - he'd been a friend, after his
fashion, and was evidently still well disposed. And with the
three pressing about me, and my arm in a strong hand, I
had no choice.
"Very good," says I. "But you don't put a sack over my
head this time!"
He laughed, and said I was a card, and then they were
bustling me out of the alley and into a closed growler mighty
practised, with one in front, one gripping me, the
third behind. The big man shouted to the driver, and we
were lurching along, back towards the station, as near as I
could judge, and then we swung right across a broad quagmire
of a street, and through the left-hand window I caught
a glimpse in the distance of what I recognised as the Capitol
without its dome - they still hadn't got its bloody lid on,
would you believe it, in 1859? - and knew we must be crossing
the Avenue, going south. The big man saw me looking,
and whipped down the blinds, and we bowled along in the
stuffy darkness in silence, while I strove to calm my quivering
nerves and think out what it aill meant. How they'd found me, I couldn't fathom, and it mattered less than what lay
ahead . . . what the devil could Crixus want with me? A
83
horrid thought - did he know I'd left Randolph to his fate
on that steamboat? Well, I'd thought the bastard was dead,
and he'd turned up later in Canada, anyway, so I'd heard,
so it wasn't likely to be that. He couldn't want me to run
niggers again, surely? No, it defied all explanation, so I sal
fretting in the cab with the big man at my side and his two
mates opposite, for what must have been a good half-hour,
and then the cab stopped and we descended on what looked
like a suburban street, with big detached houses in gloomy
gardens either side, and underfoot nothing but Washington
macadam: two feet of gumbo.
They led me through a gate and up a path to a great front
door. The big fellow knocked a signal, and we were in a
dim hall with a couple of hard-looking citizens, one of 'em
a black with shoulders like a prize-fighter. "Here he is,"
says my big escort, and a moment later I was blinking in the
brightness of a well-furnished drawing-room, only halfbelieving
the sight of the bird-like figure crying welcome
from a great chair by the fireplace. He was thinner than I
remembered, and terribly frail, but there was no mistaking
the bald dome of head and the glinting spectacles beneath
brows like white hedgerows. He had a rug over his knees,
and from his wasted look I guessed he was crippled now,
but he was fairly whimpering in rapture, stretching out his
arms towards me.
"It is he! My prayers are answered! God has sent you
back to us! Oh, my boy, my brave boy, come to my arms let
me embrace you!" He was absolutely weeping for joy,
which ain't usually how I'm greeted, but I deemed it best to
submit; it was like being clutched by a weak skeleton smelling
of camphor. "Oh, my boy!" sobs he. "Ave, Spartacus Oh, stand there a moment that I may look on you! Oh,
Moody, do you remember that night - that blessed night
when we set George Randolph on the golden road to freedom?
And here he is again, that Mr Standfast who led him
through the Valley of the Shadow to the Enchanted
Ground!"
With one or two stops at Vanity Fair, if he'd only known,
but now he broke down altogether, blubbering, while my
84
Hi. .
big guardian. Moody, sucked his teeth, and the black, who'd
come into the room with him, glowered at me as though it
were my fault that the old fool was having hysterics. He
calmed down in a moment, mopping himself and repeating
over and over that God had sent me, which I didn't like the
sound of - I mean to say, what had he sent me /or? It might
be that Crixus, having heard of my arrival, God knew how,
was merely intent on a glad reunion and prose over good
old slave-stealing times, but I doubted it, knowing him. He
might have one foot in the grave and t'other hopping on the
brink, but the grey eyes behind his glasses were as fierce as
ever, and if his frame was feeble, his spirit plainly wasn't.
"God has sent you!" cries he again. "In the very hour!
For I see His hand in this!" He turned to Moody. "How did
you find him?"
"Cormack telegraphed when he boarded the train at the
Baltimore depot. Wilkerson and I were waiting when the
train came in. He didn't give any trouble."
"Why should he?" cries Crixus, and beamed at me. "He
knows he has no truer, more devoted friends on earth than
we, who owe him so much! But sit down, sit down, Mr
Comber - Joe, a glass of wine for our friend . . . no, stay, it
was brandy, was it not? I remember, you see!" he chuckled.
"Brandy for heroes, as the good doctor said! And for ourselves,
Joe! Gentlemen, I give you a toast: 'George
Randolph, on free soil! And his deliverer!'"
It was plain he didn't know the truth of how dear George
and I had parted company, and I was not about to enlighten
him. I looked manly as he and Moody and Black Joe raised
their glasses, wondering what the deuce was coming next,
and decided to get my oar in first. I didn't need to pitch him
a tale, much less the truth; you see, to him, Comber was
the British Admiralty's beau sabreur in the war against the slave trade; that was how he'd thought of me ten years ago,
as a man of intrigue and mystery, and he'd not expect explanation
from me now. So, once I'd responded with a toady
toast of my own ("The Underground Railroad, and its illustrious
station master!", which almost had him piping his
modest eye again), I put it to him plain, with that earnest
I 85
courtesy which I knew Comber himself would have used, if
he hadn't been feeding the fish off Guinea since '48.
"My dear sir," says I, "I can find no words to express the
joy it gives me to see you again - why, as Mr Moody said
just now, it is like old times, though how you knew I was
in Baltimore I cannot think "
"Come, come, Mr Comber!" cries he. "Surely you haven't
forgotten? 'An ear to every wall, and an eye at every
window', you know. Not a word passes, not a line is written,
from the Congress to the taproom, that the Railroad does
not hear and see." He looked solemn. "It needs not me to
tell you that you have enemies - but they may be closer than
you think! Two days ago the police, here and in Baltimore,
had word of your presence - aye, and of those brave deeds
which our vicious and unjust laws call crimes!" His voice
rose in shrill anger, while I thought, well, thank'ee Spring.
"We have watched every road and depot since - and thank
God, here you are!"
"And you're right, sir!" cries I heartily. "He has sent me
to you indeed, for I need your help -1 must reach the British
ministry tonight at all costs "
He jerked up a hand to check me, and even then I couldn't
help noticing how thin and wasted it was; I'll swear I could
see the lamplight through it.
"Not a word! Say no more, sir! Whatever message you
wish to send shall reach your minister, never fear - but what
it is, I have no wish to know, nor what brings you to our
country again, for I know your lips must be sealed. I can be
sure," says he, looking holy, "that you are engaged on that
noble work dear to your heart and mine - the great crusade
against slavery to which we have dedicated our lives! In this
our countries are at one - for make no mistake, sir, we in
America are purging the poison from our nation's veins at
last, the battle is fully joined against those traitors within
our gates, those traffickers in human flesh, those betrayers
of our glorious Constitution, those gentlemen of Dixie "
he spat out the word as if it had been vinegar "- who build
their blood-smeared fortunes with the shackle and the
lash"
At this point he ran short of air, and sank back in his
chair, panting, while Moody helped him to brandy and Joe
gave me another glower, as though I'd set the senile idiot
off. He'd always been liable to cut loose like a Kilkenny
electioneer whenever slavery was mentioned, and here he
was, doddering towards the knackers' yard, still at it. I
waited until he'd recovered, thanked him warmly, and said
I'd be obliged if Moody could convoy me to the ministry
without delay. At this Crixus blinked, looking uncertain.
"Must you go ... in person? Can he not take a note . . .
papers?" He gave a feeble little wave, forcing a smile. "Can
you not stay . . . there is so much to say ... so much that
I would tell you "
"And I long to hear it, sir!" cries I. "But I must see the
minister tonight."
He didn't like it, and hesitated, glancing at Moody and
Joe, and in that moment I felt the first cold touch of dread
- the old bastard was up to something, but didn't know how
to spring it; while all sense and logic told me that he could
have no business with me, at such short notice, my coward's
nose was scenting mischief breast-high - well, by God, he'd
flung me into the soup once, and he wasn't doing it again.
I rose, ready to go, and he gave a whimper.
"Mr Comber, sir, a moment! Half an hour will make ho
difference, surely? Spare me that time, sir - nay, I insist,
you must! You shall not regret it, I assure you! Indeed, if I
know you," and he gave me a smile whose radiance chilled
my blood, "you will bless the chance that brought you
here!"
I doubted that, but I couldn't well refuse. He had that
implacable light in his eye, smile or no, and Moody and Joe
seemed to be standing just an inch taller than a moment
since. I gave in with good grace and sat down again, and
^e filled my glass.
Crixus studied a moment, as though unsure how to begin, ^d then said he supposed I knew how things stood in America at present. I said I didn't, since my work had taken "^ east, not west, and I'd lost sight of colonial affairs, so
ito speak. He frowned, as though I'd no business to be mess87
ing with foreign parts, and I thought to impress him by adding
that I'd been in Russia and India.
"Russia?" wonders he, as though it were the Isle of Wight.
"Ah, to be sure, that unhappy country, which forges its own
chains." I tried to look as though I'd been freeing serfs right
and left. "But. . . India? There is no slavery question there,
surely?"
I said, no, but there had been a recent disturbance of
which he might have heard, and I must go where my chiefs
sent me. He didn't seem to think much of India, or my irresponsible chiefs, and returned to matters of importance.
"Then you may not know that the storm is gathering over
our beloved country, and soon must break. Yes, sir," cries
he, getting into his stride, "the night is almost past, but the
dawn will come in a tempest that will scour the land to its
roots, cleansing it of the foulness that disfigures it, so that
it may emerge into the golden sunlight of universal freedom!
It will be a time of sore trial, of blood and lamentation, but
when the crisis is past, Mr Comber, victory will be ours, for
slavery will be dead!" Now he was at full gallop, eyes bright
with zeal. "Yes, sir, the sands of pleading and persuasion
are running out; the time has come to unsheath the sword!
What has patience earned us? Our enemies harden their
hearts and mock our entreaties; they stamp their foot with
even grosser cruelty upon the helpless bodies of our black
brethren!" I stole a look at our black brother Joe, to see
how he was taking this; he was listening, rapt, and I'd not
have stamped on him for a pension. "But the nation is waking
at last - oh, its leaders shuffle and compromise and placate
the butchers, but among the people, sir, the belief is
growing that it is time to arm, that the cancer can be cut
out only by the sword! America is a powder-keg, sir, and it
needs but a spark to fire the train!"
He paused for breath, and since the real Comber would
have raised a cheer, I resisted the temptation to cry "Hear!
hear!" and ventured a fervent "Amen!" Crixus nodded, dabbing
his lips with a handkerchief, and sat forward, laying his
skinny hand on mine.
"Yet still the people hesitate, for it is a fearful prospect,
Mr Comber! Not for four score years have we faced such
peril. 'It would destroy us!' cry the fainthearts. 'Let it be!'
cry the thoughtless. Still they hope that conflict may be
avoided - but given a lead, they will cast away their doubts!
It needs a man to give that lead, sir - to fire that train!" He
was staring at me, his talons tightening. "And God, in His
infinite wisdom, has sent us such a man!"
For one horrible instant I thought he meant me. I've heard
worse, you know, and I knew what this little fanatic was
capable of when he had the bit between his teeth. I stared
back, stricken, and he asked:
"What do you know of John Brown?"
That he's a hairy impertinent lout who can hold more hard
liquor than a distillery, was my immediate thought, for the
only John Brown I knew was a young ghillie who'd had to
be carried home on a hurdle the day I'd gone on that ghastly
deer-stalk with Prince Albert at Balmoral, when Ignatieff
had come within an ace of filling me with buckshot. But
Crixus could never have heard of him, for this, you see, was
years before Balmoral Brown had become famous as our
gracious Queen's attendant (and some said, more than that,
but it's all rot, in my opinion, for little Vicky had excellent
taste in men, bar Albert; she always fancied me).
I confessed I'd never heard of an American called John
Brown, and Crixus said "Ah!" with the satisfied gleam of
one who is bursting with great news to tell, which he did,
and that was the first I ever heard of Old Ossawatomie, the
Angel of the Lord - or the murderous rustler, whichever
you like. To Crixus he was God's own prophet, a kind of
Christ with six-guns, but if I give you his version, unvarnished,
you'll start off with a lop-sided view, so I'll interpolate
what I learned later, from Brown himself, and from
friends and foes alike, all of it true, so far as I know - which
ain't to say that Crixus wasn't truthful, too.
"Picture a Connecticut Yankee, a child of the Mayflower
Pilgrims, as American as the soil from which he sprang!"
says he. "Born of poor and humble folk, raised in honest
poverty, with little schooling save from the Bible, accustomed
as a lad to go barefoot alone a hundred miles driving
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his father's herd. See him growing to vigorous manhood,
strong, independent, and devout, imbued with the love of
liberty, not only for himself, but for all men, hating slavery
with a deep, burning detestation, yet in his nature kind,
benevolent, and wise, though less shrewd in business, in
which he had but indifferent success."
[Flashy: True, for his childhood, but omits that when he
was four he stole some brass pins from a little girl, was
whipped by his mother, lost a yellow marble given him by
an Indian boy, had a pet squirrel, and a lamb which died.
On his own admission, J.B. was a ready liar, rough but not
quarrelsome, knew great swathes of the Scriptures, and grew
up expecting life to be tough. As a man, his business career
could indeed be called indifferent, since he made a hash of
farming, tanning, sheep-herding, and surveying, accumulated
little except a heap of debts, law-suits, and twenty
children, and went bankrupt.]
"Then, sir, about twenty years ago, he conceived a plan
- nay, a wondrous vision, whereby slavery in the United
States might be destroyed at a stroke. It was revolutionary,
it was inspired, but his genius told him it was premature,
and wisely he kept it in his heart, shared only with a few
whom he trusted. These comprehended his sons, on whom
he laid, by sacred oaths, the duty to fight against slavery
until it was slain utterly! That duty," says Crixus, "they
began to fulfil when, grown to manhood, they sought their
fortunes in Kansas, on whose blood-drenched soil was
fought the first great battle between Abolitionist and Slaver,
between Freedom and Tyranny, between Mansoul and
Diabolus - and there, Mr Comber, in the scorching heat of
that furnace of conflict, was tempered the soul and resolution
of him whom we are proud to call Captain John Brown!"
[Flashy: We'll leave the "wondrous vision" for the
moment, if you don't mind, and deal with "Bleeding
Kansas", which like everything to do with American politics
is difficult, dull, and damned dirty, but you need to know
about it if you're to understand John Brown. The great question
was: should Kansas be a free state or a slave one, and
since it was up to the residents to decide, and America being
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devoted to democracy, both factions rushed in "voters" from
the free North and the slave South (Missouri, mostly), elections were rigged, ballot-boxes were stuffed, and before you
knew it fighting and raiding had broken out between the
Free Staters and the "Border Ruffians" of the slavery party.
Brown and his sons had joined in on the free side, and taken
to strife like ducks to water. It was the first real armed clash
between North and South, and you get the flavour of the
thing from the Missouri orator who advised: "Be brave, be
orderly, and if any man or woman stand in your way, blow
'em to hell with a chunk of cold lead!"]17
"Nor was it long," says Crixus, "before Captain Brown's fame as a champion of freedom was heard throughout the
land. Too late to prevent the wanton destruction of the town
of Lawrence by Border Ruffians, he was moved to wrath by
the news that the conflict had spread to the halls of Congress,
where the brave Senator Sumner raised his voice against the
despoilers of Lawrence, and was clubbed almost to death in
his very seat by a coward from South Carolina! In the very
Senate, Mr Comber! Conceive if you can, sir, the emotions
stirred in the honest bosom of John Brown - and ask yourself,
is it matter for wonder that when, a few hours later,
he came on Southern bullies threatening violence to a Free
State man, he should smite them with the sword? Yet there
are those who would call this just chastisement murder, and
clamour for the law to be invoked against him!"
[Flashy: Well, Crixus was only saying what he and most
of the North believed, but the truth of the matter was that
Brown and his boys had gone to the homes of five pro-slave
men who weren't threatening anybody, ordered them outside,
and sliced 'em up like so much beef with sabres; the
men were unarmed, and it was done in cold blood. J.B.
himself never denied the deed, though he claimed not to
have killed anyone himself. That was the Pottawatomie
Massacre, the first real reprisal by the Free Staters, and the
| most notorious act of J.B.'s life, bar Harper's Ferry three
years later, and even his worshippers have never been able
to explain it away; most of 'em just ignore it.]
"So now," says Crixus, "he was a hunted outlaw, he and
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his brave band. They must live like beasts in the wild, while
the full fury of the Border Ruffians was turned on the
unhappy land. Men were slaughtered, homes and farms
burned - two hundred men, Mr Comber, died in the fighting
of that terrible summer of '56, property valued at thousands
of dollars destroyed - but John Brown held the banner of
freedom aloft, and his name was a terror to the tyrants. At
last the Border Ruffians descended in overwhelming force
on his home at Ossawatomie, put it to the torch, slew his
son Frederick, and drove the heroic father from the territory
- too late! John Brown's work in Kansas was done! It is free
soil today, and shall so remain, but more, far more than
this, he had lighted Liberty's beacon for all America to see,
and shown that there can be but one end to this struggle war
to the bitter end against slavery!"
[Flashy: On the whole, I agree. J.B. hadn't ensured
Kansas's freedom - the will of the majority, and the fact
that its climate was no good for slave crops like cotton and
sugar and baccy saw to that. But Crixus was right: he had
lit the beacon, for while he and his boys were only one of
many gangs of marauders and killers who fought in "Bleeding
Kansas", his was the name that was remembered; he
was the symbol of the fight against slavery. The legend of
the Avenging Angel grew out of the Pottawatomie Massacre
and the battle at Black Jack, where he licked the militia and
took them prisoner. To the abolitionists back east he was
the embodiment of freedom, smiting the slavery men hip
and thigh, and the tale lost nothing in the telling by the
Yankee press. You may guess what the South thought of
him: murderer, brigand, fiend in human shape, and archrobber
- and I'm bound to say, just from what he later told
me himself, that he did his share of plundering, especially
of horses, for which he had a good eye. But whatever else
he did in Kansas, John Brown accomplished one thing: he
turned the anti-slavery crusade into an armed struggle, and
made North and South weigh each other as enemies. He put
gunsmoke on the breeze, and the whole of America sniffed
it in - and didn't find the odour displeasing.]18
Crixus had paused for breath and another sip of brandy,
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but now he leaned forward and gripped my hands in his
excitement.
"Do you know what he said, Mr Comber, this good and
great old man, as he gazed back at his burning home, his
revolvers smoking in his hands, his eyes brimmed with tears
for his murdered child? Can you guess, sir, what were those
words that have rung like a trumpet blast in the ears of his
countrymen?"
I said I couldn't imagine, and he gulped and raised his
eyes to the ceiling. "He said: 'God sees it. I have only one
death to die, and I will die fighting in this cause. There will
be no peace in the land until slavery is done for. I will carry
the war into Africa!'"
"I say! Why Africa? I mean, it's the dooce of a long way,
and what about transport and "
"No, no!" cries he impatiently. "By Africa he meant the
South - the land of darkness and savage oppression. For
now he knew that the time was come to realise his dream that
vision of which I spoke!" He was spraying slightly, and
I could see that the great news was coming at last. "The
invasion of Virginia - that, sir, was his plan, and the hour
is nigh for its fulfilment, after years of maturing and preparation.
He purposes an armed raid to seize a federal
arsenal, and with the captured munitions and supplies, to
equip the slaves who will cast off their bonds and rush to
join his standard! They will withdraw into the mountain fastnesses,
and there wage guerrilla war against their former
masters - oh, he has studied the ancient wars, sir, and Lord Wellington's campaign in Spain! Formerly it was his design
to found an independent black republic, but now his vision
has soared beyond, for can it be doubted that once his army
is in the hills, every slave in the South will rise up in arms?
There will be such a rebellion as was never seen, and whatever
its outcome, the greater battle will be joined! Free men
everywhere will rally to the standard that John Brown has
raised, and slavery will be whelmed forever in the irresistible
tide of liberty!"
He was almost falling out of his chair with enthusiasm,
and Moody had to settle him while Joe refilled his glass
93
and helped him take a refreshing swig; neither of them said
anything, but Crixus was staring at me with the eager expectancy
of a drawing-room tenor who has just finished butchering
"The Flowers on Mother's Grave", and awaits applause.
Plainly this fellow Brown was a raving loose screw, and I
knew Crixus was no better, but it behoved me to respond
as Comber would have responded, and then take my leave
for the British ministry. So ...
"Hallelujah!" says I. "What a splendid stroke! Why, it
will give these . . . these slavers the rightabout altogether!
A capital notion, and will be well received . . . er, everywhere,
I'll be bound! I suppose it's a well-kept secret at the
moment, what? Just so, that's prudent - I'll not breathe a
word, of course. Well, it's getting late, so "
"It is no secret, Mr Comber," says he solemnly. "The
where and when John Brown has yet to determine, but the
intent is known, if not to the public at large, certainly to all
who labour secretly for liberty - aye, even in Congress it is
known, thanks to the treachery of Captain Brown's most
trusted lieutenant. You stare, Mr Comber? Well you may,
for the traitor was a countryman of your own, a rascal named
Forbes, enlisted for his military experience, gained in Italy
with Garibaldi. He it was who babbled the secret, abusing
Brown's name because, he claimed, his pay was in arrears!
Fortunately, those Senators in whom he confided were no
friends to slavery, so no great harm was done, and Brown
at least became aware what a viper he had nourished in his
bosom.19 Nor has he himself sought to conceal his design.
Since leaving Kansas he has been about the North, preaching,
exhorting, raising the funds necessary for his great enterprise,
purchasing arms, rifles and revolvers and pikes "
"Pikes, did you say?"
"Indeed, to arm the slaves when the hour strikes! Wherever
he has gone, men have fallen under his spell, seeing
in him another Cromwell, another Washington, destined to
bring his country liberty! Everywhere he rallies support.
Alas," he shook his head, glooming, "more have promised
than performed; his treasury is low, his army stout of heart
but few in number, and even those devoted leaders of
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opinion who wholeheartedly approve his end, shrink timidly
at the mention of his means. Oh, blind! Do they think pious
words can prevail against the shackle and the lash and the
guns of the Border Ruffians? The dam' fools!" cries he, in
unwonted passion. "Oh, they are sincere - Parker and Gerrit
Smith, Sanborn and Higginson, members of the Secret Six
who are heart and soul in the cause, yet fearful of the storm
that John Brown's scheme would unloose! The North is with
him in sympathy, Mr Comber, aye, many even in the halls
of Congress, but when his hand goes to his pistol butt, they
quake like women, dreading lest he destroys the Union - as
if that mattered, so it is made whole again when slavery is
dead-"
"But hold on - a moment, sir, if you please!" I tried to
calm him before he did himself a mischief. "You say they
know in Congress - in the government? And he goes about,
er, preaching and so forth . . . well, how does he escape
arrest, I mean to say?"
"Arrest John Brown?" He gave a bitter cackle. "Why,
then, sir, we should have a storm indeed! The North would
not abide it, Mr Comber! He is our hero! And he goes
silently, without fanfare, appearing only in those public
places where his enemies would not dare raise their voices,
let alone their hands! Oh, Missouri has set a bounty of $3000
on his head, and that pusillanimous wretch who calls himself
our President, and whose cowardice has rent the Democratic
Party in twain, has sunk so low as to offer $250 - why not
thirty, in silver, false Buchanan? - for his apprehension! But
who in the North would try to claim such rewards?"
That's America for you: a maniac at large, threatening to
stir up war and slave rebellion, and nothing done about it.
Not that I gave a dam; what with brandy and sitting down
I was feeling easier than I'd done all day, and was becoming
most infernally bored with Captain Brown and his madcap
plans for setting the darkies against their owners (with pikes,
I ask you!), and anxious to be gone. So I shook my head in
wonder, expressed admiration for Brown and his splendid
activities, didn't doubt that he'd win a brilliant triumph, and
hinted that I'd like to get to the British ministry this year,
95
if possible. D'ye know, Crixus didn't seem even to hear me?
He was sitting back in his chair, brooding on me with an
intense stare which I found rather unnerving. Suddenly he
asked me if I'd had food lately, and it came as a shock to
realise that my last meal had been in Baltimore that morning
. . . my God, it had been turmoil since then, with no time
to think of eating. I was famished, but said I could wait until
I reached the ministry; he wouldn't hear of it, reproaching
himself for his thoughtlessness, bidding Joe rustle up sandwiches
and drumsticks, waving me back to my chair, while
Moody filled my glass and set a restraining hand on my
shoulder, with a warning nod to me to humour the old
buffoon.
So I sat, fretting, but wolfed the grub down when it came,
while Crixus resumed his tale. It seemed that Brown, having
squeezed as much cash as he could out of well-wishers, liberal
philanthropists and rich free blacks, had lately returned
to Kansas under the name of Shubel Morgan, and had set
the border in uproar by raiding into Missouri, stealing eleven
niggers, and bringing them to free soil, dodging posses all the
way. (He also liberated several horses and a large amount of
plunder, and left one unfortunate householder with his head
blown off, but Crixus didn't see fit to mention that.)
"The gallantry, the audacity of the deed has won all
Northern hearts, and spread terror through the South," says
he. "From the very heart of the enemy camp he plucked
them forth, shepherded them north through the bitter depths
of winter, the pursuers baying at his heels, and brought them
at last to safety. And only last month, Mr Comber, he saw
them across the line to British soil - oh, my boy, does not
your heart swell with patriotic pride at the thought that those
poor fugitives, lately bound in the hell of slavery, dwell now
in freedom beneath the benevolent folds of your country's
flag?"
I assured him, between sandwiches, that I was gratified
beyond all measure, and was mentally rehearsing a tactful
farewell when he startled me by pushing aside his rug, rising
unsteadily, and confronting me with a pointing finger and
bristling brows. He spoke slow and solemn.
96
"But that raid, Mr Comber, was only grace before meat.
For now, his little army tried and tested, he is ready for the
great attempt. In his last letter to me - for we are in weekly
correspondence - he tells me that the hour is nigh. Only one
thing -" he flourished the finger "- is lacking, and in this
one thing he seeks my help. The defection of the traitor
Forbes has left him without a lieutenant, without a trusty
deputy practised in arms to train and marshal his band of
adventurers, for though their hearts are high they are not
soldiers, sir - and soldiers they must be if they are to foray
into Virginia, storm a federal arsenal, overwhelm its garrison
troops, and form the Praetorian Guard of the greatest slave
army since Spartacus challenged the power of Rome!"
He stooped towards me, bright-eyed and panting, and
seized my wrist as I was in the act of raising a drumstick to
my mouth. "A lieutenant he must have, a clear military
mind - aye, or a naval one! - to plan and to order, to chart
the course and lead the charge, a strong right arm on which
to lean in time of trial. 'Find me a Joshua!' is his cry to me.
It has rung in my ears these nights past, and until yesterday
I knew not where to turn. Oh, I have prayed - and now my
prayers have been answered beyond my dearest hope!" He
was gazing at me like a dervish on hashish, clutching my
wrist, his eyes burning with the flame of pure barminess, as
I sat open-mouthed, the chicken leg poised at my ashen lips.
"I say it yet again: God has sent you to us - a Joshua for
John Brown!"
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Looking back on life, I guess I can't complain
on the whole, but if I have a grievance against Fate,
it's that I seem to have encountered more than my fair share
of madmen with a mission. Perhaps I've been unlucky, or
possibly most of mankind is deranged; maybe it was my
stalwart bearing, or my derring-do reputation, but whatever
it was, they came at me like wasps to a saucer of jam. At
this time in '59,1 was already an experienced loony-fancier,
having been exposed to the brainstorms of Bismarck, Georgie
Broadfoot, the White Raja of Sarawak, Yakub Beg the
Khirgiz, and sundry smaller fry, to say nothing of Crixus
himself, ten years earlier, and I'd learned that when they
unfold their idiocies to you, and flight is impossible, you
must take time, decide what mask to assume, and rely on
your native wit and acting ability to talk your way out.
Oddly enough, this wasn't a difficult one. For a split
second his appalling proposal had frozen my blood, until I
remembered who I was meant to be, and that I had a castiron
excuse for refusal. Comber wouldn't have laughed in his face or told him what to do with his disgusting suggestion,
or dived for the window; all I must do was play Comber to
the hilt, and I was safe.
So I stared at him bewildered for a second, and then with
great deliberation I set down my drumstick, wiped my lips,
rose, and with a smile of infinite compassion gently pressed
the old Bedlamite back into his chair. I adjusted his rug,
knelt down, took one of his claws in both hands (an artistic
touch, that) and gazed on him like a wistful sheepdog.
"Oh, my dear old friend!" says I, fairly dripping emotion.
"You do me honour far beyond my deserts. That you should
98
think me worthy to play a part in this . . . this great
enterprise ..." I bit my lip, trying like hell to start a tear.
"I shall never forget it, never! But, alas, it cannot be. I have
my own country's service, my own mission which I must
fulfil, before all others." I sighed, shaking my head, while
his wrinkled features sagged in dismay. "It grieves me to
say you nay, but "
"But you don't understand!" cries he. "Whatever your
mission, it cannot compare to this! That it is worthy and
honourable, I am sure, but don't you see - this is the crux,
the vital moment! At one stroke, the whole rotten edifice
of slavery will be cast down in ruin! America is its last vile
stronghold! How can you hesitate? Oh, dear Mr Comber,
all your work, all your valiant service in the cause, can be
as nothing beside this crowning "
"I'm sorry, sir! Believe me, it breaks my heart to deny
you . . . but I'm bound by my duty, you see -"
"That's what you said last time!" cries he petulantly.
"I know that, sir, and it was true - but you prevailed
on me then to turn from it for George Randolph's sake."
Blackmailing old swine. "But this time I cannot in honour
turn aside "
"Why not?" he bleated. "What could be more honourable
than John Brown's cause?" He twitched fretfully, like a baby Mgdenied its rattle, his dismay turning to anger. "You can't
--fail him! I ... I shan't let you!" He tried another tack,
stretching out a hand to me, whimpering. "Oh, my boy, I
entreat you! Our need is desperate! Once before you served
us, nobly and well - again, I implore you, for the sake of
the great crusade which we both "
"Ah, don't make it harder for me, sir!" groans I, in noble
anguish. I stood up, and I'm not sure I didn't beat my fist
against my brow. "I cannot do it. I must go to the British
minister. If I could postpone or delay, I would, but I dare
not. You won't stay me, I know."
| You can't, was what I meant. Again, history was repeating
itself, but with a difference this time. Ten years ago he'd
threatened to throw me to the U.S. Navy traps, and I'd had
no hole to hide in; now, I had the ministry, wherever the
99
hell it was - and both Crixus and I were ten years older, j
wasn't as easy to bully now, and his cold steel had lost its
edge with age - he sat now plucking at his rug, fit to burst with vexation, looking in distress to Moody and Joe, both
of whom were regarding me hard-eyed.
"No!" He struck his bony hand on the chair. "No! It can't
be! I'll not have it! You have come to us by a miracle ~ ] can't let you go, unpersuaded! I can't!" It sounded like a
tantrum, and then he gave a sudden squeal; for a moment
I thought he was having a seizure, but it was just inspiration
from on high. "I have it!" He turned to me, bright with
passion. "You must see John Brown himself! That's it where
I have failed, he shall prevail! Oh, my boy, once you
have looked on his countenance, and heard him, and felt
the power of his spirit - believe me, you will hesitate
no longer. No one can resist him. Let me see - he's in
upper New York at present, but I know he means to visit
Sanborn at Boston - yes, in a few days, you could see
him and - "
"I can't go to Boston, sir. I must report to my chief at
once." I said it as firmly as I dared, and he shot me such a
glare that I thought it best to have an inspiration of my own.
"Of course," I added thoughtfully, "if the minister could be
prevailed on to give me leave - to release me from duty . . .
why, then . . ."I left it there, looking keen, thinking once
let me inside that ministry and you won't get me out with a
train of artillery, you selfish little bastard. For a moment his
face lit up, and then his lip came out, and I knew he was
calculating that there wasn't a hope in hell of the British
minister giving me leave to join a foreign rebellion, and was
wondering what card to play next.
"Yes," says he at last. "Yes, that would be best, I think.
Yes ... I could see Lord Lyons myself . . . yes, I shall! In
the meantime, you should remain here." He gave a convulsive
grimace that was meant to be a reassuring smile. "Yes,
indeed, Mr Comber, you will be safer from prying eyes here
- you may trust the Railroad, sir! And you lose nothing,
you see, for I shall wait upon his lordship in the morning first
thing, sir, I assure you!" He forced a broader smile,
100
half-pleading, half-cunning. "That's settled, then, eh? You'll
stay, my boy, won't you?"
He was lying in his teeth, and I wondered why. Did he
think that by detaining me he could somehow dragoon me
into John Brown's hare-brained war? Possibly, for when you're as besotted a fanatic as Crixus you can believe anything,
but more probably he was playing for time. One thing
he was sure of: if he let me go, he'd have to find his hero
another lieutenant, so he'd hold me, by force if necessary,
and hope for the best.
For a moment I toyed with the idea of telling him who I
truly was, and threatening diplomatic reprisals - but it
wouldn't have served for a moment. Sir Harry Flashman
would mean nothing to him, and God knew how he'd react
when he learned that I wasn't Comber after all. And since
I couldn't hope to tackle Joe and Moody together, I must
pretend to submit, gracefully - and take the first opportunity
to slide. If they thought they could hold Flashy for long,
they were in for a surprise.
I sighed, spreading my hands, and gave him my rueful,
affectionate smile. "Oh, Mr Crixus, you're too much for me!
I believe you could wheedle a duck from a pond. Well, I
guess the minister wouldn't thank me for waking him at this
hour, anyway, and truth to tell, I'm too tired to think . ; .
But you'll see him yourself, sir, first thing?"
I "Yes, yes!" cries the old liar eagerly, and after that it was
good fellowship all round, and he must embrace me again
with more of his babble about God having sent me, and
from that he passed to praying, while we stood with bowed
heads, and then Joe sang "Hark, the song of jubilee" in a
rolling bass that billowed the curtains, after which Moody
conducted me aloft to bed, not before time.
I kept my eyes open, noting that the stairs were uncarpeted,
and the upper floors, so far as I could make out by
candlelight, were bare as a crypt; evidently this was a station
the Underground Railroad used only on occasion. My room,
under the eaves, held only a bed, a chair, and a washing
bowl and jug; there were bars on the window and the door bolted on both sides. At my request Moody brought me a
101
clean shirt and shaving tackle, waiting while I scraped my
chin and then carefully pocketing the razor. He hesitated
before handing me the shirt, clearing his throat uneasily.
"This here shirt . . . you're a pretty big feller, an', well,
the only one to fit you is this 'un . . . of Joe's. D'ye mind?"
I asked him what he meant, why should I mind, and he
avoided my eye. "Well, Joe ... I mean, he ain't white."
I'll be damned, thinks I, and on the Underground Railroad,
too.
"He needn't worry," says I. "You can tell him I'm not
lousy."
"What?" He stared bewildered. "No, no, you don't get
it ... Joe didn't say . . . what I mean," he stammered, "is
him being' . . . well, some folks wouldn't ... I mean, I just
thought I'd mention it ... but if you don't mind ..."
I gave him my most innocent smile, while he fumbled the
shirt and then handed it to me, looking confused. He said
if I needed anything I should stamp on the floor and holler,
bade me a rather puzzled good-night, and left, shooting the
outer bolt. I do love to twist tails, especially liberal ones; I
wondered if his delicacy extended to black women.
I was so tuckered that I supposed I'd fall fast asleep as
soon as I lay down, but my mind was in such a whirl that I
lay waking, trying to make sense of it all. It seemed an age
since I'd woken beside that awful whore in Baltimore, and
so much had happened that it was difficult to order my
thoughts. One thing, though, was paramount: thanks to
Spring's informations, "Comber's" presence was known; it
didn't surprise me, on reflection, that the Railroad had
sniffed me out, for they were sharp men, but I wondered
what other eyes might be on the look-out for me? I couldn't
begin to imagine that, and once I'd escaped from my present
hosts and reached the ministry, it wouldn't matter anyway.
From that my thoughts turned to what Crixus had told
me, not only about the lunatic Brown, but about the state
of play in the States generally, which had been absolute news
to me. To hear him, the place seemed to be on the brink of
civil war, and that was hard to take, I can tell you: such
wars and revolutions were for foreigners - heaven knew,
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we'd seen that in '48 - but not for us or our American
cousins. I didn't understand, then, that America was two
countries - but then, most Americans didn't, either.
As you know, it was slavery that drew the line and led to
the war, but not quite in the way that you might think. It
wasn't only a fine moral crusade, although fanatics like
Crixus and John Brown viewed it as such and no more; the
fact is that America rubbed along with slavery comfortably
enough while the country was still young and growing (and
getting over the shock of cutting loose from the mother
country); it was only when the free North and the slave
South discovered that they had quite different views about what kind of country the U.S.A. ought to be on that distant
day when all the blank spaces on the map had been filled
in, that the trouble started. Each saw the future in its own
image; the North wanted a free society of farms and factories
devoted to money and Yankee "know-how" and all the hot
air in their ghastly Constitution, while the South dreamed,
foolishly, of a massa paradise where they could make
comfortable profits from inefficient cultivation, drinking
juleps and lashing Sambo while the Yankees did what they
dam' well pleased north of the 36' 30" line.
They couldn't both happen, not with Northern money and
morality racing forward in tandem while the South stood
still, sniffing the magnolias. Slavery was plainly going to go, sooner or later - unless the South cut adrift and set up shop
on their own. There had been talk of this for years, and
some Southerners had the amazing notion that left to themselves
they could expand south and west (for cotton needs
land, by the millions of acres), embracing Mexico and the
Dago countries in a vast slave empire where the white boss
would lord it forever. But their wiser heads saw no need for
this so long as the South controlled the Congress (and the
Army), which they did because their states were united,
while the Northerners were forever bickering amongst themselves.

The situation was confused by a thousand and one political
and social factors (but, believe me, you don't want to know about The Missouri Compromise or the "doughfaces" or the
103
Taney ruling or the Western railroad or the Democratic split
or the Know-Nothings or the Kansas-Nebraska Bill or the
emergence of the Republican Party or the Little Giant or
gradual emancipation, you really don't). It's worth noting,
though, that there were folk in the South who wanted an
end to slavery, and many in the North who didn't mind its
continuing so long as peace was kept and the Union preserved.
Congressman Lincoln, for example, loathed slavery
and believed it would wither away, but said that in the meantime,
if the South wanted it, let 'em have it; if slavery was
the price of American unity, he was ready to pay it. Being
a politician, of course, he had a fine forked tongue; on the
one hand he spouted a lot of fustian about all men being
equal (which he didn't believe for a moment), while on
t'other he was against blacks having the vote or holding
office or marrying whites, and said that if the two were to
live together, whites must have the upper hand.
But over all, the anti-slavery feeling grew ever stronger
in the North, which naturally made the South dig its heels
in harder than ever. The Fugitive Slave law for recovering
runaways was passed in '50, to the rage of the abolitionists;
Uncle Tom's Cabin added fuel to the fire; and Crixus wasn't
far out when he said that it only needed a spark to the
powder-train to set off the explosion. I didn't pay him too
much heed, though; what I've just been telling you was
unknown to me then, and I figured Crixus's talk of gathering
storms and trials by combat was just the kind of stuff that
he being a crazed abolitionist, wanted to believe.
Well, he was right, and I, in my excusable ignorance, was
wrong; the storm was gathering in '59 - but what astonishes
me today is that all the wiseacres who discuss its origins and
inevitability, never give a thought to where it really began,
back in 1776, with their idiotic Declaration of Independence.
If they'd had the wit to stay in the Empire then, instead of
getting drunk on humbug about "freedom" and letting a
pack of firebrands (who had a fine eye to their own advantage)
drag 'em into pointless rebellion, there would never
have been an American Civil War, and that's as sure as any
"if" can be. How so? Well, Britain abolished the slave trade
104
in 1807, and slavery in 1833, and the South would have been
bound to go along with that, grumbling, to be sure, but
helpless against the will of Britain and her northern American
colonies. It would all have happened quietly, no doubt
with compensation, and there'd have been nothing for North
and South to fight about. Q.E.D.
But try telling that to a smart New Yorker, or an Arkansas
chawbacon, or a pot-bellied Virginia Senator; point out that
Canada and Australia managed their way to peaceful independence
without any tomfool Declarations or Bunker Hills
or Shilohs or Gettysburgs, and are every bit as much "the
land of the free" as Kentucky or Oregon, and all you'll
get is a great harangue about "liberty and the pursuit of
happiness", damn your Limey impudence, from the first; a
derisive haw-haw and a stream of tobacco juice across your
boots from the second; and a deal of pious fustian about a
new nation forged in blood emerging into the sunlight under
Freedom's flag, from the third. You might as well be listening
to an intoxicated Frog.
It's understandable, to be sure: they have to live with their
ancestors' folly and pretend that it was all for the best, and
that the monstrous collection of platitudes which they call a
Constitution, which is worse than useless because it can be
twisted to mean anything you please by crooked lawyers and
grafting politicos, is the ultimate human wisdom. Well, it
ain't, and it wasn't worth one life, American or British, in
the War of Independence, let alone the vile slaughter of
the Anglo-Saxon-Norman-Celtic race in the Civil War. But
perhaps you had to stand on Cemetery Ridge after Pickett's
charge to understand that.
I put these thoughts to Lincoln, you know, after the war,
and he sat back, cracking his knuckles and eyeing me slantendicular.

"Flashman the non-Founding Father is a wondrous
thought," says he. "Come, now, do I detect a mite of
imperial resentment? You know, paternal jealousy because
the mutinous son didn't turn out prodigal after all?"
"You can't get much more prodigal than Gettysburg, Mr _ President," says I. "And I ain't jealous one little bit. I just
105
wish our ancestors had been wiser. I'd be happy to see the
Queen reigning in Washington, with yourself as Prime Minister
of the British-American Empire." Toady, if you like
but true.
"Lord Lincoln ... of Kaintuck'?" laughs he. "Doesn't
sound half bad. D'you suppose they'd make me a Duke?
No, better not - the boys would never let me in the store
at New Salem again!"
He was the only American, by the way, who ever gave
me a straight answer to a question I've asked occasionally
out of pure mischief: why was it right for the thirteen
colonies to secede from the British Empire, but wrong for
the Southern States to secede from the Union?
"Setting aside the Constitution, of which you think so
poorly - and which I'd abandon gladly in order to preserve
the Union, if you'll pardon the paradox - I'm astonished
that a man of your worldly experience can even ask such a
question," says he. "What has 'right' got to do with it? The
Revolution of '76 succeeded, the recent rebellioii did not,
and there, as the darkie said when he'd et the melon, is an
end of it."
And a few hours after that he was dead, the last but not the
least casualty of that rotten war. It's fitting that my digression
(which has some bearing on my present tale, though what
it treats of was mostly hidden from me in '59) has brought
me back to dear devious old Abraham, because he was in
my thoughts as I lay waking in Crixus's attic; I was remembering
how he'd got me out of another tight spot, when the
slave-hunters came to Judge Payne's house, and if now my
door had swung suddenly open to reveal his ugly, lanky
figure, I'd not have minded a bit. He'd been a junior Congressman
when I'd last seen him, but I'd heard nothing of
him since ...
The faint click of the bolt be-'ng slipped broke in on my
thoughts, and as I sat up the duor opened noiselessly, and
someone slipped quickly in - it wasn't Congressman Lincoln,
though, it was Joe the negro, the whites of his eyes glinting
in the candleshine as he set his back to the door and raised
a finger to his lips. To my astonishment he was in stockinged
106
feet" he listened for a moment and then sped silently to the
window, raising it slowly to make no sound before beckoning
me to join him. Wondering and suddenly alive with hope, I
watched as he stooped to examine the bars; he gave a little
chuckle, motioned me to stand clear, and bracing his sole
against one bar he laid hold on its neighbour and pulled.
He was a huge fellow, as tall as I and a foot broader, and I
heard his muscles crack as he heaved to wake the dead,
twice and then again, and the bar suddenly bent like a bow,
snapping free with a sharp report at its lower end.
We waited, ears pricked, but there wasn't a sound, and
Joe swiftly unwound a slender rope from his waist and passed
one end to me.
"Ketch holt, an' I'll set tight while you slide down the
roof," whispers he. "When you hit the gutter, it ain't but a
little ten-fut drop to the groun'. Go out the side-gate, turn
lef up the alley, an' you's on the street. Turn lef again,
an' keep goin' till you meets a carriage comin' by - they's
allus one aroun' this time o' night." His teeth glittered in a
huge grin in the black face. "Then tell 'em where you wants
to go. Git slidin', brother!"
You don't wait to ask questions. I shook his hand,
whipped the cord round my wrist, and squeezed out on to
the sill, scuffing his fine borrowed shirt in the process and
(tearing my jacket. The roof sloped sharply down for about
fifteen feet from the window, but with Joe paying out the
cord I slithered gently across the tiles and eased myself over
the gutter. It was black as sin beneath, but I lowered my
feet into the void, tugged on the gutter to test its weight,
hung for an instant by both hands, and let go, landing on
grass and measuring my length in what felt like a flowerbed.
In a second I was afoot, listening, but there was no sound
save that of the window being closed overhead. I waited
until my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, saw the
gate, and a moment later was striding up the alley and then
left on the street to which the growler had brought me hours
earlier.
What it meant I couldn't fathom at all. Why the devil
| should Joe turn me loose? Was it some wild ploy of Crixus's?
107
No, that made no sense - but then, nothing did any longer.
What mattered was that I was free, and once I'd found a
hack to convey me to the ministry, or Willard's Hotel, I was
home and dry. I had no notion what time it was, somewhere
in the small hours, probably, but I hadn't even had time to
start doubting Joe's assurance that cabs were to be found in
Washington suburbs at this o'clock when I heard the squeak
of wheels ahead, and round the corner comes a one-horse
buggy, its lamps shining dimly through the gloom.
I took a quick glance back at Crixus's house, no more
than forty yards away, but it looked dead to the world, so
I called softly and waved as I hurried towards the carriage.
The driver reined in as I came up, and I was preparing to
give him direction when I saw that he already had a fare, a
vague figure barely visible in the faint glow of the side-lamps.
I was about to wave him on when it struck me that the
whole neighbourhood was about as lively as Herne Bay in
November, with not a light in a house or a soul on the street,
and no prospect of another conveyance; there was a warm
drizzle improving the mud no end, so I approached the
window in my best Hyde Park style.
"Your pardon, but I'm looking for a cab, and there seems
to be none about - would it inconvenience you if I shared
yours until we meet one?"
"Why, honey," says a soft feminine voice from the
interior, " 'twill be mah pleasure to take yuh wheah-evah yuh
wanna go," and a slender hand gloved in lace was extended
through the window. "Why'nt yuh-all jump right in, now?
It's real cosy in heah."
A cruiser, bigod, of all the luck! - though what custom
she expected in this deserted backwater I couldn't imagine.
I was inside in a bound, expressing my thanks to the neatest
little cracker you ever saw, who rustled her skirts aside with
a flurry of petticoats and slim fish-netted ankles to make
room for me and made no effort to disengage her hand from
mine. It was too dim to see much, but I could make out
blonde curls and a small, rather childlike face behind the
veil of her saucy bonnet; she was decidedly on the petite
side, in a fashionably low-cut gown that felt like silk, and
108
her scent was subtle enough to be expensive - but then, she
was one who could afford to ply her trade on wheels.
"An' what is yore destination, suh?" cries she pertly,
showing neat little teeth and bright eyes behind the veil.
"Or would yuh-all prefeh to leave that to me?" She transferred
her hand to my thigh. "Ah know the most elegant li'l
place."
I'd been about to say the British ministry, but paused she'd
probably never heard of it, anyway. Besides, I was in
no mood to decline her invitation: I'd been two months at
sea, remember, and celibacy's a double trial when your last
rattle has been someone as delectable as Miranda. Her perfume
was reviving all sorts of jolly memories, the touch of
her fingers was distracting . . . and the ministry would be
fast asleep. I hadn't a dollar to my name, but we'd fret about
that later.
"I'm in your hands, my dear," says I. "Take me where
you will."
"Ah won' jes' take yuh, honey," purrs she. "Ah'll
transpo't yuh. Home, Andy!"
The cab lurched off, and I lurched on, so to speak, encircling
her tiny waist with an arm and undoing her veil from
the velvet neck-ribbon which secured it. It wouldn't come
loose, and in my impatience I kissed her through it, which
was a novel sensation, while she squeaked and giggled and
said I was so vig'rous she feared I would do her an injury.
"Jes' you rest quiet a li'l bit," she protested, "an' quit
chewin' up mah veil, you naughty boy! Theah - now it's out
the way, yuh kin chew me instaid, yuh greedy ole thing! My,
Ah nevah did know sech whiskers; you must be about the
whiskeredest man in town, Ah reckon! Gently, now, honey,
gently - Ah's fragile!"
I had lifted her bodily on to my knee, for she was the
daintiest little bundle imaginable, and if the cab had been
roomier I'd have done the deed then and there, for she
kissed most artistically, and what with abstinence and
encountering a little goer so unexpected, I was randier than
the town bull. When I became more familiar, she wriggled
and squealed, so I pinned her tiny wrists in one hand,
109
scooped out her boobies, a"^ began nibbling, at which she
became unmanageable, swearing that she'd scream an' scream, it was so awful ticklish, an' ifn I'd jes' wait, now,
she'd show me the highest ole time when we got to her place.
We were on busier streets by now, with some traffic and
passers-by, so I desisted, and she popped her bouncers away
and patted my hand.
"Ah don' believe yore f'm Washin'ton at all," says she.
"Yuh sure don' taste lil<.e Washin'ton, all of seegars, yuh
know? An' Ah think Ah detect an English accent, ain't that
so?"
Smart, too. I said I was Canadian, and she said, uh-huh,
which is the most expressive word in the American language,
surveying me through her veil as she adjusted it. She asked
where I was staying, and I said Willard's, naming the only
hotel I'd heard of. She said, "Well, lan's sakes!", and I
guessed she was weighing my dishevelled appearance creased
pants, torn jacket, no hat or tie or choker even . . .
and a finger of doubt began to stir in my mind. This was a
twenty-dollar whore if ever there was one, yet she'd picked
me up (most convenient, too) in my shabby condition,
played up like a good 'un when I'd assailed her, and never
a word about cash or her "present" to a client who looked
as though he'd just crawled out of a hawsehole (which I had,
more or less). Dooced rum . . . unless her maiden heart had
been smitten by my manly address and Flashy charms . . .
but even I ain't that vain. Something was amiss, and my
coward's instinct was just considering whether to leap out
and run for it, when the cab stopped, and she was smiling
invitingly through the veil-
"Heah we are, honey! Home, sweet home!"
To my astonishment we had drawn up on a street broad
enough to be the Avenue, outside a palatial building which
was plainly a hotel - for a moment I wondered if it might
be Willard's, and she expected to be entertained in my room.
There was a fine marble frontage,20 carriages were coming
and going, with black porters holding doors, gas-flares
sparkled on the jewellery and glossy evening tiles of the
fashionably dressed follt crowding the steps, even at this
110
ungodly hour; some grand function must be dispersing.
"Well, c'mon, honey, han' me down, why don't yuh!"
cries my companion, so there was nothing for it but to jump
out into the usual two feet of mud and the appalling stink
of sewer gas. She hesitated on the step, drawing up her skirt
with plaintive squeaks, so I swung her up in my arms and
ploughed to the sidewalk, grateful to have my scarecrow
duds shielded from the gaze of the throng.
"Don' set me down!" she whispered, and giggled. "Ah
guess we cain't go in the front do' thisaway, kin we? Theah
- down the alleyway, an' we'll go in the side-do'. Say, ain't
this some fun, though?"
Some fun - what the deuce was I, Harry Flashman, V.C.,
and soon to be knighted by Her Majesty, en route from
India to England, doing toting a tittering whore down a
reeking lane in America's capital city? Well, the wind bloweth
where it listeth, you see, and if it carries you up several
nights of back stairs, along corridors where the air has been
replaced by cigar smoke and the carpet fairly squelches with
tobacco juice, and at last into a dimly lit salon whose ornate
gilt-and-plush decor would do credit to a Damascus brothel,
why, you must make the best of it and get her stripped and
on to the bed before your luck changes. Which mine was
about to do, with the most incredible coincidence that I can
remember in a long career which has had more than its
ration of freaks of chance. It had been staring me in the
face, but lust is blind, alas, and I hadn't seen it.
I was undressing her with one practised hand and myself
with the other even as I kicked the door to, and such is my
skill in these matters that I had my pants round my ankles
and her bare to her stockings by the time we reached the
bed, where she tried to break free, breathless and giggling.
"Lemme take off mah hat, for mercy's sake!" cries she.
"No, honey, jes' you hold on - Ah gotta see mah maid!
Calm yo'self, do - Ah won' be but a second!" She slipped
from my ardent grasp and scampered to an inner door, popping
her head through and calling: "Ah'm back, Dora!",
and then something in a lowered voice that I didn't catch
- a maid, forsooth, and not just a bedroom but a suit of
111
apartments; my blonde charmer was evidently at the top of
her tree. I could believe it, too, gloating at the white perfection
of that little body as she closed the door, turning
towards me and making a fine coquettish show of slipping
off her garters and rolling down her stockings. She sauntered
forward, stretching up to the chandelier chain to turn the
gas up to its full brightness, and began to untie the bow
securing her veil, all coy and playful.
"Well, now, big boy," drawls she, "let's have a real good
look at yuh . . . my, Ah do declare Ah never ..." And
then she stopped, with something between a gasp and a cry,
her knuckles flying to her veiled lips, starting back as I went
for her with a lustful "Tallyho!"
"No . . . no!" she faltered, and for an instant I checked
in astonishment: the sight of Flashy stark and slavering might
well strike maidenly terror in amateurs and virgins (my
second bride. Duchess Irma, near had the conniptions on
our wedding night) but this was a seasoned strumpet . . .
and then I twigged, this must be her special ploy to rouse
the roues, playing the helpless fawn shrinking before the
roaring ravisher. Wasted on me, absolutely; cowering or
brazen, it's all one to your correspondent; as she turned to
flee, whimpering, I seized her amidships, tossed her into the
air, planted her on hands and knees, and was installed before
she could budge, roaring feigned endearments to soothe her
pretended alarm and bulling away like fury. With two lost
months to make up for, I'd no time to waste on further
refinements, nor, I fear, did I treat her with that solicitude
which a considerate rider should show to his mount, especially
when she's barely five feet tall and half his weight. Having
slaked what the lady novelists would call my base
passion, I staggered up and collapsed on the bed, most capitally
exhausted, leaving her prone and gasping on the carpet
with her little bottom a-quiver, very fetching, and her hat
and veil still in place.
What with weariness and contentment, I must have dozed
off, for I didn't hear her leave the room- It may have been
five minutes or twenty before I became drowsily aware of
voices not far away; I stirred and sat up, but there was no
112
sign of her. Gone to make do and mend, thinks I - and since
I didn't have a red cent to requite her, it struck me as a
capital time to resume my scattered togs and make tracks
for the ministry. In a trice I had my shirt and pants on, and
was slipping on a boot, well pleased at having had a most
refreshing gallop for nothing, when a man's voice spoke loud
and close at hand. Starting round, I saw that the door to the
adjoining room was slightly ajar, and other voices were being
raised in exclamation, the blonde whore's among them. For
perhaps five seconds I sat stricken with wonder, and then
the man's voice was raised again, sharp with impatience,
and my blood turned to ice.
"What d'ye mean - he ain't Comber? 0' course he's
Comber - dammit, Joe heard that skunk Crixus call him so
- didn't ye, Joe?"
My hair stood upright at the deep bass reply - for it was
the voice of the nigger who'd broken me out of Crixus's
house: "Sure he did, Massa Charles, over'n over! Ain't no
doubt about it -"
"Don't dare tell me, you black fool!" That was the whore,
shrill with fury - but where was the Dixie drawl? Gone, and
in its place the voice of a Creole lady, sharp and imperious.
"He's the wrong man, I say! I know him! His name's Tom
Arnold! He ran off a slave wench from my husband's plantation
ten years ago, and killed two men! He's wanted for
murder and false bills and slave-stealing, I tell you! Damn
you, colonel, do you think I don't know a man who's been
my lover?"
I was over the bed like a startled hare, boots in hand, and
was racing for the outer door when a huge black shape came
storming in from the adjoining room, and Old Brooke would
have picked him first of the Schoolhouse chargers, for he
came at me in a flying lunge that would have had every cap
in the air on Big Side. His shoulder took me flush on the
thigh, and it was like being hit by the Penzance Express; I
went headlong, smashing into the furniture and fetching up
against the wall with a jar that shook every bone in my body.
Joe was up like a cat, fists clenched as he stood over me,
shouting:
113
"It's him, sho' 'nuff! You bet it's him - Comber! Ain't
no doubt, Miz Annette!"
And there she stood in the connecting doorway, the tiny body wrapped in a silk robe, and as I saw her face in full
light for the first time, I could only lie and stare in utter
disbelief. The slim, childlike shape had filled out in ten years
she'd put on an inch or two in height, the sharp elfin features
were fuller (and all the prettier for it, I may say), and her
hair that had been fair was dyed bright gold, but there was
no mistaking the icy little vixen with whom I'd rogered away
the clammy afternoons at Greystones in her abominable husband's
absence. Annette Mandeville, fragile blossom of the
Old South, half-woman, half-alligator, who wore spurred
riding boots to bed and whose diminutive charms I must
have explored a dozen times - and now I'd just spent an
hour in her company, conversing, kissing, caressing, carrying
her bodily up five flights of stairs, rattling her six ways from
Sunday - and never for a moment suspecting who she was!
Impossible, says you; even the coarsest voluptuary (guilty,
m'lud) couldn't have failed to recognise her, surely? Well,
consider this: in your lifetime you probably wear as many
as three hundred pairs of boots and shoes, perhaps more; I
ask you, if when you were forty your orderly laid out a pair
of pumps which you'd worn for a week when you were thirty,
would you remember 'em? No, you admit, likely not, unless
there was something singular about them. You see my point:
by '59 I'd known, in the scriptural sense, 480 women (I'd
reckoned up 478 when I was confined in the Gwalior dungeon
the previous year, and since then there'd been only
the Calcutta hint and Miranda), so was it wonderful that I
shouldn't recognise Annette Mandeville after ten years? I
think not. Oh, you may point out that of all my prancingpartners
she was by far the smallest, and that when I saw
her in the buff, even with her face veiled, I should have
recollected the tiny nymph of Mississippi. But against that
I argue that the vulgar, cracker-voiced hoyden of Washington
was as unlike the high-bred frigid midget of Greystones
as could be. They were two different women (and I wasn't
surprised to learn later that in the intervening years, after
114
. demise of the disgusting Mandeville, little Annette had
rned a fine living on the boards, her doll-like stature being
admirably suited to juvenile roles, including Little Eva,
which she'd played with great success in Northern theatres).
So I can't blame myself for being taken in.
It's not the only case of female double jeopardy that I've
experienced, by the way. Elsewhere in my memoirs you'll
find mention of a French-mulatto trollop with whom I dallied
in my salad days, and who came to my carnal attention again
twenty-seven years later, and I'm damned if I recognised
her, either.
That's all by the way; what mattered, as I wallowed amidst
the shattered furniture, was not that I'd failed to identify La
Mandeville's dainty buttocks in ecstatic, but that she was
here at all, and in company with yet another branch of the
B. M. Comber Admiration Society, to judge by the snatch
of talk I'd heard from the adjoining room a moment since.
To add to my confusion, Black Joe, who'd been a friend an
hour ago, had just tried to hurl me through the wall and was
now standing over me sporting his fives in a threatening
manner. I didn't know what to make of him, or her, or any
damned thing - and now men were surging into the room,
and Mandeville was pointing and shrilling:
"Comber or not, that man is Tom Arnold! He was o.ur
slave-driver. Let him deny it if he can!"
i Black Joe took his eyes off me for an instant, possibly to
I contradict her, and I seized the opportunity to lash him
across the knee with a broken chair-leg. He staggered, cursing,
and I was up and past him, tripping in my blind flight
but recovering and snatching for the handle of the outer
door. I wrenched it open, and found myself face to face with
a goggling darkie in a white jacket bearing a tray and beaming
inquiry:
"Podden me, suh, but wuz you de gennelman whut sent
for bourb'n an' seltzer?"
It checked me for a split second, which was long enough
for Joe to seize my collar from behind, pluck me backwards,
growl "Wrong room, boy!" and slam the door shut. I lost "^y balance and sprawled in the wreckage once more, and
I 115
before I could stir they were on me, two burly ruffians with
bullet heads and no necks, one at either arm. I heaved one
aside, and was wrestling with the other when I realised that
three other men had emerged from the adjoining room and
were advancing past Annette, and at the sight of them I
'vasted heaving and subsided, paralysed with horror.
To judge by their dress, they were thoroughly worthy citizens,
bearing every mark of wealth and respectability: one
wore U.S. Army uniform, with the epaulettes and double
buttons of an infantry colonel; another might have been a
prosperous professional man, with his immaculate broadcloth
coat and heavy watch-chain across his bulky middle,
and the third was an absolute Paris fashion plate in silk
tailcoat, embroidered weskit, ruffles, and a gold-topped cane
on which he limped slightly as he advanced - he'd have been
the altogether dandy if he hadn't had the misfortune to be
as fat as butter. They might have been three of Mandeville's
richer clients, but for the mutual eccentricity in their appearance
which froze me where I lay.
All three were wearing hoods over their heads, ghastly
white conical things like gigantic candle-snuffers with eyeholes
and blank gaping mouths.
116
Barring an illustrated edition of Bunyan's Holy War, with its fanged devils sporting their horns and
tails in the infernal regions, the great terror of my infancy
was a lurid coloured print entitled "All Hope Abandon",
purporting to show what happened when the Spanish Inquisition
got hold of you - which they undoubtedly would, my
nurse assured me, if I didn't eat my crusts, or farted in
church. It showed a dreadful gloomy vault in which a gibbering
wretch, guarded by hairy Dagoes in morions, was cowering
before three Inquisitors, one of whom was pointing to
a fiery archway through which could be seen hideous
shadows of stunted figures operating pulleys and wheels and
brandishing whips; you couldn't really tell what they were
doing, even if you squinted sidelong, but you could imagine
it, you see, while your infant soul quaked at the visible terror
of those three awful hooded Inquisitors, one of whom I was
convinced was the Pope - nurses were sounder theologians
| then than they are now, I daresay. In any event, pointed
cowls with empty eyes haunted my young nightmares, and
the sight of them now, real and palpable, for the first time
in my life, damned near carried me off. To make matters
worse, I saw that the two thugs who had laid hold of me,
and were now on their feet, had masks on their ugly phizzes,
and Joe had a cocked revolver in his hand.
"Cover him, Joe!" barks the hooded soldier. "An' you,
suh, lay right still theah! Ye heah?"
"An' speak up!" snaps the broadcloth figure, deep and
harsh. "What's yo' name, suh? Out with it - Comber or
Arnold?"
The broad Southern accents were the last thing you'd have
I 117
before I could stir they were on me, two burly ruffians with
bullet heads and no necks, one at either arm. I heaved one
aside, and was wrestling with the other when I realised that
three other men had emerged from the adjoining room and
were advancing past Annette, and at the sight of them I
'vasted heaving and subsided, paralysed with horror.
To judge by their dress, they were thoroughly worthy citizens,
bearing every mark of wealth and respectability: one
wore U.S. Army uniform, with the epaulettes and double
buttons of an infantry colonel; another might have been a
prosperous professional man, with his immaculate broadcloth
coat and heavy watch-chain across his bulky middle,
and the third was an absolute Paris fashion plate in silk
tailcoat, embroidered weskit, ruffles, and a gold-topped cane
on which he limped slightly as he advanced - he'd have been
the altogether dandy if he hadn't had the misfortune to be
as fat as butter. They might have been three of Mandeville's
richer clients, but for the mutual eccentricity in their appearance
which froze me where I lay.
All three were wearing hoods over their heads, ghastly
white conical things like gigantic candle-snuffers with eyeholes
and blank gaping mouths.
116
Barring an illustrated edition of Bunyan's Holy War, with its fanged devils sporting their horns and
tails in the infernal regions, the great terror of my infancy
was a lurid coloured print entitled "All Hope Abandon",
purporting to show what happened when the Spanish Inquisition
got hold of you - which they undoubtedly would, my
nurse assured me, if I didn't eat my crusts, or farted in
church. It showed a dreadful gloomy vault in which a gibbering
wretch, guarded by hairy Dagoes in morions, was cowering
before three Inquisitors, one of whom was pointing to
a fiery archway through which could be seen hideous
shadows of stunted figures operating pulleys and wheels and
brandishing whips; you couldn't really tell what they were
doing, even if you squinted sidelong, but you could imagine
it, you see, while your infant soul quaked at the visible terror
of those three awful hooded Inquisitors, one of whom I was
convinced was the Pope - nurses were sounder theologians
|then than they are now, I daresay. In any event, pointed
cowls with empty eyes haunted my young nightmares, and
the sight of them now, real and palpable, for the first time
in my life, damned near carried me off. To make matters
worse, I saw that the two thugs who had laid hold of me,
and were now on their feet, had masks on their ugly phizzes,
and Joe had a cocked revolver in his hand.
"Cover him, Joe!" barks the hooded soldier. "An' you,
suh, lay right still theah! Ye heah?"
"An' speak up!" snaps the broadcloth figure, deep and
harsh. "What's yo' name, suh? Out with it - Comber or
Arnold?"
The broad Southern accents were the last thing you'd have
117
"Then let's get to business," snaps the broadcloth one.
"You see any profit in it?" grumbles the colonel. "How
we goin' to put trust in sech a scoundrel? Prescott, Arnold,
Comber - lordy, whut next? An' Ah tell ye, Atropos, he
don' look to me like the kind you kin bend to our pu'pose!"
"He'll bend, never fear," sneers Annette. "I know him.
He would sell his own mother for railroad fare."
The dandy Atropos heaved a gusty sigh, and turned his
hooded head to survey them. "I would remind you-all, Miz
Mandeville an' gen'lemen, that we are lookin' to Mistuh
Comber as an al-ly, not as an enemy. I trust that is cleah?"
There was an edge to the silky voice, and they stood silent.
He gestured to the two masked ruffians who had been hovering
hopefully above my prostrate form.
"You two boys be off an' repo't to Hermes. Mistuh
Comber will be discreet, I'm sure . . . won't you, suh? Joe,
assist the gen'lemen to rise . . . theah, that's fine! My 'pologies
for the rough handlin'. . . mere necessity, suh, an' much
regretted." Bright eyes studied me through the holes of the
hood. "Yeah . . . Now then, since we have established your
. . . identities . . . and as we have a proposal to make to
you, I think that as a token of confidence an' courtesy, I
should remove my disguise. Then we can conve'se at greater
ease."
He raised a hand to the white monstrosity on his head,
and there were shocked exclamations from the two other
hoods, which he silenced with a flutter of pudgy fingers.
"Unlike you gen'lemen, I have no public po-sition to protect,"
says he. "I'm sure Mistuh Comber will have no objection
to your remainin' covered."
He pulled off his hood - and I'm bound to say he'd looked
better with it on, for his face was as gross as his body, and
all the worse because under the jelly jowls, swollen cheeks,
and bulbous nose were features that might once have been
handsome. He was about forty, and his fine head of blond
hair, which he'd taken care not to disturb in removing the
hood, was artfully dressed in the style they used to call
windswept; that, and the elegance of his duds, were in
obscene contrast to the bloated face, but it was the eyes that
120
told me my first impression had been right in the bull: they
were bold, blue, smiling, and amiable as fishhooks.
"Your servant, Mistuh Comber," says he, and gave me
his arm; his hand was soft and manicured, but when I perforce
laid mine on his sleeve it was like touching a hawser
in velvet; he didn't use scent or pomade, either. "Now, I
b'lieve we'll be more comf'table in the drawin' room . . ."
I'll wake up presently, pray God, thinks I, for I'm certainly
dreaming this, whatever it is. I was past wondering who or
what they were, or what "proposal" they could have for me,
or the meaning of those nightmare hoods and mythical
names - one thing only I was sure of: they weren't lunatics
or practical jokers, but damned serious gentry who knew
what they were about, and wouldn't hesitate to silence me
if I didn't behave. I'd developed a wholesome terror of the
obese shark conducting me to the adjoining room, ushering
me to an armchair, bidding Joe pour me a glass of the poison
they mis-spell "whiskey", and begging me in that honeyed
voice to be at my ease - with Joe looming behind me with
his pistol in his waistband, if you please. I didn't undervalue
the choleric Colonel Clotho or the grim-voiced Lachesis,
either; there was authority and purpose in the way they sat
themselves down at either end of a table, the hooded heads
facing me; from what the fat monster had said, the hidden
faces must be well-known, to Americans at least. Annette
lounged on a chaise longue at one side, watching me sullenly,
and the elegant tub of lard rested his ponderous rump on
the table before me, his game leg thrust out stiffly, lighted
a long French cigarette, and blew thoughtful smoke while I
waited in scared bewilderment to learn what they wanted of
me - or of Comber, rather.
"Now, then," says Beau Blubber, "you wonderin' who
we are, an' what we want of you. Well, you jus' take breath
while I tell you. But, first . . . does the word 'kuklos' have
any meanin' for you?"
I racked my memory. "It's Greek . . . means 'circle', I
think."
"You think right, suh, an' I daresay you are familiar with
the classical names we three have adopted, being' those of
121
the Parcae - Lachesis, Clotho, an' myself, Atropos - tho' I
hope to convince you that those of the Eumenides would
have been more fittin'." His liver lips parted in a hideous
grin at his learned joke; he and Spring would have made a
pair. "They are our secret names, as officers of the Kuklos
which is a clan-des-tine society of our southe'n United
States,21 de-voted to guardin' an' upholdin' those liberties
an' institutions which our no'the'n fellow-countrymen are
bent on destroyin'. I refer to slavery, Mistuh Comber, which
they affect to abominate, but which we of the South hold to
be a nat'ral condition which, for better or worse, is
inevitable "
A strangled oath came from within Clotho's hood. "Better
or wuss, my ass! It's awdained by the will o' God, goddammit!
Why, you sound like a dam' doughface, Atropos! Yo'
pardon, Miz Mandeville, but Ah cain't abide that kind o'
feeble talk!"
If I wasn't drunk or dreaming, I must be drugged again.
I couldn't be sitting in an American hotel, listening to a well
set up military man in an Inquisitor's hood, calling himself
after one of the Fates, and apologising for coarse language to
an aristocrat-turned-whore who used to be my mistress . . .
"I doubt if Mistuh Comber is im-pressed by the rhetoric
of the camp-meetin', Clotho," says Atropos. "To resume,
suh - the Kuklos is strong, widespread, an' capable. For
eve'y friend the abolitionists, Underground Railroad, an'
so-called freedom societies have in high places - we have
two. They have many ad-herents 'mong the lowly, the nigras
- so have we. Joe, theah, was born a slave on my family
estate; he was my childish playfeller, then my body-se'vant
- an' is my best friend in all the world. Is it so, Joe?"
"You bet, Mass' Charles!" It sounded like a volcano
rumbling.
"Atropos, Joe, Atropos, remember . . . ne'er mind. Well,
suh, the Kuklos arranged for Joe to 'run' five yeahs ago. He
became a 'passenger' on the Underground Railroad, an', in
time, one of its most trusted 'conductors'. For two yeahs
now he has been at Crixus's right hand, his loyal aide who
observes, listens, an' repo'ts to the Kuklos." He gave
122
a plump, satisfied simper. "Now you know, suh, how you time to be heah. We learned of your arrival at Baltimo' as
soon as Crixus did - like him, we have agents within the
no-lice an' gov'ment, who noted the anonymous info'mation
which reached the autho'ities two days ago that one
Beauchamp Comber, an officer of the British Admiralty,
had reappeared in this country. It was a name already known
to us," continues the fat smug, "from the access we enjoy
to the reco'ds of Crixus an' the U.S. Navy, as that of the
Englishman who, under the alias of James K. Prescott, ran
the nigra George Randolph north in '48. It was, howevah,
nooz to us that this same Prescott had been party to a murder
in N'awlins in the followin' yeah -"
"That's a damned lie! I didn't kill Omohundro "
He raised a plump hand. "Party, I said, Mistuh Comber.
Howsomevah, the nooz of your arrival, an' of your activities
as an an-tye-slavery agent yeahs ago, were of no more than
passin' interest to us until we learned yeste'day - thanks to
Joe theah - that Crixus was all on fire to secure your person
an' enlist your services on behalf of John Brown of Ossawatomie.
Then, Mistuh Comber," he pointed with his cane in
emphasis, "then, suh, our interest in you became profound
... an' urgent."
He paused, and I could hear my heart thumping. I'd
listened in mingled confusion and alarm, understanding his
words without finding the least explanation in them, but now
I could sense hellish bad news coming. The blank eyes in
the hoods of Clotho and Lachesis stared at me unnervingly,
and I stole a glance at Annette Mandeville, coiled in the
corner of her seat like a little white serpent, watching
me through narrowed lids with that well-remembered sulky
curl on her thin lips - at any other time I'd have guessed
she was fancying me above half, but it seemed unlikely
Just now.
"So we made haste to secure you ou'selves," Atropos ^nt on. "Joe released you, an' chere Annette met, beguiled, an' conveyed you - all mighty smooth, you'll allow. We three should ha' been heah when you arrived, but we ^re delayed, which I believe ..." his great belly heaved
123
with amusement, ". . . gave her the oppo'tunity to indulge
her taste for mixin' business with pleasure "
"Damn you, Charles!" She came upright, flushed with
anger. "You bridle your filthy fat tongue "
"But whatevah for, dahlin'? We-all know your lovin'
weakness ... an' Mistuh Comber was an old friend - which
came as a right surprise to both of you, I collect." He took
another cigarette, smirking. "Still, that acquaintance may
prove useful to our pu'pose - eh, Annie deah?" :
She answered nothing but a glare, and Lachesis drummed
his fingers on the table. "Git to the pu'pose, then. Time
presses."
Atropos struck a fuzee and applied it to his cigarette without
haste, watching me carefully as he shook it out.
"Crixus told you that John Brown plans to invade Vginia
an' raise a rebellion of the nigras theah. An' he wants you,
Mistuh Comber, to take the place of Colonel Hugh Forbes"
- he pronounced it 'Fawbus' - "who was lately Brown's
loo-tenant. Now, suh," he drew deeply on his cigarette,
"we'd kindly like to heah what you-all think of that interestin'
proposal."
At first the question made no more sense than all the
bewildering drivel and wild events of the past twenty-four
hours - was it only a day and a night since I'd come to in
that stinking doss-house? And here I was, with a pistol at
my back, in the grip of Dixie fanatics (and Annette Mandeville,
of all people), and still no wiser. But at least I could
answer - though what the deuce it could mean to this foppish
monster was far beyond me.
"I'd not touch it with a ten-foot pole!" I told him, and
Clotho gave a muffled grunt, while Atropos let smoke trickle
slowly out of his nostrils, and nodded over my head to Joe.
"Good boy, Joe . . . you read him aright, even if Crixus
didn't. So, Mistuh Comber . . . care to tell us why you
wouldn't touch it?"
Being in a fair bottled-up taking, I exploded - and like
an ass let my tongue run away with me.
"Great God, man, d'ye think I'm as crazy as Crixus? What
the dooce have I to do with his hare-brained schemes? Look
124
here for heaven's sake - I don't know what you want with
me, and let me tell you I don't care! I ain't American, I
don't give a rap for your politics, or your slavery, or Crixus
and his damned Railroad, or you and your infernal Kuklos,
and I wouldn't go near this madman Brown for a bloody
pension-"
Lachesis's hand slapped the table like a pistol shot, cutting
me short. "What's that ye say? Heah's strange talk from a
liberationist, on my word!" He was sitting forward, and I
could see his eyes shining within the hood. "You don't care
about slavery? Ah find that passin' strange from a man
engaged by the Queen's Navy 'gainst the Afriky traders,
who spied on them in the Middle Passage, an' worked for
the Underground Railroad, runnin' Jawge Randolph to
Canada-" ;
"An' dodged the patter-rollers to take a slave wench 'cross
the Ohio!" Clotho was on his feet. "An' got shot doin' it!
An' killed a couple men along the way, 'cording to what
Miz Mandeville say!"
"You claim now yore not an abolitionist?" Lachesis rose
in turn, accusing me like the lawyer he probably was. "That's
not what the U.S. Navy reco'ds say - we've seen 'em, an'
it's all theah, under the name Comber!"
I'd forgotten, in my fright and confusion, that I was meant
to be Comber - bigod, was this the time to announce myself
as Flashy? No, I daren't, for they'd never credit it - and if
they did. God alone knew what they'd do. I'd been a political
long enough to know that these secret bastards can't abide
loose ends or innocent parties who stray into their beastly
plots; it rattles 'em, and you're liable to find yourself head
foremost in a storm drain with a knife in your ribs. Atropos
wasn't the sort to think twice about slitting a throat, I was sutq, the others were probably no better, and Mandeville
was a callous little bitch - no, for my skin's sake I must
cleave to what they believed to be true. I struggled for words
- and noisy voices were passing the door, fading down the Gorridor . . . Jesus, four floors below careless diners would
be wolfing steak and fried oysters in the breakfast-room Md
those hideous white death's-heads were before me, Joe's
125
pistol was behind - and Atropos w as restraining my questioners
with a languid gesture of hi$ cane.
"Easy, theah, gen'lemen; no call for heat." He sounded
almost amused, and the gargoyle fac?e was smiling inquiry at
me. "Well, suh?"
I tried to brush it aside. "Why, that's all past and done
with! I'm not with the Admiralty - haven't been for years
. . . retired ages ago, on half-pay ^
Lachesis pounced. "That's not wHat ye told Crixus!"
"You said you wuz on a mission fo' the British!" cries
Clotho.
"Ah wuz theah . . . 'member?" J<3e's voice spoke behind
me like the knell of doom, and I co-uld only bluster.
"What I told Crixus is my business! Damnation, what's it
to you? Who the hell d'you think you are to bullyrag me,
rot you?"
I've no doubt they'd have told me, but Atropos intervened
again, more firmly this time.
"Gen'lemen, you're wastin' breath. All this makes no
nevah-minds. Whether Mistuh Confer is workin' for the
British or not, don't signify a bit. ^ou see, suh, we need
you ... an' we got you. All that matters is that Crixus wants
you to go along with John Brown." He dropped ash from
his cigarette, the ugly face regarding me blandly. "An' so
do we."
God knows what I looked like as I digested those unbelievable
words. For a second I didn't taKe them in, and when I
did I was too dumfounded to speak, or laugh hysterically,
or make a bolt for it. But I started to Gome to my feet, and
Atropos raised his cane and gently pushed me back into my
seat.
"If you had said 'aye' to Crixus, we could ha' left you
with him to get on with it. But Joe figured you wanted no
part of his plan - that you were t^llin' him 'maybe' but
thinkin' 'no' ... so we had to lay hold on you. To persuade
you."
I heard myself croak: "You must be as daft as Crixus!
Why the hell should I do what you ^ant?"
"Because," says he patiently, "it ^t"'t far to Kentucky."
126
"What the devil d'ye mean?"
"There's a warrant - maybe a rope - waitin' there for
Beauchamp Comber, on a charge of stealing a nigra wench
con-trary to the Fugitive Slave Act. If that ain't enough, we
could send you down the river to answer for the killin' in
N'awlins that you didn't do." He glanced at Annette. "You
say he killed two men in Ole Miss?"
"I remember their names: Hiscoe and Little. There was
a reward poster billing Tom Arnold as the murderer." She
was absolutely smiling, enjoying herself, the malicious slut.
"Better still, there's a plantation in Alabama where he can
be lost for the rest of his life "
"I never murdered anyone, I swear! It was the wench,
Cassy! I'd no part "
"You nevah killed no one, did ye?" came the growl from
Clotho's hood. "Haw! You sho' have the damnedest luck!"
Atropos gestured him to silence. "So you see, there
appear to be com-pellin' reasons why you should do as we
ask, Mistuh Comber. If you came to trial, I doubt if Lord
Lyons would stir himself to save you; gov'ments don't relish
that kind of emba'ssment. You're a long way from home,
suh," says the flabby son-of-a-bitch with a mock-rueful grin
on his repulsive face. "I reckon you got no choice."
He was dead right, and the tirade of protest and appeal
and raving refusal died on my lips: I could submit, or be
shipped south to the gallows - or worse still, the lonely
Alabama plantation where Mandeville's swine of a husband
had planned to have me worked to death in the cotton-fields.
I didn't doubt their ability to do it - or to snuff me out here
and now and save themselves the trouble. I could feel myself
going crimson with terror - which I do. God knows why,
and makes folk think I'm about to go berserk. Clotho saw
it, for he called to Joe to look out, and the pistol was jammed
into my back . . . and all the while I could hear the morning
traffic rumbling in the street far below the curtained
windows, and the distant knocks of porters rousing guests
and that merciless fleshy face and the vile white hoods ^re waiting. So I must pretend to agree, play for time, say ^ny damned thing at all ...
127
"But. . . you're Southerners, for heaven's sake - and you
want me to help this half-wit Brown start a slave rebellion^'
It was the right note, for to them it suggested I was weakening.
Clotho grunted, Joe took his piece from my back
and Atropos eased his bulk on the table edge and leaned
forward.
"Theah's an 'lection next yeah," says he, "but since you
don't value our politics it won't mean molasses to you if I
tell you Seward an' his Republicans are like to win it "
"Hey, whut 'bout Breckenridge?" protests Clotho.
"Breckenridge couldn't win with Jefferson on the ticket,"
retorts Atropos. "But it don't matter who's Pres'dent Seward,
Breckenridge, Douglas, or Jake the hired hand after
the 'lection, comes the crisis, Mistuh Comber." He nodded impressively. "This country will then fife-unite, into
North an' South - with or without war. We of the South
must break free, or see our way of life destroyed fo'evah.
'Twill be a mighty step, an' when we take it, we must be
united as nevah before, or we perish. Well, nothin', suh,
can do more to ensure Southe'n unity than an act of war
committed by Northe'n abolitionists 'gainst a Southern
State "
"An act of brigandage!" mutters Clotho. "Dam' Yankee
villains!"
Atropos ignored him. "If John Brown raids into Virginny,
the South'11 come togetheh as one man, 'cos they'll see it as
sure proof that the Nawth'll stop at nothin' to crush us an'
all we stand for - an' at the same time, such a raid'll split
the Nawth wide open, with the doughfaces an' moderates
an' save-the-Union-at-all-costs ninnies feelin' shocked an'
shamed, an' the wild spirits hurrahin' 'Good ole John
Brown!' an' quotin' Scripture." His affected calm had
dropped from his fat carcase like a shed cloak, and his genteel
accent was fraying at the edges: he was rasping "Nawth"
like a cotton-broker, and dropping "r"s right and left. "The
Nawth'll be tore all ways, an' . . . well, who knows? Maybe
we of the South will be able to cast off without a fight. An'
that's why John Brown's raid must go ahead . . . you see,
Mistuh Comber?"
128
I wasn't concerned about the sense of it then, though I
can see it now; I had my skin to think of, and there were
nuestions Comber was bound to ask.
"But if he raises a slave rebellion, and all the niggers go
on the rampage-"
"He couldn't raise dust in a mill!" It came unexpected
from Lachesis's hood. "He'll stick on the first step, which is
the takin' of a federal arsenal, prob'ly Harper's Ferry, jus'
over the Virginny line. He's been braggin' it for yeahs, tellin'
that loudmouth Forbes, who tol' half Washin'ton! Why,
ev'yone knows he's set on the Ferry "
"So he kin arm the nigras!" Clotho's hood shook with his
guffaw. "He 'spects they all come a-runnin' to fawm up in
battalions behin' Napoleon Brown, an' go a-crusadin'
through Dixie settin' all t'other nigras free! Well, suh, that
they ain't! Virginny nigras too dam' well off, an' knows it no
Denmark Veseys or Nat Turners22 in that section! Plen'y
of Uncle Toms, though!" He ended on a snarl. "They oughta
burned that bitch Stowe at the stake!"
I turned in disbelief to Atropos. "But if the government know where he's going to raid - dammit, they'll guard the
place, won't they? And collar Brown before he can go near
it!"
He shook his head. "Gov'ment don't take Brown that
serious - not officially, anyways. An' they won't start a [ruckus in the North by arrestin' him." That was what Crixus
had said - and the lunatic thought crossed my mind: were
there Southerners in the government who, like these Kuklos
fanatics, would be happy to see Brown stirring up merry
hell . . . ? Well, it mattered not one dam to me - and I
realised that Atropos was watching me closely as he lighted
another of his Regie gaspers.
"Theah you have it," says he. "Brown's raid'll fail - but
not before it's served our turn: dividin' the North, unitin'
the South."
"But . . . God help us, why should he need we?"
"Come, now, Crixus told you that. Brown needs a trained
officer if he's to take that arsenal - why, the man's but a peasant, half-crazy, half-iggerant, leadin' a crew of
129
jayhawkers an' farmers, scrimmagin' in backyards an' robbin'
widder women. Forbes was his brain, to plan an' advise
an' whip Brown's gang into shape. But Forbes is gone, an'
Brown's at a loss for a captain - so he appeals to Crixus
an' lo! - Crixus has the very man, a foreign free lance well
skilled in this kind o' work." The bloated features creased in a triumphant smile. "An' I'm 'bliged to agree with him.
The man who ran George Randolph can surely run Old
Ossawatomie."
It's being six foot two and desperate-looking that does it,
you know; if I'd been short-arsed with no chin and knockknees,
no one in search of a hero would have looked at me
twice. I cudgelled my wits for some other objection, and hit
on one that seemed unanswerable.
"But it won't do, don't you see? You've stolen me from
Crixus - so how the hell can he send me to Brown now?
Am I to roll up on his doorstep and say I'm ever so sorry
for escaping, but I've changed my mind, don't ye know, and
to hell with my duty and the British ministry . . . Ah, the
whole thing's folly! You're off the rails, all of you!"
Atropos shook his head, being patient. "The Kuklos don't leap before it's looked real close, Mistuh Comber. See now,
heah's how it is: Crixus knew of your escape ten minutes after
you made it. Sure-Joe 'discovered' it, an' Crixus has a passel
o' men scourin' town for you right now . . . mos'ly aroun' the
British ministry." He gave another of his greasy chuckles.
"Joe hisself is one o' those searchers, an' presen'ly he'll sen'
word to Crixus that he's hot on your trail. An'then . . .Crixus
won't heah no more for a day or two . . . until he gets a telegraph
from Joe in N00 Yawk, sayin' as he's run you down an'
reasoned you into enlistin' with John Brown -"
"Christ in the rear rank! You expect Crixus to swallow
that? See here, I know he's barmy, but "
"He'll be-lieve it," says Atropos, '"cos he'll want to
believe it. It's what he's been strivin' after an' prayin' for
. . . God sent you, 'member? An' he trusts Joe like his own
son. When he gets that telegraph, he'll be too ove'joyed to
ask questions ... an' he'll telegraph Joe to take you to
Brown without delay."
130
"That's why N00 Yawk is right convenient," puts in Lachgsis.
"Brown's up-state now, an' due in Boston soon, where
you an' Joe kin join him "
"And then," says Atropos, "you'll be on Brown's coattails
all the way to Harper's Ferry."
I could say I'd never heard the like - but I had, all too
often. When you've been pressed into service as "sergeantgeneral"
of the Malagassy army, or forced to convoy a bogtrotting
idiot figged up as Sinbad the Sailor through an
enemy army, or dragooned into impersonating a poxed-up
Danish prince - why, what's a slave rebellion more or less?
You develop a tolerance, if that's the word, and learn that
whatever folly is proposed - and this beat anything I'd struck
- you must just seem to agree, and bend your mind to the
only thing that matters: survival. So ... they would send
me North under guard, and I must submit to that - but if I
couldn't slip my cable between Washington and New York
(where I'd be well beyond the reach of Southern warrants, bien entendu) then my nimble foot had lost its cunning. Even
if they kept a gun in my back (which ain't easy, even in
American society) until I was under Brown's wing . . . well,
he could try to hold on to me, and good luck to him.
Atropos's smooth voice broke in on my thoughts. "Now,
it is surely occurrin' to you, suh, to pre-tend to give consent,
an' make off when oppo'tunity serves. Dismiss that thought,
Mistuh Comber. You will go north in company with Miz
Mandeville an' Joe ... an' other se'vants of the Kuklos
whom you won't see, but who'll be theah, eve'y step o' the
way. An' when you 'list with Brown . . . why, Joe'11 be
'listed, too ... an' again, he won't be the only one around.
The Kuklos will be your guardian angel eve'y minute, an' if
you was to ... step aside or make any commotion, why,"
he gave me his fattest, smuggest smile, "you'd be dead ...
or boun' for Kentucky in a packin' case."
There's a moment, in any trial between two persons,
whether it's a game or an argument or a battle of wits or a
duel to the death, when Party A thinks he's got Party B
cold. And that, believe it or not, is the moment when A is most vulnerable, if only B has the sense to see it. Atropos
- 131
thought he had me to rights. He was a damned shrewd secret
political, and his task had been to coerce me (or Comber
if you like) into joining John Brown, for the reasons he'd
given. No easy task, given the kind of fellow he knew (or
thought he knew) Comber to be, but he'd set about it like
a true professional, using approved methods - viz., scare
unsettle, and bewilder your man, impress him with the
power and genius of your bandobast,* and convince him that
he has no choice but to obey. Very well, he'd done that,
handsomely - but it was all based on the assumption that
Comber would have to be forced into compliance. It hadn't
occurred to him that Comber might decide, on reflection,
to be a willing party. Put that thought into Atropos's selfsatisfied
head, and he'd be took aback; he might even be so
dam' subtle that he'd believe it. In any event, he'd be less
cocksure than he was, and it never hurts to do that to an
opponent. (I hadn't been a prisoner of the Russian secret
service for nothing, I can tell you.)
So I said nothing for several minutes, but sat there, mum
and blank, while they waited in silence. Then I raised
my head and looked the fat brute straight in his ghastly
face.
"It's a rum trick," says I, "but I don't doubt you're serious.
Well, sir, I'm a serious man, too, you know. You've
put your proposal, on what you account fair terms. Now you
can hear mine." You could have heard a pin drop. "Ten
thousand dollars. Or two thousand sterling. That's my
price."
He didn't even blink. The others let out gasps and exclamations
- Annette gave a shrill didn't-I-tell-you-so laugh but
Atropos just drew on his cigarette and asked:
"Why should we pay you when we can compel you?"
"Because a man well paid is a dam' sight more reliable."
"Don't trust him!" cries Annette. "He's a liar!"
"Ten thousan' dollahs! Ye Gods!" Clotho's hood was in
danger of being blown off. "Of all the con-founded gall!"
But Lachesis said not a word, only sat stock-still, sharp-eyed
Organisation.
132
. ^s hood. Atropos considered me through his cigarette
snioke.
I waited, then rose from my chair. "And I thought Americans
were smart. Please yourselves - but remember you were
the one who spoke of a free lance. That's what I am - and you may believe it, I'm a sight better than that ass Forbes,
who sold out Garibaldi." I'd never heard of Forbes before
that night, but I reckoned it was a neat touch. "And now
I've heard you out, I'm dog tired, and there's a bed
next door. Servant, marm . . . gentlemen." I inclined my
head and started for the bedroom, speaking over my shoulder.
"Joe can guard my slumbers, if you're nervous . . .
and you can decide among yourselves whether ten thousand
dollars is too much to pay for uniting your precious Dixie."
133
"I'd not ha' given you one red cent!" says
Annette Mandeville. "You'd be doing it for your miserable
life, and been thankful for that!"
"Ah, but we know your generous nature, don't we? And
suppose I'd refused?"
"You? Refuse? With your worthless skin at stake? You
forget, I know the kind of cur you are - I heard you that
day at Greystones, when my husband and his white trash
caught you, and you whimpered and grovelled like a
whipped nigra wench!"
"My, how you must miss the gracious life of the old plantation!"

"Whining for your life! And I'd thought you were a
man!"
"Man enough for one eager little Creole lady, though,
wasn't I? But then, I was probably a welcome change after
your nigger fieldhands . . . gently, Annette dear, that fork
is for dessert, not for stabbing . . . Anyway, we're not at
Greystones now - and let me tell you, if your fat friend
hadn't agreed to pay me, I'd be on my way to the British
ministry this minute. Why, I'd not even have to go that far
- there's a party of Englishmen at the corner table yonder,
by the sound of them . . . who's to stop me joining 'em, eh?
Or sending for a constable? Not your ridiculous Kuklos, I'll
be bound! Or would they come rushing in, with their Guy
Fawkes hoods "
"You fool! Don't you know the kind of men you're dealing
with - the danger you're in? If you were to move two steps
from this table, they'd be the last you'd ever take "
"Oh, fudge! What, in a hotel dining-room, crowded with
134
nests? Hardly the place for an assassination - what would
the maitre say?"
"Listen to me! There are two men in this room now, armed and watching you - try to escape or call for help and
vou'll be shot down without mercy. I mean it. This is not
England - such things happen here. I've known the Kuklos
kill a man on the steps of the Capitol, before scores of people, in broad day. If you don't believe me - run for
the door! But if you value your life, you'll keep faith with
them."
"My dear Annette! Can this be alarm on my behalf? Is
that wifely concern I see in those bonny grey eyes?"
"I'm concerned that the Kuklos's work is done - and that
I play my part in it, and you play yours "
"Then you'd better stop whispering like some Dago conspirator
and finish your pudding like a good little wife, Mrs
Beauchamp Comber, and smile ever so sweetly at Mr
Comber, and insist on cutting his cigar for him . . . why,
thank'ee, my dear! Are we on honeymoon, by the way? If
so, let's forego the savoury and coffee, and repair to our
nuptial couch . . . no? Love's first bloom has faded, has it?
Oh, well . . . coffee, waiter!"
I was testing the wicket, and finding it confoundedly sticky
- as I'd known it would be the moment I'd awoken from
my exhausted sleep and remembered where I was and what
had happened. Any hopes that I'd dreamed the whole
ghastly thing were dashed by the sight of Joe sitting by the
bedroom door like a black nemesis, sporting his pistol. I was
caught, for the moment, and could only hope that my little
charade before retiring had taken some effect.
It was late afternoon when I came to, and someone had
been busy while I slept, for beside the bed there was a new
outfit of clothing - and damned if it didn't fit perfectly, even
to the collar. But what sent a chill down my spine was the
name on the tailor's tab: B. M. Comber; it was even stamped "I the lining of the hat. I'd formed a respect for the Kuklos
trorn the ease with which they'd spirited me away from
Crixus, but these little touches told me they were formidable
indeed.
135
While I dressed, Joe brewed me some coffee on a spirit
stove, and directed me to the drawing-room. There was no
sign of Lachesis and Clotho, but Atropos was writing at the
table, and Annette was on hand, stony-eyed but mighty jimp
in a gown that seemed to consist of flowers and gauze. He
complimented himself on my appearance, and hoped I
approved of the sober cravat he'd chosen for me. "Our colonial
taste runs to more extrav'gant colours, but since your
ac-cent marks you as English, why, you best look it," says
he, chuckling fatly as though he'd never put a point to my
throat in his life. "The suit's well enough, I guess, an' will
serve for day an' evenin' - I fear we still lag behind London
in our deplo'able failure to change after six o'clock. Now,
suh, sit down, an' tend to what I say."
First of all, says he, five thousand dollars ("we felt your
request for remuneration was reasonable, but stiff") would
be placed to the credit of B. M. Comber in a bank of the
New York Safety Fund, and might be drawn at either of two
addresses in Washington and New York, "but only after the
day on which the country is ringin' with the nooz that Old
Ossawatomie has made an armed incursion into V'ginia."
The gross cheeks creased in a sardonic grin. "Then all you
have to do is present the draft which you'll find in the breast
pocket o' that noo coat you're wearin' . . . Now I see it on
you, I don't know as I can bring myself to like that
collah . . ." He squinted critically while I examined the
draft, on the Citizens' Bank of Louisiana, and my spirits
soared. It was all window-dressing to be sure, and they'd
never put a cent to Comber's account - but at least they were
pretending to treat my offer of mercenary service seriously.
Maybe they even believed it. Not that they'd trust me an
inch . . . but they might be just a little less watchful. I
pocketed the draft and told him the coat collar suited me to
admiration.
"Well, if you're content . . . now, suh, you an' Miz
Mandeville will travel to Noo Yawk by the Night Flyer, as
Mistuh an' Miz Beauchamp Comber - you're bound to keep
that name, 'cos it's the one John Brown will be expectin'.
Joe will accompany you, as your slave, an' when he has
136
. elegraphed Crixus tomorrow that you've been 'found' in
N00 Yawk, he will take you on to Boston or Conco'd, where you will meet Brown, prob'ly at the home of Franklin B.
Sanbo'n, a prom'nent abolitionist. There you an' Joe will
'list in Brown's service. Tis all planned out, you see, neat
as a Quaker's bonnet," says he with satisfaction. "By the
by 'til you leave N00 Yawk, you are in the care of Miz
Mandeville - Miz Comber, I should say," he shot her a greasy smirk, "an' will obey any instructions she may give
you. What these may be, I can only guess "
"Keep to the business, you fat swine!" snaps she.
"Why, surely, dahlin' ... an' see that you mind yours,
an' the Kuklos's. Jus' remember you ain't takin' this trip for pleasure alone." There was an edge to the soft voice, and I
thought, hollo, is someone's piggy carcase aglow with jealous
passion for our tiny poppet? It conjured up a tableau
too hideous to contemplate . . .
"So theah it is, Mistuh Comber. All you need do is go
'long quietly, do whatevah Brown requiahs of you, go with
him right down the line to Harper's Ferry or wherevah it
may be, put your trust in the Good Lawd ... an' go home
to England with five thousan' dollahs in your money-puss.
An' again, an' for the last time," he gave me his blandest
fat smile, "don't evah think you can jump off the wagon
'long the way. The Kuklos will be theah, always, an' if you
i play false by wo'd or deed . . . then suh, you are crowIpickin's."
He
rose, smoothing his coat and shooting his cuffs, and
stowed his writings in his pocket. "I b'lieve that is all, so I
confide you to deah Annette - an' Joe, of course, an' your
unseen guardians. Your se'vant, ma'am . . . honoured to
have made your acquaintance, suh. I bid you adieu, an' good
fortune ... an' you take care, now, ye heah?"
D'ye know, when I look back on those bizarre few hours
when the Kuklos took me by the neck and twisted me to
their crazy ends, the rummest thing of all wasn't the amazing
coincidence of Annette, or those grotesque hoods, or that
obese monster so pathetically bang up to the nines, or even ^eir incredible plot - but those last six words from Atropos:
137
after all the threats and blackmail, the gentle ritual of the
Dixie farewell. God help me, I believe he meant it.
When he'd gone, it occurred to me to twit Annette that
she had an admirer in our dandy hippo. I asked innocently
if he was her lover, expecting a fine explosion, and was taken
flat aback by her reply:
"He is my husband."
"Good God! He can't be - what, that great bag of jelly?
What happened to Mandeville?"
"He died."
"And you married that? Well, I never . . . gad, what a
wedding night that must have been . . ." I let out a yelp of
horror. "But, my God ... he knew . . . well, he suspected,
I'm sure . . . what we'd been up to, I mean . . . before he
arrived . . . you know, when we were ..."
"He was already here, in this room. Watching us," says
she, cool as be-damned before the mirror, tittivating her
low-cut bodice. "You will see there is a spy-hole in the door
to the bedroom."
"You don't mean it! But . . . but . . ."I had a terrifying
memory of lying helpless beneath his swordstick - and he'd
just watched me rattling his wife. "Godalmighty! But . . .
you mean ... he don't mindT'
"On the contrary." She patted her hair. "He insists."
"Well, strike me dead! I say ... he must be a damned rum
chap - phew! But . . . you, I mean - why the devil . . . ?"
"Do I do it, you would ask?" She took a last sneer at the
mirror, and faced me. "He is the richest man in Louisiana.
He is also the brain, though not the head, of the Kuklos.
You've been singularly honoured by his personal attention,
a measure of your importance." She gave me a withering
look, up and down. "You probably think him mad. He is
not. Whatever he plans, succeeds, and whatever he
promises, he performs. Remember that, for your own sake.
Now, it is past five o'clock, and I wish to dine before we
leave." She drew herself up like a tiny Guardsman. "Give
me your arm and take me down."
So I did, ruminating on the manners and morals of the
Old South, and now that we'd broken the ice so splendidly
138
we were soon chatting away in the dining-room like an old
married couple, as I've described at the beginning of this
chapter. I affected a carelessness I was far from feeling,
because I wanted to test just how real were the threats that
Atropos had made; her alarm told me all I wanted to know,
and gave me some useful information: apart from Joe, who
was lurking in the lobby while we ate, there were two Kuklos
"shadows" watching me, and no doubt they or others would
be on hand all the way to New York. I'd have to look
damned slippy when the time came to run.
It was a mad pickle, you may think: held prisoner amidst
all the bustle and confusion of civilised society - but if your
captors know their business, and are ruthless enough, why,
you might as well be chained in a dungeon. Rudi von
Starnberg took me halfway across Germany against my will,
simply by having a gun and a knife and being ready to use
'em if I so much as sneezed out of turn, and I'd no doubt
the Kuklos would be equally unscrupulous. So I could only
wait, and seem to play up - both of which I'm good at and
take comfort in the knowledge that they'd not harm me
unless forced to, since I was no use to them dead or bound
for Kentucky.
Being resigned, I felt easier, and even a touch lightheaded,
as we cowards will when we feel safe for the
moment. The upshot was that, with bottle and belly-timber
before him, Flashy became if not beastly, at least mischievously,
drunk, enjoying himself in contemplating the charms
of the choice little icicle across the table. I'd already noted
that she'd put some elegant flesh on her elfin form over the
years, and was altogether a juicier morsel than she'd been
at Greystones; she might still wear the expression of an illtempered
ferret, but that kind of viciousness on a handsome
face has its own attraction, and I knew perfectly well that
her artistic paintwork and stylishly coiled blonde hair had
been designed for my benefit; she'd always loathed and
lusted after me together, which only added spice to her
allurement, and I looked forward as much as she did to the
enjoyment of Mr Comber's marital rights.
On this happy thought I was content to idle my way
139
through the dinner, which like all American meals was gargantuan
and over-rich; how the devil they can put away a
massive breakfast of steak, ham, eggs, terrapin, or giant
oysters, two dinners at noon and five, and still be fit to beat
their bellies at supper, is beyond me; even Annette, who
wasn't two pisspots and a handle high, worked her way
through five courses without breaking sweat on her pale
immaculate brow. Unlike most of her compatriots, she
didn't shout through her food, so I had leisure to listen to
the deafening chatter around us. From the trumpetings of
two portly curry-faced gentry at the next table231 gathered
that President Buchanan was a weak-kneed nincompoop for
not going ahead and "teachin' them dam' impident greasers
a lesson" by annexing half their country; war with Mexico
would, in the speaker's opinion, rally the public behind "Old
Buck", ensure a Democratic victory in next year's election,
and be "one in the eye for that slippery bastard Seward an'
his dam' Black Republicans."
"Ah heah Seward's goin' to England," says his companion.

"Bes' place fo' the nigra-lovin' sunnavabitch! Ah hope his
vessel sinks - Ah mean it, suh, Ah do! Kin you 'magine President Seward? That's whut it'll come to yet, you mark
mah wo'ds!"
"Come now, suh, he may not git nom'nated, even!"
"You wanna wager, suh? Why, he's got Weed an' Greeley
in his pocket. . . whut's that ye say, 'Tilda? Give you ladies
the vote an' 'twill be President Douglas^ Haw-haw! Why,
he ain't but a dam' dwarf! You'd like to cuddle him, ye
say? Ye heah that, Ambrose? 'Tilda thinks Douglas is right
cuddlesome! Waal, now, honey, Ah reckon his beauteous
Adele might have suthin' to say 'bout that; Ah jus' reckon
she might - an' so might yo's truly! You keep yo' cuddles
for papa, ye heah?" And the lecherous old goat laid a fond
paw on the arm of the languid 'Tilda, who might have been
his wife, but I think not, from the wanton freedom with
which she had been glancing in my direction.
"Ah declare 'Tilda would put Adele right in the shade!"
cries the other roue gallantly. "Nevah seen her in sech looks!
140
uqw you do that, Tilda? All the soirees an' parties, you
ouehta be clean wore out, but darn if you don't come up
fresher'n dew on a lily! You got some magic potion,
sweetheart?"
"Know whut she's got?" cries her escort. "She got this
'lectric rejuvenatin' contraption, an' a coloured wench to
mechanic it - why, they all the crack wi' the smart gals, ain't
they, 'Tilda? Puts the bloom right back in those damask
cheeks in no time at all - an' all over, too! Haw-haw! Yessir,
that's mah honey's secret!"
"Why, you make me soun' like some kinda monster works
on 'lectric'ty!" drawls the fair 'Tilda, lowering her lashes
at me and showing her profile. "But mah machine is right
stimulatin'."
"Our train leaves in an hour," says Annette sharply. "You
will wait in the lobby while Joe fetches a carriage - and keep
your tongue and eyes to yourself, do you hear?" Her mouth
was tight with anger, and there was a little flush on her
cheek. "Do nothing to excite attention."
"Difficult, when we're such a handsome couple," says I,
leering. "If we want to pass unnoticed, why the dooce are we
parading before half Washington? Suppose one of Crixus's
people is about?"
"We know them all by sight. And they will not be seeking
you here, or at the station. Joe has seen to it. Stop guzzling
|that wine, you fool! Now . . . follow me out closely."
What with the booze, my natural taste for devilment, and
confidence that I was perfectly safe as long as I didn't try to
run for it, I felt a sudden urge to put turpentine on her
dainty little tail and light it. So when I'd drawn back her
chair, and she had made for the lobby without a glance at me, I navigated carefully in her wake, turned in the doorway,
surveyed the glittering splendour of the dining-room
and its chattering gluttons, drew a deep breath and let out
a Lakota war-whoop at the top of my voice. A woman
shrieked, men sprang to their feet, a passing waiter went up
like a galvanised grouse and dropped his loaded tray with a
tremendous smash - and then there was dead silence as a
hundred mouths gaped and two hundred eyes goggled; every
141
head turned, in fact - save for a tall chap near the door who
kept his eyes fixed on his plate, and another with his back
turned who watched me like a hawk in a mirror on the far
wall.
I strolled into the lobby, where Annette was standing rigid
with fury; people were craning towards the dining-room to
see what the row was. "Are you mad?" she hissed.
"You were right," says I, "the boys are in there. But the
Kuklos ought to train 'em better, you know; 'tain't natural not to stare when a lunatic cuts loose in public. Now, then
where's that dilatory Joe with the carriage, eh?"
Her eyes were blazing, but she swept off without a word
leaving me to look about and wonder which of the throng
in the lobby might be Kuklos "shadows" - for Joe had disappeared,
and the two betrayed by my little ruse in the
dining-room hadn't emerged, but I wasn't fool enough to
imagine that I wasn't being watched. I gave up, though, for
the patrons of Washington hotels in those days were such a
mixed lot, my unseen watchers might have been anyone.
There were the obvious politicos, standing about in knots
puffing their cigars and disputing warmly, wealthy citizens
with stout matrons dressed up like May Day cuddies, young
blades in fancy weskits and amazing whiskers, with fashionable
belles gushing and squealing on their arms, plantation
aristocrats in their broad-brimmed straws with little nigger
boys toting their bags, likely-looking fellows in city clothes
but with the unmistakable silence of the frontier hanging
round them like a shroud, barefoot slaves waiting patiently
beyond the great doors leading to the marble porch, thin
seedy fellows with ferret eyes questing for Senator This or
Congressman That and muttering to each other before scurrying
away like the political rodents they were, one or two
top-drawer strumpets immediately recognisable by being the
most tastefully dressed women in view, and everywhere the
Great Curse of the New World, the American Child, in all
its raucous, spoiled, undisciplined, selfish ghastliness, the
female specimens keeping up an incessant high-pitched
whine and the male infants racketing like cow-pokes on payday.
There's nothing wrong with grown Americans, by and
142
1 r?e' you won't find heartier men or bonnier women anyu/here
but the only remedy I can see for their children is to
run Herod for President.
Then Joe was at my elbow with a slouch hat and a long
coat guiding me out of the throng and down a passage to
the same side door by which I'd entered the hotel, where a
prowler was waiting with Annette inside, raging silently. She
said not a word as we bowled through the dusk to the station,
and when we drew up close by the train - they had platforms
in those days - she whisked out and into the carriage while
Joe signed to me to sit tight. He descended, spying both ways
before beckoning abruptly, and I strode quickly through the
wreathing steam with the bell clanging overhead, and
mounted into the sudden quiet of the train.
I wasn't well acquainted with American railroads at that
time, and was resigned to an uncomfortable long haul
through the night to New York, in one of those reeking long
coaches in which I'd travelled down from Baltimore, full of
noisy unwashed louts whose favourite occupation was spitting
at the stove. But no such thing; here was a quiet corridor
with private compartments which they called "cabins", fitted
up in tip-top style. Annette was in Number 8,1 remember;
I had a glimpse of an alcove bed with curtains drawn back,
a washstand and comfortable furniture, and then Joe was
hustling me into Number 7, which seemed smaller but had
a bed beneath the window. I asked him where he was going
to sleep, and he replied curtly that he wasn't. I made myself
comfortable while he slipped out, and presently I heard his
deep rumble in Annette's cabin, and the conductor saying
anything she wanted, ma'am, anything at all, she should just
send her boy, and it would be attended to right smartly.
Then Joe returned, sitting on the floor with his back
against the door, and a moment later the bell clanged and
the steam whistled and the conductor bawled that this was
the Night Flyer to Baltimo', Wilmin'ton, Philadelphia, Trenton,
an' N00 Yawk, and we jolted and clanked into motion - and I reflected that my evasion would have to wait until journey's end. I didn't fancy dropping from a moving train, sven if Joe hadn't been on hand; he was a big, ugly gyascuta,
143
that one, his sleeves tight on his enormous biceps as he sat
with his arms folded on his barrel chest, the yellow-flecked
eyes rolling at me whenever I stirred on the bed. I found
myself studying him: he was your real jet-black Nubian
flat-nosed, thick-lipped, and could have walked into the
K.A.R.* nowadays, no questions asked. Having nothing
better to do for the moment, I indulged my idle curiosity.
"Joe," says I, "why are you with the Kuklos?"
He glowered suspiciously. "Whut you mean?"
"Well, you're Atropos's slave - yet you've been with
Crixus on the Railroad, had the chance to escape to free
soil. Why didn't you? You want to be free, surely?"
He studied me in turn, the black face expressionless.
Then: "You got niggers in England . . . that so?"
"Yes, a few - and they're all free. So are the niggers in
our Empire, in Africa and the West Indies. No one owns
'em, or can make 'em do what they don't like, or sell 'em
down the river. Wouldn't you like that?"
He sat, apparently thinking, though you couldn't be sure
with that face. At last he said: "Yo' English niggers . . .
how many on 'em got a fine coat, like this heah?" He ran
a finger the size of a truncheon down his lapel. "How many
on 'em got a silver timepiece an' chain? How many got five
dollahs in they pocket?"
"Why, Joe, you could have all those things, in Canada,
say - and be free into the bargain! You could do whatever
you liked, go wherever you liked, be your own master."
He digested this, staring at the floor, and shrugged his
huge shoulders. "Ah guess so," says he slowly. "An' Ah
cud be tret like black trash whenevah Ah liked, an' git out
the way, nigger, whenevah Ah liked, an' go hungry whenevah
Ah liked, an' beg mah bread'n go to jail whenevah Ah
liked." He raised his bullet head and stared at me; it was
like looking into the eyes of an ape in a cage. "Don' have
none o' that wi' Mass' Charles. Ah his slave, but he treat
me like a man - an' folks r'specks me, cuz Ah's his nigger.
Don' git tret like no black trash, nossuh! Git good vittles,
King's African Rifles.
144
it good clo'es like these yeah ..." He closed his eyes and
oave a great growling sigh. "An' Ah gits to hump his li'l
white lady whenevah Mass' Charles say so . . .oh, but she
is orime white meat! None o' yo' free niggers gits that kin'
o' pleasuring Ah reckon."
I was shocked - not that I'm a prude, you understand,
but because I knew the physical loathing that Annette had
for black skin; why, at Greystones, any wench who'd had
the misfortune to touch her by accident, hadn't been able
to walk for a week. The thought of her with this human
gorilla . . . well, my little French aristo was paying a price
for being the richest woman in Louisiana, wasn't she
just?
"You ask yo' Afriky niggers whether they'd ruther be free
- or Joe," growls he, showing his gleaming teeth in a great
wolfish grin. "See whut they tell yuh."
"Ah, but they don't know any better, Joe - you do.
They're savages, but you're . . . well, civilised, I mean. I've
seen how you carry yourself with Crixus - and with Atropos,
too. You're not a common nigger . . . why, I'll bet you can
read, can't you?"
He stuck out a sullen lip. "Some. Writin' an' figurin',
though . . . they kinda tough."
It's not often you find yourself conversing with a caveman,
-and I was becoming interested. "But see here, if you can ^read a little, you can learn to write and ... ah, figure, fast
enough. Why, man, you could make something of yourself
- and if you were free, you could buy all the white tarts you
wanted. Mandeville's nothing special, I can tell you! You're
a fool, Joe . . . but you needn't go on being one, you know.
You can be something better than a slave "
"Ah cain't be white!" growls he, shaking his head, and
then he frowned, and a wicked glitter came into his eyes.
"Say, Mistuh Comber . . . you tryin' talk yo'self out o' this?
You tryin' to fool this po' coloured boy?"
"No such thing! Why, if I wanted to be 'out of this', as you call it, don't think that you could stop me. I'm here "ecause I'm being paid - ah, there you have it! I'm free, you see, but you're not, because you're content to be bound
145
to that great fat slug, when you could be . . ." And then I
caught the gleam in his eyes, and I stared for a moment
and then lay back on the bed, looking at the ceiling, anger
giving way to amusement.
"Joe," says I at length, "you are a smart black son-of-abitch,
aren't you, though?" I began to laugh, and so did he
the great black face split in a melon grin, his shoulders heaving.
"Oh, you poor coloured boy! So writing and figurine
are tough, are they?"
"Some," chuckles he. "Cain't hoi' de pencil in mah big
black fingers, nohow!"
"Oh, leave off! Begging your bread, forsooth, and mumbling
like a fieldhand! What's the capital of Portugal?"
"Oh, lemme see ... Ah gotta study dat! Tain't Madrid,
nossuh, 'r Gay Paree . . . um, Lisbon, maybe? Say, though,
which o' yo' li'l ole English kings got hisself mu'dered in de
Tower o' Lunnon in fo'teeneighty-three?"
"Don't be daft! Oh, very well - which one?"
"Edwa'd Fift'. He was jes' twelve yeahs old, an' his
mammy wuz a lady called 'Liz'beth Woodville." He sat there
chortling, the jolly darkie to the life, damn him.
"Yes ... I should have remembered, shouldn't I, that
anyone who can spy inside the Underground Railroad, and
fool Crixus, knows more than picking cotton . . . Went to
school along with Atropos - Master Charles - did you?"
"Niggers don' 'tend school. No, we had the same gov'ness,
in the same nussery. Mass' Charles's papa was an ...
exper'mental gen'leman, so he raised us the same." He was
smiling still, but the black eyes were expressionless.
"Wanted to see how it came out, Ah guess."
"But see here . . . this is all the more reason why my
question's good, Joe - why, being raised like that, and educated,
and knowing what you do ... why, in God's name,
d'ye stay a slave? Don't you want to be free, for heaven's
sake?"
Just for a second he avoided my eye, then his chin came
up. "Ma answer's good, too, Comber." It came out in his
harsh bass growl. "Ah don' need to be free. Ah serve Mass'
Charles as a friend - his best friend, like he told you. He
146
trusts me. Ah trust him- The way he S0^' Ah - He wants p to work for the Kuklos, Ah work for the Kuklos. He
ants me to keep a hold on B. M. Comber an' make sho' he earn that fi'thousan'dollahs . . ."The smile on the primitive
face was a knowing glimmer now, and not pleasant.
" Ah keep a hold. Oh, maybe take a li'l rise out o' him,
fo' fun an' so we both know whut's whut, but that don'
signify a bit. You stay held, Comber, all the way, make no
mistake 'bout that!"
So there . . . Comber. Evidently my question anent slavery
had annoyed him, and he was reminding me "whut" was
"whut".
"Well, Joe, all I can say is that Master Charles is fortunate
in the loyalty of his friend."
"That's right!"
"And tell me . . . when he says 'Hump my wife, for my
entertainment', do you do it as a friend - or as an obedient
slave?"
I'll swear his eyes glowed, and he wasn't a pretty sight.
Then he smiled, and was even less pretty.
"It ain't no ha'dship -'speshly 'cos she don't like it. She
don' like it at all. She jus' cain't 'bide niggers, it seems."
"Ah, well, there's no pleasing some people, is there?
Happy little menage you must all have together. Fortunately,
however, she can abide white men . . . and I rather
think she's expecting me." I swung my legs off the bed, and
he seemed to flow upright like a genie towering out of a
bottle. I feigned surprise. "Don't worry, Joe, I shan't run
away."
He stood glaring down at me, undecided, and I wondered
if he was going to assert his guardianship. But he had style,
did Joe, in his own way, for after a long moment he stood
aside, giving me his nastiest grin, and unlatched the door.
ttr-*i , - t-'
"o . . . you go right ahead, like an o-bedient free white "^n . . . yo' right welcome to the nigger's leavin's. An' Ah
know you won't run, 'cos o' that fi' thousan' dollahs ... an' ?15." He pulled back his coat to show the pistol butt. "You
go along, now ... an' enjoy yo'self, ye heah?"
"Why, Joe, Ah b'lieve Ah sho'ly will," says I. "Tell ye
147
sumpn else, Joe ... so will she." I winked at him. "You
think 'bout that."
And she did, so far as I could judge, which was never
easy with La Mandeville, quite the most unsociable mistress
I ever mounted. Most women I've known have exchanged
seductive pleasantries beforehand, squealed and gasped during
performance, and chatted comfortably afterwards
(except my Elspeth, who gasses throughout, bless her). Not
Annette; when I accosted her that night in her cabin, it was
Greystones all over again - cold, clawing passion, and then
sullen silence until she fell asleep. However, when the train
bell woke her (at Philadelphia, if memory serves) she went
to work like Poppaea on honeymoon, which I took as a
compliment, before resuming her impersonation of a Trappist
nun, if there is such a thing. It was at this stage that I
succeeded in getting a snatch of conversation out of her, and
most interesting it proved to be.
In the interval between rounds, so to speak, while she lay
cold and quiet beside me in the cramped berth, I'd been
reflecting on Joe's capricious behaviour. For a while there
we'd got on rather well, he'd taken me in by playing the
darkie simpleton, teased me cheerily - and then all unintended
I'd touched him on the raw, probably by my
impatient concern for his enslaved condition (Christ, you
can't do right for doing wrong with these folk). So he'd
turned ornery on me, been redoubled and set down, and
from that moment we were sworn enemies. Well, the hell
with him. At all events, in trying to coax some chat out of
my tiny paramour after our final gallop, in which she'd drawn
blood in two places, I mentioned Joe's name - partly out of
curiosity, but mostly out of malice, I confess - and she
started like a galvanised frog.
"What of him? What did he say?"
Aha, thinks I, guilty conscience; capital. "Oh, this and
that . . . he's an odd chap. No fool, for all he looks like a
backward baboon. Knows more English history than I do,
anyway ..."
"What? History, you say?" She was wide awake now.
"What does that black beast know about it?"
148
"The name of Edward the Fifth's mother, for one thing. Quite extraordinary . . . aye, a most educated nigger, smart
paint. I'm surprised your husband trusts him."
She was silent a moment. "Why should he not?"
"Well, Joe's a slave, ain't he - and here he is, heading
for the free states, so what's to hinder him lighting out for
Canada? I would, if I were he - but when I put it to him,
he said your husband was his best friend, and he'd not dream
of running from him . . . you know, loyalty, that sort o'
thing . "
"Loyalty! What do animals know of loyalty?"
"Oh, I dunno . . . dogs are loyal, they say, 'tho I never
found 'em so. My Aunt Paget had one of those damned
poodles, when I was a kid - stank, but she swore it was
faithful. Took a great lump out of my arse when I tried to
sick it on to some hens "
"What else did the brute tell you?"
"Oh, nothing." I yawned, and when she had turned away
and settled down, I gave a drowsy chuckle. "Nothing much,
leastways ... oh, yes, I gather Joe likes white women . . .
unwilling ones, for choice."
She lay dead still - so still, I could sense the sudden tension
of her muscles. Good luck to you, Joe, thinks I, if ever
Atropos kicks the bucket unexpected and you become the
widow's property. I waited for her fury to vent itself in
shrieks of rage or fine French oaths, but nothing came for
I at least a minute, and then the most astonishing thing happened.
She turned slowly towards me in the berth, and her
hand stole across, searching for mine, and to my amazement
she nuzzled her head on to my shoulder. Her tiny body was
trembling, and damned if I didn't feel wetness trickling on
my skin - she was absolutely weeping, with a soft murmuring
wail that I could hardly hear until it turned into a faint
broken whisper: "Oh-h-h . . . hold ... me ..."
I couldn't credit it - Annette Mandeville, the spurred sucoubus,
hard as a diamond and vicious with it, whimpering
like a lost child. I slipped an arm about her, marvelling, and
she clung closer still, pushing her blubbering face under my
chin. "Oh-h-h, hold me ... close . . . close ... oh,
149
please ..." Well, naked tits never appeal to me in vain, so
I drew her over me with her small rump in my one hand
for she was the veriest fly-weight. She lay there, keening
away, bedewing my manly bosom with her tears. Baffling
I found it, but rather jolly; I disengaged the clasp of her
fingers so that I could work at her poonts with one hand and
her stern with t'other.
"No ... no ... not that," sobs she. "Only . . . comfort
me . . .oh, please . . . hold me close!" She was crying hard
now, with a great yearning misery. "Please . . . comfort
me!"
So I did, stroking her hair and petting her in a bewildered
fashion, asking myself if I'd ever understand women. She
clung like a clam, and after a while her weeping subsided
into little sniffs and sighs, and I guessed she was dropping
off to sleep. So then I cheered her up properly.
150
Some cynic once observed that it was
impossible to see the sights of New York City because there
were no cabs to take you about, but it didn't matter because
there were no sights to see anyway.251 can't agree; whether
there were cabs or not in '59 I didn't have time to find out,
but for sights, well, there may have been no St Paul's or
Rialto or Arc de Triomphe, or mouldering piles of stone
or dreary galleries stuffed with the rubbish of centuries, but
there was something far more moving, inspiring, and aesthetically
pleasing to the eye than any of these, and you
didn't need a cab to see 'em either, as they sashayed along
Broadway past the old Astor House by the Park, resplendent
in their silks and satins and furs, with those ridiculous fetching
hats and parasols above and the extravagantly high heels
below. I refer to the women of New York, who for beauty
of face and form, elegance of dress, and general style and
deportment, are quite the finest I've struck - until they open
their mouths, that is, which they do most of the time, but
even that incessant nasal braying can't rob them of their
exquisite charm. I don't mean only the trollops, either, of
whom there were said to be two thousand in a population
of three-quarters of a million in '59 (and who counted 'em
I can't imagine, some clergyman, no doubt) but the respectable
women of every class. I was enchanted at first sight, snd if I were condemned to spend my dotage sitting in
Stewart's store or the Metropolitan lobby, contemplating ^he passing peaches, I wouldn't mind a bit, provided I was furnished with earplugs against the cackling laughter and cries of "You bet!" "Be blowed!" and "Okay, goI" But they
151
probably have different cries nowadays, and no powdered
hands or Grecian bends, alas.
They absolutely ruled the place then; New York was a
woman's town, and let no one tell you different. They were
the queens of the world, and didn't they know it, not that
they were pushing, you understand; they were just freer and
bolder and more forward and independent than any women
I'd seen elsewhere, taking it for granted that men existed to
serve and minister to them, and not t'other way about. For
example, you could be on an omnibus, going through the
inconvenience of paying the driver through his little window,
and three or four dolly-mops would come on chattering and
laughing behind you, drop their money in your hand, and
expect you to pay it over and bring 'em their change - perfect
strangers, too. Mind you, the reward of a free and easy smile
and "Thanks, chief!" from a pert New Yorker is a delight;
given time, I'd have been haunting that omnibus yet.
Everything was for their convenience, too: hotels had
their ladies' entrances and dining-rooms, so that the dears
wouldn't be offended by the reek of cigars and the conversation
of horrid men; every other shop seemed to be dedicated
to cosmetics, female finery, and jewellery, from
quality establishments like Ball and Blacks to the seedier
stores on Water and Mercer Streets; they had their own
cake-and-coffee houses where no male dare enter, and there
were even gambling hells for ladies only (and I mean society
women, not cigar-store tarts from below Fourteenth Street)
where they "bucked the tiger"* and blued their menfolks'
dividends at faro and billiards. And their husbands,
sweethearts, and paramours seemed to be all for it, and
treated 'em with a regard and deference you'd never find in
Europe.
Why this should be, I don't know; New York men are
certainly no more chivalrous than any other. It may be that
women were scarce in colonial times, and so grew to be
particularly treasured, but my own theory is that, the U.S.A.
* Play for high stakes (prob. from the tiger sign used to denote a
gambling-house).
152
me all for progress and liberty, and New York in the
neuard of everything, its women have become emancinted
sooner than their sisters elsewhere. They've usurped
a few masculine habits, too: anywhere in the world you'll
g roues with fast young women in tow, but only in New
York was it common to see fashionable ladies of mature wears settling restaurant bills and buying gifts for handsome
voune clerks; they picked 'em up over department-store
counters, I was told. And the New York female grows up
at a startling rate: my first day there I was astonished to see
a party of society schoolgirls, the kind whose parents live
on Fifth Avenue and have the brats educated at Murray
Hill, driving along in a basket wagon with a "tiger" on the
step - none of 'em was above twelve years old, and all were
got up like women of twenty, even to the languid airs and
gestures.
So that was my first impression of New York, gained in
a few brief hours: splendid women on the go, but nothing
else out of the ordinary, for the town itself was a sort of
larger Glasgow - there were no sky-scrapers then - and
chiefly remarkable for being paved apparently with peanut
shells, which were sold by swarms of urchins and crackled
underfoot wherever you turned, even in the lobby of the
Astor House, to which we drove from the station. It was the place in New York just then, and large even by American
standards, a great barracks looking east across Broadway to
the Park, with a shaving mug and brush in each room; talk
about luxury, if you like.
If my impressions are sketchy,261 can only plead preoccupation.
New York was where I was going to have to cut
stick, not only eluding the Kuklos but hiding out from them,
preferably with a British consul who'd see to my passage
home once he found out who I was. It was maddening (and
frightening) to drive through crowded, bustling streets, to look about the busy lobby of a great hotel, to sit in the suit
f rooms which had been reserved for us - and to know that
- "^en't stir a foot for fear of the unseen eyes that were
ollowing me everywhere. Soon after we arrived, when Joe ad gone below stairs to chivvy the porters about our bags,
I 153
and Annette and I were alone, I excused myself to visit the
privy along the way. She didn't even turn her head as I
slipped out into the passage, which seemed empty except
for a couple of darkies clinging somnolently to their brooms
- and then at one end there was a nondescript white man
who turned his back just a shade too hurriedly at the sight
of me. I strode smartly the other way - and became aware
of a chap lounging in an alcove ahead, with a round hat
tilted over his eyes. Of course, he may have been an innocent
citizen - but I didn't know that. I stepped into the thunderhouse,
palpitating; it was empty so far as I could see, but it
was six floors above ground, and by this time I was convinced
that there was probably an armed dwarf crouching in the
bloody cistern.
Right, thinks I, we'll have to wait until dark; if I'm not a
better night-stalker than anything the Kuklos can show, it's
a poor look-out. Meanwhile, we'll be a docile little prisoner,
and keep our eyes peeled. I headed back for our rooms, and
bore up sharp at the door, which was ajar, for voices were
being raised within, Annette's and Joe's.
Following her astonishing behaviour the previous night,
when she'd crept into my arms blubbing like a baby, I'd
looked to see a softening of her manner in the morning, but
no such thing. The Annette who woke as we pulled into
New York was her old shrewish self; when I referred to our
tender interlude, she simply turned her back and ordered
me out in her iciest tone so that she could get dressed. It
was the same on the drive to the hotel, with Joe on the box,
and at breakfast in the coffee-room; she either ignored my
remarks or replied in cold monosyllables, staring past me.
And now, as I eavesdropped, she was in fine withering form
with Joe, who was fighting a dogged rearguard action, by
the sound of it.
"I gotta wait fo' a reply at th'Eastern 'lectric," he was
protesting. "Crixus cain't git ma message till aft'noon, an'
cud be evenin' 'fore he telegraphs back. Might have to wait
till mawnin', even "
"What of it? D'you think I intend to sit here waiting for you?"
154 a
"Might be best, ma'am. Cain't leave Comber heah on his
lone - one of us oughta be with him -"
"Don't be a fool! Of course I shan't leave him here! He'll
ome with me. Hermes's men will have him in view every
moment - there are two of them, are there not?"
"Even so, ma'am, he'll be safest right heah! He's a right
slippy mean feller, an' dang'rous! Ah know it "
"You know it! Who are you to know anything, you black
dolt! You'll remember your place, which is to do my bidding!
D'you hear? Now, get to the telegraph office - and don't
return until you have Crixus's order to take him to Boston!
I don't care if you have to wait until tomorrow, or the day
after!"
He muttered something which I didn't hear, and she fairly
hissed in fury. "Don't dare question me - don't dare!
Comber is my concern - not yours, you insolent offal! Do
you hear? Answer me, when I address you! Do you hear?"
"Yes, ma'am." His deep voice was shaking. " 'Sposin' Ah
git word f'm Crixus this aft'noon - where Ah find yuh?"
"You don't! Wait till I return. Now, get out!"
I met him in the doorway, murmured, "Ah, Joe - how
many free niggers get that kind of pleasuring, eh?", and
received a murderous glare before he strode off. Annette
was putting on her bonnet before the mirror, but when I
inquired where she was going I was told curtly to hold my
tongue and wait, which I did obediently, while she fussed
with her appearance, referring every few minutes to the little
gold watch which she kept in her reticule. She was paler
than usual, and twitchy as a nervous sepoy, drawing her
gloves off and on and fiddling with her toilette - something's
up, thinks I, but after a while she seemed to settle, and it
was a good half-hour before she looked at her watch for the
last time, stood up, and informed me that we were going
out.
'I have business in town. You will come with me, and
don't move a yard from me at any time, do you understand?
Whatever I do, wherever I go, don't leave my side for a '"onient, and do not contradict anything you may hear me say- No, do not ask questions!" She rapped it all out like a
155
tiny drill sergeant, steady enough, but I guessed that she
was up to high doh within, and striving to hide it. "You are
being watched, remember! Do not look around for ... for
anyone - they are there. Do nothing out of the usual, you
hear? Your life depends upon it!"
It was nothing she hadn't said in Washington, but the
manner was new: she was scared, and I couldn't believe it
was only on my account. I started to ask her what was amiss
but she bit my head off.
"Be quiet! Do as I say - no more! We are man and wife
out in New York, so try to behave in a natural manner!"
That was rich, coming from her. She took a breath, and
handed me some change. "That is our streetcar fare, three
cents apiece. Pay the conductor. Now, give me your arm."
It was like walking with a badly wound up clockwork doll
as we descended to the street, but once we were out in the
sunshine and the chattering Broadway crowds she became
easier, possibly because I showed no tendency to cut and
run or bawl for a copper. There's a great air of up and doing
about New York; everyone seems to be in a cheerful hurry,
and even my apprehensions about the Kuklos bravos who,
I was sure, were dogging our steps, receded in that jolly
bustle. We mounted one of the long cars which ran on rails
on the broad thoroughfare; it was crowded to the doors, but
half a dozen gallants begged Annette with much tipping of
tiles and "Do me the honour, ma'am!" to take their seats,
and I'm bound to say she played up like the actress she was,
smiling prettily as she accepted and even referring demurely
to "her husband" to discourage one young blade who was
being over-attentive. He gave me an apologetic grin and
offered me a chew from his tobacco case, which I declined;
fortunately the press was too thick for him to start the relentless
inquiry to which Yankees are wont to subject perfect
strangers as to their origin, business, habits, and destination,
and after a couple of stages Annette informed me that "this
is our stop, Beauchamp", and we transferred to one of the
omnibuses which ran on the cross-streets.
Here I had my encounter with the dolly-mops who used
me as a conductor; one of them exclaimed flirtatiously that
156
I'd eiven her too much change, so I said gravely that in the
resence of so much beauty I invariably became confused, and she should return any over-payment to my wife, who
handled all my financial affairs. That sent them into blushing
whispers and giggles, with sidelong glances at Annette, who
gave me a sharp look as I took my seat beside her, but said
nothing. The girls lost interest in me after that, and fell to
discussing a party which one of them had attended, "on
Park Avenoo, you never seen such style, it was a yellow en'ertainment - sure, everythin' yellow, linen, glass, plates,
an' all, I swear even the lampshades were yellow, but then
Mrs van Vogel, she's Harold's boss's wife, y'know, why,
she's just drownin' in money - Harold reckons that party
cost her fifteen thousan' dollars!"
Cries of "You don't say!" "Well, I swan!" and "Gosh a
mercy!"
"Harold hated, it, tho', 'cos he couldn't smoke or chew,
he was fit to be tied "
"Say, Harriet, did you have to wear yellow, too?"
"Why, sure, you think I'd go in green or blue to a yellow party? An' we danced, an' there was a magician, an' an
English breakfast, an' I never saw more policemen outside a
house in my life, to keep the crowds back from the carriages.
'Course, Harold and I, we walked ..."
Annette gripped my wrist. "Come!" snaps she, and made
for the door. We were at a stop, some passengers had just
descended, and the driver was about to strap up the door
again; he raised a great bellow of complaint at our tardiness,
but Annette squeezed out with me on her heels. I looked
back at the cursing driver in time to see him close the door
on another latecomer, a cove in a brown suit and bowler
who was demanding that he open it again, but jarvey wasn't
having any, and the bus rolled off with the fellow staring
after us through the glass.
This way - do not hurry, and do not look round!" Annette's
fingers were tight on my arm as she guided me along we crowded sidewalk, her heels clicking smartly. We were
on one of the Avenues, lined with fashionable shops, and
"etore you could say Jack Robinson she had whisked into
157
one of them, a splendid emporium with two large glass
doors, one bearing the word "Madam" and t'other "Celeste"
and with fat gilt Cupids capering on the lintel above
One moment we were in the crowded bustle of the street
the next in the hush of an opulent interior, the street noise
cut off as the doors closed behind us.
For a moment I thought it must be an exclusive brothel
for we were in a great salon all plush and gilt and mirrors
with thick carpet and velvet divans and curtains looped back
by silver cords, and Junoesque females of perfect complexion
drifting about. The air was heavy with perfume - and then I
realised that I was the only man in the place, and that the
Junoes were shop attendants waiting on society women of all
ages. My astonished gaze fell on a polished counter displaying
alabaster pots of "Mammarial Balm", travelled to a glass
cabinet containing - did my eyes deceive me? - corsets
enhanced by globular objects labelled "Madam Celeste's Patent
Bosom Balloons, with Special Respirator", dwelt in disbelief
on a plaster cast of the Venus de Milo attired in "Eternal
Youth Pumped Cups", and came to rest on a double doorway
consisting of an enormous oil painting of splendidly endowed
females in gauzy costumes teasing the god Pan who was bound
to a tree and not thinking much of it; above the doorway was
a gilt sign: enamelling studio.
I'm too young for this establishment, thinks I, but before
I could speak we were accosted by a dark soulful beauty
who'd have been the picture of elegance if she hadn't been
chewing like a longshoreman - not baccy, but a curious grey
pellet like candle-wax which she removed daintily as she
approached and secreted in a lace handkerchief before
inquiring languidly if she could render assistance to
"maydam".
"I am Mrs Comber," says Annette. "I have an enamelling
appointment with Madam Celeste."
"Sure," drawls the beauty. "Would maydam be requirin'
facial treatment only, or face'n shoulders, or face'n shoulders'n
buzzum?"
"What do you mean?"
"Face," repeated the young lady patiently, "or face'n
158
shoulders, or . . . ," she fluttered graceful fingers at
Annette's upper works ". . .the whole shebang?"
"I shall discuss that with Madam Celeste!" snaps Annette.
"Kindly send for her at once."
"0-kay," sighs the beauty, and spoke as one in a trance.
"If-inaydamwillpleasetobeseatedan'studyour-tariffshe
- will - see - we - offer - the - $25 - weekly - application the1;75
- monthly - application - an' - our - special - $500 - application- guaranteed-foronefullyear'tisacapitaleconomy-muchfavoured-
by- our- reg'lar-clienteel ''
"I said I shall discuss it with Madam Celeste!" Annette
kept her voice down, but it was quivering with impatience.
"She is expecting me - Mrs Comber! I must speak with her
privately, do you hear?"
"Privately, huh?" The beauty raised a knowing brow,
gave a sly glance at me, and leaned forward confidentially.
"Is ... ah ... messoor to be present durin' th'application?"
"What? Yes, yes - now will you fetch Madam Celeste?"
"Well, sure! Right away. Perhaps maydam an' messoor
would care to study our choice of shades while you wait."
She presented us each with cards bearing coloured illustrations
of scantily clad females with varying complexions.
"Indian Ivory is 'specially becomin' for facial application,"
she murmured. "On t'other hand. Rose Blush for the buzzum
is a prime fav'rite with gennelmen, we find ..." She
tapped my card delicately. "Perhaps messoor has a
pref'rence?"
"Eh?" says I, startled. "Oh, I don't know ... what
flavours have you got?"
"Bring Madam Celeste this instant!" snarls Annette, and
the beauty gave me a wondering look and swayed off, smirk- ^g, while my companion made seething noises and glanced
quickly over her shoulder towards the door; her knuckles were white on the handle of her parasol.
"If you're looking for the cove in the brown suit, he's still on the bus," whispers I, and she started, eyes wide with
alarm. "He was Kuklos, was he? Look here - what the "evil's up, and what are we doing in this place? Are you ^ying to give 'em the slip?"
159
She stared at me wildly, lips trembling, but before she
could speak, a tall beak-nosed female, with the beauty in
tow, was bearing down on us, crying apologies for the delay and would Mrs Comber kindly step this way? She bustled
Annette off through the enamelling studio doors,27 and as I
followed the beauty stood aside to let me by; she was retrieving
her chew from her handkerchief, popping it between
rosebud lips, and I must have looked mystified for she smiled
brightly and said: "Spruce gum. Tis real succulent - you
wanna chew?"
There was a sudden commotion at the street door. A tall
burly man, with another behind him, was pushing in, looking
around the salon, thrusting past a girl attendant who tried
to bar his way. I heard Annette give a little scream; she was
staring back white-faced from the enamelling studio doors,
and at that moment the burly cove spotted us and started
forward at a run, barging a customer aside and overturning
a table laden with pots - Mammarial Balm, probably, but I
didn't wait to see; I was through the studio doors like a
whippet, and Annette was crying: "Quickly, for your life!
This way!" as she and Madam Celeste disappeared round a
corner ahead of me.
I followed, full tilt, and found myself facing a short flight
of stairs leading upwards, but no sign of fleeing females.
There was a door ajar at the stair foot, though; I dodged
into it, and now it was my turn to scream as I found myself
confronting four women, naked to the waist and painted
entirely white, seated in barber's chairs with girls in overalls
lathering them in some kind of plaster from buckets; for an
instant we stared in mutual amaze, and then someone
shrieked "Peeping Tom!", they rose as one enamelled
female and scurried for cover, and Flashy tactfully withdrew
and legged it upstairs four at a time. I heard the studio doors
crash open behind me, booted feet pounding, oaths and
screams as my pursuers encountered the Plastered Poonts
Society, a roar of "This way, Jem!", and panic lent me wings
as I shot up another two flights - and here was Madam
Celeste on a landing, grim as a Gorgon, but pointing towards
an open doorway.
160
"Through there!" cries she. "They're waiting in the far
attic! Run! I'll bar the door!"
Some chaps might have paused to offer gallant assistance,
or inquire who "they" might be, but if you're me, and have
no notion what the hell is happening, but only that you're
a short stairway ahead of murderous pursuit, you do as you're bid and let chivalry take care of itself. I bounded
through, heard the door slam and the lock grate behind me,
and found myself in an immensely long studio gallery with
a glass roof, full of lumber under dust-sheets. Annette was
ten paces ahead of me, pausing in her flight to wave me on;
I was beside her in a second, bellowing for enlightenment
as she fumbled in her reticule and stamped her tiny foot in
dismay.
"Where are they?" cries she. "McWatters! A moi
There was a distant shout from the far end, and then a
splintering crash as the door was burst in behind us. I had
a glimpse of Madam Celeste being hurled aside by the burly
villain, and then he and his mate were hallooing at the sight
of us, the leader drawing a revolver - and Annette had a
Derringer in her fist and was letting fly, once, twice, the
sharp reports no louder than exploding caps, and God knows
where the shots went, for he stood unharmed, covering us
and roaring: ,
"Give up, Comber! Hold there, or you're dead, by thunder!"
His muzzle swung to me as I heard Annette's hammer click
on an empty chamber - and there was only one thing for it.
Quick as light I gripped her by the waist and swung her bodily
before me as a shield, his gun boomed like a cannon in the
confined space, I felt the wind of the slug past my cheek, and
as I flung myself back, clasping her to my bosom, an absolute
salvo of revolver fire sounded from behind us, the burly man
threw up his hands and pitched headlong, his mate fell back,
clutching his arm, and now the gallery seemed full of men run"^g
past us, six-shooters at the ready, bawling to our stricken
Pursuers to surrender. One of the newcomers, a whitewhiskered
file in steel spectacles, dropped to his knee beside us and seized Annette by the arm.
161
	"Are ye hit, wumman?" cries he, in a broad Scotch accent
and she plainly wasn't, for she struggled from my nerveless
grasp, demanding furiously why he hadn't been on hand
when needed, and then she became aware of the smoking Derringer in her fist - and went into a dead swoon. The
Scotchman swore and demanded if I was wounded- I
reassured him, and he promptly abandoned me and hurried
off to supervise the apprehension and manacling of our two
assailants, who were bleeding all over the shop and being
deuced noisy about it - and so far as I could think at all, I
was reflecting, well, if this is New York, they may keep it
for me. Sixty seconds earlier I'd been quietly weighing the
relative merits of Indian Ivory and Rose Blush as knocker
cosmetics, and here I was lying winded in an attic reeking
with gunsmoke, sober men in large boots were pocketing
revolvers and shouting at each other, one was hauling me
to my feet and enjoining me to take it easy, and Annette
was lying comatose while Madam Celeste waved a bottle of
salts under her nose.
One thing only penetrated my dazed mind: she'd led my
Kuklos shadows into a carefully laid trap in this unlikely
tit-painting emporium - but why? And who were these hardfaced
gentry who had emerged to smite the Amalekites in
the nick of time? There wasn't a uniform among 'em, but
they were far too official to be anything but police or government;
one, a brisk, bearded chap in a hard hat who seemed
to be the leader, was barking orders - and, bigod, he was
another haggis-fancier; no getting away from the brutes,
wherever you go.
"Right, McWatters, awa' wi' them taste the Tombs," he
was telling the white-whiskered cove. "Pickering'll have the
third yin by now - they're taste be kept apart and solitary,
mind that! Now, the black fellow, Simmons, will still be at
the telegraph office, and Casey's seem' taste it that no message
from Washington will reach him till tonight - your men are
to observe him in the meantime, but let him alone, ye follow?"
He gestured at Annette, who was stirring feebly, eyelids
fluttering, and snapped his fingers at the man beside me.
"Johnson - carry her down. I'll attend taste Mr Comber mysel'
162
we're no hurt?" he added to me. "Capital, I'll be wi' ye 'Trectly!" He clapped McWatters on the shoulder. "Away
p go then, Geordie! A smart morn's work, my boy, and
50 I'll'tell the commissioner!"
So they were police - and suddenly I was so weak with
relief that my legs buckled, and I sat down heavily on a pile
of lumber. I was safe at last, and could sit there panting gratefully while the man Johnson swung Annette gently up
in his arms and bore her out to the stairs, with Madam
Celeste in attendance, my two would-be murderers were
carried out, dripping gore, McWatters ordered his men away
- and then the bearded man and I were alone in the silent
gallery, with the powder smoke still wraithing in the sunbeams
from the glass roof, and the blood wet on the planks.
He pulled a flask from his pocket and handed it to me.
"Tak' your time," says he, "and we'll have a wee crack,
you and I." He was a nondescript fellow, in his shabby suit,
but with an eye bright and unwinking as a bird's questing
over me and missing nothing, and while he wasn't above
middle height I guessed that anyone who ran into him would
come away bruised.
"You're police?" says I, when I'd swallowed and gasped.
"Officer McWatters and his men are from the New York
force," says he, with a sour glance at his flask. "For mysel'
... let us say that I serve the United States."
_ "Thank God for that!"
I "Ye can thank Mistress Mandeville, too, while ye're about
it. She's in the same employ . . . that startles ye? Aye, weel, tak' anither pull at the Glenlivet, if ye like. She never said
cheep to ye, did she? And right she was; the less ye knew,
the better."
"She's an American . . . agent? I'll be damned . . . but,
lord, she's married to that fat scoundrel "
"Count Charles La Force, who calls himsel' Atropos.
Aye, she is that. It's a great convenience. I'll have the flask
back now," he added dryly. "Good malt's scarce on this side
o' the water."
I handed it back, marvelling. Annette Mandeville spying or the government on her own husband's conspiracy? Just
163
as Black Joe, in Crixus's confidence, was a spy for the Kuklos
. . . dear God, was no one in this bloody country what they seemed to be? My bewilderment must have been a sight to
see, for my companion was looking sardonic and benign
together, rot him.
"A tangled skein, eh?" says he. "But not taste my agency - ye see, Mr Comber, we've been following your progress
ever since Moody picked ye up in that Washington alley
and every word ye've spoken and heard since then has been
reported taste me. We know all about your conference wi'
Crixus, and how Atropos had ye lifted, and how they both
schemed taste send ye to John Brown (who is a friend o' mine
I'm proud taste say), and about Harper's Ferry, the whole
clanjamfry." He had that complacent know-all air which is
so objectionable in Scotchmen, especially when it's justified.
"Oh, aye, the Kuklos and Underground Railroad pride
themsel's on their secret intelligence . . . weel, sir, they're
no' the only ones."
He paused, to see how I was taking it, but 1 was mum,
so he went on:
"Needless taste say, once we knew of your presence, we
referred to our official records, and identified ye as the
British Admiralty agent who was active - aye, uncommonly
active! - in this country ten years ago." He gave a knowing
smile. "Never fear, Mr Comber. We have no interest in that,
ye'll be glad to hear; our concern wi' you is here and now."
He regarded me with eyes like amiable gimlets. "So . . .
why are ye in the United States?"
Not a question, you'll allow, to which I could give a short
answer - but I didn't need to. Since they weren't concerned
with my murky American past, my course was clear.
"There's no secret about it. You're welcome to the whole
story - but not until I'm under the protection of the British
minister, either here or in Washington." I gave him my
Flashiest smile. "Very good?"
It wasn't, of course. "I'd remind ye, Mr Comber," growls
he, "that ye're in no position to make conditions - having
entered this country secretly, and associated wi' two clandestine
and illegal bodies "
164
"Associated my eye! They kidnapped me - as your
vesdroppers have certainly told you! And I'm not an "Admiralty agent, and never was, and my name ain't
Comber-"
"I dare say! Prescott, is it? Or Arnold, or Howard? Or
have ye another one?"
"You're damned right I have! It's Flashman - and I'm a
colonel in the British Army! And believe it or not as you
choose, I was on my way home from India to report to Lord
palmerston when I was . . . why, what's the matter?"
For he had recoiled a step, staring down at me in the
oddest way - not as though he didn't believe me, but as
though he did, and couldn't credit his senses.
"Flashman, did ye say? Flashman - the Afghan
soldier?"
Well, this was gratifying - I'd not supposed my fame had
carried so far. But of course he was British-born, by his
voice, and must have heard of me years ago.
"The very same!" cries I, laughing. "I know it must sound
damned unlikely - and I've no papers, or anything of the
sort, and I don't know a soul here to vouch for me, but a
telegraph to our minister in Washington - Lord Lyons, I
believe "
"Stop you!" He leaned forward abruptly. "We may not
have taste seek so far. Tell me - sharp, now! - what was your
wife's maiden name?"
| "What? My wife's . . . what d'ye mean ?"
"Answer!" snaps he. "Her maiden name!"
"Why . . . Morrison! But-"
"An only child, was she?" He rapped it out, face close to "line, and I found myself answering:
"Why ... no - she had three sisters "
"Their names?"
"What the devil! Now, see here "
"Answer! Ye say ye're Flashman! Prove it! Her sister's
names!"
Why . . . Mary . . . and Agnes . . . yes, and Grizel "
"Where were ye married?"
This was staggering. "In Paisley Abbey - but how in God's
. 165
name do you know?" I was on my feet now. "Who the devil
are you? D'ye mean to say ye know me?"
"I do that," says he, and the sudden bark and blazing
stare that had jolted the answers out of me were gone, and
he was regarding me with grim astonishment. "I could wish
I didn't. But we'll mak' siccar - what took ye to Paisley in
the first place?"
"Why, I was training militia "
"That ye were! What for?"
"To ... to help to put down the Chartists - there was
rioting among the mill people "
"When they read the Riot Act at Morrison's mill - what
like horse were ye ridin', and what colour were your
breeks?"
"Eh? How the ... hold on, it was a white mare, I think
. . . and my pants would be cherry-pink . . . My God, you
were there?" In my mind's eye were the dirty yelling faces,
the shaken fists, the hail of clods and brickbats that had
knocked the Provost's hat off, the Peninsular veteran sergeant
bawling to the wavering militia to hold their line, the
snarling obscenities as the mob gave back sullenly before
the bayonets, your correspondent near to soiling his fine
Cherrypicker "breeks" with fear . . . and this glowering
inquisitor with his rasping voice and peeler's eyes
remembered it, too. And here we were, twenty years after,
facing each other in a New York attic . . . where his timely
intervention had probably saved my life.
"Aye, I was there," says he. "Was I no'? Man, I was
the ring-leader! No, ye won't mind me - it's my trade, no' being ' noticed. And there were no warrants out for Allan
Pinkerton in those days, taste drive him from his native
land!" His eyes glinted angrily, and then he shrugged. "At
least ye didnae fire on us, like those fools at Monmouth
Castle!"
His name meant nothing to me; he wasn't the most famous
detective in the world, then.28 But the great thing was that
he knew and could vouch for me, and speed me to the British
ministry; in my delight I gripped his hand and pumped it,
congratulating him on his splendid memory; he said curtly
166
that it was ^^ enough to remember going hungry on a
per's wages, and when I cried jovially that I meant his
^g inhering my wife, and her family, he replied unsmiling
that no one in Paisley was ever likely to forget Morrison and
his brood. He wasn't sharing my high spirits, I could see; in
fact he was looking damned sour, frowning and tugging his
heard like a man who doesn't know what to do next.
"It's no' that simple!" snaps he, when I spoke of telegraphing
Lyons. "Oh, aye, I ken fine who ye are, and a'
about the Crimea and the Light Brigade - I still see the old
country papers! Didn't I read lately about your great deeds
in India and the Victoria Cross!" He ground his teeth. "And
ye spoke of Palmerston - I suppose ye're far ben wi' the
Queen,too!"
Being married to Elspeth, I understand Glaswegian, so I
could agree that I had the honour of Her Majesty's close
acquaintance - but why should that upset him?
"Because 'Comber' was a poor crater of no account - but
Flashman, V.C., is anither kettle o' fish a'thegither!" cries
he, becoming Scotcher by the minute. "And my orders are taste hold 'Comber' for my chiefs, and no' let him near the
British ministry!"
"Well, I ain't Comber, so your orders don't count "
"Do they no'? That's where you're wrong!" He rounded
on me. "Comber or Flashman, the United States want ye,
and that's the end o' it!" He added quietly: "So ye'll please
to consider yoursel' in my custody."
"What? You told me a moment since they don't give a
dam about ten years ago, and by God, I've done nothing
since ..." My astonishment gave way to fury at the insolence
of it. "Custody be damned! Who the dooce d'ye think
you are? Since I was railroaded into this bloody country I've
been assaulted, kidnapped, threatened, blackmailed, and
dam' near killed - and you've known all about it, damn your ^es, and never lifted a finger until now! Well, Mr Allan
Pinkerton, I've had enough of it, and you'll take me to the British minister or consul or whoever-the-hell it is here and
"ow, or I'll-"
'Or ye'll what?" says he, and as I gargled to a stop before
167
that ruthless stare, he pushed me unresisting back to my seat
- I'm as persuadable as the next man, you know.
"There's no help for it," says he. "My chiefs may take a
different view when they learn who ye are - but I doubt it.
There's too much at stake, and it all turns on what has
happened taste ye in these few days past." He regarded me
sombrely. "The fact is, we need ye."
"Well, you damned well can't have me, d'ye hear? I never
heard such moonshine - what the blazes can you need me
for?"
"Perhaps taste preserve the union of these United States,"
says he steadily. "But that far ahead I cannae see. Now, I'll
take ye to my chiefs - who are among the highest in the
land, I may tell ye - and they'll inform ye further." He
chewed his lip, considering. "This much I'll tell you now,
since the scheme is mine: for reasons quite different from
those of Crixus and Atropos, whose infernal plans must be
frustrated at all costs . . . my superiors would have ye enlist
with John Brown."
168
They say that Yankees are the smartest
salesmen in the world, and I'll not deny it. I'd not have
believed, when Pinkerton spoke those appalling words, that
any advocate on God's earth could have talked me into joining
Brown of my own free will - Crixus had tried by moral
'suasion (which he'd certainly have augmented with blackmail,
if necessary), the bloated fiend Atropos by naked
threats, and now this steely-eyed bastard was announcing it
as the policy of the U.S. authorities - he didn't say why,
and I didn't ask, because the whole thing was outrageous. I
mean to say, while Crixus probably, and Atropos certainly,
had the means to compel me into the service of a mad farmer
bent on starting a war, the United States hadn't - they couldn't hold an eminent British soldier against his will, deny
him the protection of his embassy, and force him into criminal
activity, could they? And yet ... I finished up at
Harper's Ferry. Why? Because a certain shrewd New Yorker
understood the true art of persuasion, which lies in convincing
the gull, against all reason, that he can't afford not to
buy - salesmanship, that's the ticket.
I'll come to that presently; my immediate response, when
Pinkerton sprang his mine, was to question his sanity and
decline at the top of my voice, pointing out that if he didn't
drum up Lyons instanter, Palmerston would have a fit, the
Queen would be most displeased, we might well burn Wash- mgton again, and he, Pinkerton, would find himself selling matches on the street corner. To which he replied bleakly
iat I'd better come along quietly.
I said I'd swim in blood first, so two minutes later I was
being escorted down the backstairs by two of his stalwarts,
169
standing on my dignity and doing what I was bid, in the sure
knowledge that I was on a sound wicket, and the longer they held and hindered me, the more crow they'd have to eat in
the long run. They put me in a Black Maria in the alley behind Madam Celeste's bouncer repair shop (which I
guessed was what the secret service call a "cave", and
Madam herself in government pay) and so to a brown building
overlooking the river, nothing like a police station or
jail, but staffed by sober, silent civilians who conducted me
to a comfortable enough chamber which was something
between a parlour and a cell (carpet on the floor, bars on
the window), gave me a disgusting luncheon consisting of a
cake of fried chopped beef smothered in onions and train
oil, and left me to my own devices for a couple of hours.29
Believe it or not, by this time I was quite enjoying myself.
I was safe, you see, gloriously safe, after all my trials nobly
borne, and certain of eventual deliverance. Poor old Charity
Spring's scheme for my undoing had gone agley altogether,
now that it was known who I really was (thank God for
Pinkerton and his memory!). There could be no question
now of my answering old charges in the distant South (the
diplomatic stink would have been tremendous), the Kuklos
couldn't come near me, and poor old Crixus simply didn't
count. By now, I reflected happily, Pinkerton would be dismaying
his chiefs with the news that the lowly Comber,
whom they'd hoped to bend to their nefarious will (though
why they should want him to join Brown's ragged regiment
was still beyond imagination) was none other than the
admired Flashy, darling of the British Empire, and quite
beyond their touch; I even had a jolly daydream in which I
was summoned to the White House to receive President
Buchanan's apology for the lunch.
Pinkerton's reappearance brought me back to earth. He
had a couple of civilians in tow, and as soon as I clapped
eyes on them I smelt "government". One was a swell ministry
ruffian, a genteel lantern-jaw with a flowered weskit and
brass knuckles in his fob, no doubt; the other was your
complete politico, with the pudding face of a bad-tempered
baby and no nonsense. Pinkerton called him "Senator", and
170
hp plumped down in a chair with his fists on his knees, yowled, cut my protest off short, and pitched right in.
"pinkerton tells us you claim to be an English army
rolonel named Flashman." He had the harsh, nasal rasp of New England. "Says he recognises you, from twenty years
back. It won't do, sir! Not good enough. He may be mistaken.
He also says you refuse to give any account of yourself
until you've seen your minister. Well, sir," he stuck out
his fat chin, "that won't do, either! After you've explained yourself, and your connection with the Englishman who
masqueraded in this country ten years ago under various
names - and satisfied me that you are who you claim to
be ... then we'll see about the minister." He sat back,
folding his hands over his guts. "Now, sir ... you have
the floor."
I'd been all set to sail into him with demands that I be
released forthwith, but the steady look of the shrewd eyes
in that stubborn, podgy face, and the flat assurance of the
man, told me it wouldn't answer: they'd keep me here until
hell froze or I talked - as I was certainly going to have to,
sooner or later, to Lord Lyons, who'd be bound to pass it
on to them, so why not save him the trouble? And I love
telling a tale about myself, and startling the whiffers ... so
I decided to shelve my protests, asked for something to wet
my whistle, warned them it would be a long story, and fired
away.
Well, you know it by now, from my being pressed aboard
Spring's vessel, my masquerade as Comber, adventures on
the Mississippi, slave-running, slave-stealing. Underground
Railroad, Lincoln, and so on, to the point where I'd fled
westward after Spring killed Omohundro. My peregrinations
beyond the wide Missouri I dealt with only briefly, dismissed
the Crimea and Mutiny in a modest sentence or two, and
so came at last to my present misfortunes, all the way from
the Cape to Madam Celeste's, omitting only the tender pass^es
. . . and I'm bound to admit, it is one hell of a tale,
which I'd not believe myself if I hadn't been there, every
ghastly foot of the way.
They heard me out in silence, and I was croaking hoarse
171
when I finished. The Senator had barely moved, but his
petulant glower had grown deeper as I talked; Pinkerton
had listened intently, nodding and sniffing now and then
and occasionally prowling about to view me from different
vantages. The lantern-jawed sportsman had been out of rny line of sight, but when I'd done he was the first to break the
silence.
"It fits," was all he said, and the Senator grimaced and
eased himself in his chair, shaking his jowls in perplexity.
"You may say so!" growls he. "By Gadfrey, it's the wildest
thing I ever heard, I'll say that!"
"Too wild to make up."
"Oh, well, now! You mean you believe it?"
"I guess I know the papers on Comber by heart," says
lantern-jaw, "and he hasn't contradicted 'em. Not once.
What he's added to what we knew already . . . well, sir, as
I said - it fits. Every time."
The Senator scowled harder than ever. "Where's Lincoln
just now?"
"Not in New York. But, you know, he couldn't speak to
this . . . this gentleman's being Colonel Flashman."
"No, dammit!" The Senator swung round in his chair.
"See here, Pinkerton - are you sure of him?"
"Beyond any doubt whatever, sir. This is Colonel
Flashman."
"You'd take an oath on that?"
"It's no' a matter of oath!" Pinkerton was impatient. "I know}"
The Senator drummed his fingers, brooding, and then
threw up his hands. "What the Hades, whichever he is, he's
all we have, in any event!" He rose and faced me. "Very
well. . . Colonel Flashman! I make no apology for doubting
you, sir, for if ever a man brought suspicion on himself . "
He paused, breathing hard, and suddenly burst out: "Confound
it, sir - do they know of this in England? About
Comber, and impersonation, and slave-running, and . .
and heaven knows what?"
"No, sir," says I. "I was on leave, you see."
"My God!" He stared helplessly at the others, and then,
172
sauaring his shoulders, he sat down before me again, full of
stern resolve.
"I'll not waste words. We've had a deal too many already
- but we had to be sure who you were. Now that we know,"
says he, without much confidence, I thought, "I am still
bound to ask the question I'd have put to you if you were
Comber." He took a deep breath. "Are you prepared to
place yourself at the disposal of the United States for an
extraordinary service?"
"You mean to help this mad bugger Brown to start
a war?" I had my answer ready, you may be sure. "No!
Dammit, if I told Pinkerton once, I "
"No, sir!" cries he. "Quite the contrary! To make sure
that Brown does not start any such thing!"
I could only gape - by God, he was serious. "What on
earth d'you mean? Make sure he doesn't . . . how could I
do that? In heaven's name, if you want him stopped - why,
arrest him, or shoot him, or banish him to Timbuktu "
"That can't be!" It was the lantern-jaw. "Crixus and
Atropos both told you. For political reasons, we daren't
touch him."
"But we can restrain him, given the means taste hand,"
says Pinkerton. "Yoursel', colonel."
"Me? Restrain him? Why, my good ass, I don't even know
| him . . . thank God!" Something Pinkerton himself had said
flashed into my mind. "You said Brown was your friend!
Well, you restrain him, then! I can't, even if I wanted to,
which I dam' well don't "
"Hear me, sir!" cries the Senator, raising a statesmanlike
hand. "You misunderstand entirely. No one can reason with
John Brown. He is a man possessed, sir, not to be moved by
persuasion. But he could be prevented -" he leaned forward
dramatically "-by a lieutenant in whom he reposed absolute
trust! A deputy, a counsellor on whom he relied completely for the military skill and knowledge which he himself lacks,
<-ould so hinder and delay his terrible design that it would "ie stillborn. He is a simple man, when all is said. And the events of this past week have conspired to make you "he
1 stabbed a finger at me "- and only you, that lieutenant,
173
that deputy, who can frustrate him. Why, already Brown is
looking to you, the man chosen for him by his trusted friend
Crixus. And Crixus and the Kuklos, from far different
motives, have set you on the path to the same dreadful end
that they both seek. We are asking you to follow that path
so that their infernal machinations may be confounded!" So
help me, it's what he said; Senatorial oratory, you see. He
took his finger out of my weskit and flourished it aloft.
"There must be no abolitionist raid on Southern soil! The
consequences would be too hideous to envision - war, sir,
civil war, might well follow! That is what hangs in the balance,
do not you see? But it can be prevented, sir, without
loss of life, without so much as a tremor to disturb the tranquillity
of-"
"Not by me! Man alive, d'ye know what you're saying?
I'm a British officer, sworn to my country's service - or have
you forgotten that? I can't meddle in "
"You have not heard me out - but you must!" He stood
firm, jowls and all. "The peace of a nation is at stake! Very
well, you may say that you are not an American, that this
is no concern of yours or England's - but you would be
wrong as can be! As a man of honour "
"Honour? Honour, d'ye say?" A splendid horizon of
humbug suddenly unfolded before me, and I sprang to my
feet, John Bull incarnate. "What's honourable about
bamboozling this barmy peasant, I'd like to know? Hoodwinking,
by George, playing Judas! Of all the caddish tricks
- pshaw! And you talk about honour - dammit, you Yankees
can't even spell it!" I'm not sure I didn't stamp my foot.
"Oh, the blazes with this! I've heard enough! I demand to
see the British minister - and that's my last word to you!"
He was swelling for another burst of eloquence, and
Pinkerton was flushed with anger, but the lantern-jaw
motioned them aside, and they conferred in urgent whispers
while I stared nobly out of the window - mind you, I kept
an ear cocked, and caught a few murmurs: ". . . no, no,
'twould be fatal - Lyons would be bound to refuse . . ." ". . must prevail on him somehow - why, he's
heaven-sent! . . .", ". . . oh, he'll see him, right enough 174
he's set on the thing, heart and soul . . .", ". . . aboard the
ship then, out of sight, couldn't be better . . .", which was
all very mysterious. Not that I cared, now; for once, I was
savouring the novelty of being able to face a group of selfish
zealots who were intent on flinging me into the soup, and present a dead bat to all their urgings. I was quite cock-ahoop,
I can tell you. As they emerged from their confabulation
I turned to look them blandly in the eye, and the
Senator addressed me, magisterial but sour.
"Very well, sir ... since you are not to be moved, we
have no choice but to place you in the charge of your consular
officials, who will doubtless arrange for you to see Lord
Lyons in Washington." I could have cheered, but confined
myself to a grave inclination. "In the meantime, there is an
eminent personage in this city who desires to speak with you.
I shall take the liberty of presenting you to him forthwith."
It gave me pause for a second; after all, my true identity
had been known only for a few hours, and to a limited circle,
I'd have thought; what "eminent personage" had got wind
of me? Still, I've never minded being lion-hunted, so I waved
a courteous assent, asking only who it might be.
"Notwithstanding your deep interest in American affairs,"
says the Senator with a sarcastic sniff, "I doubt if his name
is known to you. Let us simply call him the next President
of the United States."
* * *
For a moment I wondered if he meant Lincoln (and that
was a prophetic flash, if you like) since he was the only
American of any note I'd ever met, bar Kit Carson, and it
wasn't likely to be him. Then I remembered they'd already
said Lincoln wasn't on hand; besides, the Abraham of my
acquaintance, while a handy man to have at your side when
you've a bullet in the buttock and the slave-catchers are
closing in, hadn't struck me as a likely candidate for high
office; too good-natured a rascal altogether, and dressed like
a scarecrow.
It didn't signify, anyway, whoever it was; in a few hours
il d be among my own folk, preparing to shake the dust of
175
America from my feet forever, and glad of it. So now it was
back to the Black Maria again, with a sullen Pinkerton for
company, and the other two in a carriage behind; we were
borne swiftly along the waterfront to a quiet quay where a
trim little sailing-cutter was waiting, manned by Navy tarpaulins,
Pinkerton ushered us aboard, and in no time we
were scudding out on to the crowded river, with my curiosity
rising by the minute.
There was any amount of water-traffic about Manhattan
Island in those days - steam-launches, sailing craft, paddlesteamers,
three-deckers even, and rowing boats, and what
with the salt air and sunshine and cheery bustle, it was quite
capital; I sat on a thwart drinking it all in, not minding the
spray or the heaving, content to admire the view and wonder
which river we were on, for I didn't know East from Hudson
and still don't. We seemed to be making for the far shore,
cutting through the water at a great rate, with the steamboats
shrilling their hooters and passengers crowding the rail
to look down on us; as we neared the shore-line of wharves
ahead, there seemed to be some jamboree in progress, and
the sound of brass bands was mingling with the steam
whistles and the cry of the sea-birds. A little flotilla,
gay with bunting, was making for a big sea-going paddleboat,
there were banners flying, and people waving and
hurrahing, and a tug was squirting its hoses high into the
air, making watery rainbows in the sunlight, very pretty
to see.
Some great swell taking his leave, thinks I, for the folk
on the smaller boats were singing "Auld Lang Syne" and
giving three cheers, again and again, and as we stood off I
could see a knot of people on the big paddle-boat, waving
their hats. We seemed to be waiting, and then there was a
great volley of orders, and our sail cracked like a gunshot,
and we went swooping in under the paddle-boat's stern, and
round to her lee, where we hooked on.
"Put this on," says Pinkerton, handing me a big wideawake
hat. "And turn up your collar. Right, come on!"
He led the way up the side-ladder, with two of his fellows
fore and aft of me, and others ahead shouting to the people
176
to stand clear; we bustled through them, and I was shown
into a small cabin, and bidden to wait.
Which I did, for a good half-hour, wondering but not
alarmed, until Pinkerton reappeared and conducted me
without a word to a door where the Senator was waiting; he
rapped on the panels, a voice cried to come in, and we were
in a large stateroom in the presence of a wiry little gentleman
in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a cigar as big as himself, and
sighing with relief as he eased off his boots with his feet,
and kicked them aside.
"Ah, Henry!" cries he. "So this is the gentleman! Colonel
Flashman, I am happy to make your acquaintance; my name
is William Seward.30 Sit down, sir, sit down." He exchanged
a nod with the Senator, who went, and Seward grinned
apologetically. "Forgive the informality of my feet, won't
you? They protest at this time of day."
I felt quite let down; hang it, I'd been expecting someone
ten feet tall, and here this "eminent personage" was a slight,
dapper bantam in his stocking-soles; brisk enough, with a
head of greying reddish hair, bright blue eyes under bushy
brows, and a curiously husky voice, but his only striking
feature was a nose like a battleship - he looked not unlike
a clever parrot, or an amiable Duke of Wellington, if you
can imagine any such thing. Next President of the United [States, though? I couldn't see that - and, as we know, he
never was, and who's heard of him these days? Still, I can
say I've been bullied by Bismarck, diddled by D'lsraeli,
cajoled by Lincoln, charmed (believe it or not) by
Palmerston, and bored to submission by Gladstone - and
not one of 'em was harder to resist than William Henry
Seward. He was civil, pleasant, easy - and the most vicious
arm-twister I ever struck - he didn't even hint, let alone
threaten, just showed you the inevitable, ever so amiable.
Which, of course, was why he'd asked to see poor unsuspecting
Flashy, when all other persuaders had failed.
He soon had me settled with whisky and cigar, crying how
pleased he was to meet such a distinguished soldier of whom
he'd heard so much - that disarmed me to start with, I admit.
jThen he was full of India, of which he knew a surprising
177
deal, questioning me about the Mutiny, wondering how the
natives would take to Crown rule instead of John Company's,
asking how Christianity was doing in the country not
my style at all: if he'd asked how the Bombay hints compared to the Punjabi bibis, I could have set him right.
Had I visited the Holy Land, as he hoped to do when he
got to Europe? Waterloo, too, he must see Waterloo, and
Stirling Castle, and look up his relatives in Wales - oh, he'd
visited England before, as a lad, and sneaked in to have a
look at old King William at Windsor, ha-ha!
All this as he pottered about, setting his books in order,
placing the flower-vase just so, tapping the glass, smoking
like a chimney, and at last settling himself in an armchair,
remarking how grand it would be to see "the homeland"
once more.
"For that's what it is, you know, to an American - why, I
feel as excited as a child again, going on a visit to granpapa's
house." Puff-puff on his cigar. "Or ought I to say grand- mama's house? No, 'twould be ungallant to your gracious
queen to saddle her with that venerable title yet awhile."
He chuckled, and grew thoughtful. "Ah, yes . . . old
England. . . new America. Has it ever occurred to you,
colonel, that our two nations are the only ones on earth
who have a natural claim to each other's sympathy and affection?
The truth is, you see, we're not two different nations at all, but merely two separate states . . . the European and
American branches of the British race." Puff-puff. "I say
that with all respect to the Dutch, German, and French
citizens of this country, of course. We Americans are still
part of the British family - as you are." He smiled at me
through the smoke. "Don't you agree?"
I made some idle remark about the War of Independence,
and he burst out laughing. "My dear sir, my grandmother's
family fought for the King on that occasion! Grandpapa
Seward chose the right side, though; yes, sir, he was a
colonel in Washington's army, a true-blue American patriot
. . . and a Welshman to the end of his days, I'm told."
Puff-puff. "No, colonel, political differences don't run in
the veins."
178
He lit himself a new cigar, and waved it philosophical-like.
"What does polity matter, after all? Republic . . . monarchy
. England was a republic once, long before there were
United States." Puff-puff. "As for those differences of which
so much is made - accent, social custom, and the like - why,
they are no greater, surely, between Devon and Delaware
than, shall we say, between Cornwall and Caithness." He
regarded me with smiling blue eyes. "Now, you have travelled
widely in this country, and while I dare say it has not
felt quite like home . . . still, I would venture to wager that
you have felt more at home here, than in France or Italy
or Spain. Isn't that so?" It was the first sidelong mention
of my American activities that he'd made, and I wondered
what was coming next, but he went cheerfully on: "Why,
I dare say if you were to stop a man on Fifth Avenue or
better still, on the Oregon Trail! - ten to one his name
would prove to be Smith or Jones, if it were not MacPherson
or Clancy ... ah, you smile - you've found it
so?" In fact I'd been thinking of my Far Western acquaintances,
and he was right: Wooton, Carson, Maxwell, Bridger,
Goodwin . . .
"Or take your own profession," he went on. "If someone
were to exchange your British Army List for our own, who
could tell which was which, eh?" Puff-puff. "No, colonel,
we may have our rivalries and jealousies, all those tiresome
jests and jibes about the top-lofty Briton and the brash
Yankee, but let me tell you, sir, the smart travellers who
publish their 'impressions' and disparage the 'differences'
between us, see only the surface of our countries. Beneath,
we are one people still. One language, one law, one thing, as our Norse ancestors would say." He gave a little grunting
laugh. "As a politician and statesman, I confess I have frequently
opposed British policy, even sought to frustrate
British interest, but do you know . . ."he was leaning back,
that beak of a nose pointing at the ceiling ". . .if ever the
day came - which God forbid! - when the being - aye, the ^ry existence! - of that dear old land were in danger, then ^ as an American, would give my life to keep it whole."
He paused. "Nor do I doubt that an Englishman would do
179
as much for my country . . .ah, your pardon, colonel, I see
your glass is almost out."
If you have illusions, Seward, prepare to shed them now,
thinks I, as he plied me with more liquor. For it was plain
as a pikestaff whither he was bound, and if he thought he
could come round me with his blood-brotherhood fustian,
he was well out of court. I thought of keeping mum, to see
how he would come to cases at last, but my natural mischief
decided me to play him up, so I observed innocently that
the occasion wasn't likely to arise, surely?
"In the United States?" He pushed out a lip as he set
down the decanter. "A young country, at the crossroads,
facing the awful question whether it shall be a free nation
or a slave nation . . . whether slavery shall wither gradually,
peacefully, and with compromise, or be slain suddenly in
the terrible arbitrament of war . . . that is a country in grave
peril, colonel. Oh, it may be that given time and moderation,
the withering process will take place . . . unless some
evil chance, some terrible folly, should bring the irrepressible
conflict suddenly to a head."
Like some loony invading Virginia, for example - why the
devil couldn't he say it, instead of tiptoeing coyly about?
We both knew what he wanted, that this was the last vain
attempt to coax me into joining Brown - was he too scared
to come straight out with it, or did he suppose that if he
gassed long enough, about it and about, I'd be mesmerised
into changing my mind? It was quite amusing, really, and I
was content to smoke his excellent cigars and sip his indifferent
liquor while he skirted delicately around the point.
Hollo, was he getting there?
". . . if such a catastrophe should threaten,"he was saying,
pacing slowly to and fro and contemplating his cigar ash, "and
it lay with an Englishman to avert it - if he alone had been
given, by chance, the power to avert it, at no peril to himself
. . . would he feel himself bound, I wonder, to answer the call
of blood, to put aside the petty, man-made trammels of mere
citizenship, and do the little service that would mean so much
... to his kinsfolk?" He'd be quoting Magna Carta in a
minute. "What would you think, colonel?"
180
I'll tickle you, you insinuating little bastard, thinks I.
"He'd not hesitate a moment," I said. "In like a shot - I
mean to say, he couldn't refuse, could he? Unless, that is,
he was prevented by his duty - if he was a soldier, say. That
would rule him out altogether."
He didn't blink, or start, or do anything but nod solemnly.
"True ... it depends, though, does it not, on one's
interpretation of that elusive word, 'duty'?" He cocked his
head. "To his Queen ... his country? To his ... race? To
humanity, even?"
"Nothing about humanity in Queen's Regulations, I'm
afraid." I gave him my regretful grin, and he sighed and
shook his head.
"I've no doubt you're right. And yet . . ." he resumed his
seat and went into another of his philosophic trances at the
ceiling ". . .1 wonder how the Queen - whose Regulations
they are, after all - would view the question? What advice,
do you suppose, would she give to one of her officers if he
had the opportunity to render such a signal service to the
young cousin-country for which she and her people feel such
a warm affinity?" Puff-puff. "If he could save it from the
horror of civil strife . . . perhaps even from destruction?
Where would she - and Prince Albert - conceive that his
duty lay? I wonder ..."
He heaved another reflective sigh and sat up, stubbing out
his cigar. "Well, we can't say, can we? You know her, of
course, which I do not . . . but I look forward with the
keenest anticipation to the honour of being presented to
her, at Court, in a few weeks' time." The blue eyes regarding
me steadily were as innocent as a babe's; he even smiled.
"Oh, even a staunch republican feels his pulses quicken at
the prospect of ... conversing . . . with your gracious
Queen, and her Consort. I shall also be meeting your Prime
Minister, Lord Duhrby - oh, I must remember, Lord Darby,
I should say! And Lord Palmerston, who takes a close interest
in American affairs . . . you know him, I believe? I must
tell him that you and I have spoken ..."
I've received quite a few vicious thrusts in the low lines ^in life's fencing-match, but this was the real navel-slasher.
181
It was beautiful, effortless, and deadly - not once had he
said directly what he was after, or even mentioned John
Brown, or me, for that matter, but the moment he'd spoken
of being presented and "conversing", the murderous blackmail
was out, and a frightful scene was before me: the
Queen, all goggle-eyed dismay, bloody Albert stuffed and
shocked, Pam's false teeth fairly popping out in agitation
while the Next President of the United States sighed and
shook his head: ". . . no, ma'am, we couldn't move him . .
country on the brink . . . peril of civil war . . . our fate in
his hands . . . said it was no business of his, deaf to all
entreaties . . . God knows what'll happen now ... his name,
Your Majesty? Flashman . . . how's that, Prince? . . . oh,
F-1-a-s-h-m-a-n ..."
I'd be ruined. My promised knighthood would be dead as
a tent-peg, and my career with it. I'd be shunned by
St James's, cut in Society, discarded at Horse Guards - for
it wouldn't be a damned bit of use pleading that America's
troubles weren't my indaba,* or that as a serving officer I
was positively forbidden to meddle in 'em. No, I'd be the villain who had spurned the appeal of our colonial cousins
in their hour of dire need, cold-shouldering their Presidentelect,
standing wilfully by the letter of the law when honour
demanded that I should be guided by its spirit, and (horror
of horrors!) embarrassing Victoria and dear Albert, and in
front of the Yankees, too! I could see Elspeth's lovely features
dissolving in anguish as she learned that she'd never
be bidden to tea at Balmoral again . . .
"It's not public knowledge yet, I believe, but the Prince
of Wales is to visit Washington next year." Seward was
beaming at me like a happy ferret. "The first British royalty
ever to stand on American soil - another precious link in
the chain that is being forged anew ..."
And a fat chance there would be of that once Flashy's
churlish refusal had fouled the transatlantic cable ... no,
it was unthinkable. This smooth-spoken blackmailing little
swine had got me by the essentials - and John Brown was
* Affair, concern (Swahili, council).
182
ooing to get his lieutenant. That was that, and no help for t . and my nature being what it is, I did a lightning
reckoning of the possible advantages that night follow. If I
did what they wanted, and could keep this idiot Brown from
flying off the handle (and heaven knew I had enough experience
of disaster to be able to scupper the half-baked military
ambitions of a pack of backwoods yokels, surely?), if, in a
word, I rendered this "signal service" to the Great Republic
by gum, but Mr President-in-waiting Sevard would have
a different tale to tell to little Vicky and her awful husband,
wouldn't he just?
". . . volunteered like a shot, ma'am .. . knew it was
irregular, but felt sure Your Majesty would wish it ...
sacred task . . . blood thicker than water. . . who would
true valour see ..." "We are most gratified, Mr Stew-hard
. . . so obliging of the dear colonel, was it not, Albert? . . ."
"Hoch-hoch, yess! Colonel Flash-mann to Rugby School
wass going, ja!"
Gad, I might get a title out of it ... but no, it would all
have to be kept mighty quiet and unofficial . . . still, there
would be whispers, and knowing royal smiles when I got
home . . . and no doubt a confidence from Her Majesty to
Elspeth over the tea-cups . . . and stern questions, followed
by a rebuke for form's sake and a wink and clap on the
shoulder, from old Pam.
| It ran through my mind in seconds, while Seward busied
himself clipping another cigar, and when I stood up those
bright eyes searched my face for several seconds before he
glanced at the clock and said, why, how time had run past,
and he expected they would be casting off soon.
"I thank you for coming to see me," says he. "We have
had a most valuable talk, I'm sure." He paused. "I expect
to be in England for two months at least; perhaps I may
have the pleasure of your company again - or have you
decided to prolong your stay in America?"
Well, two could play at that game. "By George, Mr
Seward, I'd been intending to take the first ship, but you've
roused my curiosity, don't ye know? I rather think I'll stay ^on a while - see something of the country, what?" And just
183
for devilment I added: "Any special sights of interest you
think I ought to see? Some people have urged me to visit
Virginia, but I've a notion it might be rather warm at this
time of year, eh?"
It took him aback, but only for a second. "That is my
understanding, too," says he. "Good-bye, colonel, and God
speed."
They tell me he was a man quite devoid of principles,
whatever they are, but I'd put it another way and say he
was a consummate politician. Clever, no question; he knew
exactly how to turn me round in short order, which argues
some kind of capacity, I suppose, and there's no denying he
saved the United States a few years later when he wriggled
out of the Trent Affair. He was no friend of ours, by the
way, for all the humbug he'd given me, and I can think of
only one good reason for wishing he'd become President:
Lincoln wouldn't have got shot.31
184
I; The fellow with the lantern-jaw was called
Messervy, and as soon as I stepped out of Seward's stateroom
and announced my change of heart, he took charge,
cutting off the Senator's cries of satisfaction and reminding
Pinkerton, who surprised me by clasping my hand, that there
was a day's work to do in two hours, so good-bye, Senator,
and let's go. Then it was ashore in haste to the Black Maria,
which was beginning to feel like home, with Pinkerton firing
instructions at me as we rattled along, while Messervy sat
aloof, stroking his moustache.
"Mandeville an' yoursel' will return to the Astor House
tonight as though nothin' had happened, and wait for Black
Joe Simmons. He sent a telegraph taste Crixus this mornin',
sayin' ye'd been found and were willin' taste enlist wi' Brown;
Crixus's reply has been at the New York telegraph office
this three hours past, but Joe hasnae seen it yet - and won't, [until you're safe back at the hotel. We've seen it, though sure
enough, Crixus is over the moon, haverin' on about the
returned prodigal, an' biddin' Joe take ye taste Concord wi'out
delay, where ye'll be presented taste Brown at the house of
Frank Sanborn. So ye'll be off tomorrow, likely - an' neither
Crixus nor Atropos will have an inkling o' what's happened
today." He permitted himself a sour grin. "The three Kuklos
men who followed you this mornin' are safe under lock an'
key, and will not see the light o' day until this whole Brown
business is by and done wi' "
"And when'll that be?" In the rush of events I'd given no
thought to it. Messervy spoke without looking round.
"Weeks. All summer, maybe."
"What? But, my God"
185
"Wheesht, and listen!" snaps Pinkerton. "Once you an'
Joe have left for Concord, Mandeville will return taste Washington
taste inform Atropos that all's well. It'll be days afore
he begins to wonder what has happened taste his three bravos
- an' we'll have one or two ploys taste keep him guessin'
never fear. The main thing is, he'll be satisfied that you're
safe wi' Brown, workin' your mischief - he thinks. Crixus
will be under the same misconception." He glanced at Messervy.
"That's my part done, I think."
Messervy nodded, and we sat in silence until our paddywagon
drew up behind the big brown building. It was growing
dusk, and as we alighted Pinkerton turned to me:
"I'll bid ye good-bye, colonel - but I'll be keepin' an eye
on ye until ye leave for Concord." He hesitated, and held
out his hand. "Glad ye're wi' us. Take what care ye can of
auld John Brown. He's worth it." He wrung my hand hard.
"An' my respects taste your good lady when ye see her. She'll
no' mind me, but I carried her portmantle once, taste the
Glasgow coach."
Then he was gone, and Messervy swung his cane idly as
he looked after him. "There goes a worshipper of John
Brown . . . h'm. Follow me, colonel."
In my time I've been sent into the deep field by some
sharp politicals - Broadfoot, Parkes, Burnes, and Gordon,
to say nothing of old Pam himself- but Messervy, the longchinned
Yankee Corinthian with his laconic style, was as
keen as any and straight to the point, coaching me briskly
even before we'd sat down, turning up his desk-lamps as he
spoke in that lordly half-English accent that they learn in
the best Eastern colleges.
"Whatever you've heard, Brown's not mad. He's a simple
man with a burning purpose. His admirers like to think of
him as a latter-day Oliver Cromwell. He is no such thing.
He's not a fool, but he lacks all capacity to organise and
direct. His strength -" here he sat down, shooting his cuffs
as he clasped his fingers before him on the desk "- which
you would do well to remember, is a remarkable gift of
inspiring absolute devotion, even in men far above him
in education and ability - Pinkerton, for example, and the
186
Pastern liberals who furnish him with money and arms. But
,t is among his personal followers - his gang - that this loyalty
is most marked."
He drew a sheet from a stack of papers at his elbow, and
pushed it across.
"Those are their names - you can study them later. They
are almost all young men, staunch abolitionists for the most
part, and dangerous beyond their years. They include several
of Brown's sons; the others are adventurers, jacks-ofall-trades,
a crank or two, some free blacks and escaped
slaves; a number of them have been soldiers, one was a
militia colonel, and most of 'em have fought in the Kansas
troubles. Only one or two are what you would call educated."
He considered. "They're tough, eager, and love
nothing better than shooting up slave-owners, as they did a
couple of months ago when they rescued a few niggers from
Missouri and chased the militia. But for the most part they
camp in the woods, do a little drill or target practice, a few
gymnastics, and sweetheart the local girls. Brown will be
looking to you to lick 'em into shape and plan his great
stroke in Virginia."
"How," says I, "d'you suggest I stop him?"
He indicated the paper in my hand. "There aren't above
a dozen names on that paper - that's his weakness, lack of
numbers. Many have come and gone; those names you may
regard as permanent. He's never been good at recruiting when
he was camped out in Iowa, rallying support, he managed
to muster the grand total of nine. It may well be that
his want of men, his inability to plan anything sensible,
and his habitual indecision, will be his ruin - with a little
judicious hindrance from you, skilfully contrived. One
thing you must not do, and that is try to undermine his
men's loyalty: it would be fatal. They love him; no other
word for it."
"What weapons has he got?"
"That we know of, two hundred revolvers and two wagonloads
of Sharps rifles. And you heard about the thousand
Pikes."
Yes, to arm the niggers when he invades Virginia. It all
187
sounds damned unlikely," says I, "but you take him
seriously."
"Like nothing since the Revolution," says he quietly.
"He's a man on fire, you see. And if the fit suddenly takes
him, he may go storming into Virginia at half-cock, with
his handful of gunfighters . . . and it just might start a
war."
"And you say he isn't mad! Has he got any money?"
"He's spent much of the past two years, when he hasn't
been raiding or writing half-baked constitutions, trying to
drum up funds here in the East. Said he needed $30,000,
and may have got close to a third of it, but in arms and
equipment rather than hard cash." He shrugged. "In other
ways, though, I suspect he's found it rewarding work. Unless
I'm in error, his vaunted simplicity masks a substantial
vanity: he seems to like nothing better than being received
in abolitionist Society, playing the Old Testament prophet,
preaching the wrath of God - he's a poor speaker, by the
way - being adored by maiden ladies from Boston who know Uncle Tom by heart, and admired by social superiors who
treat him as another Moses. That's one of them ..."
He took a card from his stack of papers and pushed it
across to me: a daguerre print of an earnest weed with flowing
locks and a wispy goatee, like a poetic usher.
"... Frank Sanborn, one of the so-called 'Secret Six',
the committee of influential abolitionists who are Brown's
leading supporters.32 You may meet some of 'em when
you're presented to him at Sanborn's place in Concord. They
hang on Brown's lips, applaud his speeches, pass the hat,
shudder deliciously when they think of him sabring Border
Ruffians, go into prayerful ecstasies whenever he runs a
nigger across the British border - and are in mortal terror
that he'll do something truly desperate." He stroked his silky
moustache. "Like attacking Harper's Ferry."
"They know he means to?"
"He told 'em so, a year ago - and they almost had apoplexy.
You see, they thought the cash and arms they'd been
giving him were to be used in the Free Soil campaign in
Kansas; when he sprang it on 'em that he was planning to
188
nvade Virginia, arm the blacks, set up a free state in the
hills hold slave-owners hostage, and dare the U.S. Government
to come on ... you may guess what effect that had
on our pious idealists. They besought him to give up the
idea he thundered Scripture and told them slavery is war and must be fought, they pleaded, he stood fast . . . and
they ga^ m' ^e the ^ women they are. However, he
decided to postpone his invasion when your compatriot,
Hugh Forbes, his right-hand man, fell out with him over
money, and betrayed the whole plot to various Republican
senators . . . among them Mr Seward, whose eloquence
so charmed you, I'm sure, this afternoon." He raised an
eyebrow at me, studied his nails in the lamplight, and
went on:
"Seward's a true-blue abolitionist, but he's not a fool or
a firebrand - and he has Presidential ambitions. He warned
the 'Six' they were playing with fire, and must leave off.
That set them shivering . . . but instead of cutting off Brown
without a penny, they renewed their tearful pleas to him not
to do anything rash, but if he did, please they'd rather not
hear about it beforehand."
Messervy sat back in his chair, and arched his fingers
together. "And there, colonel, you have the liberal abolitionists
of the North, in a nutshell: half hoping Brown will
go wild, while they pull the blankets over their heads.
Seward has more sense. He wants Brown stopped, which is
why he spoke to you today, once we'd convinced him that
you were the likeliest means of doing it. At the same time,"
he added drily, "Senator Seward finds this a convenient
moment to make the Grand Tour of Europe, which is a
capital place for the Republicans' favoured candidate to be
while Brown is rampaging around breathing fire."
"Hold on," says I. "You say 'we' convinced Seward - by
which you mean the secret service, and don't tell me differ- ^t' Aren't you meant to be working for President Buchanan,
who I believe is a Democrat? Not that I understand
American politics-"
"I work for the United States," says he coolly, "whose next resident will not be a Democrat. My task is the peace
189
and security of this country, by any means, despite the
efforts of its politicians."
"Spoken like a man!" I was beginning to take to this chap "But if it's peace and security you're after, and you can't
stop Brown by arresting him, or openly interfering with him
for political reasons . . . tell me, as one government ruffian
to another, why don't you just shoot him quietly in the back
of the head some dark night?"
"And have all hell break loose - North accusing South
the government itself (which is headed by a 'doughface' *
remember) suspected of political assassination, people like
Pinkerton outraged and demanding inquiry, the wild men
calling for bloody retribution? God knows where it would
end." He gave a faint smile. "In any event, I don't work for
Lord Palmerston - my political masters didn't learn their
ethics at Eton College."
"Oh, you're out there! I've a notion Pam was at Harrow
. . . what are you grinning at?"
"A kindred spirit, I suspect." He rose, shed his coat, and
loosed his cravat. "Please, be comfortable. Will you join
me?" He produced a bottle - Tokay no less, and poured.
"Now we can get down to cases," says he, settling himself.
"By the by, how much of the yarn you spun us this afternoon
was true - and how much did you leave out?"
"Every word of it - and about half as much again."
He nodded. "I guess that qualifies you. Well, here's confusion
to John Brown . . . one way or another." He sipped,
and sighed, a frown on the long clever face. "Now then -
I've told you about him, and his gang, and his supporters;
at least you know what to expect. If you can keep him quiet,
by fouling his traces for him and helping him not to make
up his mind - which, with your experience, you very well
may - then that's fine. But ..." he set down his glass and
gave his moustache another thoughtful tease, ". . . just suppose
you fail . . . and Brown does cut loose and raises cain
in Virginia for a day or two - for he'll last no longer than
that, you may be certain "
* A Northerner sympathetic to the South.
190
"You're sure of that? Even if he were to take Harper's
Ferry? Damn it all," I demanded, "why don't you put troops
into the place?"
He made a disdainful noise. "The official answer to that
is that we can't be sure he's still set on the Ferry - Forbes's
blowing the gaff may have scared him off it, he may be
thinking of some other target altogether, and we can't guard
the whole Mason-Dixon line. Myself, I'd say a squad of
Marines at the Ferry wouldn't hurt - but try telling that to
Washington mandarins who are too lazy or too dense or too
smug to take Brown seriously." He shrugged. "But ne'er
mind that. Consider, I repeat, what happens if Brown does invade Virginia, tries to stir up the niggers, and shoots a few
Southern citizens? What then?" Without waiting for a reply,
he went on, tapping off the points on his slim fingers.
"I'll tell you. The South will explode with fury and accuse
the Republicans of being behind it. The Republicans, including
the two Senatorial gentlemen you met today, will deny
it. The North will bust with ill-concealed delight because
Simon Legree has been kicked in the balls. The Southern
States will raise the cry of 'Disunion or death!' . . . and
then?"
"Then the bloody war will break out, according to you
and that fat Senator!" says I, impatiently, and he nodded
_lowly and sipped the last inch from his glass.
| "Yes, it very well may. I'd lay odds on it. But then again
. . there's a chance - oh, a very slim one - that wiser
counsels might prevail, provided . . ."he raised a finger at
me ". . . provided Brown had been killed or lynched along
the way. You see, if his raid had been a fiasco, and he had
met his just deserts - well, it might take a little heat out of
the South's temper. And Northern rejoicing might be a little muted - oh, they'd go into mourning for their hero, and Mr
Emerson and Mr Longfellow would write odes to the saint "eparted, and the Secret Six (having disclaimed Brown fas- ^r than you can blow smoke) would beat their breasts in
Public and give thanks in private that dead men can tell no ales . . but many sober Yankees would be appalled and "gry at the raid, and condemn Brown even while they
191
mourned him. Many would say he'd been proved wrong and that violence is not the way." He shrugged again. "Who
knows, in that mood, common sense might assert itself. The
country might shrink back from war . . . provided John
Brown were dead."
"I don't see that," says I. "What odds would it make
whether he was dead or alive?"
"Considerable, I think. Here, let's finish the bottle." He
tipped the remains into my glass. "You see, if Brown survived
the raid, and was taken, he'd stand trial - probably
for treason. I'm no lawyer, but when a man writes constitutions
for black rebel states, and fires on the American flag,
I guess I could make it stick. But whatever the charge, one
thing is sure: they'll hang him."
"Well, good luck to 'em!"
He shook his head. "No, sir. Bad luck - the worst. Right
now, I doubt if one American in five has even heard of John
Brown - but let him make his crazy raid, and swing for it,
and the whole world will hear of him." He smiled with no
mirth at all. "And what will the world say? That America, the
land of liberty, has hanged an honest, upright, God-fearing
Christian whose only crime was that he wanted to make men
free. A man who could stand for the archetype that made this
country - why, he could pose for Uncle Sam this minute. And
we'll have put him to death - the damnedest martyr since Joan
of Arc! And there will be such an outcry, colonel, such a blaze
of hatred throughout the North, such a fury against slavery
and its practitioners . . . and there is your certain war readymade,
awaiting the first shot."
He hadn't raised his voice, but just for a moment the cool nil admirari air had slipped a trifle. He smiled almost in
apology.
"There are many 'ifs' along the way, to be sure. I'm envisaging
the worst. Brown may not ride into Virginia this summer;
his own incompetence and indecision, encouraged by
you, may delay him long enough - if he doesn't move before
fall, I doubt if he ever will. He can't hold his followers
together forever, living on hope deferred, and fretting to get
home for the harvest."
192
He rose from his chair and went to a cupboard by the
wall" his voice came to me out of the shadow beyond the
pool'of light cast by the desk-lamps.
"If you can keep him bamboozled for a couple of months,
why all^ we^- ^ut ^ y011 can't' an^ it he does light out for
Dixie with his guns on, and comes to grief . . . then for the
sake of this country, and for tens of thousands of American
lives, he must not survive for trial and martyrdom at the
hands of the U.S. Government. No . . . John Brown must
die somewhere along the road . . .oh, bully for us! -1 knew
there was another bottle!"
* * *
You will wonder, no doubt, why I'd remained cool and complacent
during the conversation I've just described. I'll tell
you. Seward, in making it plain that if I didn't toe the line
he'd blacken my fair name to our sovereign lady and her
ministers, had used a phrase which had quite altered my
view of things. "At no peril to himself", meaning me. You
see, what had been proposed by Crixus and Atropos was
that I should be one of a whooping gang of cutthroats invading
the South to storm arsenals and stir up bloody insurrection
- the sort of thing I bar altogether, as you know. The
proposal made by the Senator and Pinkerton, hinted at by
Seward, and illuminated by Messervy, was quite the opposite:
I was to restrain, hinder, and prevent anything of the kind,
and while the prospect of passing several weeks in the company
of a pack of hayseeds, showing 'em how to shoulder arms
and dress by the right, and discussing strategy with their loose
screw of a commander, was not a specially attractive one we!!,
I'd known a lot worse. It would be hard lying and rotten
grub, no doubt, but I'd be earning the gratitude of the next resident, for what that was worth, and adding to my credit
at home when the story reached the right ears - as I'd make
dam' sure it did. Above all, it would be safe - "at no peril to
himself". Not that I'd trust a politician's word for the leather, you understand, but Messervy's information had borne him out ... until he'd made it plain that if the worst wll, I'd be expected to put Mr John Brown quietly to rest.
193
Fat chance. A scoundrel I may be, but I ain't an assassin
and you will comb my memoirs in vain for mention of Flashv
as First Murderer. Oh, I've put away more than I can count
in the line of duty, from stark necessity, and once or twice
for spite - de Gautet springs to mind, and the pandy I shot
at Meerut - but they deserved it. Anyway, I don't kill chaps
I don't know.
But it wouldn't have been tactful - indeed, it would have
been downright dangerous - to say this to Messervy, so I
received his disgusting proposal with the stern, shrewd look
of a Palmerston roughneck who took back-shooting in his
stride. I may even have growled softly. (And, d'ye know, I
accepted it all the more calmly because I didn't believe for
a moment that there was any chance of the matter arising:
Messervy and Seward and the others might regard Brown
as a dangerous bogyman, but from all I'd heard he was a
mere bushwhacker whose talk of invasion and rebellion was
so much wind. Oh, I'd do my best to humbug him, but my
guess was he'd stay quiet enough without my help. As for
starting a war, it was too far-fetched altogether. Well, I was
wrong, but I can't reproach myself, even now; it was damned
farfetched.)
Anyway, I nodded grimly as he brought his bottle to the
desk.
"You take the point?" says he, looking keen.
"Quite so," says I. "Which reminds me, the sooner I have
a gun in my pocket the better. Oh, and a decent knife - and
a map of Harper's Ferry, wherever it is."
"Colonel," says he, "it's a pleasure doing business with
you. Excuse me." He went out humming and I punished
the Hungarian until he returned with a neat little Tranter
six-shooter, a stiletto in a metal sheath, and a map which
he insisted I study on the spot and leave behind.
"There's the Ferry - just inside Virginia, and only fifty
miles from Washington." He came to my elbow. "The odds
are you'll never see the place, but if Brown does go for it,
and you have to do ... what needs to be done, then your
best course afterwards will be to make tracks for Washington
and your ministry. The militia will round up the rest of
194
Brown's gang, and that'll be that. You'll have no difficulty
u/ith Lord Lyons, by the way; he'll be given notice of your
mming, with an assurance from a high quarter that you have
rendered a signal service to the United States in a domestic
matter, and we are most grateful. We shan't tell him, officially what the service was, and I'm sure he won't ask, officially^ But I'm sure he'll speed your journey home."
He folded the map. "If, as is most likely, John Brown
spends a quiet summer, and nothing untoward takes place
well, when he starts to disband his followers, you can
desert him at your leisure. Again, Lord Lyons will be advised
to expect you, with our expressions of gratitude, et cetera.
Very good?"
"I don't know Lyons," says I, "but I'll bet he's nobody's
fool."
"He isn't," says Messervy. "Which is why, whatever
course you have to take, all will be well." He took another
turn at his moustache. "It's in a dam' good cause, colonel.
You know it, we know it, and Lord Lyons will know it."
I thought it wouldn't hurt to play my part a little. "You
Yankees have a blasted cheek, you know. Ah, well ... I
say, though, when I'm out in the bush, with Brown, how do
I-"
"Send messages to me? You don't - too dangerous. Brown
and his people might get wise to you; so might the Kuklos.
Just because we've got three of their men in the Tombs
doesn't mean there won't be others watching you - they'll
certainly have people keeping track of Brown himself. If
either side suspected you were secret service ..." He gave
me a knowing look. "Quite so. Anyway, the fewer of our
people who know we've got an agent with Brown - and a
Briton, at that - the better. We'll be keeping an eye on
things, though, and if need arises, I'll get word to you."
He took a small purse from a drawer and tossed it over.
mat's $50 to keep in your money belt ... if Joe should
wonder how you came by it, Mrs Mandeville gave it you." "e frowned. "That's another thing. Brown will welcome you with open arms-"
"Just suppose he doesn't - what then?"
195
"He will, no question; you're a gift from God. The point
is, he'll also welcome Joe; he's all for black recruits. Well
I don't have to remind you that Joe is a Kuklos man, and a
good one."
"He's a damned rum bird," says I. "Oh, I know he and
Atropos have been chums in the nursery and all that tommyrot
- but hang it, he ought to be all for Brown and black
freedom, surely? I don't fathom him at all."
"Some of these darkies who belong to the old Southern
families are mighty loyal. They think of themselves as kin
to their owners - and many of 'em are, though I doubt if
Joe is. But all we know of him confirms that he's staunch to
Atropos." He shrugged. "Maybe he reckons he's better off
slave than free, living high in the tents of wickedness rather
than being a doorkeeper in the house of a God who'd expect
him to earn his own living." And having a free run at massa's
white lady from time to time, thinks I. "Anyway, beware of
him," says Messervy. "He'll be watching you like a hungry
lynx." He glanced at his timepiece. "It's half after eight,
and Mrs Comber will be waiting. She hasn't been told your
real name, by the way. No need for her to know that."
The building seemed to be deserted, and we went down
the echoing stone stairs to a room on the ground floor where
Annette was waiting, with a nondescript civilian who faded
from view at a nod from Messervy. She seemed none the
worse for her swooning fit of the morning, and didn't give
me a glance, let alone a word, as Messervy conducted us to
a closed carriage in the back court, where he handed her in,
bowed gallantly over her hand, and gave me his imperturbable
nod. "Joe won't be given Crixus's message for another
hour. By that time you'll be having a quiet supper after a
day's sauntering and shopping on Broadway." He indicated
a couple of band-boxes on the floor of the cab. "Your purchases,
Mrs Comber. One of our lady operators chose them,
with regard to your taste, I hope." The Yankee secret service
evidently left nothing to chance. "Good luck, Comber .
and," he added quietly, "if need be, good hunting." Cool
as a trout, rot him, doffing his tile and knuckling his lipwhisker
as we drove away.
> 196
Annette sat like a frozen doll for several minutes, and
hen to my astonishment broke out in a low hard voice:
You saved my life this morning. When that creature fired
n us. My . my courage failed me. But for you, I would
iave been killed. I ... thank you."
I didn't twig for a second, and then it dawned that she
nust have quite misunderstood why I'd seized hold of her when the lead started flying. Oh, well, all to the good. I waved an airy hand.
"My dear, 'twas nothing! I wasn't going to be a widower
o soon, was I?" I slipped an arm about her and kissed her
oundly. "Why, it's I should thank you, for steering me clear of those Kuklos villains. But, I say, you took me
n altogether, you clever little puss - never a word that you were working for Brother Jonathan* all the time! }nd you a Southern Creole lady, too! How's that come
ibout, eh?"
"If you knew what it was to be married to that devil, you would not need to ask!" But she said it automatically, her
nind still fixed on that fateful moment at Madam Celeste's, iitting stiff as a board while I munched at her cheek. "I
lever shot at anyone before! I... I was in terror, not thinkng
what I was about or "
"Nonsense, girl!" says I, squeezing her udders. "Why, you ?lazed away like a drunk dragoon - winged him, I shouldn't
vonder! Gave him a nasty start, leastways. But here we are, safe and sound, so ... take that, you little peach!"
But it was like kissing a dead flounder. "I might have milled him!" she whispered, staring ahead. "It would have ?een murder - mortal sin! Thou shalt not kill! Oh, let me ^, damn you!" She beat at my hands, trying to struggle Free. "Have you no feeling? Can you think of nothing but
but your filthy lust - oh, when I might have had that ^pon my soul?"
1 was so shocked I absolutely let them go. "Upon your
whafl Heavens, woman, what the dooce are you talking
about?"
' Synonymous with "Uncle Sam".
197
"I tried to kill him!" She turned on me, eyes blazing, "i
had murder in my heart, can't you understand?"
"And he didn't, I suppose? My stars, he might have done
for both of us! What the devil's the matter?" I stared at the
pale little face, so tight and drawn. "Ain't you well? It's all
past and done with, we never took a scratch! Ah, but you're
still shaken - it's the shock, to be sure! Come here, you
goose, and I'll put it right!"
"I might have killed him! I wanted to kill him!" She closed
her eyes, and her voice was almost too faint to hear: "I
would have been damned!"
Now, I've seen folk take all kinds of fits after a shooting
scrape, or a battle, or a near shave, and the shock can be
hours in coming on, but this was a new one altogether. Her
eyes when she opened them were full of frightened tears,
staring as though she were in a trance. "Damned," she whispered.
"Damned eternally!"
They don't usually say that sort of thing until they're at
death's door, and she was as fit as a flea. I wondered how
to bring her out of it - she was too frail to slap, petting her
hadn't answered, and I couldn't very well ravish her in a
carriage on Broadway. So I tried common sense.
"Well, you didn't kill him, and you ain't going to be
damned, so there's no harm done, d'ye see? I know - we'll
try putting your head between your knees "
"In my heart I murdered him!" cries she.
"Well, it didn't do him a penn'orth of harm! Heaven's
alive, you never came near hitting the fellow "
"The will was the deed! I would have killed him - I, who
never thought to take life!"
This was too much, so I took a stern line. "Oh, gammon
and greens! What about those black wenches of mine at
Greystones? You had them W/-killed -'twasn't your fault
they didn't kick the bucket, and you never thought twice
about damnation! Anyway, who says there's a Hell?
Twaddle, if you ask me!"
It seemed to reach her, and she stared at me as though I
were mad. "This was a human beingV cries she. "If I h3^ killed him ..." She closed her eyes again, and began to
198
tremble, turning away from me. I waited for the waterworks,
hut they didn't come, and I saw there was nothing for it but
the religious tack.
"Now, see here, Annette, you didn't kill him, and if it's
the wish to kill that's troubling you, well, you're a Papist,
ain't you? So if you tool along to the nearest priest, he'll set your conscience right in no time." I thought of my little
leprechaun in Baltimore, and dear drunken old Fennessy of
the Eighth Hussars. "If he's got half as much sense as the
nadres I know, he'll tell you that self-defence ain't murder
in the first place. And if you want to thank me," I added,
"you'll do it best by recollecting that in a little while we'll
be seeing Black Joe, and we can't have him wondering why
you're looking like Marley's ghost!" I patted her hand. "So
draw breath, there's a girl, and forget about damnation until
you see old Father McGoogle in the morning and get your
extreme unction or whatever it is. The worst is past, and if
you play up now - well, you'll be doing your fat swine of a
husband a dam' bad turn, what?"
Possibly because of my healing discourse, possibly because
we'd pulled up at the Astor House, she suddenly snapped
her head erect, white as a sheet but compos mentis, and
began to behave normally, but mute. As I followed her up
to our suit, and presently down again to the dining-room, I
found myself wondering if she was quite sane - and to this
day I ain't sure. I'd known her, by turns, a vicious tyrant,
a voracious bedmate, a superb actress, a forlorn child, a
gun-toting secret agent, and now, of all things, a penitent
in terror of hell-fire because she might have shot a chap but
hadn't. Well, as they say in the North Country, there's nowt
so funny as folk - but I'd never have credited Annette
Mandeville with a conscience. Nursery education, no doubt;
God, these governesses have a lot to answer for.
She said not a word at supper - which she attacked with a fine appetite, I may say - but when we returned to our room and found Joe waiting, she was quite her old imperious se!!, and talked according. He was in a fine excitement,
"rusting Crixus's telegraph message into her hand; it was in ^de, and at length, but its purport was precisely what
199
everyone, from Atropos to Pinkerton, had predicted: Jog was commended for his zeal in running me down, and helping
me to see the light - not that Crixus had ever doubted
I would come round in the end, even after I'd lit out, for
he knew my devotion to the cause, and that reflection would
guide me to a just and righteous conclusion, God bless me
a thousand times. (I'd been doubtful, as you know, whether
Crixus would swallow the tale that I'd been persuaded to
change my mind, but Atropos had been proved right: he
believed it because he wanted to, and it fulfilled his fondest
hopes.) Finally, Joe was to lose no time in conducting me
to Concord and our Good and Trusty Champion, that the
Lord's Will might be accomplished and His Banners go forward
in Freedom's Cause. Amen.
"We got no time to lose," says Joe, all eagerness. "They's
a train leavin' fo' Boston fust thing, an' -"
"You'll take a later train, and reach Boston after dark,"
snaps Annette. "You'll stay the night there, and keep under
cover, going on to Concord next day - and again, you'll
arrive after dark." Joe would have protested, but she shut
him up. "Do you think Sanborn wants you to be seen entering
his house in broad daylight? Don't you know he's
watched by government operators, you black dolt?"
"They don' know us -"
"They'll know you even less if they never see you! Oh,
why did they entrust this business to a clod like you! Get out,
and fetch me a train schedule - not now, in the morning!"
He could gladly have broken her in two, but all he did
was mutter that he hadn't seen Hermes's men about the hotel,
and did she know where they were? She told him curtly to
mind his own business and let them mind theirs, and he left
with a venomous glare - but no suspicion, I'll swear, that
there was anything amiss; her tongue-lashing performance
had been altogether in her best style.
So then it was bedtime, and since I didn't expect much
carnal amusement chez Brown, I was determined to make
the most of it. After Annette's earlier vapourings, I half
expected reluctance, but she was all for it, and if her conscience
was still troubling her, she kept it on a tight rein,
200
ridressing heaven only in secular terms when amorous
c on7v sot the better of her. That interested me, for her
treii^;' & ^ n -i ,. r
isual form was to gallop in grim silence; more astonishing
till she was ready to talk afterwards, briefly enough at first,
hut little by little at greater length, until we were conversing
almost civilly. Whether it was gratitude for having her life
saved (as she thought, heaven help her), or I was in prime
fettle or she'd made her peace with God, or was just getting
used to me, I can't tell, but out came Annette Mandeville,
Her Life and Times, and diverting stuff it was.
I'd known already that she came of impoverished bayou
aristocracy who had literally sold her, aged fifteen, to the
disgusting redneck Mandeville, with whom she'd been living
at Greystones when I have in sight in '48. After my departure,
Mandeville had drunk himself to death, leaving a heap
of debt and Greystones mortgaged black and blue. As a
personable enough young widow, she'd had offers aplenty,
but Mandeville had sickened her of marriage, if not of men,
and after a succession of lovers she had decided that a career
as a mistress was no great shakes, and had determined to
try her luck on the stage - she'd been born with a talent for
mimicry, and being vicious, immoral, and vain, she had
taken to the theatre like a pirate to plunder. And it had
taken to her; in a few years she was playing the principal
houses in the States and Canada, making and spending
money, mostly on men.
Then, during an engagement in Chicago, her company
had been the victims of a daring robbery, and who should
be called in when the police had failed but Allan Pinkerton,
then making his mark as a private detective. He had been
impressed by the help she'd given in pointing the way to the
thieves, and identifying them, and had remarked that if ever
she tired of acting, she might do worse than police work; it
had been lightly said, and she'd forgotten it the more readily
because a new and brilliant prospect had opened before her
soon afterwards.
It was in a comedy at Orleans that she had caught the
lustful gooseberry eye of Charles La Force, and while the ^Y sight of him had set her shuddering, the size of his
201
fortune, and the ruthless determination with which he'd
pursued her, had made her think twice about repulsing him- he'd plied her with priceless gifts, haunted the theatre, and
finally killed her beau of the moment in one of those ghastly knife-and-pistol duels which the Louisiana gentry favoured
in those days, stalking each other through the bayous by night. After which his offer of marriage, with a royal cash
settlement, had finally conquered her far-from-maiden
heart, and she had trotted up the aisle with him, to her
abiding regret.
For she had soon discovered that beneath his revolting
exterior there lurked a monster whose depraved tastes would
have had Caligula throwing up the window and hollering for
the peelers; enforced bouts with Joe and other menials,
while the husband of her bosom cheered them on, had been
the least of it, and to make matters worse she had been
drawn into the dark affairs of the Kuklos. But where any
other wife would have lit out with whatever she could carry,
Annette's one thought had been to vent her hatred on him,
and she had been hesitating between poison and a knife in
bed when Pinkerton had again emerged, discreetly, upon
the scene. By now he was undertaking occasional work for
Washington, and had a finger on every pulse in America;
he had kept her in mind, and when she had married Atropos
he had seen her as an invaluable agent within the Kuklos,
if she could be persuaded. She had leapt at the chance, and
had been betraying Atropos happily ever since, until the
present emergency had caused Pinkerton to employ her in
more active work. And so, here we were.
It was plain from her account that loathing of Atropos
was the ruling passion of her life, and knowing her cold and
selfish nature, I found that odd. Granted she was compounded
of equal parts of malice and cruelty, I'd still have
thought she'd have preferred to decamp with his money and
pursue her theatrical and amorous careers in France or England,
rather than devote her existence to doing him despite.
It didn't seem to weigh with her, either, that in betraying
him she was probably helping to destroy the way of lit6 in which she'd been raised - the South, slavery, plantation
202
nciety and a!! tnat gracious magnolia stuff; no, she was
wreaking vengeance on Atropos, and that was enough for
her Well, I'm a ready hater myself, God knows, and take
the keenest pleasure in doing the dirty on deserving cases,
hut I'd never make grudgery my life's work; I reckon you
have to like, or love, something worth while, even if it's just
trollops and beer, or, if you're lucky, cash and credit and
fame . .  snd Elspeth. It occurred to me, as I put Mandeville
through her final mounting drill, that she wasn't fit to fill my
dear one's corset, and I felt a great longing for those blue
eyes and corn-gold hair and silky white skin and so forth,
and for that brilliant simpleton smile of welcome and the
witless prattle which would follow. At least I had that to
look forward to; Annette Mandeville had nothing but her
revenge. Oh, aye, and her eccentric conscience.
She was in a vile mood in the morning, snapping at me
and roasting Joe, and for the last hour before he and I left
to catch the train north, she sat in stony silence, staring out
of the window. At the last, when Joe was putting our valises
out in the passage, she closed the door quickly on him, and
turned her pale elfin face to me; she was biting her lip, and
then the tears came, and suddenly she was clinging round
my neck, the tiny body shivering against me.
"Have a care!" she sobbed. "Oh, have a care!" Then she
kissed me fiercely and ran into the bedroom, slamming the
ioor behind her.
203
I have only three memories of the trip from
New York to Concord: Joe's ugly face, under his plug hat
glowering at me from the opposite seat of a railroad car; the
creaking bed-springs of the cheap rooming-house in which
we stayed in Boston; and an advertisement poster of a young
lady crying: "Oh, Ma, I gave my back the awfullest strain,
dancing with Billy!" and fond mater replying: "Mustang
Liniment, judiciously applied, will ensure certain relief, my
dear!" The rest is blank, from the closing of Annette's door
to the opening of Sanborn's, presumably because I was too
used up to notice anything. They hadn't been idle days,
exactly, and Crixus, Atropos, and Mandeville had seen to
it that my nights weren't tranquil either, so it was small
wonder I was tuckered out - I had sense enough, though,
before we reached Boston, to tie the Tranter to my knee
beneath the trouser, in case the watchful Joe decided to
search me as I slept. A wise move, as it turned out, for when
I woke in the rooming-house my stiletto had disappeared,
but the Tranter was still in place.
It was Joe's hammering at Sanborn's knocker that brought
me back to life, I think, reminding me that it was a case of
on stage again, with a part to play, and no room for missed
cues or bungled lines, with that black nemesis at my elbow.
I remember thinking he must have telegraphed ahead, for
it was Sanborn himself who opened the door and greeted us
by name on the spot.
"Mr Comber, sir, welcome - welcome to Concord!" cries
he, and I saw that the daguerreotype had not lied, for he
was as intense and poetic as could be, with his fluffy whiskers
and anxious eyes. "And this is Simmons, to be sure!"
204
Abolitionist he might be, he still knew a mister from the
ff-raff. He ushered us into a hall stuffed with furniture and
melling of birdseed, and sped ahead to close the door of a
room from which came the rumbling conversation of
worthies with beards and gold watch-chains across their weskits
- V011 can a^By8 te^ the qnality of unseen company by
the noise they make, and I was willing to bet that at least half of the "Secret Six" were on hand.
Sanborn led us into another room across the hall, moving
with quick, agitated steps. "Captain Brown is with us!" says
he in a confidential whisper. "Do you know, we are celebrating
his birthday today? Yes, indeed, he is now in his
sixtieth year, but gentlemen, his frame and spirit are those
of a vigorous youth! Yes, indeed, although," he frowned,
"he has lately been somewhat indisposed, a result, no doubt,
of the privations endured on his recent glorious raid of liberation
'into Africa', as he calls it. Yes, indeed," he rubbed
his hands, a nervous habit which I realised was always
accompanied by his favourite phrase. "Yes, indeed, he is
only now recovering from a malarial ague. But he is in good
heart, I assure you! Yes, indeed!"
I asked if they'd tried quinine powder, and he beamed.
"There spoke the man of action - the practical man! Oh,
Mr Comber, you cannot know how it rejoices me to see
you!" And he absolutely wrung my hand again. "We have
heard so much from our good friend in Washington - you
know who I mean, I'm sure! And of the worthy Simmons
. . . er, Joe, isn't it? Yes, indeed! Yes, Joe!" He was one
of your tiptoe babblers, I could see, smiling, fidgeting, and
suddenly remembering to offer us refreshment, with more
prattle about the fatigue of travelling, and the crowded condition
of railroad cars. If this is a sample of our abolitionist
conspirators, I can see American slavery flourishing for a
century or two yet, thinks I; Joe, I noticed, was regarding
him like a cannibal inspecting an under-nourished mission- ^y. He gave us a toddy apiece, promised there would "e supper anon, muttered about seeing if Captain Brown ^as still occupied, and was away like a shot, leaving the
oor ajar. We sipped our toddies in silence, inspecting the
205
antimacassars and potted plants, and presently I was aware
of a child's voice in the hall asking:
"Please, sir, may I have your signature?"
I glanced out, and there was a lad of about eight holding
up a paper and pencil to a man who had just come out of the
other room, with Sanborn at his shoulder; I had a glimpse of
a fine shock of hair and a full beard, both grizzled, and then
he was speaking to the lad.
"What's this, my boy?" says he. "Not an order to pay the
bearer, I hope?"
"Oh, no, sir," squeaks the kid. "I want to pay you, if
you'll take my pocket money as a trade for your name. It's
but six bits," he added, digging out his coin, "an' it's all I
have, but Pa says every cent is blessed that goes to the good
cause."
A practised toad, this one, with a soapy smile and his hair
slicked down.
"The widow's mite," says the bearded man to Sanborn,
and laid his hand on the infant's head. "Bless you, my boy."
He pocketed the six bits and scribbled his name.
"Young Steams has started quite a fashion!"33 cries Sanborn.
"Yes, indeed! There, now," says he, as the child took
the paper, fawning, "you have a name that will live down
the ages, and for only six bits, too!"
I'd already guessed who the owner of the beard was, and
as he stepped into the room I was sure of it. From all I'd
heard in the past three days, I'd formed a picture of John
Brown as a towering figure with flowing white locks, glaring
like a fakir and brandishing an Excelsior banner in one fist
and a smoking Colt in t'other; what I saw was an elderly
man, spare and bony in an old black suit, like a rather seedy
farmer come to town for market. He had a long aquiline
nose, large ears, and deep-set eyes under heavy brows. An
imposing enough old file, you'd have said, but nothing out
of the ordinary - until you met the gaze of those eyes, clear
bright grey and steady as a rock. Gunfighter's eyes, was my
first thought, but they weren't cold; you knew they could
blaze or twinkle (and I was to see 'em do both), but what I
remember most was their level certainty. No one was ever
206
ng to make this man drop his gaze, or talk him out of
a t-Te came forward with a measured step, holding himself
rect, and took my hand in both of his; his grip was rough
nd strong, and he spoke slowly, in a deep, rather harsh
voice.
"Mr Beauchamp Comber," says he - pronounced it
Ro-champ. He gave Joe the same hand-clasp. "Mr Joseph
Simmons. Welcome, gentlemen." I realised that he wasn't
as tall as he looked, a little over middle height. "My good
friend Crixus tells me that you are an Englishman, Mr
Comber, and that by joining us you risk being in disfavour
with your own government. Have no fear of that, sir. I
pledge my word not to reveal your presence among us, by
speech or writing, and my friends -"he glanced at Sanborn
"- pledge themselves also. That goes for you, too, Mr Simmons."
He nodded at Joe. "Indeed, the names of Comber
and Simmons are forgotten from this moment.35 Crixus
refers to you, sir, as Joshua; that's good enough for me.
Joshua . . . and Joe, it shall be henceforth." He seemed
pleased with that, and it must have been his patriarchal
manner that called to my mind the verse about God seeing
every thing that He had made, and behold, it was very good.
"Joshua and Joe," he repeated solemnly, and took hold of
our hands again, one in each of his, and looked from one
I to the other of us, nodding like an approving bishop - and
I knew upon instinct that here was one who, in his own
modest way, was as big a humbug as I am myself. Only on
later acquaintance did I come to realise that - again like me
- he knew it.
Don't mistake me: I'm not saying he was a hypocrite, or
a sham, because he wasn't. God help him, he was a sincere,
worthy, autocratic, good-natured, terrible, dangerous old
zealot, hard as nails, iron-willed, brave beyond belief, and
possessed of all the muscular Christian virtues which I can't
stand. He was a humbug only in the public performance he
put on for his supporters back East, playing the part of John
orown, the worthy simple son of the soil with greatness in
im, the homespun hero whose serenity was all the more
207
impressive because it was so at odds with the berserk savagery
of his reputation on the wild frontier. It was a performance
which he thoroughly enjoyed (for he was quite as vain
as Messervy suspected) and for which he was naturally equipped, with his deliberate manner, calm searching eyes
strong handshake, and quiet tolerant humour - oh, it was
worth paying money to see him lay it on (and they paid
too). That I found wholly admirable, for I couldn't have
done it better myself, and I'm an expert at being lion-hunted.
In his own backwoods way, he had great style, and, odd
though it may seem in one whose historical image is that of
the Ironside fanatic, he also had considerable charm. Anyway,
for all his virtues, he was a bloody hard man to dislike.
I didn't sum all this up in a minute, of course, but I got
the first whiff of it, and having both style and charm myself,
and being a born crawler to boot, I responded to his welcome
as befitted a bluff, honest, British crusader.
"Thank'ee, Captain Brown," says I, guessing that my use
of the title would flatter him sick. "Proud to be with you at
last, and honoured to be accepted. They tell me, sir, that
it's your birthday. Warmest congratulations, and many of
'em. Now, I hope you won't take it amiss," I continued
heartily, "if I offer a small gift to mark the occasion. I'd not
dream of doing it if I didn't know that you won't keep it for
yourself, but will apply it to the great cause we're all privileged
to serve." I hauled out Messervy's fifty dollars and
handed them over. "It's all I have on me, I'm afraid, but
. . . well, I can't do less than that manly little chap I saw
out in the hall just now, can I, what? So ... many happy
returns, skipper!"
Shocking bad form, you'll agree, but this was America,
and I'd weighed my man: he snapped it up like a trout taking
a fly, looking moved and furrowed, and told me with another
hand-clasp that I had bought shares in freedom, and he'd
not forget it. I didn't grudge the fifty bucks; that was my
sturdy, open-handed character established, and I'd be living
at his charges for several weeks, anyway.
Then, in case anyone thought he was neglecting the
nigger, he turned to Joe, and told him that his presence
208
as a coloured man eager to fight for the liberty of his
nressed brethren, was a birthday present in itself, and one
hose value couldn't be reckoned in money. He asked Joe
here he came from, and when Joe said he was an escaped
slave who had worked for Crixus on the Railroad, and that
his family were still on a Southern plantation, Brown gripped
him again, and put a hand on his shoulder, swearing that he
wouldn't rest until that unhappy family had been plucked
from the teeth of the wicked, whose jaws would be broken.
He got quite warm about it, and for the first time I saw that
gleam beneath his brows, and heard the rasp in his voice,
which somebody described as being like a volcano disguised
by an ordinary chimney flue.
Joe didn't know what to make of it, but looked confused,
and when Brown let go his hand I saw him wince as he
worked his fingers. Sanborn, who had been listening in rapture,
took Joe out, and Brown settled his coat and begged
me to be seated, so that we might talk. He pulled up a chair
close in front of me, put his big gnarled hands on his knees,
looked me over carefully, and then said: "Well, now, friend
Joshua, tell me who you are, and what you know, and what
you have done."
For one horrid instant I thought he'd found out about me
- that I was Flashy, and the Yankee secret service, and-all
the rest - and then I saw it was just his manner of speech,
with that grave look that stern pedagogues give to naughty
children to convince 'em that lying's useless. What he was
after was "Comber's" story, and to inspect me.
So I described my "life" in the Royal Navy, and how I'd
spied on the slavers, and run into Crixus, and brought
George Randolph north - he lit up at that, calling it the
"bravest stroke" he'd ever heard of, so I embellished Comber's record with my own service with that maniac
Brooke against the Borneo pirates. He asked if they held
slaves in Borneo, and I said, droves of them, and that was ^hy I'd been there in the first place, to turn the poor buggers
loose and proclaim liberty throughout the land, or words to
that effect.
He drank it in with stern approval, saying I surely had
209
impressive because it was so at odds with the berserk savagery
of his reputation on the wild frontier. It was a performance
which he thoroughly enjoyed (for he was quite as vain
as Messervy suspected) and for which he was naturally
equipped, with his deliberate manner, calm searching eyes,
strong handshake, and quiet tolerant humour - oh, it was
worth paying money to see him lay it on (and they paid
too). That I found wholly admirable, for I couldn't have
done it better myself, and I'm an expert at being lion-hunted.
In his own backwoods way, he had great style, and, odd
though it may seem in one whose historical image is that of
the Ironside fanatic, he also had considerable charm. Anyway,
for all his virtues, he was a bloody hard man to dislike.
I didn't sum all this up in a minute, of course, but I got
the first whiff of it, and having both style and charm myself,
and being a born crawler to boot, I responded to his welcome
as befitted a bluff, honest, British crusader.
"Thank'ee, Captain Brown," says I, guessing that my use
of the title would flatter him sick. "Proud to be with you at
last, and honoured to be accepted. They tell me, sir, that
it's your birthday. Warmest congratulations, and many of
'em. Now, I hope you won't take it amiss," I continued
heartily, "if I offer a small gift to mark the occasion. I'd not
dream of doing it if I didn't know that you won't keep it for
yourself, but will apply it to the great cause we're all privileged
to serve." I hauled out Messervy's fifty dollars and
handed them over. "It's all I have on me, I'm afraid, but
. . . well, I can't do less than that manly little chap I saw
out in the hall just now, can I, what? So ... many happy
returns, skipper!"
Shocking bad form, you'll agree, but this was America,
and I'd weighed my man: he snapped it up like a trout taking
a fly, looking moved and furrowed, and told me with another
hand-clasp that I had bought shares in freedom, and he'd
not forget it. I didn't grudge the fifty bucks; that was my
sturdy, open-handed character established, and I'd be living
at his charges for several weeks, anyway.
Then, in case anyone thought he was neglecting the
nigger, he turned to Joe, and told him that his presence
208
there as a coloured man eager to fight for the liberty of his
nnoressed brethren, was a birthday present in itself, and one
whose value couldn't be reckoned in money. He asked Joe
where he came from, and when Joe said he was an escaped
slave who had worked for Crixus on the Railroad, and that
his family were still on a Southern plantation, Brown gripped
him again, and put a hand on his shoulder, swearing that he
wouldn't rest until that unhappy family had been plucked
from the teeth of the wicked, whose jaws would be broken.
He got quite warm about it, and for the first time I saw that
gleam beneath his brows, and heard the rasp in his voice,
which somebody described as being like a volcano disguised
by an ordinary chimney flue.
Joe didn't know what to make of it, but looked confused,
and when Brown let go his hand I saw him wince as he
worked his fingers. Sanborn, who had been listening in rapture,
took Joe out, and Brown settled his coat and begged
me to be seated, so that we might talk. He pulled up a chair
close in front of me, put his big gnarled hands on his knees,
looked me over carefully, and then said: "Well, now, friend
Joshua, tell me who you are, and what you know, and what
you have done."
For one horrid instant I thought he'd found out about me
- that I was Flashy, and the Yankee secret service, and all
the rest - and then I saw it was just his manner of speech,
with that grave look that stern pedagogues give to naughty
children to convince 'em that lying's useless. What he was
after was "Comber's" story, and to inspect me.
So I described my "life" in the Royal Navy, and how I'd
spied on the slavers, and run into Crixus, and brought
George Randolph north - he lit up at that, calling it the
"bravest stroke" he'd ever heard of, so I embellished
Comber's record with my own service with that maniac
Brooke against the Borneo pirates. He asked if they held
slaves in Borneo, and I said, droves of them, and that was
why I'd been there in the first place, to turn the poor buggers
loose and proclaim liberty throughout the land, or words to
that effect.
He drank it in with stern approval, saying I surely had
209
fine experience of irregular warfare; he mentioned Toussaint
and Spartacus, and asked if I'd studied Wellington's campaign
in the Peninsula, and the ways of the Spanish guerrillas
"who were much in my mind when I surveyed the field of
Waterloo, pondering how the great captain would have gone
about the task of liberating our black brethren held in cruel
bondage by evil laws." Knowing the late Duke Nosey, I
could have said that he'd certainly not have put pikes in
their fists and told 'em to take to the hills, but thought it
better to express toady interest in his visit to Waterloo.
He said it had been during a tour he'd made to study
European fortifications, so that he could acquire the knowledge
necessary if he was to build strongholds in the Alleghenies
for revolting darkies; I nodded solemn agreement,
reflecting that Messervy had been quite wrong - this fellow
wasn't only mad, he was raving, in a quiet sort of way. Alas,
he hadn't been able to pursue his military studies at any
length, since his time had been taken up with selling wool
in London, where he'd won a bronze medal for his wares and
here he pulled it from his pocket, chuckling that it had
been some set-down for the smart Londoners, a poor rustic
Yankee winning their prize. He became quite jolly in his
recollection, and went into a long story of how some English
wool-merchants had tried to take a rise out of him by asking
him to feel a sample and give an opinion.
"Say, though, they were out to hoax me - why, it wasn't
wool at all! No, sir, it was hair from a poodle-hound, with
which they hoped to take me in! So I teased it, and pulled
it, mighty solemn, and told them if they had machinery for
working up dog-hair, it might do very well! That took 'em
aback, I can tell you! Yes, sir, they had to admit they
couldn't pull the wool over my eyes! They were cheery men,
though, and meant it all in fun, so we had no hard feelings. Poodle hair, can you imagine that?"36
It's how I see him still, laughing deep in his throat, slapping
his thigh, the great beard shaking and his eyes dancing
with merriment - old Ossawatomie, who sabred five
unarmed men to death in cold blood, and blew hell out of
Harper's Ferry.
210
He got back to business after that, saying soberly that I
mustn't think he would harbour any feeling against me, as
an Englishman, because of the shabby way he'd been served
by my fellow-countryman, Forbes. "I blame myself for trusting
him," says he, "rather than him for his betrayal. His
heart was not in the work, as yours is, and he was distracted
by the plight of his wife and little ones in France, wanting
bread and a place to lay their heads. If he betrayed me ...
well we must not judge him too hardly."
Dreadnought Comber wasn't having that. I cried out in
disgust that I couldn't credit chaps like Forbes; it was too
bad and didn't bear thinking about, the bounder was a disgrace
to the Queen's coat and ought to be drummed out.
Brown leaned forward and laid a forbearing hand on my
sleeve.
"You're timber from a different tree, Joshua. You are
what Crixus said you would be, and your story - aye, and
what I see before me - speak for you." Believe that, old
lad, and we'll get on famously. "But now, tell me . . ." He
tightened his grip on my arm. "Crixus has told you what
I purpose, and the disappointments and delays I have
suffered, and my resolve that this time there shall be no
turning back from the gates of Gaza." The grim bearded
face was so close now that I could see my reflection in his
eyes, which is a sight nearer to John Brown than you'd want
to get. "Can you show me how best this great thing can
be done?"
It was more than I'd expected, and my heart jumped.
"You mean, how to take Harper's Ferry?"
His lids came down like hoods. "That's a name best left
unspoken just now." Tell that to the rest of North America,
thinks I. "In this house, at least. But . . . yes, that is the
goal."
"When?"
"July the Fourth. What better day to found the new
United States?"
"Oh, absolutely!" Less than two months away. "I'll have
to study it. I must know what force, what arms you have, ^at you mean to do afterwards. You see, captain," says I
211
soberly, "given preparation, any fool can fake a place holding
it's another story. And using it."
"That is all determined!" cries he, glowing
"Then I've a question."
"Ask away, my boy!"
"Very good," says I, all business. "Am I to carry o^ ^ow orders without question? Or will you look to me for advice?"
He threw his head back, frowning, and i knew I must follow up at once. "I'm a man of war, Captain Bro^"- Ifs my trade - but I practise it against only one enemy - ^^Y- Did you know," says I, "that William Wilberforce was my uncle? Oh, it don't matter; I only tell you so that y" "^ understand the ... the force within me." j was t116 one leaning forward now, going red in the face with ho^ zea1'
and just a touch of the fanatical stare. "^ am wt111 V011 because you are Liberty's champion in America. It <^1 rests on you whether the oppressed black people ^ ^is ^nd are brought forth into the light, or languish i^ bondag^ You must not fail!" I gave him my grim, do-or-die smil6- "r11 not have you fail! When we strike, it must be a sur^'.^B1" tering blow - not a pin-prick, not a hasty foray which i111^1"ries
for want of planning, but the breach in the dyke through
which the flood of freedom will surge to sweep a^V the foul growth of slavery forever!"
It's listening to folk like Crixus that does it, you know;
they supply the words, and I'm the boy }vho can c'^V the tune. I was out to convince Brown that I w^s as cra^Y as he was, and that if I found fault with his plai^ it wou^"'1 be from half-heartedness or lack of abolitionist frenzy- l was the seasoned professional, you understand, but with the fire in my belly. Having let 1-iim feel the heat, I collected "^^
again, with an apologeti c shrug.
"I beg your pardon, sir. I'm presumptuous - and to you'
of all people! But, you see ... I must be sure of vi^01^ oh,
not for myself, but for those thousands of poo1" black souls crying out for deliwerance!"
Ringing stuff, and he took it like a n^n mangi11^ my fingers again. "We shall win that victory!" ^ies he- "And we'll win it with your good counsel, be surg of that! Why,
212
Moses hearkened to his Joshua, didn't he?" He chuckled
and clapped me on the shoulder, saying I'd turned his hope
to certainty. And now it was time for me to meet "our
friends - good men one and all, bound to the cause . . . but
not men of action," says he with a sigh. "Still, we depend
upon them, and it will put heart into them to see you take
the oath."
This, it turned out, was a rigmarole which Joe and I had
to repeat before the company in the other room, a motley
bourgeois crew of about a dozen, male and female. Among
them were three of the "Secret Six" - Sanborn; a truly enormous
beard which went by the name of Steams; and Dr
Howe, a keen-looking citizen who had in tow the only passable
female present, a spanking little red-head with a sharp
eye.37 They were affability itself, but I guessed they were
wary of me and Joe, possibly because we looked fit for spoils
and stratagems; they beamed approval when Brown bade us
raise our hands and swear to fight slavery with all our might,
and keep secret all our transactions, but while the women
clapped and murmured "Amen!", I wondered if one or two
of the men were altogether easy about witnessing the men
of blood getting their baptism, so to speak.
I played strong and silent, and Joe, of course, didn't say
a word, but it didn't matter, for the purpose of the gathering
was to pledge money, which apparently they'd already done,
and thereafter to admire Brown, to the accompaniment of [coffee and sandwiches. Sanborn took the lead by reading a
press report by one Artemus Ward of a meeting which
Brown had addressed in Cleveland some weeks earlier, after
his triumphant return from the Missouri raid in which he'd
snatched eleven niggers and various horses.
"Listen to this, will you?" cries Sanborn, adjusting his
glasses. "'A man of pluck is Brown. You may bet on that.
(Cries of "Hear, hear!" and "I should say so!") He must be
rising sixty, and yet we believe he could lick a yard full of
wild cats without taking off his coat. (Laughter) Turn him
into a ring with nine Border Ruffians, four bears, six Injuns
and a brace of bull pups, and we opine that the eagles of
victory would perch on his banner!'"
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Loud laughter and applause, and Sanborn cries: "He
writes further that Captain Brown is 'refreshingly cool', and
could make his jolly fortune by letting himself out as an
ice-cream freezer!" Delighted cries from the ladies, while
Brown stood gravely regarding the carpet. "What d'you say
to that, captain?"
"He has one thing right," says Brown drily. "I'm rising
sixty."
At this they all cried, no, no, Ward had hit it dead on,
and clustered round him, filling his cup and offering sugar
cookies. He took it all pretty cool, with that stern modesty
that's worth any amount of brag. One shrill old sow in a
lace cap said she had been told that at that same meeting
Captain Brown had said that the only way to treat Border
Ruffians was as though they were fence-stakes, and whatever
had he meant by that? Brown looked down at her, stroking
his beard, and asked, what did she suppose people did to
fence-stakes?
"Why, they strike them, I suppose!" says the beldam.
"Just so, ma'am," says Brown. "You drive 'em into the
ground, so that they become permanent settlers."
She cried "Oh, my!" and fanned herself, while the other
women tittered, Sanborn said "Yes, indeed!", and the men
chortled that it was the only way. One said he had much
admired Captain Brown's reply to a heckler who had accused
him of stealing horses and looting the property of pro-slavery
people; Brown had answered that since the pro-slavers had
started the war in Kansas, it was only right that they should
defray its expenses.
"But even better," cries a small snirp with a cow-lick and
glasses, "was your hit at the expense of the wiseacre who
questioned your right to sell horses taken from Missouri!"
He beamed at Brown. "Do tell the company, captain, what
you retorted!" He nudged his female companion. "Listen,
Sally, 'twas the neatest thing!"
"Why," says J.B., very serious, "I believe I told him they
were not Missouri horses, but abolitionist horses, since I had
converted them!"
This had them in fits, while I watched with approval, for
214
I knew this game of old, having played it myself a hundred
times in the days when I was being hero-worshipped. It's
almost a ritual: they flatter you by praising your words or
actions, and you play it easy and modest, but just giving a
hint every now and then, in a humorous way, what a desperate
fellow you are, because that's what they love above
all. We had a prime example of it that night when a young
fellow came in with the news that one Governor Stewart
was expected in Boston soon, at which there was a sensation,
for this Stewart was the man who'd put a price of $3000 on
Brown's head in Missouri. The women squealed, and the
men looked anxious; Brown, standing by the fireplace, asked
the young chap, whose name was Anderson, if it was
Stewart's intention to set the U.S. marshal after him, and
were the reward posters up in Boston?
"You bet, cap'n," says Anderson, who was a jaunty
bantam. "But I reckon you may stand under 'em, and the
marshal won't trouble you."
"Indeed, he'd better not!" cries Howe. "Massachusetts
won't stand for any Missouri warrants being served here!"
"I think Massachusetts need feel no alarm," says Brown.
"There were posters in Cleveland, and I stood under those, and made myself conspicuous outside the marshal's office
down the street. But he chose to ignore my presence, I can't
think why." He was resting an arm on the mantelpiece, arid
now he turned so that his coat fell open, to reveal an enor|mous
Colt strapped to his hip. "I guess it was just civility
on his part, in case I'd feel embarrassed."
There was a great whoop of laughter, and arch glances at
the pistol, while they nudged each other and agreed that it
would have been real embarrassing - for the marshal, ha-ha!
The old biddy in the lace cap said it was monstrous that Southern reward posters should be permitted in a Northern
city, and what would happen if the marshal and his "government
hounds" should try to arrest Captain Brown - "why,
they might have the gall to try it in one of our very own
houses!"
"If they do, ma'am," says Brown, "we shall bar the door gainst them. I should hate to spoil your carpet."38
215
That seemed to set them in the mood for a few bloodthirsty
hymns, with Sanborn thrashing the harmonium; one
was about a small, weak band going forth to conquer, strong
in their captain's strength,39 which was sung with approving
smiles in our direction, and a scrawny female had the impudence
to press my hand in encouragement; if she'd been
worth it I'd have arranged a prayer meeting with her later,
for there's nothing like religious fervour to put 'em in trim,
you know. I gave her my brave, wistful smile instead, and
devoted my energies to "Who Would True Valour See?",
which concluded the soiree, with Brown in great voice, eyes
shining and beard at the charge, as he roared defiance at
the hobgoblins and foul fiends.
When the guests had gone, Sanborn gave us a slap-up
supper in his kitchen, during which Brown made a point of
engaging Joe in talk, plainly to make him feel at home, and
an equal member of the band - which was ironic, in its way,
since Joe was a sight better educated than Brown or, as it
turned out, any of his other followers. He took care not to
show it, though, which wasn't difficult, since Brown prosed
on at length, telling him that when they'd been in Chicago,
and a hotel had refused to take the coloured people who
were along with him, Brown and his gang had trooped out
en masse, and hadn't rested until they'd found a place where
there was no colour bar. It amused me to see Joe trying to
look impressed by this earnest recital, but I didn't overhear
much more, for young Anderson, who was seated next to
me, had that curious American compulsion to tell you his
life-story, as well as his views on everything under the sun.
He was an engaging lad, fresh-faced and full of beans,
with a Colt in his armpit and that restless eye that you
develop from years of learning not to sit down with your
back to the door. He called me "Josh" right away, told me
he was "Jerry", that he'd fought on the Kansas frontier as
lieutenant of an irregular troop of Free Soilers, skirmished
with the U.S. Cavalry, been jailed by pro-slavers, ridden on
the recent Missouri raid, and thought Brown was the next
best thing to God. He was one of your true-blue hellfire
abolitionists, and itching to prove it.
216
"It's this way, Josh," confides he solemnly, "I reckon this
fight is more mine than most folks' -'cos my family held
slaves once, till my daddy came up North, so I figure I have
to wipe the slate clean, don't you see? Maybe you can't
understand that, being' Canadian - oh, sure," grins he, winking
"I guessed that straight off, from your ac-cent - but I feel it in my heart, don't ye know? I just wish I could make
everyone feel that way. Why, those poor black folk are cryin'
out for help down yonder - but does anybody listen? Oh, I
know there's lots o' good people, like we seen tonight, who'd
wish slavery away tomorrow, an' they talk, an' 'tend meetin's,
an' take up collections - but they don't do anythin'!"
He had dropped his voice, so that Sanborn didn't hear; now
he gritted his teeth. "Well, there's a few of us ready to do, an' dare - people like you an' me - an' we'll be enough,
you'll see! Yes, sir, when Cap'n Brown gives the word, we'll
shake this land of liberty and equality clear to its centre!"40
I hope the rest of the gang are your sort, my son, thinks
I - young and full of ideals and without a brain among you
when it comes to sober planning; the last thing I wanted was
older and wiser heads competing with me for Brown's ear.
Fortunately, the old man seemed to have taken to me; he
wrung my hand fiercely at parting - he and Jerry were staying
at a hotel in Concord, but Joe and I were to bed down'in
Sanborn's attic - and assured me that as soon as he'd finished
his work in Boston, the two of us would start to plan "the
campaign", as he called it. Joe pricked up his ears at that,
and as soon as he and I were alone under the eaves, where
mattresses had been provided, he rounded on me.
"What did Brown say to you befo' - when you was alone?"
"Well, Joe, I don't know that that's any of your concern,"
says I, just to provoke him, but before he could do more
than glare, I went on: "If you must know, he wants to be
in Harper's Ferry by the Fourth of July. There, now. Does
that satisfy you?"
He came swiftly, stooping under the beams, and squatted
down by me, whispering.
"Fourth July! You reckon the others know - them as was l "eah tonight?"
217
"I doubt it. I don't think they want to."
He nodded; he was quite smart enough to guess that Sanborn
and his friends were scared of the whole business.
"He say how many men he's got? How he's gonna do it?"
"No. He's waiting for me to show him. That's bound to
take time - and I don't know how long it'll take to assemble
his men, or how many he can count on, or what arms he's
got, or what money. I don't know if he can be ready, in just
two months "
"Listen!" His ugly black face was thrust into mine, whispering
furiously. "You better see he's ready, you heah me?
An' you-"
"Now you listen!" I hissed, as loud as I dared, giving him
back glare for glare. "The sooner we have this straight, the
better! I'm being paid five thousand dollars to see that this
damned farmer takes Harper's Ferry - and no blundering
black fool is going to queer my pitch! I know how to do it
- you don't! If it takes me all summer to make it sure, that's
my affair! I'm his lieutenant, not you - and the farther you
stay clear of me, the safer we'll both be. D'ye think you can
prowl at my elbow, looking like my bloody keeper? D'ye
want to make 'em suspicious of us?" I sat back, sneering.
"How long d'ye think we'd last if they guessed you were a
Kuklos spy? Why, we "
Before I knew it I was staring into the muzzle of a cocked
revolver, his eyes rolling with rage behind it.
"The day they guess that, Mistuh Comber," hisses he,
"yo' gone An' case you think you kin get up to any shines
with me . . . jes' remembah ... I ain't the only one watchin'
you! So now!"
I forced myself to look unmoved down his barrel, with
my bowels doing the polka - by God, he was a quick hand
with a barker - and then to fetch an elaborate sigh as I
stretched out on my mattress.
"You're a fool, Joe. You don't understand me at all, do
you? Why, if I'd wanted to split on you, I could have done
it when I was alone with Brown, couldn't I? But I didn't,
because I've got five thousand good reasons, and when I
make a deal, I keep to it. Now go to sleep - and in the
218
morning, do try to remember that you're not my watchdog
hut a grateful darkie abolitionist who's fairly sweating to set
his brethren free. Give 'em a chorus of doo-dah-day, why
don't you?"
He stood looming over me for a long moment, then stirred
his hand, and the pistol had vanished. He turned on his heel,
and went without a word to his mattress - but not to sleep
with a tranquil mind, as I became aware in the small hours,
when I woke, discovered that there wasn't a piss-pot to be
had descended the attic ladder to a window where I relieved
myself into the night . . . and turned to find him within a
yard of me, pistol in hand and glowering as though he'd just
escaped from Sinbad's bottle. It gave me a horrid scare, but
I got my own back by offering to hold the pistol and keep
a look-out while he took his turn at blighting Sanborn's geraniums.
He wouldn't, though, and when I dropped off to
sleep again I guessed he was still brooding watchfully,
wondering what to make of me, no doubt.
In fact, I didn't sleep that long; there was too much to
think about, and this was the first real leisure I'd had to do it.
Brown was an odd case; I'd expected a brimstone-breathing
fanatic, and instead I'd met a steady, pretty decent, but
plainly determined old man with an admirable gift for modest
showing off. There was no doubt that he was fixed in his
resolve; he'd invade Virginia if it was the last thing he did
|- which it probably would be, if he ever got round to it. But
that was out of the question, for the simplest of reasons: he
didn't have the brains for it. He was a slow thinker, if ever
I saw one, and a dreamer; Messervy was right - I doubted
if he could have directed a nursery tea. Rampaging into
Missouri and grabbing the first niggers and horses he saw
was his mark, but planning a military raid . . . no, I couldn't
credit it. That aside - where were his men? Scattered,
visiting supporters, raising funds, working at odd jobs, or
just loafing, from what Anderson had told me. And I'd heard. sbout money and weapons . . . well, I'd believe them when 1 saw them.
As I lay there, staring up at Sanborn's skylight, my noughts kept jumping between hope and dread. One
219
moment I felt my confidence growing that I could keep
Brown busy, planning and dreaming and getting nowhere
for as long as need be ... and then doubts would creep in,
and I'd have to tell myself fiercely that I was in the business
now and no turning back; I'd been a helpless cork, borne
on the tide, until my meeting with Seward - then, I'd had
a plain choice, and made it, and while it had landed me in
this ridiculous galley, it had been the right one . . . and it
was too late to run now, anyway, with this black gunslick
watching my every move . . .
I was too hot and clammy to go back to sleep now - it's
wonderful how fears can sprout in the dark, when you're as
naturally windy as I am. As I writhed fretfully on the lumpy
mattress, it struck me as damned sinister that Messervy
hadn't arranged some means whereby I could get a message
to him - why, I could have let him know that Harper's Ferry
was the certain target, and he could have had the Marines
deployed around the place, and word of that would surely
have reached Brown, and caused him to give up the business
altogether . . . my God, was it possible that Messervy and
his "superiors", whoever they were, absolutely wanted
Brown to raid the Ferry, for some ghastly political reason
which I didn't understand? Never - in that case, why the
hell were they employing me to stop him? Well, Flashy, you
fool, to kill him, for taking six bits off that infant ... for it
was plain as print that Lincoln and Palmerston were in the
thing, too, and it was all a devilish plot to make the Queen
withhold my knighthood, as she certainly would do once
Seward had told Prince Albert that I'd pissed in Charity
Spring's flowerbed . . .
At which point I awoke with a wordless cry, lathered in
cold sweat, to discover that it was growing light, and that I
was in bursting need of another visit to the window below,
so I rolled out, cursing, and clambered miserably down the
ladder again - and blow me if Simmons didn't follow me
every step of the way.
220
There's a photograph which may still be
kicking about somewhere, showing John Brown enthroned
in an armchair, with Joe seated scowling alongside him,
while Jerry Anderson and your correspondent stand behind
wearing expressions of ruptured nobility, each of us resting
a comradely hand on Joe's shoulders - although, as Jerry
observed, from the look on Joe's face you would think we
were trying to hold him down. The reason for the picture
was that Brown wanted a new hat, and in those days
daguerreotypers used to dispense free headgear to their
sitters, with a miniature copy of the plate attached to the
inside lining. The hat was rubbish, but Brown reckoned it
was a saving; he had no more money sense than my beloved
Elspeth, and was always short, and it's my belief that we
only had our "likenesses took" so that he could sit there
looking like Elijah, with his faithful followers about him,
the darkie being given the other chair to show that all men
are equal in the sight of God and daguerreotypers.
It was posed in New York in that strange month of May,
1859, which I still look back on with wonder. I'd been harried
halfway round the world, through the strangest series
of chances, and now, after one of the most topsy-turvy weeks
of my life, I found myself loafing about in the wake of an
eccentric revolutionary, with nothing to do but wait to see
what might happen next. Most odd, and my recollection of
it is fairly incoherent, with one or two episodes standing out
in relief.
This time, you see, was the last tranquil twilight in the remarkable career of John Brown of Ossawatomie, when he
was saying his farewells to his Eastern friends, scrounging
221
his final subscriptions, and preparing for the great day which
probably he alone believed was coming at last. It was a sort
of royal progress in which he addressed meetings, shook
hands with legions of admirers, and stoked up the support
which he hoped would burst into a great Northern crusade
once he'd lit the fire in Dixie; it took us from Boston to New
York and various places around, and since I'd decided that
my own eventual profit and present safety would be best
served by going along quietly, I used the time to study the
man and take the measure of his prospects.
An encouraging sign was that his health was none too
good; he complained of what he called ague, and I had hopes
that he'd be in no shape to start a war that summer. But he
was a tough old bird, and wouldn't pamper himself; he was
a great one for Spartan living, and at one place we stayed
the maid of the house found him at daybreak fast asleep on
the front steps; she made the mistake of shaking him, and
found a Colt presented at her head. Even up here, surrounded
by a friendly population, he never went unarmed,
usually with Jerry as bodyguard, an office which gradually
passed to me, for Jerry dressed like an out-of-work scarecrow,
and didn't fit too well in the Boston hotels or the halls
where J.B. harangued the faithful.
Messervy was proved right: he wasn't a good speaker, but
he had a presence, and the mere sight of that Covenanter
figurehead, with its flashing eyes and rasping voice, was
enough to set them stamping and rummaging in their purses.
His message was plain: talk was futile, it was time for action
- and sure enough, some oratorical gesture would give them
a glimpse of the gun-butt under his coat. Once or twice
he waxed philosophical, and came adrift: I remember him
pouring scorn on those who felt that their strength lay in the
greatness of their wrongs, and so neglected action; his point
was that the negro had the greatest wrongs of all, and a fat
lot of strength that gave him - you could see the folk wondering
what he was talking about, and fidgeting, but when he
came out thundering that whoever took up arms to defend
slavery had "a perfect right to be shot", they raised the
roof. Ringing phrases about striking off the shackles, and
222
troubling Israel, and Hell being stirred from beneath, were cceived with wild applause, but what moved them to wrath and tears (aye, and excitement) were his accounts of blood
and battle in Kansas, and his promise of more to come. It
was after one of these addresses, when they were crowding
round to bless him and shake his hand, that I heard someone saw that his speech had been "like that of Cromwell compared
to an ordinary king."41 That delighted him; Cromwell
was one of his heroes, and people were forever likening him
to the old warthog.
When he wasn't speechifying or paying calls, he was writing
letters to all and sundry. One I remember him composing
at the U.S. Hotel in Boston, reading it aloud with particular
care, because it was to his five-year-old daughter; I looked
it up in his biography the other day, hoping to edify my own
grandlings, who need all the morality they can get. It will
give you some notion of his style:
My Dear Daughter Ellen,
I will send you a short letter. I want very much to
have you grow good every day. To have you learn
to mind your mother very quick; & sit very still at ^ the table; & to mind what all older persons say to
you that is right. I hope to see you soon again; and
if I should bring some little thing that will please '
you; it would not be very strange. I want you to be
| uncommon good-natured. God bless you my child.
Your Affectionate Father,
John Brown
Couldn't punctuate worth a dam, you see, and used to
say he "knew no more of grammar than the farmer's calves",
but there ain't a man of letters in my time who could have
put it better. My grandbrats received it in polite silence, and
then John said "We-1-1 . . . what was she to do when an
older person said something wrongV, Jemima asked if Ellen
was pretty, Alice wanted to know what the promised "little
thing" was, and Augustus belched. God help Miss Prentice,
I say.
The rest of his time he spent in talk, and since I was a
223
new listener I had to endure a good deal of his prosing in
those first weeks. Silly cracker-barrel stuff, mostly, although
he had a curious store of half-learned knowledge; Bunyan
was a favourite, and he was well up on Napoleon and Caesar
and assorted military history. He was thirsty for anything
that might be of use in fighting slavery, but had no time for
soldiers or soldiering, and had gone to all lengths to avoid
service in his youth, the notion of drilling and training to
kill being anathema - until the abolitionist bug had bitten
and he'd found an enemy to hate. And when he got onto
the subject of his first encounters with slavery - look out.
A change would come over him, and from talking in his
usual opinionated style he would go into a sort of brooding
study, staring ahead and growling as though a steam-kettle
was coming to the boil inside him. It was an unnerving sight,
I can tell you, and I shan't forget the first time I saw it, one
evening when we were seated alone on some front porch or
other.
"I was twelve years old," says he, gritting his teeth, "and
had druv some cattle a long way to the house of a gentleman
with whom I had to stay for a spell. He was a good man,
kindly and feared God, and made a great pet of me, and
showed me off to his folks, saying what a smart brave little
chap I was, to come a hundred miles alone. Well, that was
fine. But you know, he had a young black slave boy, just
my age, and bright as a brass button - and I tell you, the
way he tret that child would ha' broke your heart! Oh, it
was the best vittles for me, and a seat at table nearest the
fire, but for that little coloured lad - why, he barely fed him
but scraps, and beat him like a dog, with a stick, or a shovel,
or any old thing at hand! He didn't have pity on him at all!"
He choked on that, and sat with his great hands working
on his knees; when he turned on me, there were tears in the
blazing eyes, and his voice was hoarse as though he were on
the brink of a seizure. That was the moment when I first
understood how the man who wrote that letter to his daughter
could also be the man who'd massacred the pro-slavers
at Pottawatomie; he was a man possessed, no other word
for it.
224
"I didn't see how God could let such things be!" cries he.
"Or could put such fell cruelty into the heart of that good,
kindly nian - why, he was a U.S. marshal - yes, he was! He
heard my prayers at night, and gave me a spinning top, the
first I ever had! I asked him, if God was my Father, wasn't
he Father to the little black boy, too, and he told me not to
trouble my head about such things! Not to trouble!"
It wasn't canny, those eyes, and the huge hawk nose and
heaving beard, all directed at me as though / was the bloody
U.S. marshal; he seemed to be inviting comment, but all I
could think to say was that it was pretty rotten, and had the
fellow been tight, perhaps?
He didn't seem to hear me, luckily, so I let it be, and
after a while he sighed and launched into a tale about a
runaway nigger whom he'd hidden from the slave-catchers
a few years later. The darkie had crawled into a wood, and
when the alarm was over, he'd gone to look for him.
"Can you guess how I found him?" says he, and the fit
seemed to have passed, for while he gripped my arm in his
talons, he spoke quite calmly. "He was lying deep in the
bushes, in terror of his life . . . and I located him by the
sound of his heart beating} Yes, and it's a sound that has
stayed in my ears these many years, that awful drumming
of a human heart, in agony and fear!"42
Well, I didn't believe it for a minute; if a beating heart
could give you away when you're cowering in cover, I'd have
been dead meat before I was twenty. But I said that was an
astonishing thing, the poor chap must have been in a dreadful
funk, but he'd got over it, had he?
"I vowed in that moment that I would never rest until the
last slave had been set free," says he solemnly. I said hear,
hear, and he asked me what had been my moment of revelation.
Since I hadn't had one, I had to choose at random,
and said it had been when I'd first watched blacks being
packed aboard on the Dahomey coast, bucks to starboard,
wenches to port - with the shapeliest females nearest the
hatches, for convenience, but I didn't mention that.
He shook his head and murmured something about the haters of Babylon, but a moment later he was telling me
225
about a dinner to which he'd been ridden the next night,
and would I care to accompany him, and when he bade me
good-night he was absolutely cheerful agaln It left me quite
shaken though; for a moment he'd ^kedasthoush he was ready to foam at the mouth, and I conned hat if he wasn't
barmy, as Messervy claimed, there v^ still a screw loose
'TosSy^hough, he was as calm and ^su^ed as you could
wish, going abou his business of pay<"g ca^ and spouting
claptra'p. waiting letters, gassing to ^^3^^me^ but never a word of substance abou1 lne ^at stroke we
were meant to be preparing; no talk o^T^^h""8 a f ihp wr>rk that should have been
men and arms, or any of the worK i .
i, a Ac /1, ^ t hpr-amp ^urer by the day: if he
going ahead. Of one thing 1 Decarne v -' 3
u * * i u ^'r'c Fprrv (t wouldn t be by the was bent on taking Harpers ^erry, ' '
i- .u t t i r> a <- rm that it ;?eemed a pity that Id
Fourth of July. Reflecting on that, n ^ ,4+1, i,
c ^ lodripweinlvl^^^yB^thenby
no way of conveying the glad news to iv - - J
i. a i t ^tpd with th^ perfect opportunity.
a sheer fluke I was presented with ln(/r ,,,i-,,i-j n i- -,
t * ^ + -irrn a dinn^ 1 which J.B. had
I mentioned a moment ago a a1111',. , , , ,  
. a * * ^f the hid P0^"" hotels, full of
mvi ed me; it was at one of the b^ ^ ^ ^
quahty andlocal bigwigs, and^the tw^ ^^ ^ DrHowe^ We'd barely stepped mK^ ^ _ ^ ^
to J.B. that here was someone tie " .
i i-i i- i- .- j c<r> o tr>r /t10 d tried to dragoon
should it be but the podgy Senator w ,,i,-_, T^6, .
.,.,.,. r . t,_ fi-.-,. rtlflt;6' and whom Id last
me into this business in the tirst piac
seen outside Seward's cabin. ^ ^ ^
We bore up short at ^^.^^yond the usual courhis
countenance paying me no heed b^ ^ ^^ ^
tesies of presentation, and fixing on ,.,.,,- r.-, i,,, 11 , i ^^ ;^,, nf the knowledge, tor he
know who he was but took no joy of t 6 _
drew himself up tall, looked down his ^ose' and ^ P^Y
cool: have heard, Senator, that you ^ W-ove of my
course of action. -^ ^^ ^ ^ I could have told him that^ ^f ^ ^ ^ ^ to take any damn-you-me-lao airs. r
and came straight back. ,, ._ ,,. _; __
"t^- f 4. ^nt rnch friT^Y into MiSSOUn - n0,
If you refer to your recent rasn ror^ sir, I do not!"
226
j B.'s beard went up a couple of notches. "Indeed, sir. My
friends tell me also that you have spoken in condemnation of
"That I have!" snaps the Senator. "I regard every
illegal act as doing very great injury to the antislavery
cause."
"Freeing slaves injures the cause - is that so?" growls
j B., and the Senator started to swell and go crimson.
"Let me tell you, sir," says he, "it was an imprudence
that might have cost countless lives! There was a time, sir,
not long ago, when such a thing might have led to the
invasion of Kansas by ... by a great number of excited
people, sir!"
J.B. made a rumbling noise, his hand twitched at his coat,
and for an awful second I thought he was going for his gun,
but he just hooked his thumbs into his weskit.
"Well, I think differently, sir!" says he. "I acted right,
and it will have a good influence, you'll see. Good-night to
you, Senator!"
"Good-night to you, Mr John Brown!" cries the Senator,
and they bowed and stalked off opposite ways, leaving me
wondering how I might seize this unexpected chance. I
daren't go after the Senator, but within ten seconds I was
in the deserted lavatory, scribbling frantically: "Tell
Messervy - Harper's Ferry/or certain. July 4". I daren't go
out for a waiter, not knowing who might be spying on me, so
I sent the black attendant to fetch one. He brought another
darkie, in a liveried coat, on whom I pressed the note, telling
him to deliver it to the fat, ugly Senator with the yellow
flower in his buttonhole, and he cried: "Sho' nuff, suh!" and
bowled off, chortling. But whether the note ever reached the
Senator, I never found out; if it did, he must have ignored it,
or else Messervy did - and you may make of that what you
will. Anyway, I'd done my best.43
"was in early June that I started to earn my corn as a military adviser, when J.B. took me into Connecticut to see
e pikes which he'd commissioned two years earlier; he
227
was full of misunderstood nonsense about Swiss infantry and
Greek phalanxes and Scottish schiltrouns, and plainly had
visions of niggers forming squares to repulse cavalry charges.
I couldn't believe my eyes when the blacksmith hauled out
half a dozen which he'd got up as samples, amazing instruments
six feet long with bowie blades clamped to their ends
but asked my opinion, I said they were capital weapons the
more money J.B. spent on trash, the less he'd have for
serious equipment. He ordered a thousand on the spot, and
the smith said admiringly that he hadn't realised that Richard
the Lionheart was operating in Kansas, but a thousand
would cost $450, and he couldn't deliver until August. Farewell
July 4th, thinks I, this is splendid. J.B. was well pleased,
though; you could see he was itching to fight Bannockburn
o'er again in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
A few days after this we said adieu to New England, J.B.
going north to visit his family, while Jerry, Joe and I were
packed off to Ohio to join two of his sons who were supposed
to be recruiting in that state. They were the first of his celebrated
brood that I'd met, and I found them vastly reassuring:
Owen Brown, J.B.'s right-hand man, was big, tough,
genial, and fat-headed, and John junior, the oldest son, was
a poor critter in low spirits, plainly bound for Bedlam. Like
all the Brown boys they were strapping, fine-looking fellows,
but you'd not have trusted either of them to light the fire. Owen would have made a fairish corporal, given no work
more taxing than lifting heavy weights and advancing into
the cannon's mouth, but Junior had always been slightly
wanting, Jerry told me, and the Kansas fighting had sent
him off the rails altogether. He'd never got over his father's
butchery at Pottawatomie, and soon after had fallen into the
hands of Border Ruffians who had chained him and flogged
him sixty miles over hard going, which had reduced him to
raving idiocy. He was better now, Jerry opined, but J.B.
would never have him in the field again, so he'd been made
quartermaster and chief of recruiting, at which he was
making no headway at all.
If these two are a fair sample, thinks I, we'll have a quiet
summer of it - but there was a third man in Ohio, whom I
228
didn't meet until J.B. returned from up north, and as soon as I shook his hand and met his eye I scented two qualities
we could have done without: brains and bf^^V-
He was a Switzer, though American-bof11' riamed Kagi,
and he was to prove to be the only man i" Brown's conspiracy
who knew what he was about. He v/as in his middle
twenties, dapper, sharp, well-read, and keen. and if there
had been half a dozen like him ... well, American history
books might have a chapter today about the great Virginia
slave uprising. He'd been a teacher and had fought in
Kansas, where he'd distinguished himself ^ shooting a
judge - who in turn had put three slugs il^o ^gi. which
gives you some notion of what life at the American bar was
like in those days.
"My Gideon," says J.B. in high good humour, putting
one hand on Kagi's shoulder and the other on mine, "and
my Joshua, who together shall be a scourge of Midian, yea,
and of Canaan," and from Kagi's quick, c^ol ''mile I knew
that this smart, clean-shaven youngster (who was styled ^ "Secretary for War", by the way) was itching to steer his
chief into action. He lost no time in drawing me aside and
showing me a map of Harper's Ferry (han^'drawn, but far
better than Messervy's) and asking if I had formed any plan
for taking it, and for the campaign that must follow. I said
J.B. hadn't asked for one yet, but as I understood it, taking
the place was the least of it.
"You're right," says he briskly, and tapped the map. "See
here: armoury, rifle works, arsenal, all within a half-mile.
No troops on guard, only watchmen. I knov/the P^ce well,
'twill be easy as pie "
"Given the men, the arms, and secrecy." ^ys I, and
decided to impress him. "Then, strip the arsenal and
armoury; have wagons and mules to carry the stuff to a
prearranged rendezvous in the hills; food, bedding, clothes
and boots for the slaves when they come in; despatch scouts
to watch for the nearest militia companies and bring word
of their movements; cut the wires; blow th<? railroads . . ." 1 paused for breath. "But that, of course, is Just for a "cgmning."
229
I'd expected his face to fall, but he was beaming. "Thank
God!" cries he. "A man who knows his business!"
"If I didn't, I wouldn't be here," says I, the grim professional.
Then I grinned, to show him I was human. "See
here, though . . . John Henry, isn't it? Aye, well, answer
me this, John: these slaves J.B. is counting on to run away
and join us. How many? How soon? How does he intend
to bring 'em in to us? We're going to need 'em quick - but
they mustn't know too soon that we're coming, or the whole
South will know it, too. Then they'll have to be fed, clothed,
armed, and trained. I can plan for all of that - given the
assurance of men and equipment. But getting 'em moving
in the first place - that's the key to this whole affair, my
boy. That's where we stand or fall!"
D'ye know, it was only while I was talking that the sheer
lunatic impossibility of the whole ridiculous business rose up
and hit me a facer for the first time. You see, until now, I
hadn't thought beyond J.B.'s intended capture of Harper's
Ferry - why should I, when I didn't believe it would ever
happen? But now, in showing off for this bright spark, I
found myself considering the sequel - a slave uprising, followed
by a guerrilla campaign - and when I did, I wanted
to burst out laughing. To put it plainly, J.B. was hoping
that thousands of slaves would rise up spontaneously, which
seemed unlikely - and suppose they did, how in God's name
did he hope to feed, clothe, equip, house, doctor, and train
the poor buggers - probably the worst raw material on earth
- to fight the American Army?
J.B., of course, had the answer: the Lord would provide.
Kagi, being blessed with common sense, could see that the
Lord would need considerable help, but being an optimistic
disciple of J.B., and no soldier, he probably hoped that all
would come right on the night - after all, this brilliant fellow
Comber was taking the thing seriously, so it must be feasible.
I knew it wasn't, not for the Duke himself, let alone these
rustic dung-slingers.
But it wasn't for me to say so - my task must be to let
the impossibles appear, slowly but surely, until Kagi saw
the thing was hopeless. It would take time, and delicate
230
,  rUing but from the respect that J.B. showed him, I
alised that he was the one to convince; if Kagi cried quits,
that would be the end of it. I found myself revising my view
r ym: far from being a dangerous nuisance, he should be
a godsend who unwittingly would help me to kill J.B.'s plan
stone dead. I didn't know, then, how reckless a canny Swiss
can be when he hears the bugles.
To my question about stirring up the slaves, he frowned,
and said we had a man in Harper's Ferry already who was
looking into it. I asked him about arms, and he showed me
the cases of carbines which the Brown brothers had hidden
in a warehouse, under a pile of coffins. They were good
weapons, but I doubted whether there would ever be men
to use them; Junior was in despair because the fellows who'd
been ready to march the year before weren't turning up as
expected. Left to him, the whole scheme would have been
abandoned, but he daren't say so for fear of the old man, and
when Kagi reminded him that there were hosts of free niggers
up in Canada just waiting to answer the call, he pretended to
perk up, saying he'd see to them when he'd collected all the
weapons and shipped them down closer to the border.
It was the unlikeliest beginning to a desperate venture
that I can remember in a lifetime of lost causes - I think of
doddering old Elphy Bey before the Kabul retreat, changing
his mind by the minute; Custer twitching and unshaven in
his tent on the Rosebud, determined to have his way; Raglan
Imperturbable in his refusal to admit that he didn't know
what the devil he was doing; Wheeler grey with fatigue and
old age, tying his britches up with string as he prepared to
surrender at Cawnpore. Each going to hell in his own way,
torn between hope and despair, but at least they understood
warfare and had good advisers about them. J.B. didn't have
the understanding or the men; and for all his iron purpose
he was no James Brooke or Fred Ward or Charlie Gordon.
I have a memory of a room somewhere, in Akron or
"}7
loungstown perhaps, with J.B. haranguing us about how ^11 things were going, what with arms to hand, money in Ae bank, everyone back East cheering us on, and God let"
Ae light of his countenance shine on our enterprise 231
and Owen Brown, bearded and massive, hanging on Pa's
every word; Junior looking glum and running his hand
through his hair; young Oliver Brown, who had joined us,
staring before him in his dreamy, soulful way; Kagi twitching
with impatience; Jerry Anderson yawning and picking
threads from his ragged sleeve; Black Joe watching J.B. with
an intent, puzzled scowl that I couldn't read ... all told, it
was a damned uninspiring sight, and I found myself wondering
what Guy Fawkes and the boys must have looked like
on November the Fourth.
When J.B. wasn't lecturing us about troubling Israel and
letting the foxes loose in the Philistine corn, he was on the
go in the towns around the Ohio-Pennsylvania line, which
was strong abolitionist country, assuring the people that the
dawn was nigh, and he was girding his loins to invade Virginia
- he made no secret of that, although I don't recall
that he mentioned the Ferry by name, and he certainly
glossed over the fact that his great slave insurrection would
be in effect a rebellion against the U.S.A. and its Constitution.
If the good folk who cheered, and pressed round to
shake his hand, and sent Jenny scurrying home to fetch the
ten dollars in the cookie jar for the good cause, had realised
that he was ready to shoot the Stars and Stripes to ribbons,
I reckon they'd have thought twice.
All this aimless jaunting about the country was fine by
me. It wasn't the Grand Tour, what with passable food,
middling accommodation, and no hope of vicious amusement,
but I tolerated it in the knowledge that I'd be homeward
bound presently having earned the gratitude of
next-President Seward and the approval of Her Majesty.
In the meantime I conferred endlessly with J.B. and Kagi,
listening straight-faced to the old idiot's fierce enthusiasms,
conscious that Kagi was watching to see how I took them,
and I had to be on my guard not to approve anything too
half-witted. For example, J.B. had a great bee in his bonnet
about building forts in the hills from which his vast army of
liberated darkies would sally forth like Boer commandos; I
didn't remark that such forts would have taken a battalion
of sappers weeks to build (give me the men and I'll do it, was
232
v line), but when he said the forts must have underground
innels of communication between them, I had to point out
that liberated slaves might not take too kindly to hacking
their way through several hundred feet of granite, and any- way there wouldn't be time to spare from their military trainins
(God forgive me). J.B. glowered like a spoilt child, for
Kagi backed me up, and our discussion was pretty strained
until he got his way on another ridiculous point - the establishment
of a school in the hills for piccaninnies. Then he
was happy again.
We had four or five of these staff meetings as we travelled
about, and while I took care to hide my disgust, I could see
Kagi's frown deepening by the day. J.B. talked interminably
and vaguely, as though he didn't know what to do next,
there was no sign of more recruits, and I'd made it plain
that our operations must depend on numbers, black or
white; I acted as though I expected them to roll up in
troops at any time, but meanwhile, I said privately to
Kagi, I could only plan in theory, and wait for J.B. to give
his orders.
It was after the last of these talks, at a place called Chambersburg,
that Kagi asked me to come for a walk. It was a
lovely summer afternoon, and we strolled along the dusty
road out of town - with Joe, I noticed to my amusement,
dogging us at a distance. Kagi sat down under a finger-post
and asked me straight out:
"Joshua - can we do this thing?"
Time to start sowing the good seed, so I answered right
back.
"Take the Ferry? Given the men, certainly. Fight a campaign
in the hills? If the blacks rise in sufficient
numbers ..." I shrugged.
"Sure . . . ;ythey rise," says he, and started pulling petals
off a flower. "Oh! . . . truth to tell, there ain't all that many
blacks around the Ferry - and they ain't like the plantation "igras down south. They're farmhands, mostly, and house
slaves - not much cotton thereaway, you see - and pretty "^uch part of their masters' families. I don't know whether ihey'H want to rise!" He pitched the flower away irritably.
I 233
"Maybe after the harvest . . . that's when they're at their
orneriest, and the suicides happen "
"Suicides, for heaven's sake?"
"Yes, sir - see, when the harvest's in, that's when they're
liable to be sold. South, maybe, with cotton-picking time
coming on. So families are parted, and they get depressed
and mean. But that's not till fall." He kicked absently at the
dust. "I wish J.B. would make up his mind."
"Hasn't he?"
"Oh, sure, I guess so. I ought to know him by now, I
s'pose . . . how he talks, and moons around, and then bang!
he's raiding Missouri! It'll be the same this time when
the Canadian blacks come in, and the other fellows
who've promised." He turned his clever, troubled face to
me, hoping to be reassured. "I just hate waiting . . . and I
wondered what you thought, d'you see?"
It was no time to cheer him up, so I brooded a bit and
said the five most depressing words in the language: "We
are in God's hands." But so he'd never be able to say I'd
discouraged him, I added sternly, with a hand on his arm:
"Never forget, John, that 'tis not the beginning, but the
continuing until it be thoroughly finished, that yieldeth the
true glory." And six feet of cemetery, as often as not. Arnold
had made me write it out a thousand times for loafing in a
pot-house when I should have been chasing 'cross country
at Hare and Hounds.44 Kagi said it was a fine sentiment,
and he'd remember it.
As we rose to walk back, I chanced to look up at the
signpost, and he followed my glance and said it was a pretty
place, but quite a piece down the road, and much too far to
walk. The name stayed in my mind, for no reason, as such
things sometimes do. Gettysburg.
234
t u i^u vpiump^ the train the moment
^^^^&r^^
S^^^^^^^^
I hadn't mislid my map. I d c' ts^ in ^ had traced
track of our rndom jauntingS ^ ^.f0^ ^Satisfactorily,
our progressrom New Hngland to ^lomost ^ ^^^
but after I lo; it (in Pittsburgh'.1 ,"0' ^ny' -. nf where
ass I wasVorentto roll along "^by .gn"^ ^^ we were. A)Chambersburg, 1 ""p we wer, ^g to
vania. .hichvas fine, and ^e3^3!;:^^^
Kagerstown C "ever thought tw^ ^< d never
Place, and h^ no notion wh^6 y ^^ Owen
^ere iver six of us on tnc j.p-' "' ;  ^d Oliver rry Anderson, n^y^1^. ^d Joe; ^w^. | ff north ^w'here. and ^^ "^e^tu^g
I ;" ^ Ohio. ]wbs a baking ^own^ ^^0 much
the c^ into - oven, and even P^Y^g cards ^a. ^ of a fag. Bprowled up and down, costing stranger to
^^fc^^^
^sr^^^^
^^e^ ^r^ ^r^s
% -" Ms -T"' ^^e0";^^^^^
icien ofTr('. I was dozing of the , n,, ^a } saw
235
J.B. was on the scene at once, beard bristling. "Some
trouble, mister conductor?"
"You know this nigger?" says the conductor.
"I know this free coloured man," says J.B. sternly. "He
is in my employ."
In his travelling duds, with their frayed sleeves and air of
having been slept in, he didn't look like an employer, and
the conductor sniffed.
"He is, is he? An' who might you be, mister?"
"My name is Isaac Smith," says J.B. "This is my servant,
and these -"he indicated the rest of us "- are my sons, Owen , Oliver, Joshua, and Jeremiah." Well, if he chose to
adopt me, I didn't mind. "Mrs Smith is not travelling with
us," he added, with fine ponderous sarcasm, "or I'd be
kindly proud to present her to you, too."
The conductor blinked uncertainly; J.B. tended to have
that effect on folk, and the four of us were sufficiently large
and ugly to daunt the stoutest ticket-walloper. "No offence,
Mr Smith," says he hastily. "On'y there's been a couple o'
runaways from Frederick lately, an' me seem yore boy here
. . . well, I thought maybe ..."
"That he might be one of them . . . taking the train southT' says J.B., mighty droll. The conductor scratched his
head, and laughed apologetically, and said come to think of
it, that wasn't likely, was it, ha-ha? J.B. said, no, it wasn't,
and if the conductor was now satisfied that we weren't slavestealers
going in the wrong direction, perhaps he'd care to
go about his business. The fellow cried, sure, certainly, no
offence, mister, and went off like a scared rabbit, with J.B.
glaring after him. I asked Oliver what the row was about,
and he looked grim and said that was Dixie for you, all over.
"Dixie?"
"Sure - we crossed the line into Maryland a while back,
didn't you know? If they're looking for runaway slaves, why,
they think they can stop and question any black man they
like!"
That gave me a start. I'd assumed, you see, that my charade
with J.B. would be played out in the nice, safe, abolitionist
North - and here we were, in the slave South, and
236
I'd never known it. Not that there had ever been warrants
nut for me in Maryland, and we were still a long way from
the scene of my exploits of ten years ago, but it was enough
to start me sweating, and I took the first chance that came
to ask J.B., casual-like, what there was to interest us in
Hagerstown. His reply, in a confidential undertone, but with
an alarming glint in his eye, didn't quiet my fears a bit.
"You smell the battle afar off, Joshua?" He glanced round
to make sure he wasn't overheard. "Have patience, my boy.
The time is drawing nigh when we'll be done with talk and
waiting at the doors of timid men! Yes, sir, we're approaching
the scene of the great war from which there'll be no
discharge. We're going to spy out the land," says he, with
a grin that froze my marrow. "What did Moses say to his Joshua, eh? 'Get you up this way southward, and get you
up into the mountain, and see the land what it is, and the
people that dwelleth therein, whether they be strong or
weak, few or many.' And Joshua and his eleven spies did
just that, remember?"
I didn't, in fact; the only thing I recollected about Joshua
and spying was two chaps being sent to a harlot's house . . .
but this was appalling news I was hearing. I asked him what
he meant.
"Why, we'll lie up a day or two at Hagerstown," says he,
, "and then it's just a few miles down the river to where we
I want to be at."
"Where's that?" says I, trying not to croak.
"Why, Harper's Ferry, to be sure! We'll take a good look
at the country along the way, and - what's that? Restrain
your language, sir! And keep your voice down!" He was
glaring disapproval, and darting nervous glances at the nearest
passengers. "There's no call for excitement," he whispered
angrily, "or that kind of foul Navy talk! I won't have ^ ' Then he patted my knee, like a forgiving uncle. "I know
you're eager - I've watched you chafing these past weeks,
and I promise you won't have to wait much longer. Once ^ we seen how the land lies, we're going to find ourselves a nice out of the way place between Hagerstown and the
j Sfry, and there we'll make our final plans. And when the
237
men have come in, and the arms ..." He sat back, nodding his great bearded head, eyes gleaming, while I fought manfully
to retain my breakfast. To find myself in Maryland had
been bad enough, but the news that we weren't a kick in
the arse from Harper's Ferry was shocking. Oh, I'd seen it
on the map, often, but it had always seemed a safe distance
away - America's such a big place, you get into the habit of
thinking you're miles from anywhere - and I hadn't realised
in Chambersburg, how close we were getting. Now, without
warning, we were almost there.
When my guts had stopped fluttering, I reflected that it
might have been worse. For a horrid moment, when he'd
mentioned the name, I'd thought he was contemplating a
sudden wild onslaught, but plainly it was just to be a scout,
before we retired to some hole in the ground for another
jolly discussion about Greek phalanxes or forts with connecting
tunnels. I could tolerate that - not that I had any
choice, with Joe at my elbow.
For now that we were south of the line he took to sticking
close again, possibly because he believed the great day was
approaching. I continued to doubt it, for when we reached
Hagerstown J.B. was back in his indecisive mood; he took
us trekking about the country for a couple of days, inquiring
for properties to buy or rent, and then it was all aboard the
train again, and on a bright July day we rolled across the
bridge into Harper's Ferry, and I had my first sight of that
strange little town where a parcel of ragamuffins were to
change the course of American history.
It's an odd place, lying on flat land at the tip of a peninsula
where the Shenandoah and Potomac rivers meet, with
heights of some grandeur on either side, so that the town
seems to be at the bottom of a gorge. Behind, the peninsula
runs up to a third set of heights, the rearmost houses climbing
the slope, with steps cut into the hillside. In those days
there was a covered road and rail bridge over the Potomac
from Maryland to the town, which lay in Virginia,* and a
smaller bridge over the Shenandoah.
* Now West Virginia (see town map on p. 269).
238
n's changed a good deal, having been battered and burned
in the war, but in my time, as you came in over the Maryland
bridge, there was a great stretch of armoury buildings running
for near half a mile along the Potomac bank, quite
unexpected in that kind of farming country. I'd imagined a
sleepy hamlet, with a store and ferry-boat, and a few barefoot
loafers snoozing and spitting in the sunshine, but here
was a bustling little industrial community of three thousand
souls, with neat houses and workshops, and my first thought
was that you'd need a regiment to take this place - and a
brigade to hold it, for a less defensible position I never did
see. Those commanding heights would be a besieged garrison's
nightmare, and when the bridges went, why, you'd be
like a mouse in a bottle.
But it was the sight of J.B. and his boys, wandering about
like a party of tramps looking for a place to class down, that
moved me to silent mirth. They gaped at the great spread
of armoury workshops and the arsenal building, gazed up
the Shenandoah shore to the rifle works half a mile off,
considered the number of workmen moving briskly about
the sheds, and the activity about Wager's station hotel by
the railroad tracks - and you could see in their eyes the
question to J.B.: how the devil do we take this place? True,
there wasn't a soldier to be seen, but there were several
score of likely labourers, and any number of townsfolk'. I
could just picture J.B. hammering at the arsenal door and
getting a bucket of water over him for his pains, before the
lads of the village swarmed out to chase us back over the
bridge, probably in tar and feathers. As for the notion of
carrying off arms and ammunition to the hills while the populace
stayed obligingly in bed . . . well, I'd always thought
the projected raid was daft, but only now did I realise it was
ridiculous.
My spirits were further raised by our conference in Gait's
saloon, where we met Johnny Cook, who was J.B.'s man
on the spot. He'd been at the Ferry for a year, teaching ^hool among other things, and God help the children's edu- ction: a pleasant fellow enough, but garrulous as a Welsh
Parson, and I'd sooner have trusted a secret to Elspeth. Like
239
Kagi, he was fretting about whether the slaves would rise
and wanted to take soundings among 'em. The thought of
this babbling ass tooling about asking niggers if they felt like
mutiny had J.B. almost biting his tea-cup (yes, tea, in a
saloon; he and Oliver were strict temperance). He told
Cook, with some vigour, on no account to meddle with the
slaves. Cook was crestfallen.
"But how they goin' to know, an' be ready, without we
tell 'em? Can't have a nigra uprisin' if the nigras don't know, can we? How we goin' to get them in?" He raised a foolish
laugh, and J.B. ground his teeth.
"When we strike, they will know it, and they will come
in to us, I tell you, and they shall be legion!" He was wearing
his mad Isaiah look, as he always did when contradicted.
"The Lord will guide them to us, and they will be like the
standing corn for number - so don't you fool with 'em, John
Cook, you hear me?"
And that, you should know, was the last that was ever
heard about stirring up the slaves - a task which could never
have been done in secret anyway; George Broadfoot would
have turned his face to the wall at the mere thought.
The next thing was to find a lonely spot on the Maryland
side where we could set up shop, pretending to be farmers
while we girded our loins, planned, trained, drilled, accumulated
arms and recruits, and generally played out J.B.'s
dreams. After putting it about that we were settlers who
hoped to bring in cattle from the North, he found the ideal
place about four miles from the Ferry, a ramshackle threestorey
farmhouse which he rented from someone named
Kennedy; it had pasture and outbuildings and lay away from
the road, shielded by shrubbery, in pleasant wooded country
at the foot of the hills. Just the spot for a few eccentrics to
waste time fooling themselves that they were on the brink
of great things.
And there we stayed, God help me, for three solid months
- and if you ask me what happened in that interminable
time, I can only say that dusty summer drifted endlessly
into golden autumn, our clothes got seedier, and our leader
talked and talked and brooded and wrote letters North for
240
money and accomplished . . . absolutely nothing. While in
the world outside (which I began to doubt still existed),
Pam became Prime Minister again, Blondin walked across
Niagara on a tightrope, someone invented the steam roadroller
people read A Tale of Two Cities (I know these things
'cos I looked them up in an encyclopedia the other day),
and my loving Elspeth, I have reason to suspect, misbehaved
in a potting-shed at Windsor Castle with that randy little pig
the Prince of Wales, who at that time was just beginning to
notice that girls were different from fellows, somehow.
And not far away from the Kennedy Farm a chap called
Emmett was composing a catchy little ditty, which was rather
ironic, when you consider that we were preparing to set the
South ablaze: it was called "Dixie".
* * *
You may ask, how did I stand it, and why? Easy: I'd no
choice. So far as I knew, the Kuklos were still keeping a
leery eye on me, and Joe certainly was. Still, I might have
tried to slide out, but for one thing - I never believed it
could last. Only when you know you're in for a long haul
do you grow desperate; I didn't, because each day I could
tell myself that tomorrow, or next week, must see the end,
surely; J.B. would realise his folly, and give up, or go loco
entirely, or the plot would leak out altogether ... or something
would bring the whole farce to a quiet conclusion. One
thing I grew increasingly positive about: there would be no
raid and no uprising.
I became convinced of this in the first two weeks at the
farm, which I spent, at J.B.'s request, in writing plans for
the great invasion. I did it in best staff-college style, covering
reams of paper with instructions for the initial taking of the
vital points in the town (a simple task in itself), and the
development of the rebellion - a glorious exercise in impossibility,
since it took for granted a force of at least a hundred ^ell-trained men, properly equipped and led (a total which 1 took care not to state in bald terms), and assumed that
"ordes of ferocious fugitive niggers would flock to join us;
it might encourage them, I suggested, if we sent riders round
241
the country with fiery crosses - and if you think that was
stretching credulity, you don't know J.B.
He was delighted. This was what he'd needed all along
he said, a clear laying-out by an expert; there had been
nothing like me since Hannibal. He read it over and over
sighing with satisfaction as he turned the pages by the light
of the oil-lamps, his great lion head tilted back to scan them
through his reading-glass. The fiery crosses brought an
explosion of admiration, and a fist thumped on the table
and I reflected that feeding dreams is like flattery: you can't
lay it on too thick. If I'd had a spark of decency I'd have
felt sorry for the credulous old clown, humbugging him so,
but I didn't - hang it all, it's my livelihood.
Such a masterpiece had to be discussed, of course, ad
infinitum, in every minute, futile detail. A copy must be
sent to Kagi, who was now at Chambersburg awaiting the
shipment of arms from John junior in Ohio, and Cook had
to be summoned from the Ferry so that he, too, could be
dumfounded by my genius. It was all there, he agreed, plain
as print; he'd have to take a look up in the hills to select
likely spots for the forts, but he could get tar and turpentine
right away for the fiery crosses, you bet. One omission in
my plan disappointed him, though: no mention of hostages.
What hostages, I asked.
"Did I not tell you, Joshua?" says J.B. "When we have
taken the Ferry we must lay hold on the principal slaveowners,
as security for any of our people who may fall into
the hands of the enemy." By "enemy" he meant the U.S.A.,
if he'd only thought about it.
"I know a prime case," says Cook. "Old Colonel Washington
-
he's George Washington's great-grandsomethin'-orother.
Has a fine place close to town - an' hasn't he got
slaves, though!"
"We must take him without fail," says J.B. "It will mean
much to have that great name, the name of our country's
founder, as a hostage."
"He's a real fine gentleman, a proper arist-o-crat!" says
Cook, pleased to be approved for once. "Say, you should
see his house, though - that's the bang-uppest place! The
242
things he has there - why, there's a pistol that Lafayette gave
Oeorge Washington, an' Frederick the Great's sword!"
"Are you sure - you've seen them?" J.B. fairly glowed. "Oh to have those when we raise the flag of freedom over
Harper's Ferry! Precious symbols in our country's history -
Lafayette's pistol in my belt . . . great Frederick's sword in
my hand ..."
It kept him happy for a couple of days; if only Harper's
Ferry had also contained Franklin's lightning-rod and Jefferson's
commode, he'd have been in wonderland for a week.
* * *
We were just a party of six when we moved into the farm,
but soon we were joined by Oliver's wife, Martha, and J.B.'s
daughter, Annie, who were to keep house for us and the
recruits who arrived at intervals thereafter. The two girls
were bright, cheery lasses in their late 'teens, and I should
put your minds at rest at once by stating that I never had
carnal designs on either; they weren't my style or passable
above half - and you don't fool with the womenfolk of John
Brown of Ossawatomie, believe me. Martha was a capital
cook, and little Annie a sharp sentry; it was J.B.'s great
dread that we'd arouse suspicion among the local people for
Americans are the nosiest folk on earth, prying into
. every newcomer's business, trying to get sight of his furnish1
ings and guess how much money he's got (being neighbourly,
they call it), and the arrival of six mysterious stalwarts was
enough to set the countryside agog.
Later, when more recruits came in, little Annie had to be
on the look-out constantly, crying warning and rebuffing
visitors, for it would have been fatal if the gossips had
learned there were a score of men in the house. I've seen a
dozen of us at dinner having to lift the cloth at a moment's notice and carry it off, dishes, scoff, and all, from the big
common-room off the kitchen, up into the sleeping loft. And sll because Mrs Huff master, a barefoot slattern with half a "ozen snottering brats at her heels, "came a-callin'", peep- ^g round Annie on the porch to get a look inside, and
. ^marking slyly "what a smart lot o' shirts your menfolk
243
has", when we'd carelessly put all our washing out at once
and there were clothes for fifteen or twenty fluttering on the
green.
These recruits came by twos and threes at intervals during
the summer, but I'll list 'em all together for convenience.
At first I worried in case J.B. might assemble a formidable
force, but twenty proved to be the full count, far too few for
the business he had in mind, and only one or two first-class
experienced men. Mostly they were Jerry Anderson over
again: young, eager, sworn abolitionists full of tripe about
liberty and black equality, and all under the spell of J.B.,
for most of them had been with him in Kansas or up north,
and had dispersed after last year's postponement.
The one formidable customer was Aaron Stevens, a big
black-avised rascal who at thirty was the oldest; he'd served
in Mexico, been sentenced to death for mutiny, broken out
of Leavenworth, and fought the slavers in Kansas, where
he'd been colonel of a militia troop. He and a fellow called
Taylor, a Canadian, stuck together, for they were both spiritualists,
and would prose away for hours about the beyond;
Stevens was sane enough, but Taylor was next-door to a
padded cell - he believed his dreams and would tell you
cheerfully that he'd be dead by Christmas. He was, too.
Watson Brown was another of J.B.'s boys, tall and goodlooking,
with a dandy beard and a gentle manner; he'd left
a wife and baby up north and was yearning to get back to
them. Al Hazlett and Bill Leeman were wild young blades,
forever sneaking out when J.B.'s back was turned to spark
the local girls or get up to larks even down in Harper's
Ferry, but Leeman was a favourite because he'd shot it out
beside the old man when the Ruffians drove them from
Ossawatomie. And Charlie Tidd was an ugly young brute
with a temper to match.
There were two sets of brothers, the Thompsons and the
Coppocs, just raw youngsters, but all I remember of them
is that Dauphin Thompson was a fair-haired cherub who
blushed like a girl. Bill Thompson was a jolly soul with a
great fund of stories, and Ed Coppoc was a sober youth with
nursery manners who called me "sir". And aside from Joe
244
. g were three or four blacks, but they joined late in the
, gnd the only ones of whom I have any image were
Fmoeror Green, an eye-rolling yes-massa critter, and a
middle-aged Scotch-mulatto with the astonishing name of
Dangerous Newby.45
Those, then, were John Brown's "pet lambs", as I remember
them - lively youths without much schooling, but fanatics
to a man, and as I note them down, pictures of memory rise
before me: Leeman, slim of face and figure, lolling with his
feet on the table, cigar at a jaunty angle, talking big; Hazlett
haw-hawing at Bill Thompson's jokes; the three Brown
brothers playing nap, Oliver's fine profile and curly hair in
the lamplight, Watson intent on his cards, Owen like a
benign bullock; Jerry Anderson snapping checkers across
the board, telling young Ed Coppoc he knew nothing about
the game; the blacks muttering quietly in a corner, except
for Joe, who often as not would be in the kitchen, listening
to J.B. prosing away in his chair by the stove - the old man
* was always there of an evening because, he said, he didn't
like to damp the spirits of the young men by his presence
in the common-room; Martha peeling potatoes for next day's
dinner, pushing the hair out of her eyes with a damp hand;
Stevens and Taylor on the porch, discussing the hereafter;
little Annie perched on her stool, keeping an eye on the
^distant road fading into the dusk.
H All gone now, every one, and I wonder if the Kennedy
farm is still there in peaceful Maryland, or if it has crumbled
into a ruin of planks and shingles, overgrown in that lonely
field, or perhaps there's a new farm altogether, whose
tenants wonder what those strange conspirators were like,
so long ago.
I have another strong memory of J.B. conducting communal
prayers night and morning, the great bearded head with
| its fine mane of greying hair thrown back, eyes closed while "e exhorted God fit to shake the roof; or reading aloud some
blood-and-thunder passage from the Old Testament. Often
e would give us a brief sermon, usually on a text describing
" e ^struction of the Amalekites or another of those unforunate
tribes who were forever being smitten hip and thigh.
245
If you'd seen him then, in full cry, you'd have believed all
the stories about his fanaticism, yet at other times he could
be as jolly as Punch. We occasionally played games on the
meadow before the house (with Annie keeping watch), baseball
or Tom Tiddler, and I taught them football as played
at Rugby in my time, with a bladder for a ball; they took to
it like sailors to rum, charging and hacking in fine style, and
J.B. roared and hurrah'd and laughed so much he had to sit
down. He would sometimes wrestle with his sons, and beat
Watson and Owen easily, but Oliver nothing could shift. I
wrestled with J.B. once myself, at his invitation, thinking
I'd best go easy on the old fellow, but it was like being
wrapped in wire hawsers with a scrubbing brush buried in
your neck, and he grassed me before I knew it.
Sometimes he cooked breakfast, to give Martha a rest,
skilleting out the eggs and ham in his shirt-sleeves - that was
the time I noticed his toes sticking out of his old boots, and
on that same occasion he lost his temper: he'd brewed tea
for all of us, Watson wanted coffee, words were exchanged,
Watson sassed him, and J.B. suddenly blazed up and let
drive a fist. Watson skipped away, they glared at each other,
and then J.B. fairly bawled him to bits about duty and
respect for elders and ungrateful children. Watson was on
the verge of tears, but still came back at him, shouting: "The
trouble is you want your sons to be brave as tigers, but still
afraid of you!" J.B. glowered at him a full minute, and then
took Watson's head in the crook of his arm and held it
against his breast, ruffling his hair and smiling, and damned
if Watson didn't start blubbing in earnest.
I reckon he'd summed the old man up pretty well. J.B.
was a natural tyrant, and his sons treated him as the Children
of Israel served God, with terrified affection. Watson told
me an astonishing story of how he'd punished them in childhood:
he'd announce a number of strokes of his belt, say
twelve, but he'd give them only six, and then they had to
give him the other six. " 'Twas the most awful punishment
anyone could give a child," says Watson. "Imagine, havin'
to lick your own father! I tell you. Josh, it near broke my
heart. Say, didn't it keep us good, though!"
246
It wouldn't h-ave kept this infant good; I'd have laced tf6 old bugger till his arse fell off. But then, I never had af^ proper filial regard, and if you'd ever met my guv'nor you" understand why.
While I reme-mber, J.B. had a great way with animals; f knew horses an_d they knew him, and he could quiet a bai^'
ing hound just "by glancing at it. But the strangest thing w'^ when a brace of wrens flew into the common-room whe^ he was writing , fluttering about his head. When he we"1 upstairs, they flew away, but later, when he was writi<' again, back they came to pester him. At last he went outsit'
and they flew a-head, twittering, to their nest in the brush and
there was the ugliest copperhead you ever saw, hi^'
ing and buzzing its tail. J.B. blew its head off with one sb^ - and when next he sat down to write, damned if the wre^ didn't bowl in, perching on his table, even hopping on 10 his sleeve, doing everything but shake his hand. "They knt^ a friend when they see one," says he, and for weeks aft^' wards, when he was writing, the wrens would look in to p^8 the time with hiim.
Another critter whose regard for J.B. piqued my inter^ as the weeks went by was . . . Joe. In all our time at t^ farm I doubt if he ever strayed ten yards from me, but ^ played it well, and no one ever suspected he was my watch' dog, ready to bite. He was at pains to conceal his intelligent and schooling, too, taking the silent dignified line, but alwa^ showing willing - he was the keenest hand in our footb^ games, scrimmaging with the best of them - and was pret^ well liked, especially by J.B. What intrigued me was th^ Joe seemed equally taken with the old man; I've told y^ how he'd listen to J.B.'s gassing in the kitchen of an evening and in the talks where we all sat round debating half-bak^ philosophy and how society ought to be put right, or religi^" and military tactics, and J.B. started laying down the la^'
I d catch Joe watching him with a strange, intense look in those awful bloodshot eyes. And when J.B. got on his sl^,
ery hobby-horse, as he always did, Joe would sit back wi' "is lids half-closed, and I would wonder what was going ^ _in that shrewd black mind.
247
The arms arrived in August, fifteen cases
of Sharps rifles and the revolvers. Owen Brown had been
our teamster in the early weeks, driving the vagon up to
Chambersburg to take letters to Kagi, and to )ick up supplies
discreetly in villages along the route; new Joe and I
went with him to collect the arms, and while Jce and Owen
stowed them in the wagon, Kagi drew me aade, looking
grave.
"This plan of yours," says he. "I'll allow it's sound - but
you're counting on a hundred men! Joshua, I don't see us
raising half that number!"
I asked, what about the free blacks in Canada, who were
supposed to be in a great sweat to join us, and he grunted.
"Junior's up there now - you may guess how many he'll
raise! Oh, I should have gone myself, instead o: wasting my
time here, being a postmaster! And no sign of finds coming
in, either; you'll be out of food shortly, and the 3oys daren't
look for work down yonder." He shrugged angrily, then
brightened again. "Still there's hope yet, for money and men - you know J.B. is coming up here to me;t Frederick
Douglass next week?"
Even I had heard of Douglass, the greatest Hack man in
America, an escaped slave who moved in the highest circles,
published his own newspaper, lectured all o, even in
Europe, and was the nearest thing to a black nressiah since
Toussaint 1'Ouverture.
"J.B. hopes to persuade him to join the raid," says Kagi. "Oh, if he but could - why, it would change our fortunes at
a stroke! Every black in America and Canada would flock
to him . . . well, enough, anyway! The trouble is, he's always
248
, ^iflred against violence, blast it! We must just see what
j B. can do with him."
This was the worst news I'd heard in months. Suppose
this infernal nigger did throw in with Brown, and brought
pven fifty with him? The old buzzard would be into Harper's
Ferrv like a shot - and where would poor Flashy be then?
Skipping for the timber, that was where . . . with the likes
of Joe Simmons looking to put a bullet in my back. But,
steady on - Douglass most likely wouldn't come to scratch,
and all would be well. One thing was sure: when J.B. met
him at Chambersburg, I was going to be on hand.
Luckily, J.B. was all for it, saying it was right and useful
that Douglass should meet "our strategian", as he called me,
and when Joe, inevitably, asked to come along, he agreed right
off; it would be good for Douglass to see such a fine upstanding
man of colour in the forefront of the cause, he said.
The meeting took place in great secrecy, because J.B.'s
fears of betrayal were mounting by the day, what with neighbours
prying and our young men behaving carelessly, showing
themselves about the farm and writing indiscreet letters to
wives and sweethearts, making no secret of what was afoot. I
remember Leeman reading aloud an effusion to his mother,
about "our secret association of as gallant fellows as ever
pulled trigger", and how we were soon going to "exterminate
slavery", and J.B. overhead him and pitched right in.
| "It isn't enough that folk come spying about us, stopping *us on the road, demanding to know our business - you have
to write this kind of foolishness, too! Think of the burden
of secrecy you put on your mother! And the rest of you,
writing to girls, and special friends, telling of our location
and all our matters! We might as well get it published in the New York Herald and be done with it! Now, drop it, d'you
hear?" He scorched them with a look, and stumped off, and
Leeman rolled his eyes and told Dauphin Thompson that e d better mind what he wrote to those saucy little snappers 01 his; the infant blushed like a beetroot.
So we stole into Chambersburg by night, J.B. and Joe in
the wagon, myself on the mule, and lay up in a deserted
quarry. The old man was more nervous than I'd ever seen
249
him, probably because he was in such a sweat to enlist Douglass
- and I nearly caught a bullet as a result. It was around
dawn that Joe and I heard someone coming, and when Joe
shook J.B. awake, damned if he didn't come to with his Colt
in his fist, loosing off a shot that blew splinters from the rock
beside my head. It shook the old fool as much as it did me,
and he was fairly twitching by the time Kagi have in view,
with Douglass and a young nigger in tow.
Douglass was one of those mulattos who are more wiite
than black; but for the wiry hair he might have been Spanish
or Italian, and I found myself reflecting yet again on the odiity
that the smallest visible touch of the tar-brush in a white nan
makes him "black", but a trace of European in a negro dan't
make him "white". Douglass was altogether white in speech
and style, but I doubt if he knew it or cared; he had a iine
sense of his own dignity, which would have irked me whatever
colour he was, but while he talked down his fine straight rose
at least he had none of the resentful spite or childish airs lhat
had made George Randolph such a confounded bore.46
It soon became plain that he was far too level-headed to
be swayed by J.B.'s nonsense, or to beat about the biish.
He listened soberly while the old man told him that the die
was cast, it was Virginia or bust, and what did Douglass
think of that? Douglass told him, straight, that it was not
only wrong, and crazy, but downright wicked: it was an
attack on the U.S.A., it would rouse the country against the
abolitionists, do untold harm to their cause, and be fatal not
only to Brown and his gang but to every slave who was lool
enough to run off and join the rebellion. I wanted to cry hear, hear, and wondered why none of Brown's support had had the spirit to say it to him long ago.
J.B. said he didn't care two cents if the country 1vas roused; it needed rousing. And Douglass couldn't conceit what the taking of Harper's Ferry would mean - why. lt would be a sign to the slaves that deliverance was at ha""'
they would burst their chains and rally to his banner in tip""
sands, not only in Virginia but throughout all Israel, am211- He was in his best raving style, pacing about the quairy'
arms flailing and eyes flashing, while Douglass waited steri-
250
faced for him to run out of wind. When he did, Dougl^ asked me to describe the men and means at our dispose-
It was my chance, and I took it, telling the simple tf11111 without opinion, while J.B. stood nodding triumphantly as though to say: "There - you see!" Douglass sat back agat^ the rock and looked up at him.
"I can't debate the cause with you, John; I'm no m^"
for you in such matters. But from what your comrade (eus me of the place, and all you've said, I'm convinced you are going into a perfect steel trap. You'll never get out ali^'
you'll be surrounded with no hope of escape "
"If we're surrounded we'll find means to cut our way oi11'"
cries J.B. "But it won't come to that - we'll have the lea^S men of the district prisoners from the start! With such H08"
tages we can dictate our terms, don't you see?"
Douglass stared in disbelief. "You can't think it! ^Y' man, Virginia will blow you and your hostages sky-li'8^ rather than let you hold Harper's Ferry an hour!" He turl^ to me. "Is that not so, Mr Comber? You are a soldier' I believe -"
"He's a sailor!" roars J.B. "Oh, can you not see, Do^"
lass, that even if we were destroyed altogether, we sho"^ have won the victory? The fire would have been kindle the flag unfurled, the nation shaken from its slumber ..''
And so on, ranting and pleading by turns, while Dougl^8 exclaimed in anger or shook his head in despair. They arg^ back and forth for hours, J.B. insisting on a sudden war-l^ stroke, Douglass trying to persuade him that if he must 
south he should do it gradually, helping slaves to escape to havens in the hills and so building a resistance that coul^ be ignored. They left off only at dusk, agreeing to ifl6^ again next day, and when we parted Douglass stepped a^ to shake my hand.
"You are English, are you not? Well, sir, I must tell V011 mat your country is dear to me beyond all others, forlt gave me sanctuary from my enemies here. Indeed," says he'
ookmg stuffed, "I owe my name to Scotland, and my lib^Y La?" '^"glass' I borrowed from The Lady of the
e ' and English friends purchased my freedom." He
251
sighed, with a wry smile. "Ironic, is it not? America cast off
a royal tyranny to found a free republic, yet it was the land
of royal tyranny that bought my liberty from the free republic
which had stolen it."
"Ah, well," says I, "always happy to oblige, don't ye
know." It sounded a bit lame, so I added: "Cost a bit o'
brass, did it?"
He blinked. "Seven hundred and ten dollars," says he
rather stiff. "And ninety-six cents."
"Bless my soul!" says I. "Well, there it is. Easy come
easy go, what?"
He gave me an odd look, and a brief good-night, and
steered clear of me when the meeting resumed next day. He
and J.B. were still altogether at odds, and when the old man
begged him to join the raid, Douglass refused pointblank;
much as he loved and respected J.B., his conscience
wouldn't let him. Aye, thinks I, we've heard that tale before.
Still J.B. wouldn't let up, putting his arm round his shoulders
and breathing zeal.
"Come with me, Douglass!" cries he. "I will defend you
with my life! I need you, my friend, for when I strike, the bees
will start to swarm, and I shall want you to help hive them!
Oh, think what it will mean to them if you, of all black men,
aye, with the stripes of the lash upon you, are there to greet
them sword in hand amidst the smoke of battle!"
That's the way to drum up recruits, thinks I. Douglass, sensible
chap, wouldn't have it, but he told the young darkie he
might go along if he liked, and to our surprise the fellow,
Emperor Green, snuffled and muttered: "Ah guess Ah'll go
wid de ole man." He looked as though he'd sooner have gone
to China, but I suspect that word of J.B.'s plan had spread
among the wealthier free blacks, and they were eager to have
as many coloureds in the business as possible, so poor old
Emperor may just have been doing what he was told.
It was a fine cheery trip back to the farm, I don't think, with
J.B. deep in the dumps; he'd been so sure he could persuade
Douglass, and all he'd got was a complete damper and one
run-down nigger. To make matters worse (or rather better),
we soon had word from Kagi that John junior had made noth-
252
of the Canadian blacks, and that various white men on
* rQ J.B. had been relying weren't coming - some wanted a
, pfinite date, others wanted to get the harvest in, or didn't
fancv Virginia, and one had decided to study law instead. But
the worst blow of all to J.B. was when two of his sons, Salmon
and Jason, who were up north, wrote that they weren't join
y Salmon was quite brutal about it, saying that he knew the
old man, and he would just dally until he was trapped.
So there it was, as autumn advanced: no more men, no
more money, J.B. in the sullen frets and growling about
betrayal, our situation at the farm growing more precarious
by the day, and the young men restless and writing ever
longer letters home - I couldn't have wished for a better
state of affairs, and looked forward to the enterprise being
abandoned any day.
It was interesting to watch the nerves starting to fray with
the uncertainty. It's always the way: men facing a definite
task, however desperate, are manageable, but give 'em a
leader who can't make up his mind and they go all to bits.
Quarrels became more frequent, Bill Thompson ran out of
jokes, Leeman and Hazlett no longer got up to larks, and
for the first time I heard murmurs that the raid should be
given up, that it was madness with no more men coming in,
and Harper's Ferry would prove a death-trap. The youngsters,
who'd been so full of ginger a month before, were
looking uneasy, Watson Brown confided to me that he
wanted nothing but to be home with his wife and baby, and
even Oliver, the coolest of hands, wore a tired frown on his
handsome face - I'd seen dried tears on Martha's cheeks,
and knew she'd been trying to talk him out of it.
To add to the gloom, she and Annie went back north in
September, but one who wasn't missed was J.B. himself on
the occasions when he went up to Chambersburg to confer ^ith Kagi. He was at his wit's end for funds, and bit the
heads off Leeman and Tidd just for lighting cigars, crying lhat if he had half the money that was wasted on smoking,
e could have outfitted an army. Leeman threw down his weed in a temper, and Tidd flung out of the house, saying
e d had enough. He came back, though, after three days
253
spent croaking to Cook down at the Ferry. Meanwhile J.B
was off to Chambersburg again, and the general feeling was
that he could stay there, and the rest of us could go home
No such luck. He drove up next day, bringing the famous
thousand pikes with him, and tried to make it an occasion
for rejoicing, saying here was proof that our friends had not
forgotten us, but the mere sight of that great heap of lumber
and metal lying in the yard sent everyone's spirits into their
boots. He drove us to work fitting the pike heads and stowing
them in the loft, and then had Stevens call a drill parade- we'd been getting slack in his absence, he said, and must
brisk up directly, for the time was coming when we must
prove ourselves in earnest.
"Sure, next summer, maybe," mutters Jerry Anderson,
and Bill Thompson cried no, no, we mustn't be in such a rush,
1869 would be soon enough, if we weren't all dead of boredom
by then. The niggers haw-hawed at this, but Joe rounded on
them, telling them to mind what they were about, and fall in
like the captain said. Stevens marched 'em up and down for
an hour, while I watched from the veranda (chiefs of staff
don't drill, you see), and a more ill-natured parade I never
saw. Now's your time, Flash, says I to myself, and when they'd
fallen out and eaten supper in sullen silence, I joined Stevens,
who was having a brood to himself in the yard.
"Aaron," says I, mighty earnest, "I'd value your opinion.
This plan of mine . . . I've done it as best I known how,
J.B. is all for it, and so, I believe, is Kagi - but you're the
only real soldier in this outfit." I looked him in the eye.
"Straight, now - what d'ye think of it?"
"Well, it's a real fine plan, I guess," says he, in his slow
way. "For a full company of soldiers. For our poor few . . "
He shrugged his big shoulders. "I reckon Harper's Ferry
could be a right pretty place to die."
I nodded solemnly. "So think I. Well, my life don't matter."
God, the things I've said. "And I know you don't count
yours - like me, you feel it's a small price to pay for the
cause. But . . ."I paused, a noble soul troubled "... what
of the younger men - and the blacks? Is it right that they
should be sacrificed? You see my plight, old fellow - it's my
254
that is dooming them . . . their deaths will lie to my
ount ... ah, that's what burdens my spirit!" a This kind of soul-lashing was small talk at Kennedy Farm
that summer, and meat and drink to mystic idiots like him.
t knew I'd hit pay-dirt when I saw his jaw tighten; he shook
his head sternly.
"Everyone counted the cost before he came," says he.
"They'll gi^ fheir lives gladly - after all, there is a better
life beyond, and the door is always open. To pass through
is but a small step," continues the great loony, "and if in
oassing it falls to us to do a noble thing, then who shall mind
a moment's afflictiop, knowing that in death lies victory, not
only for us but for the thousands enslaved and oppressed?"
"God bless you, old fellow!" cries I, and wrung his hand.
"Gad, but you put it well! You've lifted a weight from my
mind, I can tell you!" I hesitated. "See here, Aaron, will
you do something for me?"
"What's that, Joshua?"
"Talk to the others . . . the younger men ... as you've
talked to me - you know, about passing through, and victory,
and . . . and so on. They'll heed you, because . . .
well, you have such faith, you see, and a gift of words! I
mean, if I were to say to 'em: 'We're all dead men, but it's
worth it' ... well, there you are, you see! I don't put it too
well, do I? But you can, old boy! Oh, 'twill raise their hearts
- why it may make all the difference, and ensure that dear
old J.B.'s dream comes true!"
You see my game: being a respected senior, and a spiritualist,
he was just the man to put the wind right up our
younger enthusiasts with his reassuring chat about the life
to come; with luck he'd reduce the low spirits of Kennedy
Farm to absolute zero. Well, he did more than that; God
knows what he said to them, privatim et seriatim, over the "ext two days, but it dam' near caused a mutiny. Suddenly,
Harper's Ferry was finding no takers at all on 'Change. Owen got wind of the disaffection, and reported to J.B., ^minding him glumly of what happened to Napoleon when e marched on Moscow against the popular will, and the
old boy took his head in his hands and groaned. Then he
255
called us all into the common-room, and brooded at us like
a vulture on a tombstone.
"I hear," growls he, "that with the exception of Kaei
who I know is staunch, you are all opposed to striking the
blow at the Ferry. I feel so depressed that I am almost willing
to abandon the undertaking for the time being." He threw
back his head, waiting, but only Owen contradicted him
saying we had come too far, and must go ahead.
"Must we?" grunts J.B., and glanced at me. "Joshua?"
I drew myself up, all Horse Guards, and spoke with deep
feeling. "You know my sentiments, captain. But since the
plan is mine, I don't feel entitled to a voice. I must beg to
be allowed to abstain."
Rather neat, I thought, but one who obviously didn't think
so was Joe. He was glaring at me fit to kill - my abstention
looked to him like a rank betrayal of my engagement to the
Kuklos. He burst out: "Well, Ah ain't abstainin'! Ah say
we go, like cap'n says!"
J.B. stared, frowning in astonishment - it came as a shock
to him, I think, to be reminded that Joe knew all about the
plan - the other blacks didn't, you see, being mere cannonfodder
who hadn't been admitted to our councils. No one
else spoke; even Stevens stood mum, and I could only conclude
that in talking to the young men he had realised their
deep reluctance, and lost heart himself. Personally, I was
offering up a silent thanksgiving, for I was sure that in the
presence of those sullen, uneasy faces, J.B. was going to
have to call it a day at long last. He gave Joe a weary, wintry
smile.
"I thank you for your trust and loyalty, Joe," says he,
"but I fear that you and I and Owen and Kagi - and Joshua,
too, I believe - can hardly do the thing alone. For myself,
I have only one life to live, and to lose, but I am not so
strenuous for my plans as to carry them through against
the company's wishes." He paused, sighing, and rubbed his
forehead. All over, thinks I - and then the cunning old
bastard faced his hole card. "Very well ... I resign. We
will choose another leader, and I will faithfully obey him,
reserving only the right to advise when I see fit."
256
There was a gasp of dismay. J.B. bowed his head and
iked from the room without another word . . . and would w credit it, within five minutes that pack of brainless sheep ^ d re-elected him! Unanimously, too -- for when I saw where they were going, two of the youngest shedding tears of
p morse the others shamed into a renewal of holy zeal, you
mav be sure I cast my lot with the majority. I could have
throttled the old swine; the whole c^azy scheme had been
within a shaving of collapse, and he'd swung them round
simply by passing the decision to them. I still say he wasn't a
pood leader, but he was one hell of a farmyard politician.
You'd have thought, with that moral victory under his
belt that he'd have gone for the Ferry then and there, while
the boys were still excited in their reaction, and indeed for
a couple of days I was in a mortal funk that he would do
just that. Kagi, who must have got wind of our little mutiny,
was writing urgently from Chambersburg, insisting it was
now or never: the harvest had been good, so we'd have
ample forage in Virginia, the moon was right, and the slaves
were restive because the suicides had started.47 Further, Kagi
pointed out, we didn't have five dollars left even to buy food
- we daren't delay any longer.
Neither, I decided, dare I. All of a sudden, thanks to the
mutiny producing the opposite effect to what I'd expected,
the raid seemed to be on the cards for the first time, and
my thoughts turned to the horse stabled beneath the house,
and the road to Washington. The fly in the ointment was
Joe, whose suspicions of me had become thoroughly roused;
his baleful eye was on me every minute, and he had taken
to sleeping across the doorway in the loft. I evolved and
rejected half a dozen schemes for evading him - and still
J-B. gave no sign of making up his mind. If anything, he
was more sunk in despond than ever, fearful that at any moment we might be discovered, and on the other hand iretting that we daren't move without what he called "a
treasury to sustain our campaign".
'There's a bank in Harper's Ferry, ain't there?" cries
'^ry Anderson, and J.B. exploded.
i We are not thieves!" cries he. "Oh, for a few hundred
257
dollars! I shall write to Kagi again - he must find us
something!"
And Kagi, damn him, did.
* * *
It was a dirty October night when the blow fell. J.B. was in
the kitchen, writing, and the rest of us were yawning and
snarling after a day which had seen us mooning indoors
confined by the driving rain, with nothing to do but clean
weapons and make do and mend and croak at each other.
Supper had been a meagre affair, and I was noting with
satisfaction that the feverish burst of enthusiasm which had
followed J.B.'s re-election had dwindled altogether after
days of inaction. What had damped everyone's spirits most
of all had been an announcement from the old man that he
was contemplating "a decisive act in two or three weeks" we'd
heard that before, and as Leeman pointed out, in less
than a week, never mind two or three, we'd be forced to
disperse, if only to find some grub . . . and then there was
a clatter of boots on the veranda, every hand was suddenly
reaching for a rifle or revolver, the lamp was doused, and
Stevens was challenging: "Who goes there?"
"It's Santa Claus - old Kriss Kringle, and see how you
like it!" laughs an exultant voice, and in an instant the bar
had been slipped and the lamp rekindled, and Kagi was
standing grinning all over his face in the doorway, with the
rain pouring off his shawl. There was a tall fellow with him,
and as Kagi ushered him into the light I saw that he limped
heavily and had one eye missing in his pale, sickly face.
"This is Frank Meriam!" cries Kagi. "Where's the
captain?"
J.B. emerged from the kitchen. "Captain Kagi! What does
this mean? Why are you not at Chambersburg?"
"Chambersburg, nothing, I've just come from the Ferry!"
Kagi was afire with excitement. "Frank just came in by train
today - oh, go ahead, Frank, show 'em!"
The tall fellow pulled out a satchel from beneath his coat,
undid the strap, and opened it over the table - and out
poured a cascade of dollars, glittering and jingling. There
258
cries of amazement as Kagi stirred them on the table, we hine ^d J-B. plumped down in a chair, staring in dis- la pounds r ^r'hile Kagi explained that Meriam was a friend from
h North who had heard of J.B.'s dire need of funds, and
re he was, at the eleventh hour, with his personal contrih
ition to the cause. J.B. rose with tears in his eyes and
DUl1-' . ^o
seized Menami's hand.40
"God has sent you!" cries he. "He has seen His children's
need and filled their measure, yea, to overflowing! How
much is there?"
"Six hundred bucks!" cries Kagi, and J.B. laid his hands
on the gelt and raised his shaggy head in prayer, praising
the Lord that He had furnished means to take His servants
over Jordan and loose the whirlwind in Israel . . . and it
seemed to me to be just the right time, as they all stood
with bowed heads, muttering their amens, to slip quietly out
of the still-open door, button my coat, vault over the veranda
rail, and make a bee-line for the stable door at the end of
the lower storey.
For I'd known, when the first coin clattered on the table,
that all my hopes of many months had been dashed at the
last minute: he would go to Harper's Ferry, and I'd never
get a better chance to light out for Washington and safety;
I'd done my best, I had my boots on, my Tranter in my belt,
and a clear road to Frederick (or any station bar Harper's
Ferry) where I could board a train south. As I fumbled for
a match, lighting the stable lamp, I was telling myself that
once I'd ridden a hundred yards I'd be free, for there wasn't
but the one hoirse, a sorry screw, but he'd do. I saddled him
in feverish haste, soothing him as I slipped the bridle over
his head . . . ten seconds and I'd be out and away, and I
was leading him to the door, gulping with excitement, when 1 bore up with a whinny of terror and stood rooted. Black Joe was standing in the doorway, hands loose at his sides,
looking like the Wild Man of Borneo.
You stinkin' snake!" says he. "I always knew you'd run atthe last! Git yo' hand away f'm yo' belt!"
there was no point in pretending I was taking the beast for exercise. I lifted my hands.
259
"Don't be a fool, Joe!" I creaked. "You don't need me
- he's going to the Ferry, dammi! That's all Atropos wanted
- it don't matter whether I'm ttsre or not! Look, if you let
me go, I'll-"
"I ought to burn yo' brains' snarls he, taking a pace
forward. "An' git away f'm that loss! Now, Mistuh Comber,
you come ahead good an' slow- an' git yo' dirty ass back
inside that house!"
"What for? For Christ's sake.man, see sense! He can run
his bloody raid without me - (t you! Look, we can both slide out-"
"You made a deal, you dam' raitor! Fi' thousan' dollahs,
'member? An' yo' goin' througl with it, the whole way!" I
must have moved a hand, for siddenly there was a pistol in
his fist, the hammer back. "An you know why you's goin'
through with it, Mistuh Comber' 'Cos that good ole man up
theah, he's a-countin' on you! te needs you, 'cos they ain't
another man in his jackass outit can plan or plot wo'th a
dam, 'cept you!" The hideous Hack face split in an awful
grin. "So yo' goin' to be at his sile . . . Joshua, to keep him
right in his raid, an' when he akes to the hills with the
coloured folks, an' when he rios south to set the people
free! All the way, Joshua, you teah me?"
I was so flabbergasted I could lardly find words to protest.
"You're crazy! He'll never rais a rebellion! He'll come
adrift before he's clear of the Fe'ry, you fool! His raid'll be
a farce - but it don't matter! The-aid itself ^ all that Atropos
wants"
"- Atropos!" cries he. "- lim an' every other lousy
slaver! You think Ah'm doin' hs dirty work?" He lunged
towards me, waving the pistol inmy face. "You think Ah'm
jes' 'nother yes-massa nigger, dm't yuh? You think Ah'm
a chattel of that fat bastuhd Msieu Atropos Goddam La
Force, 'cos he petted me an' leime screw his woman, an'
done me all kinda benefits? Wel, mebbe Ah was once, but
not no mo'!" His breath hit m) face like a furnace blast,
and the dreadful yellow-streakedblack eyes rolled in frenzy.
"You know why? 'Cos Ah foun'me a man - a real man, a
simple, no-'count ole farmer thit tret me like a man, an'
260
talked with me like a man! Not like Ah wuz dirt, or a pet
doe li^6 when Ah was in the schoolroom with that - Atropos
La F^^ tnat allus g01- ^'st P1^ 'tne sugar cookies an' to
ride the rockin'-hoss while Ah wuz the goddam groom!" He
gapped back, shaking, and lowered the pistol from beneath jny petrified nose. "An' he's gonna set ma people free! John
Brown's gonna do that! An' yo' gonna see he does, too, oh,
right sure you are, Mistuh Joshua Comber! An' Ah'm gonna
be ri^ht theah to see you do it!"
Hi? hand flickered, and the pistol was gone. Another
flicker, and it was in his hand again. He grinned at me,
nodd.ng. "See?"
Another bloody madman - my God, was anyone in
Amei'ica sane? In a flash I understood the way he'd watched
Brown, and hung on his words, and sat in the kitchen listening
t() his babblings - why, the old bugger had converted
him! I couldn't credit it - not Black Joe, the shrewdest,
wickedest, best-read nigger in Dixie, whose slavery had been
a rosebed compared to anything he could hope for as a
free inan? But it had happened, plainly; one look at those
blooc-injected eyes told me that, and God knows I'd seen
enough of human lunacy not to waste speculation on the
why's and wherefore's. And I was to be driven to sure
destruction, just because this demented darkie had seen the
light! I hadn't a hope of running now, with this fearsome
black gunslick dogging my every move. But I could still try
to reason with him.
"Jce, in God's name, listen! You're wrong! He doesn't
have a hope, I tell you! He's going to his death - so are all
the rtst of 'em! Nothing I can do will save him! Damnation,
man, you've heard the talk - the slaves won't rise, and he'll
be-"
"S]iut yo' lyin' mouth!"
"It's the truth, man! Dammit, you say yourself I'm the
only 3ne who can make a plan and reckon the odds - d'ye
think I don't know, you bloody fool?"
He hit me a back-hander that sent me sprawling on the
straw, then leaned down to drag me to my feet. "We goin' ^to th<' Ferry, you an' me, 'long o' the ole man - an' then to
261
the hills!" says ] his. face close to mine. "You play false i - you even /ooA:lse, an' Ah kill you dead!"
A voice shoul, oijitside and overhead; it was Stevens .
"Joshua, you dci th<ere? Josh?"
Joe let go anstep^ped to the door. "Jes' seem' to the i wagon. Mass' Am! "}Ve be theah d'reckly!" He beckoned 1
to me, stepping <de to let me pass out into the rain. "Dead 1
. . . 'member?"
* * *
Some wiseacre oe Sc.id that the prospect of death concentrates
the mind mdesrfully, but I'm here to tell you that
the chance to wk for a reprieve concentrates it a whole
heap more. I wan tbie true-blue horrors when I came up
from that stable,ith Joe looming at my heels, and was no
way cheered by t eel ebration taking place in the commonroom.
That pile cash seemed to have acted like a tonic,
heaven knows w, and all around were smiling faces and
bustling activity, agi was pumping my hand and crying, at
last, at last!, anJ.B . was like a man transformed, eyes
shining fiercely al be,ard bristling as he stood by the table,
fingering the doh hile he dictated to Jerry Anderson,
whose pencil w;faii~ly flying across the paper. Tidd, I
remember, was sging "The Girl I Left Behind Me" in his
fine tenor, and ttyoixnger men were joining in and larking
about - and all ;caixse it was now certain that in a few
hours they'd likebe ^getting shot to pieces and dying along
the Potomac or ;ena_ndoah. I'd seen it before, the hectic
gaiety that can te hold of young fools at the imminent
(but not too iminent) prospect of action after they've
waited long; I'veeve r been prone to it, myself. I had my
work cut out keing the upper lip in good order, while
asking myself feailly how the devil I was going to keep a
whole skin this tie.
There was onhne way that I could see, and I bent my
mind to it with erytlhing I knew. If Harper's Ferry could
be taken with noeacjs broken - and I knew it could be,
just, provided mylan was followed to the letter, and nothing
went amiss 4ien there must arise a moment, surely,

262
I

y could give Joe the slip. A few seconds was all I'd w rl (it's all I've ever needed), and I'd be into the under- n with and going like hell's delight, on foot if need be. He ^ ildn't watch me every second, not with the confusion that c ^ occur in taking the armoury gates, the arsenal, and the
rifle works. So that same evening, when J.B. was poring
nver my plans and consulting with Kagi and Stevens, and
next day when (after a damned sleepless night, I can tell you, with Joe on a hair-trigger at my side) the final preparations
were made, I worked on every last detail of the
scheme as though my life depended on it - which it did . . .
Kagi and Stevens to silence the watchman on the Potomac
bridge as we approached - they were the best men, for the
most vital task. The surly Tidd, next best, to cut the telegraph
wires, with the garrulous Cook, who knew the Ferry
well, to show him the way. Oliver, the best of the Browns,
to take and guard the Shenandoah bridge; his brother Watson
to guard the Potomac bridge. (The third brother, Owen,
I insisted must stay at the farm, to hold our base - the truth
was that I wanted him as far from J.B. as could be, because
he was the kind of ass who'd argue with the old man and
set him dithering with indecision.) With the bridges in our
hands, I'd see to the armoury gates myself, with J.B. and
Stevens . . . then to the arsenal across the street, leave
Hazlett on guard, with anyone but Leeman (they were too
harum-scarum to trust together) . . . the rifle works were
nearly half a mile off - aye, Kagi could see to them . . . and
that would be Harper's Ferry receipted and filed ... for a
few hours at least. Provided the bridge and armoury watchmen
could be dealt with quietly, there was no reason why
we shouldn't remain undetected until daybreak . . . and long
before then I'd have slipped Joe, if I had to kill him to do
it, and be on my merry way.
I didn't consult or argue about these dispositions, but
rapped them out in my sharpest style, with J.B. nodding
alongside, and the fellows accepted them without a murmur.
^y spent that last day cleaning weapons and assembling
gfiar, and Stevens and I inspected 'em to the last button,
"e J.B. did the really useful work - writing out our com263
missions, if you please! Half the men were "captains" in his
army, and the others "lieutenants", except for Taylor, the
Canadian, who was too cracked for anything, and of course
the niggers, who were all privates. I was a "major", you'll
be charmed to know . . . and I have the faded paper beside
me as I write, with "John Brown, Commander-in-Chief" in
his spidery hand at the foot. I keep it in my desk, alongside
my appointment as "Sergeant-General" in the Malagassy
army, my Union and Confederate commissions, the illuminated
scroll designating me a Knight of the San Serafino
Order of Purity and Truth (Third Class), the Order of the
Elephant which I picked up in Strackenz, and all the other
foreign stuff. Gad, I've been about, though.
Anyway, I left nothing to chance, talking to each man in
turn to be sure he knew his duties, and J.B. doled out the
"commissions" and read his Constitution, and administered his
oath of allegiance to the late-comer Meriam and a couple of the
blacks, who hadn't taken them before. Only once was there a
cross word, when J.B. tried to interfere with my arrangements
for the town; he said our first task must be to detach a party
to take hostages, but I put my foot down hard, insisting that
it must wait until we had both bridges and the three vital
targets - armoury, arsenal, and rifle works - all secure.
He thrust his beard at me, glittering. "My will must prevail
in this, Joshua!"
"No, Captain Brown, it must not!" says I. "The hostages
can wait a few minutes, until our dispositions are complete.
I'll not answer for our safety, or our success, unless the plan
is followed to the letter."
It took him aback, but Stevens backed me up, and said
he'd 'tend to the hostages himself when the time came. J.B.
gave in, sulkily, and then in a moment he was off on another
tack, telling Stevens that when he took Colonel Washington
hostage, he must on no account forget to bring away Lafayette's
pistol and Frederick the Great's sword, and see to it
that Washington in person handed the sword to one of our
blacks. "If he doesn't care for that, no matter. It is symbolic,
and right and fitting that the sword of liberty should be placed in a coloured hand." That was J.B. all over.
264
And then, before I knew it, dusk was falling, and we were
trine down to our last supper in the Kennedy Farm. It was flowing up a wild night outside, and the rain was leaking in -
imost as fast as my courage was leaking out, for I was scared I've seldom been in my misspent life. The last desperate
pnture of this kind that I'd sweated over had been when the
Hyderabad! Cavalry had charged the breach at Jhansi so that I could be deposited, disguised and petrified with funk, inside
the fortress wall, there to worm my way into the presence of
the delectable Lakshmibai ... my God, that had been only
last year, on the other side of the world! And here I was again,
on the lion's lip, forcing my dinner down with Joe's noisy
chewing sounding like a deathknell at my ear.
Then supper was over, and we sat about in silence, waiting.
There were no jokes now, and the only smiles were
nervous grimaces on the fresh young faces round the table.
It struck me harder then than it had ever done before, what
babes they were, half of 'em with barely a growth of beard
on their cheeks, torn between fear and the crazy belief that
they were doing the Lord's work, and I felt a sudden anger
at bloody John Brown who was leading them to it - and
what was a sight worse, leading me. I can see the faces still
- Watson Brown poring over a letter from his wife, Oliver's
fine features pale in the lamplight, Leeman drumming his
fingers and chewing an unlit cheroot, Hazlett sitting back,
brushing the fair hair out of his eyes, Tidd scowling as he
traced a finger in a puddle of spilt coffee on the board, Aaron
Stevens with his hands clasped behind his head, staring up
at the ceiling, Kagi pacing about, tight as a coiled spring,
old black Dangerous Newby whittling at a stick, the youngest "^n stifling those yawns that are born not of weariness but of tear, Charlie Cook cursing the rain, Bill Thompson whistling
softly through his teeth . . . and Joe seated against the wall, "ever taking those baleful eyes off me.
^B. came out of the kitchen, putting on his coat and hat.
Get on your arms, men," says he. "We will proceed to
the Ferry."
265
There were twenty of us, two by two, and
J.B. driving the wagon, which held the pikes and tools for
forcing the armoury gates. Every man-jack of us, fifteen
white men and six blacks, carried a Sharps rifle and forty
rounds, and two revolvers; against the blinding rain we had
our hats and loose shawls, and before we were out of the
lane and on to the road, we were sodden through. I cast a
glance back as we reached the road: Owen and Meriam
and one of the youngsters were still on the veranda, outlined
against the light from the open door, Owen with his hand
raised, although he couldn't have seen us in the dark, and
I remembered something he'd said as he shook hands with
Watson and Oliver in the moment of parting: "If you succeed,
Old Glory'11 fly over this farm some day; if you don't,
they'll call it a den of thieves and pirates," and Oliver replying
with a laugh: "Why, Owen, you can start shaping up a
flagstaff right now!"
Neither of 'em believed it. Only two men in that company
truly wanted to go to the Ferry - J.B. and Kagi, and of those
two only one expected to come out alive, because he was
sure God must see him through. One other was determined to come out alive, and you may guess who he was, striding
resolutely through the wet night with his guts dissolving,
conscious of the looming black genie at his shoulder.
Six of us marched before the wagon, Cook and Tidd out
in front, then Kagi and Stevens, and last Joe and I, and as
we sloshed on through the dark, barely able to see the
muddy road before us, I found myself harking back to other
desperate night forays - with Rudi Starnberg in the silent,
snow-clad woods of Tarienheim, on our way to carry out
266
n- marck's mad design to put me on a European throne;
' line through the pandy lines at Lucknow with Kavanagh,
rl him figged out as Sinbad the Sailor with his clock
covered in blacking; riding with Mangas Colorado's band of
Mimbreno Apaches to descend on a sleeping hamlet of the
Rio Grande; hand in hand with Elspeth through that dark
parden at Antan' where we'd lain doggo in the bushes and
a Hova guardsman had trod on her finger and broken it and
the little heroine had never so much as squeaked . . . and
at the thought of her golden beauty and warm soft body
entwined with mine on the green moss of the Madagascar
forest, and now so far away and lost to me, perhaps, forever,
I could have raved aloud at the sheer blind cruelty of chance
that had landed me in this beastly business - while she was
snug and safe in dear old London, aye, and like as not
rogering her brainless head off with some fortunate swine,
the little trot. I thrust the unworthy thought aside, as I'd
done a hundred times in the past, for I've never been sure,
you see . . . but whether or no, it didn't matter, I could still
see that splendid milk-white shape reclining on the bed at
Balmoral, the blonde glory of her hair spilling on the pillows,
bright blue eyes wide and teasing, red lips kissing at me over
the fan of crimson feathers that was the only thing between
me and heart's desire ...
No, by heaven, I refused to say farewell to all that magnificent
meat; I'd win back to her somehow, though hell
should bar the way, and give her loving what-for until the
springs broke, in spite of J.B. and Joe Simmons and J. C.
Spring and every other son-of-a-bitch who was trying to do
me down - why, hadn't I taken on a black rascal every bit
as big and ugly as Joe that night in Antan', and won through,
just as I'd won through all those other terrifying scrapes with
Rudi and Kavanagh and the rest? A great rage surged up
in me as I blundered along, compounded of lust for Elspeth
and hatred against the gods; I was damned if after all I'd
suffered it was going to end in a two-bit pest-hole like
Harper's Ferry . . .
.A low whistle from the dark ahead banished my fond
Jisions: there, a scant mile away through the murk, lights
267
were twinkling dimly - the lights of the little township, and
below them, the faint glow of the few lamps that marked
the armoury buildings along the Potomac shore, and cast a
barely-seen glimmer on the river surface. Left of the I armoury, and closer to our line of approach, I could just
make out the loom of the covered bridge over the Potomac
with a lamp at either end - that was our first target. The
whistle had been the signal that Tidd and Cook were breaking
off to cut the first telegraph lines, and now we were
hastening down the slope, the wagon jolting behind us, to
the near end of the Potomac bridge. The timbers boomed
beneath our feet in the wooden tunnel through which ran
the Baltimore and Ohio railroad tracks as well as the road;
we were running now, and a babble of voices was coming
from the far end, where Kagi and Stevens were dealing with
the watchman, who seemed to think it was all a joke - "Say,
what are you fellers about - t'ain't Hallowe'en for a couple
o' weeks yet . . . Goddlemighty, man, take care with that
piece!"
I had a glimpse of his scared white face beneath the lamp,
and Kagi holding a rifle to his breast, as I ran past, Joe at
my elbow, and turned to face the covered bridge entrance.
The wagon came rumbling out, with the boys running in file
either side of it, and as I called my orders they wheeled
away like good 'uns, each to his station. "Watson and Taylor
- take the watchman, keep him quiet! Kagi and Stevens,
close on the wagon! Halt her there, captain! Oliver - Shenandoah
bridge, smart as you can, and quiet!" Oliver ran
past me, with Dangerous Newby and Bill Thompson at his
heels, and vanished under the trees at my back; J.B. reined
in, and Kagi and the others closed round him. Taylor was
covering the terrified watchman at the Potomac bridge
mouth, and Watson waved his rifle to me in acknowledgment.

Now before I go any further, you should look at my map,
which is done as best I can remember, for many of the old
landmarks are gone now, so I can't be dead sure where
everything was.49 I've told you how the town lay, and you
can see for yourselves, but I must impress on you just how
268
J^tosh-mon^ sketch -map of carper's 7erry,
Virginia, swic of John. Srow's raid,
Ocwwi()-i6, i6j9
small was the space in which our little drama was to be
played out. Coming out of the right fork of the Potomac
bridge, you were looking at the Wager House hotel, a large
gabled building with two storeys and a basement; it was part
of the station and hard by the railroad where it branched
right from the covered bridge. To your left, beyond the
other railroad track and part-screened by trees, were the
Shenandoah bridge and Gait's saloon. Directly ahead of you
was the arsenal building, and to the right the gates and railings
of the armoury enclosure. Beyond the arsenal and
armoury were houses and shops and the town proper. All
these places lay within an area not much bigger than a football
field, perhaps eighty yards by a hundred, and from the
upper floor of the Wager House you could see pretty well
all of it, unless there happened to be a tree or a freight car
in the way. The space between the hotel and the armoury
gates was fairly open, as I remember, and I think part of it
was cobbled; there were trees here and there, and I dare
say some buildings I've forgotten, but nothing to signify.
"Joe, get the crowbar from the wagon! Aaron, take the
sledge! Follow me!" I was legging it for the armoury gates,
and J.B. jumped down from the wagon and kept pace with
me, the others following. The rain was lighter now, but it
was still pretty dark, save where a pool of light was cast by
the lamps on the armoury gate-posts. A figure emerged from
the shadows, staring towards us, and J.B. lengthened his
stride, whipping out his pistol, calling to him to stand. There
was a confused babble of who the hell are you, and give me
the key this instant, and I'll be damned if I do, and then we
were at the big double gates of iron railing, and Joe was
snapping the retaining chain with one mighty heave on the
crowbar, the gates were thrust back, and Stevens led the
rush of half a dozen of our fellows into the yard. There
were shouts ahead as two watchmen came running from the
nearest buildings, but they stopped short at the sight of the
weapons and were surrounded neat as wink.
I whistled up the wagon, now driven by one of the blacks,
and ordered it into the yard. I looked round for J.B.,
expecting to see him making for the arsenal across the street,
270
. i.q iad his piece to the breast of the first watchman, and
was haranguing him in fine style.
"I am Isaac Smith," he was proclaiming himself, "and you --v prisoner! Submit peaceably and no harm will come ypy but if you resist your blood will be on your own
head!"
"Ye're drunk, ye old fool! And on a Sunday, too!" cries
the other, pushing the gun aside, but Jerry Anderson ran
up and clapped a pistol to his head, and he just sank down
in the mud, squawking. A voice called out of the misty darkness
from the direction of the town, asking what all the row
was about, and I wheeled on Kagi.
"Take three men, round up anyone on the street over
there, and bring 'em here, quick and quiet! Leeman, run to
the Shenandoah bridge, see if all's well with Oliver! Bring
the watchman back here! Dauphin Thompson, fetch the
watchman from the Potomac bridge. And both of you keep
'em quiet, d'ye hear?" Jerry was hustling his stricken
watchman to the armoury yard, and J.B. was stalking after
them, muttering; I called to him, but he didn't seem to hear
- well, someone was going to have to secure the arsenal,
and quickly.
"Hazlett, and you, youngster, follow me! Bring the crowbar!"
I ran across to the arsenal building; behind me there
was a babble of voices at the armoury gate, J.B.'s among
them, and Stevens was snapping: "Silence, all of you!
Another sound and we'll put you in eternity!" Hazlett came
running with the crowbar, and I snatched the lantern from
above the door to give him light; he shoved the bar into the
jamb, and with a splintering of timber the lock was burst in.
It was pitch dark within, but with the lantern I had a glimpse
of rifles racked and ammunition boxes piled high; I shoved
the lantern into Hazlett's hand.
"Stay here - and keep that glim outside or you'll blow the
town sky-high!"
I ran back to the armoury gates just as Kagi arrived, herd- '"g three or four complaining citizens with their hands in
.he air; they seemed to think it was some kind of practical
joke until they saw the captured watchmen in the yard, sur271
rounded by levelled rifles, and J.B., beard bristling and
eyes glittering, laying down the law in his best pulpit
voice.
"Be silent, all of you! I come from Kansas to this State
of slavery! I mean to free every negro slave, and to that end
I have taken your armoury! If the citizens interfere with me
I must only burn the town and have blood! Now, sit down
upon the ground, and be quiet all."
They sat, too, scared and staring, all except one old codger
who faced up to J.B.
"You're crazy, mister! What d'ye mean, scarin' folks half
to death? Now, you put down that gun - why, you're as old
as I am, and ought to know better!"
"Hold your tongue, friend, and do as you are bid!" growls
J.B., but I heard no more, for at that moment came whooping
and laughter behind me, and it was those noisy idiots,
Cook and Tidd, to tell me proudly that the wires were cut,
both sides. I shut them up fast enough, and then Dauphin
was back with the guard from the Potomac bridge, pushing
him into the yard. A moment later Leeman came striding
across from the trees, flourishing his pistol at a terrified
watchman and two fellows whom Oliver had picked up on
the Shenandoah bridge.
"All's well!" cries Leeman. "Say, this is a lark, ain't it "
"Shut up and put those men in the yard! And send Kagi
to me - jump to it, man!" There was still the rifle works to
attend to, six hundred yards up the Shenandoah shore - a
matter which J.B. seemed to have forgotten; he was still
hectoring the captives, now about a dozen strong, who were
watching him like so many rabbits before a snake. Kagi came
running, and I told him to take two blacks to the rifle works,
send one of 'em back with the watchman, and sit tight until
he heard from me.
He jerked a thumb in J.B.'s direction. "What about the
captain? I've been telling him that our first task must be to
clear the arsenal, and find wagons to carry off the arms, but
all he talks about is his damned hostages! You must tell him,
Josh - we ought to be loading up right soon, 'fore we have
the town about our ears!"
272
.-.1 talk to him when he's got toeW- Stevem-can - n His precious hostages and Wn^gether, and 111. co TH to go through the arsenalith^he^ntime
ge ^11 fight " says he, worried. "N.I. ^h, don tlet hlm , ,^11 you? You know what tW^' we must be out
thire by daybreak!" , . , ofh^ will be, never fear!" I kn^-n^ho was going to
, "off with you, John! Good W ' , , -n it ^Hewent. with another doubtful ^ t^ards J.B and I .^ across to the arsenal, wher^zl^ w^ standing m
Norway, rifle in hand, and toi^o / qi-^urvey around
the a0" . " _ j _ fiie Potomac bridge
t ..mild just see Watson Brown D1" T-r n &
-icou* J ,,,,,1 ,/,i^m, its lights bhnk,
.,fprn' all was quiet towards Gain"1*!^101 ' ,  & ^. laiiten^ "i ,und from Oliver s
-_ through the trees, and there was''a fias , . . . , mgini" 6 , ihpo.p lUrtamed windows
station on the Shenandoah bridge^e d^k, and I could ^ the Wager House glowed.cnms^U^ ^^ ^ ^
hear faint voices and laughter; J ^.^ ^ ^
-^nference under the armoury gilii^liaii ,,, -' coniei^' j 6 piiarded by Leeman
them the captives were squatting sil, , , g ^J ^ ^ and the others. I looked towards i^-o-ow1- "othmg stirred
an , i,. i, .1- i- Ate fiftY yards away, but a few lights shone in the houses wit ni'/ i ^ a icw ' p cas calling out, or ^ere wasn t a soul to be seen; n,e^e g .
coming to see what was amiss, ^1 ^abbath night.-It
apparently, except prepare for bd a rd 0 ^
had stopped raining. We had take^a^arf ^^ I'm quite proud of that. still. Ve^e.a ell ll wasn t ->ebasto
," i i- j n iAto ^wn^, those gormless
pol - but my plan had gone like dtfwwwo ' 8
boys had played up like old soW. ^ a^ we d sealea lne - * JL ^i riffpn - np]ectives, the town
bridges, cut the wires, taken our tFo 5 " , 11,^1'* UI1 0 ' ,. . ' .... ,, ,, n r^d knows I hadnt
unsuspecting, and all within the W v u, ,. ..
u11 ' .i..6' .. , ijhi^-av^Dee" oyei' the hill
been a willing performer, and wowllavsav^ .
" - t ' u' a in ^h^y0" veno choice
but for Joe s presence -but, damniim^ne J
," r, , ' , .,,- .,}^ whether you like
but to go ahead, your pulses start w-iiii-m^ ^ . b, , ' -.. r . . . pven though you re it or not, and excitement grips ^ B e , & ,. ,,
, . i , & 'ri'iipii^iito accomplish the
scared sick, because you want liliiicu^" . r . ,
thing you've set your hand to, ^^-^M^ great
stood in the chilly dark, my heart iMiti^m"1,8,1, a gre,
J. .. t ,11 ir^anstB"! before sanity
unreasoning exultation, just for iii'ni^ns v
, ".t .i ri.-.Kin f<ir he grunted You
returned, and Joe must have felt it.I00' ,' rc 6
273
done that pretty good, Comber", which, considering our
relations, was not a bad compliment.
By this time Stevens, Cook, Tidd and a couple of blacks
were hurrying off to kidnap the owner of the Washington
Farm which lay a few miles up the Potomac shore, with
J.B.'s insistence that they bring back Frederick's sword ringing
in their ears. He was in an odd state: outwardly very
calm, but strangely detached, as though his thoughts were
far away; when I reported all well, he just nodded offhand,
and when I asked if we should clear the arsenal, he said he
would see to it presently, when the hostages had come in. I
hinted, delicately, that haste might be advisable, since at
any moment some stray citizen might happen by and raise
the alarm, but at this he just frowned, stroking his beard,
and muttered that we had time enough . . . and gradually
it began to dawn on me that he simply didn't know what to
do next, about finding wagons, or collecting arms, or rousing
the slaves, or taking to the hills while our luck held. Now,
of all times, he was stricken again with indecision, and
retreating into his dreams by the look of him.
Well, it was nothing to me. I'd done my part perforce, and
all that mattered now was throwing off the grim black shadow
at my side and hittiing the high road. I must just wait my
chance, so I leaned against one of the gate-posts, smoking a
weed and wondering, in an academic sort of way, when J.B.
was going to take advantage of the capital start I'd given him.
Time's an odd thing. We hit the town about ten-thirty
and secured the stromgpoints, and then followed that eerie,
tranquil interval ofJ.B.'s irresolution which no one has ever
been able to explaini, and which seemed to last forever - in
fact it was a bare thirty minutes, until midnight. That was
when things began to come adrift, and we had several hours
of bloody and farcical confusion until daybreak - yet to me
they seemed to pass; in a few moments, one crazy incident
on top of another im no time at all.
Picture the scene, gentle reader, as midnight approaches.
Harper's Ferry drowses placidly 'neath the pall of night, the
last gleams of light iin its windows blink out one by one as
citizens seek their repose, the town drunk nestles content274
ediy in his gutter, the liberators of Virginia stand around in
picturesque uncertainty while their venerable leader contemplates
the stars like a fart in a trance, the prisoners mutter
sullenly in one of the armoury sheds, and not one solitary
soul (least of all J.B. himself) se^ms to be aware that the
revolution has begun. Flashy smokes and sweats and wishes
to heaven that Joe would turn his back just for half a minute
- and hark! a shot rings out ... and believe it of not, no
one pays the slightest bloody attention.
It came from the Potomac bridge where, unseen by us,
that Canadian halfwit, Taylor, was putting a bullet through
the top hair of an inopportune railway guard who had happened
along, been challenged, shown fight, and got his skull
creased for his pains. We heard him, soon enough, bolting
out of the covered bridge, roaring and bleeding, and taking
refuge in the Wager House - and, so help me, no one
emerged to protest or even inquire^ the town slept on undisturbed,
J.B. left off contemplating to stare towards the hotel,
but did nothing, our fellows confined themselves to intelligent
questions like "Who the hell was that?" and "Say, did
you hear shooting?" . . . and nothing further took place
until there came a distant whistle from far down the Baltimore
and Ohio track, and presently in steams the ea$t-bound
night train for Baltimore, clanking past the armoury and
coming to a slow halt near the Wager House only fifty yards
from where I stood, at which point the wounded railwayman
i erupted from the hotel, clutching his bleeding scalp and baw'ling
that there were road agents on the loose the train
engineer, silly ass, got down to investigate, Watsoii Brown
and his idiots opened fire for no apparent reason, an unfortunate
nigger (not one of ours) came striding down the track,
was challenged by Watson, turned to run and was shot in
the back, the engineer leapt back into his cab and reversed
twenty yards with great blasts of Steam some stout parties
m the coaches began blazing away at Watson's party, passengers
were screaming and tumbling from the train, Harper's
Ferry began to wake up at last, j.b. strode to the train
bellowing for everyone to hold his fire and be calm, and
your correspondent began to wonder if this mightn't be a
. 275
good time to retire - and would have done if Joe hadn't
been holding a pistol in each hand and demanding to know
what the hell was happening.
Either because of J.B.'s thundering, or more probably
because neither side could see properly what they were
shooting at, the firing died away after a few moments, and
there followed a remarkable conversation between our
leader and the engineer. It began, predictably, with J.B.
announcing that he had come "to free the slaves at all hazards
and in the name of universal liberty, God helping", and
the engineer calling him a liar, a lunatic, and a damned
jayhawking rascal who'd swing for this, and by the eternal
the engineer would be there to see him do it, too. J.B.
rebuked him for blasphemy, assured him that no harm was
intended to the train or its passengers, and that he would
let them proceed so that the railroad authorities should
understand that the town was closed to traffic henceforth.
The engineer damned his eyes and said he'd swim through
seas of blood rather than budge before dawn, when he would
inspect the bridge "to see what mischief you infernal scoundrels
have done to it". J.B. agreed, and promised to walk
over the bridge before the train (which he did, by the way)
to show that it was safe.
This discussion took some time, with frequent interruptions,
for you must imagine it taking place in darkness illuminated
only by the train's headlight and the feeble lamps
of the nearest buildings, against a background of babbling
passengers being helped into the Wager House, men shouting,
females screaming, the shot darkie being carried away,
a church bell belatedly sounding the alarm, bewildered citizens
seeking enlightenment at the tops of their voices, and
some of the bolder spirits who emerged from the shadows
for a closer look being seized by our fellows at the armoury
gates and sent to join the prisoners in the shed.
But no one from the town showed fight, for several good
reasons - it was too dark to tell properly what was taking
place, a rumour had spread through the town that we were
over a hundred strong, and while the arsenal was bursting
with weapons, there was hardly a gun in the town except
276
a few fowling pieces and the like. So while we held our
sitions (and J.B. continued to do nothing), the people
Cpnt their distance - except for one cool hand, a doctor,
ho approached the arsenal, was given the rightabout by
Hazlett and then crossed the street bold as brass to demand
nf J B. what he thought he was about, and, on being told,
denounced him for a murderer.
"The only black you've liberated so far is one who was
free already - the poor fellow you shot down on the tracks!"
He was a peppery medico this, with a jaw like a pike, and
the darkie's gore all over his hands. "Look at that! He's
dying this minute, with your bullet in his lung, you old
blackguard!"
J.B. said he was sorry for it, but the man had run when
called on to halt, and the doctor must consider himself a
prisoner.
"Just try it, mister!" cries the sawbones. "Or shoot me in
the back, why don't you!" And he stamped off to the Wager
House, stopping on the way to survey us, and Hazlett at the
arsenal, and if ever a man was taking stock, he was - sure
enough, two hours later he was riding hell-f or-leather for
the nearest town to turn out the militia . . . and meanwhile
J.B. was waiting and doing nothing, hardly answering when
spoken to, and our fellows were fidgeting and muttering, and
Joe was growling at me, why wasn't the cap'n takin' a-holt o'
things, and why didn't I tell him? I said I'd told him, hadn't I
. . . and every moment my gorge was rising higher with panic
as I wondered if I dared make a run for it ...
There was a clatter of wheels from the dark, and here
came a fine four-horse vehicle wheeling in to the armoury
gates, with three white men and about a dozen darkies
aboard, and Stevens jumping down, rifle in hand. He helped
down one of the whites, a bluff old cove in a grey coat who
I guessed was Washington, and I heard him sing out: "This
is Ossawatomie Brown of Kansas!" as J.B. strode forward
to meet them. One of our darkies jumped down after them,
wandishing a sheathed sabre, and calling out: "Here 'tis,
cap n - here de ole sword, sho' 'nuff!" and J.B. seized on
and stood with it in his hand as he told Washington that
277
he had been taken for the moral effect it would give to our
cause, but he would be shown every attention, "and if we
get the worst of it, your life will be worth as much as mine"
whatever that meant. Washington took it mighty cool, saying
nothing, and presently he and the two other whites, a man
and a youth, were put in the yard, and J.B. supervised the
distribution of pikes to the slaves in the captured carriage
telling them they were free men now, and must defend their
liberties, and the poor black buggers stood in terrified bewilderment,
looking at the pikes as though they were rattlesnakes.
A fine rebellion we're going to have, thinks I; ah,
well, they'll shape better, no doubt, when they've built their
forts in the hills and dug communicating tunnels.
I kept clear of all this, but so did Joe, damn him, and
my gorge rose another couple of notches, for the dark was
beginning to lift slowly, and I could see clear to the nearest
houses of the town, where people were peeping out, and
some even gathering on the corners, staring across at us.
There were faces at the windows of the Wager House, and
hard by it, where the train stood, passengers were climbing
aboard, with scared glances in our direction. In the armoury
yard all was confusion, for the prisoners had been let out of
their shed and were mingling with the newcomers in a great
babble of voices, the niggers with the pikes looked ready to
weep, and our men were watching anxiously as Stevens and
Tidd clamoured around J.B., who now had the sword girt
round his middle, and was exulting over a brace of barkers,
presumably the property of the late Marquis de Lafayette.
"Why, we got more prisoners here than there is of us!"
Tidd was exclaiming, and Stevens was arguing with J.B.
about loading up from the arsenal, and getting nowhere;
J.B.'s notion was to send Washington's carriage, which was
larger than our wagon, over into Maryland, to collect the
Kennedy Farm weapons, which Owen would have shifted
by now to a school-house closer to the Potomac, and bring
them back to supplement the arms in the arsenal. Stevens
frowned in dismay.
"But, cap'n, 'twill be full light in an hour! See here, why
don't we load up the carriage an' the wagon from the arsenal
278
iv with everythin' we need, call in Kagi an' Oliver, an' 110 ^ us hightail it out o' here - we can pick up Owen an' a ^ms from the school-house, an' be in the hills 'fore
oon!" He gestured towards the houses, where more people
were assembling, watching us. "Look at them folks yonder
_ how long they goin' to let us alone, you reckon?"
J B. gave him a stern look. "You forget. Captain Stevens,
that it is here, at the Ferry, that the slaves will rally to us.
Why if we were to leave now, we should be abandoning
them! No more of that, sir!"
"Well, I don't know that the slaves are coming!" says
Stevens. "We saw no sign of 'em when we came in just now,
I can tell you!"
"An' it'll take three hours, easy, to get to the schoolhouse
an' load up an' come back here again!" cries Tidd. "Then we
got to clear out the arsenal - cap'n, it'll be noon 'fore we can
get out o' town! Why, the militia'll be here by then!"
"An' come dawn, these folks are goin' to see how few
we are!" I could see Stevens was keeping his temper with
difficulty. "They ain't goin' to stand by!"
J.B. stilled them with a raised hand, like a patient parent.
"The hostages are our assurance of safety. The people will
dare nothing against us for fear of harming them. And I will
not desert the negroes!" He became peremptory. "Captain
Tidd, you and Captains Leeman and Cook will take the
carriage away, and receive our pikes and rifles from Owen -"
"But they're three of our best men, sir!" Stevens was near
despair. "I beg you, send but one, and some of the slaves!"
But J.B. was deaf to all common sense, and presently the
carriage rolled off over the Potomac bridge with Cook at
the reins and Tidd and Leeman marching alongside, with a
gaggle of the freed darkies in the back. Stevens pleaded with
B' at least to start clearing the arsenal.
'First I must keep my promise to the engineer," says J.B., and off he went to the train, his rifle cradled in his arm and
"is sword trailing in the mud, holloing to the engineer that
e might get up steam. The townsfolk across the way set up
murmur at the sight of his commanding figure striding
279
towards the tracks, but he paid them no mind at all, and
presently the train was chugging slowly on to the covered
bridge, with the old man striding ahead of it, and the crowd
before the Wager House fallen silent.
"By gad, he's cool!" says Stevens to me. "Too dam' cooli
I tell you, Josh, we ain't got but a couple of hours 'fore we'll
have to shoot our way out! What ails him? He acts like we
was in a town meetin'!"
It was true, and everyone who was through Harper's Ferry
will tell you the same - the chancier things got, the calmer
grew J.B., as though he were in the grip of some soothing
drug. Stevens swore through his teeth. "We've got to get
John Kagi down here - he'll take heed of Kagi!" And pat
on his words there was a commotion at the Wager House,
and one of our niggers came running from under the trees,
brandishing his Sharps. The folk scattered to let him
through, and he came panting up to tell us he was from the
rifle works, and Kagi wanted to know when J.B. planned to
retire from the town, because he'd seen a rider galloping
along the Charles Town road.
"Damnation, what'd I say?" cries Stevens. "It's but eight
miles off! Two, three hours, we'll have the militia on us "
The crack of a shot interrupted him, sending us scurrying
behind the armoury railings, and then came two more, from
somewhere in the town. There was a shrilling of women as
the people gave back to the houses, except for one fool who made
a dart across the street towards the arsenal. One of
our men - the younger Thompson, I think - loosed a shot
at him, and he threw up his hands and flopped down in the
mud, to a chorus of screams and oaths from the Wager House.
A couple of men ran out, crouching, and hauled him away,
Stevens bawled: "Stand to, men!", and every rifle was trained
on the town, but now J.B. was striding towards us from the
Potomac bridge, coat flapping, calling to hold our fire. f
A man came hurrying from the Wager House, waving his
hands as though appealing for calm, and J.B. stopped to
talk to him, and presently nodded and came on to us, while
the other scampered back to safety. No further shots came,
but our fellows stayed at the armoury railings, and behind
280
the prise?ners cowered down, all save ok^ashmgton,
i^stood his ground, arms akimbo.
"Those wer<2 only squirrel rifles," says J.B., ^concerned.
"There will b^ "o more of that, but be at th^dy, men,
and keep up  bold front."
"Cap'n " says Stevens, "this won't do. We ffi in no case rn fieht just  handful here an' the rest sprea^ll over "
"There will be no call to fight," says J.B. "^e prisoners
are our security " ,
"If you count on that, sir, you are in error!' 1[ was Washington
loud and steady, not stirring a foot. "Obtain Brown, you must give over this madness! Either lay dc^ your arms
or avoid the town!" Odd word to use, I remer^1" thinking.
"Look yonder, sir! You have put the people" fear, you
have shot a man down, you hold us captive h^6 - a^ to "o
purpose! Give- it up, sir, before worse befalls!' ^
ington,
He was full of spunk and sense, the old soltW, both of
which were v/asted on our ragged Napoleoii ^e lifted a
commanding hand to Washington.
"Be silent, sir! I have my purpose, as you^11 [eam you
and all others who live by human bondagelhtot another
word, sir!" pf
He stood a long moment, glaring like the v^th of God,
and then looked about him, taking a slow survey ^ scene, [turning on his heel, his rifle at the port. It was W light now, land all plain to see - our men kneeling or standi^ behind the
railings, pieces presented; behind them, Wa^'^o" foursquare
among the prisoners; across the street w^ right, the
houses with people peering out of the alleV m r^rvous
silence; the arsenal, with Hazlett and his churl1"1 ^e doorway,
rifles ready; the Wager House, with f^s at every
window and at least a score of folk on the por(A an<^ others
under the trees beyond, where Gait's saloon ^ould be seen
with a couple of fellows sitting on the roof; a fe^ore by the railroad tracks. Hidden from our view by the ^ger House, ^tson and Taylor were on guard at the Potor^ bridge.
And not a sound, except for the distant wa110^ ^ tram thistle far away on the Maryland shore. A l^ rain was
falling again, pattering in the muddy puddles, ^'eryone just
281
stood, waiting on that gnarled, bearded old scarecrow in his
soiled coat and ragged hat, his ridiculous sabre trailing at
his side. He finished his survey and fixed Washington with
a grim burning stare.
"If any are in fear it is a judgment on the sins of their
guilty land! If any die resisting a just cause, then they have
brought it upon themselves! As to the purpose of your own
captivity, I have told you it was a moral one, and also
because, as aide to the Governor of Virginia, you would have
endeavoured to perform your duty, and perhaps you would
have been a troublesome customer to me!" He thrust a finger
like a handspike towards Washington. "I shall do my duty
also, and to a higher power than a slave State! I shall be very
particular to pay attention to you, sir, on my word!"
He paused, growling deep in his chest, and turned to Bill
Thompson at the railing. "Captain Thompson, how many
hostages are under guard? Thirty, you say - so many! Why,
that is twice our own number. Well, now, we must take
account of that!"
He leaned his rifle against the gate, and stood glowering
at the prisoners with his hands resting on his pistol-butts,
his lips moving as though in calculation, and I felt the hairs
rise on my neck.
"Sweet Jesus, what's he about?" gasps Stevens. "Is he
crazy?"
A rhetorical question if ever I heard one, with the old
death's-head glaring like Dragfoot the Hangman, and then
he swung towards our group, hitching his sword-hilt out of
the way and fumbling in his pants pocket. He lugged out a
handful of the eagles Meriam had given him, glancing across
at the Wager House as he sorted the coins on his palm.
"Joe Simmons," says he, "here is fifteen dollars. I want
you to go to the hotel yonder, and tell them we require hot
breakfasts for forty-five persons, to be served to us here.
Oatmeal and milk, and some of their Southern fry of eggs
and ham, whatever they have, you understand . . .oh, and
Joe! They'll send coffee, no doubt, but tell them I desire a
pot of tea also."
282
I suppose Cardigan's "Walk--march trot!"
at Balaclava is the most memorable battlefield command
I've ever heard, but J.B.'s order for breakfast at
Harper's Ferry runs it close. For a moment I didn't believe
it and neither did Joe, for he stood gaping at the coins in
J.B.'s hand - and then his glance flickered in my direction,
and I knew at once what he was thinking, that if he went
off to the Wager House, who was going to keep an eye on
slippery B. M. Comber? For a second he hesitated, and then
the clever beggar saw his way out.
"Why, cap'n. Ah cain't do that!" says he. "They won't
pay no heed to a coloured man, no suh. They'll mind what
Mass' Josh says, though - an' Ah kin go 'long an' help carry,
mebbe!"
And some fools say they're not fit to vote. The hope that
had leapt in my breast died in a smouldering inward rage as
J.B. nodded and handed me the money . . . only to revive
again at the thought that the crowded confusion of the
Wager House might give me the opportunity I'd been praying
for. All I'd need was a split second to get out of reach
(and range) of Joe . . . and then either try to flee the town
or declare myself to some responsible citizen as a government
agent . . . bigod, that would be risky, they'd never
believe me ... J.B. broke in on my thoughts.
Leave your rifles and revolvers. They will offer you no
violence,^ knowing that we hold their friends hostage."
I didn't hesitate, but drew the two Colts from my hip- bolsters and passed them to Stevens, along with my Sharps.
oe s eyes rolled, and his ugly mouth tightened, but then he
oo passed over his pistols, J.B. said "Remember the tea,
283
Joshua", and we set off side by side across the open ground
towards the Wager House, one of us casting wary sidelong glances, the other with the reassuring pressure of the Tranter
tucked into the back of his waistband under his coat.
It was an interesting walk, in its way, under the astonished
eyes of the citizens wondering what the deuce it meant, two 01 the desperadoes who were holding their town to ransom
suddenly strolling over to their hotel. For a moment the
crowd on the porch stood goggling, and then there was a
flurry of skirts and squealing as the women shrank away,
and some of the men drew back, although most stood pat,
hostile but scared. I played up, tipping my hat and calling a
cheery good-morning as we mounted the steps, and one of
th^ men even thrust the door open for us to pass through,
crying ''John! Someone get John Foulkes, quick! They're
a-comin' in!"
^or a moment it was like upsetting a bee's nest as we
strode in, for the lobby was full of anxious citizens, as was
the dining area off to one side, and the advent of a stalwart
ruffian vvith whiskers and a massive black of forbidding mien
ha(l them almost clambering over each other. I calmed them
with an upraised hand and my best speech-day style, assuring
them they had no cause for alarm, that Captain Brown presented
his compliments and would be withdrawing from their
delightful township presently, and that in the meantime they
should remain at ease while I spoke to a waiter. There was
a ihome-nt's stunned silence, and then cries of "He's a
foreigner I" and the like, and a red-faced worthy in a tile hat
shouted: "What d'you mean by it? What d'ye want of us and
who are you?" and a woman fainted, and another
woltian screamed, and all was confusion until I raised my
voice ag^in, and presently a small bald trembler in a white
apron ard an extremity of terror emerged, and I gave him
my orde-r for forty-five breakfasts. Strangely enough, it ;
seeded t^o have a calming effect on the assembly, if not on j
the hash--slinger: his teeth chattered and he closed his eyes,
babbling that he didn't know if Cookie could handle that
many, at: such short notice, and he'd have to see, and oh
my God^ he'd do his best, and finally (this is unvarnished
284
in a shrill whinny: "Say, m-m-mister, how d'ye want
truth),
" ' 0,,
"At your discretion, my boy," says I, and he stared witless
, r,,..e scurrying away muttering "Discretion?" (and for all
t know they're serving oeufs a la discretion in Harper's Ferry
^;s day), while I took a quick slant about me - fifty folk
f there was one, pale faces and round eyes, women shrinking men resolute but doubtful, every head in the dining
section turned to stare, whispers and scared murmurs . . .
no other door off the lobby, but one beyond the dining
tables, obviously to the kitchen . . . straight ahead of me a
big bar counter, with gilt mirrors behind, a staircase leading
to a balcony above the lobby, a young negress looking down
over the rail - and here I paused in astonishment at the
bizarre contrast of bottle-bright red hair tumbling about
shining ebony cheeks, a plump black hand clutching a silk
peignoir round a form which would have done credit to a
Turkish wrestler, and bold protruding eyes regarding me
with (unless I was mistaken, which I seldom am) awakening
interest. I stared, and received an unexpected dazzling beam
of white teeth in return . . .
"How many more of us ye aimin' to kill, ye damned brigand?"
It was my red-faced worthy again, waving a fist in my
face. "There's a corpse a-layin' in back yonder, an' a nigger
like to die "
"An' that's Brown th'abolitionist out yonder!" cries
another. "Him an' his gang o' Kansas murderers - an' you,
ye skunk, an' this black villain got the gall to bust in here,
askin' to be fed-"
"Shame, shame on you!" squawks a female, and then they
were surging about us, spitting and cursing, a fist swung at my head, I ducked and my assailant blundered into Joe,
tumbling him over, my hand was on the Tranter - and Joe,
sprawling, was conjuring a Colt from his armpit! A fellow
dived on him, grabbing his wrist, the squawking woman was
belabouring me with her gamp, Joe was hurling his attacker asld^ . . . but by that time I was going through the dining
section like Springheeled Jack, sending a table flying as I
P "nged through the kitchen door. One backward glimpse I
285
had of Joe, rearing gigantic and bellowing as the mob fell
back before his pistol, and then I was face to face with a
wizened black granny flourishing a skillet, a kitchen in
uproar, and my little waiter on his knees crying: " 'Twon't
be but a moment, mister, honest!" There was a door ajar
to my right: I leaped through, slamming it behind me and
found myself in a passage with a door to the open air and
a flight of stairs running up, and I was just about to choose
the former when there was a tremendous crash and screaming
from the kitchen, with Joe bawling: "Where'd he go?
You see a white man, woman?"
He wasn't five seconds behind me: if I broke into the open
he'd nail me for certain. I bounded up the stairs, through a
door at the top, and crouched, wheezing with terror, in a
deserted passage, while the sound of a raging blackamoor
bursting from the hotel in vain pursuit sounded below. Then
I tiptoed forward past closed doors on either side, wondering
where the hell I could hide, came to the end of my passage
- and dropped prone as I realised it opened slap on to the
balcony above the lobby! There was uproar down yonder,
and someone was clattering up the main staircase towards
me ... I had no time to retreat, there was a closed door to
my right, I grabbed in panic at the knob, rolled hastily
within, thrust it shut, and came to my feet, Tranter in hand
and an ear to the panels, my heart pounding as I heard the
steps go past . . .
Someone gasped in the room behind me, and I whipped
round with a yelp of fear to find myself confronting my dusky
amazon of the balcony, hennaed hair a-tumble, hands raised
in amazement. I gave a frantic croak of "No - don't call
out!", and she blinked, eyes popping at the Tranter, but she
didn't faint or have hysterics, and when I shoved it back
beneath my coat she rolled her eyes and let out an elaborate
sigh of relief, followed by a shrill giggle.
"Well, heah's a go! My, cain't you move aroun', though!'
She raised a whimsical eyebrow. "You jes' passin' through,
or you kin'ly plannin' to stay ... Ah hope?"
I'd no time to marvel at the presence of a gaudy and
eccentric negress en deshabille in a Southern hotel, or the
286
chalance with which she greeted an armed intruder. non ,jam!" cries I. "Don't be alarmed, I beg! I mean no j swear, but . . . I'm in a slight pickle, you see - hold
do!" I sped to the front window and peeped through the ""rtains - there, not fifty yards off, were the armoury gates, c -th J.B. and Stevens in plain view and the fellows at the
ilines. To the left was the arsenal with the town houses
hevond' there were a few citizens by the houses, and one
bold spirit was shouting and shaking his fist in J.B.'s
direction.
"Whut in creation's happenin' out theah?" demands the Queen of Sheba. "An election? Sounds like Sacramento on
Fourth July! Who you runnin' from, handsome - the Vigilantes?"

I hopped to the room's other window, which overlooked
the railroad tracks and the Potomac (it was a corner room,
as you'll see from my map), and started back as Joe suddenly
appeared beneath, by the side of the hotel, Colt in hand,
staring about him. There was a knot of people by the tracks,
scattering away from him as he turned and shouted, and I
realised he must be addressing Watson at the bridge
entrance, behind the hotel. Then he set off for the armoury
gates, waving and shouting to J.B., no doubt asking him
how he'd like his eggs. I crouched, watching, until a husky
voice spoke reproachfully behind me.
"Well, you sho' know how to flatter a fine coloured
lady! Or is the view out theah mo' pleasin' than the one in
heah?"
I turned, still breathless, to find her regarding me with a
quizzy amusement that took me even more aback than her
extravagant appearance. This was the South, mind, where
darkies knew their place, but here was one, young, sassy,
and black as your boot, who carried herself like a Dahomey
duchess and looked the white boss in the eye with cheerful
insolence. She must have read my thought, for she tossed
that astonishing fiery head.
Ah's free, case you wonderin'!" says she tartly. "An' "I'm waitin'."
"hen in doubt, grovel. "I beg your pardon . . . ma'am.
287
Believe me, I can explain. Those men yonder are abolitionist
raiders "
"So Ah been told," says she coolly. "You likewise?"
"No, no, not at all! I'm ... oh, lor' ... the fact is
I'm a government man. I was with them to ... well to observe them, you see - find out what they were'un
to-" p
"You don' say! Well, think o' that!" Her eyes widened in
mock wonder. "Gov'ment man, huh? Like a police
detective?"
"It's true, I swear! I had to get away from them - but the
people downstairs, they don't know what I am, you see ...
and they might not believe me ... if they found me, I
mean ..."
"Uh-huh ... So, you got to lie low for a spell . . . right
heah? Is that it?" Her smile broadened, and I could have
cried out in relief.
"Yes, yes, exactly!" I gave her my most appealing leer.
"If I might stay for just a little while, I'd be most grateful,
I assure you, ma'am ..."
"Call me Hannah . . ." chuckles she, ". . . an' jes' try
to leave!" She swayed majestically forward to lean on the
four-poster in what I can only call a worldly attitude, teasing
an amber tress between her fingers and pushing out her
lower lip, and as I recovered my wind and appraised her at
close quarters, inhaling a gust of sweet heavy scent and noting
the ravenous glint in her eye . . . why, d'you know, all
of a sudden it was like coming back to life again after months
in another drab and dismal world, and my immediate terrors,
and those of the past few hours, were dwindling away ... By
heaven, though, she was overwhelming, sixteen magnificent
stone if she was an ounce, but light on her feet as a dancer,
pug-faced pretty in an overblown way, and with a jolly sensuality
in the thick purple lips and flaring nostrils spread across
the fat shiny cheeks. Not my vision of Venus, exactly
but it seemed as though centuries had passed since Mandeville, my randy imaginings of Elspeth were still fresh in mind,
and as I contemplated those enormous endowments fore and
aft, and the massive shapely thigh thrust out of her peignoir,
288
ame all over a-tremble, pointing like a gundog. Her lanuid
smile became a hungry complacent smirk.
"Say that's bettuh!" purrs she. "Ah wuz beginnin' to
think you wuz anothuh Popplewell."
"Another what?"
"Popplewell - ma lawful wedded, two days back, in
Pittsbu'gh. Fu'st time fo' him, third for me . . . but ma fu'st
white husband, you unnerstan'," she added proudly, droopine
a plump hand to display a stone the size of a fives pill
on her ring finger. "Rich li'l runt, too - how else you think
he cud bring his nigguh wife to a V'ginia ho-tel? S'posed to
be takin' me honeymoonin' in Washin'ton - oh, don' fret,
honey, he's long gone . . . vamoosed on that train aftuh the
shootin', pale's a ghost, the dirty dawg! Lef me flat - an'
this was goin' to be ma weddin' night, too!" She glanced
regretfully at the bed, and heaved a sigh which shivered her
top-gallants, causing me to grunt sharply in sympathy. "An'
me tricked up in ma prettiest things, an' all," she continued
plaintively. "You'd ha' thought he'd ha' stayed, wouldn't
you?"
And before my enraptured eyes she shrugged off the
peignoir, put her hands on her hips, and stood there bursting
out of a flimsy corset which would have been tight on Mandeville.
She leaned forward, bulging magnificently, and pouted
at me with lips like cushions.
"Well?" says she, soulful-like. "Wouldn't you?"
* * *
No doubt about it, I've been lucky with women - but then,
as the fellow said, the more you practise . . . and no one has striven harder towards perfection than I. But Mrs Hannah
Popplewell was a double stroke of good fortune, first
because her presence in Harper's Ferry, which afforded me
a refuge, was a chance in a thousand, and secondly because
she was one of those insatiable ornaments of her sex who
would rather gallop than go to church, and just what I
needed after a hard night's rebellion against the Commonwealth f Virginia. If her conduct was forward, well, her ronnubial expectations had been dashed by the recreant
289
Popplewell, and the arrival of Flashy with whiskers rampant
must have seemed like ths answer to a randy young matron's
prayer.
And if you wonder that I succumbed to the brazen bitch's
advances, with peril threatening on every side . . . don't.
Fear has never damped my ardour yet (as Sharif Sahib's
harem, into which I blurdered accidental during the battle
of Patusan, could tell you), and the contents of that corset,
flopping out voluptuously under my very nose, banished
all thoughts but one. I buried my face between 'em,
nearly crying, and wrenched at the laces with one hand
while discarding my briiches with the other, which ain't
easy when you're suffocating, but love will find a way.
Taken unawares, the coy little flirt squeaked in pretended
alarm.
"Easy, boy!" giggles she. "The door - gotta shoot the
bolt-"
"Leave that to me, ha-ha!" I seized handfuls of rump,
kneading away as she struggled playfully, making feeble
noises of protest.
"But, honey - you ain't even tol' me yo' name yet . "
"Allow me to introduce myself!" I chortled, and with one
tremendous heave I hoisted her up, all black and glossy,
into the firing position. Her eyes bugged out of her chubby
face, and with a silent scream she enveloped my mouth with
those enormous lips, heaving against me; I reeled back,
muscles creaking, as she surged up and down - my stars, it
was like wrestling an elephant - my legs hit the bed, and I
collapsed supine beneath that ponderous mass of ebony
flesh, wondering whether I'd be crushed or smothered, but
resolved to die game. For a moment it was touch and g'
for the selfish slut had no thought but her own lustful gratification,
but then she remembered to take the weight on hci" knees and elbows, as a lady should, and settled into a ^w raking action that sent the bed jerking across the floor an0 brought the canopy down on us. I could tell she'd don0 ' before, so I settled to the enjoyable task of holding til050 gigantic black boobies at a safe distance, letting her h3^ her head, and as we plunged ecstatically past the po51
290
ueht good riddance, Popplewell, she'd have been wasted
""It had all been so deuced sudden, flight one moment, ^.cation the next, that I was glad of the chance to lie
d take stock afterwards, listening to the bride's contented
in-smackings and reflecting that J.B. and Joe had more to
' ,^an fret over me, and the last place the citizens would
think of looking for an absconding raider was the upper floor of their hotel. It wouldn't be safe to play the government
agent card yet awhile, though; better by far to lie snug and
safe rogering this prime piece of dusky blubber, until J.B.
skipped town, as he soon must, or perish, then wait for night
and slip away unobserved ... or better still, shave off my
beard and whiskers, wait until tomorrow if need be, muffle
up well, and board a convenient train - perhaps with Mrs
Popplewell on my arm to lend colour, so to speak. With the
hotel at sixes and sevens they'd never look twice, and she
was the sporty kind who'd think it a great lark, provided I
continued to give satisfaction in the meantime.
Which I was soon called on to do; it seemed that I had
no sooner slipped into a ruined stupor before she was
billowing all over me again, slipping her tongue into my ear,
and whispering, as she teased away with practised fingers,
that I was her sho' nuff honeymoon baby, of all things, an'
whenevah she saw a cucumber aftuh this, she'd think o'
me, and similar endearments. She'd no notion of leisurely
love-making, either; thirty seconds of gentle dalliance and
she started behaving like the Empress Theodora run amok,
with poor old Flashy fighting for his life, belaboured by balloons
of black jelly. Capital fun, mind you, but gruelling,
and so the morning wore away, and myself with it.
Meanwhile there was little disturbance from without. Now
and then there would be a few shots, but whenever I looked
out the state of play seemed unchanged - J.B. and Co.
ensconced around the armoury gates, but taking no harm
"from the occasional sniping, and now and then some of the
ownies would even approach the railings to confer with ^nem, without result that I could see. It was a damned rum
uslness' when you think of it, a quiet little town being held
291
up by a gang of fanatics to no apparent purpose, the two
sides taking pot shots and confabbing by turns, and folk
going about their business a stone's throw away. I couldn't
fathom J.B. at all; if he didn't move he was done for, but
he seemed content to sit and wait, while the precious minutes
ticked by.
I gave up at last and bedded down - and had the horrors
when I woke to find that Mrs Popplewell was absent and
the door ajar, but at that moment I heard her on the landing
saying she'd take the tray in herself, 'cos Mistuh Popplewell
wuz still abed, plain tuckered out he wuz - this with a lewd
giggle for the waiter's benefit - and here she came, fat cheeks
wreathed in smiles, bearing vittles and news.
"Such a ruckus down theah, they don' know who's in the
place an' who ain't!" says she. "So lean to an' hit that fry, Mistuh Popplewell! Got to keep that fine frame o' yours fed,
I reckon - come heah, honey, 'n let me nuzzle yuh!" She
engulfed me lingeringly. "Say, tho', yo' man Smith, or
Brown, whatsisname, got hisself treed, but good, they
savin'. Militia comin' f'm Charles Town, an' sojers, an'
ev'yone scared to pieces that the nigguhs'll cut loose an'
massacree the white folks, an' raise cain all aroun'! Heah,
try this corn bread, dahlin', 'tis succulent... an' they talkin'
real wild - say they goin' burn this Brown feller alive when
they cotch him!" She shuddered between gargantuan mouthfuls.
"Ah declare he mus' be crazy! Freein' the nigguhs,
whoevah heard the like! Anyway, jus' so long's they don't
burn you up, big boy . . . mo' coffee?"
She poured, and no Belgravia mama ever did it more
elegantly, tipping in the precise amount of cream without a
drip, and as I considered her, noting the delicacy with which
those enormous fingers handled cups and spoons, the erect
posture on the edge of her chair, the assured tilt of the
splendid Zulu figurehead with the naming red curls spilling
over her shoulders, I found myself thinking back to my conversation
with Joe on the Night Flyer.
"You don't approve of abolitionists, then?"
"Dam' right Ah don't! Runnin' off black trash fieldhan s
an' low-life nigguhs - to freedom^ Think that makes 'em
292
^ They goi"' to ^e ^^^ a l011^ tlme Y^ whether they
'mancipation papers or not." She tossed her head. "Yo'
f pn' Smith - oh, sho', Brown - mus' be a fool to think he r ^.ge 'em. No white man can . . . on'y us nigguhs ... in
heah " She tapped her brow. "Like Ah did, long time ago."
"How was that, Hannah?"
"Why, you know how!" She slapped my hand, chuckling.
"Soon's Ah saw a white man look at me, ten yeahs back,
when Ah's jes' sixteen - not as big's Ah is now, but wellfleshed
y'know, an' when they saw me shakin' as Ah went
by . " She stood up and took a few steps, swaying with
ponderous grace and rolling her eyes. "... Ah sez to
maself, 'Hannah gal, you totin' yo' fortune aroun' right
heah an' don' make no matter whether you black or white
or sky-blue pink, you jes' shake that meat an' you nevah go
hungry'." More soberly, she added: "Sho', Ah's a gal - but
ev'y nigguh - ev'ybody - got sumpn to take to market, if
they got the spunk an' gumption to make the most o' theyselves.
You is whut you think you is - an' that's why Ah'm
a lady;'
She had determined to catch a wealthy husband, "but Ah
went mad for this coloured gamblin' man in 'Frisco, an' wuz
wed an' widowed inside a month. Yeah, Billy shot two fellers
in a faro school - one wuz a Chink, so didn't signify, but
t'other wuz white an' a blacksmith, mighty valuable man, so
Billy got hung, lef me nothin' but his watch and twen'y-two
dollahs. Then Ah married Homer, lot older'n me, mulatter
gen'leman he wuz, lent money to the coloured folks, nice
I'll business, but he up an' died on me in bed." Happy
Homer, thinks I, but no wonder. "He lef me a tol'able ^ni, but h'l Hannah see the on'y real money is white money, ^ Ah set me to cotch some."
She sipped at her cup complacently. "Tuk time, an' a heap 0 P^ence, till Ah snagged Popplewell, owns shares in half
e canals in Illinois, bachelor gen'leman, 'gaged me as
usekeeper. I see right away he was crazy fo' black meat,
^ted me to be his fancy woman, but no suh, Ah sez, you
itol? to bed' you got to wed- 'Ah cain't "^""y a nigraV he rs- '^n you can go without,' Ah says." She whooped
I 293
Miis^.;
with mirth, dealing me a playful slap that almost broke my
leg.
"My lan', how he went on, a-pleadin' an' entreatin' - an'
Ah jes' kept a-shakin' till he wuz fit to boil ovah! 'You
mus' be mine!' cries he, nigh weepin'. So Ah says, 'Why
whenevah you please, Mistuh Popplewell, suh - but you got
to bid fo' my han' afore you gits the rest o' me.' So he did
las' week, an' we wuz wed in Pittsbu'gh, reg'lar Piskypalian
... an' he still ain't had the rest o' me." She giggled, admiring
her ring with deep content.
"And the little juggins ran away, on the train last night?"
"Greased lightnin' off a shovel," says she cheerfully. " 'Ah
cain't 'bide violence!' says he, all tremblish. 'We mus' fly,
my own, 'fore wuss befalls!' Ah sez, 'You kin fly, Popplewell,
but Ah's comf'table right heah.' An' he flew. 'Meet me
in Washin'ton, deah creecher, an' heah's a hundred dollahs
- do not fail me!' They wuz his partin' words. So Ah'11 meet
him, in ma own sweet time . . . meet his canal shares, too.
But right now ..." She rose with a fine billowing of her
peignoir, put her arms about my neck, and slid her splendid
bulk on to my knee ". . . Ah's real comf'table."
The unworthy thought crossed my mind that her present
misbehaviour rendered her eminently blackmailable where
Popplewell was concerned - but it was a purely Pickwickian
reflection, you understand. I'd not have dreamed (I'd not
have dared) even given the chance, for I'd taken a liking to
this hearty black trollop; a true kindred spirit, pleasuring
her rump off at a moment's notice - aye, and drumming up
breakfast from a kitchen in bedlam, gathering the news, and
preparing the way for my departure as "Mr Popplewell" into
the bargain. You don't find many like her - and I told her
so. "Well, now, s'pose you jes' show me," says she, squirming
on my lap and licking my lips. So I did, for the third and
last time.
For even as we buckled to, the curtain was rising on the
final gruesome act at Harper's Ferry. Twelve hours had
passed since we'd crossed the Potomac bridge, and all
unknown to us the alarm had been spreading since dawn,
from village to town to city, clicking along the wire even to
294
White House. Already militia companies were tramping h ugh the leafy Virginia lanes from Charles Town, and
Uterine in Frederick and Winchester and Martinsburg, rn rl even eventually in Baltimore. That young beau sabreur, anp-tenant J. E. B. Stuart, who was in Washington trying
t1 hawk his patent swordfrog to the War Department, found
h'mself ordered to ride for Arlington to summon Colonel
Robert E. Lee of the 2nd Cavalry (didn't old J.B. attract
the big guns, eh?), and within hours the two of 'em were
hound for the Ferry in the wake of the U.S. Marines.51 The
steel trap that Douglass had prophesied was closing, while
J B. mooned away his time (waiting for the slaves to rally
to him, waiting for the arms to arrive from Owen, waiting
because the poor old peasant didn't know what else to do),
and Kagi kept sending frantic messages from the rifle works,
beseeching him to move, and the citizens of Harper's Ferry
lost patience, and began to gather in earnest, and I - well,
you know what I was doing, and not a man in Virginia was
better employed, and you may tell Mrs Popplewell I said
so.
It came as sudden as a thunderclap - a deafening burst of
shooting, and I was springing to the window, and all hell
was breaking loose between the town houses and the
armoury railings with both sides blazing away, and the far
bank of the Potomac was alive with armed men in civilian
duds, the Charles Town militia, led by a man who knew his
business, for he was cutting off J.B.'s line of retreat. From
the side window I saw them streaming down towards the
Potomac bridge, which was out of sight from where I was,
behind the hotel, so I didn't see them storming over the
bridge shouting and huzzahing, chasing Watson Brown and
Taylor, who fled to the armoury - I saw them run across
from the tracks, firing back, and then the militia came into
view below the hotel, scores of men who looked like farmers
on a rabbit hunt. They spread out along the track beneath "ly window, and on the open ground, pouring fire at the
armoury gates, and I thought, you're done, J.B., for I
expected them to rush the railings, but an officer bawled to em to ^ke cover in the Wager House, and I heard him
295
ordering parties to Gait's saloon and the Shenandoah bridge
where Oliver was stationed. ' j.
Now it was pandemonium below stairs, and the building shook as about fifty clodhoppers surged in, hollering and
crashing among the furniture and firing from the windows
Female shrieks arose, and a stentorian voice ordered all
ladies to take refuge on the upper floor: there was a great
pattering and squealing on the stairs, and I was in terror
that we'd be invaded, but Mrs P. put paid to that by showing
herself in our doorway, bold, black, and bedizened - no
respectable Southern female was going to share a room with
a nigger, why, 'tis a scandal, allowing such a creature in
civilised lodgings, what is the world coming to ...
Suddenly there was uproar outside, a fusillade of shots,
and from the front window I saw young Oliver racing across
before the hotel, letting fly with his Colt at pursuing militiamen.
He'd been driven from the Shenandoah bridge, and
was going like a stag for the armoury gates, with Bill Thompson
at his heels, and hard behind them came the old black,
Dangerous Newby. Oliver and Thompson won clear, with
shots kicking up the puddles around them, but Newby suddenly
staggered, his head thrown back, and I saw that a shot
had torn his neck horribly open; he stumbled sideways and
sprawled on his back in the mud - and that was the first of
John Brown's "pet lambs" gone, and as I stared down at
the twitching body and the blood welling across the ground,
I suddenly remembered him sobbing in a corner at Kennedy |
Farm, over a letter from his wife, who was still in slavery, hoping
that he'd be able to buy her and their children soon,
and J.B. setting a hand on his shoulder, saying "They shall
be free, Newby, depend upon it," and old Dangerous saying
"Ah know it, cap'n; Ah know it."
They didn't let him be. Now that the militia were on hand, j
and the raiders' number was patently up, all sorts of ragged j
town heroes came to join in the fun, and in no time they
were at the liquor in the Wager House and Gait's place;
there was a fine drunken commotion beneath our feet, singing
and cheering and guffawing, and great rage being voiced
against J.B. and his gang. They were full of bile because
(. 296
Oliver and Thompson had escaped, and soon, when J.B.
sent out a hostage with a white flag to hold some parley or
other with the militia, half a dozen of the town vermin
emerged from the hotel to take out their spite on Newby's
corpse, kicking it and dragging it about with cries of there,
ye damned nigger, rot in hell an' serve ye right. One barefoot
rascal dragged off the dead man's boots, and then Mrs
Popplewell, who was with me at the window, cried: "Oh,
sweet Jesus!" and turned away, for the rest of them were
hurrahing round the corpse, egging on one who knelt and
sawed at its head and presently came running to the hotel,
bellowing who wanted a couple o' abolitionist souvenirs, hey
- and I saw he was flourishing Newby's bloody ears aloft.
His mates cheered and clapped him on the back.
That was when the nightmare began. Shooting had broken
out again, heavier than ever from the houses and the heights
behind the town, and J.B.'s beleaguered party had to abandon
the railings and take cover among the armoury sheds.
They had no way out now; more militia were arriving, over
both bridges, and soon the ground about the hotel and tracks
was thick with them, clamouring to git at them dam' niggerlovers,
but 'twas all shouts and no action; either their leaders
were concerned for the hostages, or, more likely, had a
healthy respect for J.B.'s marksmen, who were holding their
fire now except when their tormentors came too close - one
idiot on horseback, waving a shotgun, was picked off like a
squirrel from a branch, and another, venturing too far down
the railroad tracks, was dropped with a single shot.
As I learned later, he was the Mayor of Harper's Ferry,
and when the news of his death spread among the people,
their rage knew no bounds. What with that and militiamen
enflamed with drink, I could see J.B. and Co. being
torn limb from limb when the mob finally worked up the
nerve to storm the armoury, but in the meantime they were
content to plaster the sheds with shot and roar bloodcurdling
threats.
And then J.B. sent out another white flag. There was a
great howl of fury when it appeared in the armoury gateway,
but a militia officer bawled to them to hold their fire, for it
297
was borne by one of the hostages, who came marchinp
towards the hotel with young Bill Thompson by his side
The crowd surged out and surrounded them, drowning the
hostage's plea to be heard, the flag was torn from him, and
Bill Thompson was dragged into the Wager House, battered
and kicked, with yells of "Lynch the bastard! No, no
hangin's too good for him - burn the son-of-a-bitch!" The
drunken din from beneath was now so deafening that there
wasn't a word to be made out, but since they didn't haul
Thompson out for execution I guessed he was still alive for
the time being.
You'd have thought J.B. would have learned from that
incident, but not he - not long after, another white rag was
seen waving in the armoury, the order to cease fire was
shouted again, and this time it was Aaron Stevens and Watson
Brown who came out, side by side. You bloody fools,
thinks I, you're done for, but on they came towards the
hotel, Watson stiff as a ramrod, with his head carried high,
and big Aaron ploughing along with one hand raised like an
Indian in greeting. For a moment it was so still I could hear
their boots squelching through the puddles - and then a rifle
cracked, and Watson stumbled forward and fell on his hands
and knees. A great cheer went up, a volley of shots followed,
Stevens seemed to hesitate, and then he came tor the Wager
House like a bull at a gate, hurling the flag away, and was
cut down within twenty paces of the hotel -1 absolutely saw
his body jerk as the slugs hit him, and then the hostage who
had been with Bill Thompson came running out, arms spread
wide, turning to put himself between the two shot men and
the mob. Another hostage who must have been following
Stevens and Watson from the armoury ran forward to join
him, and together they dragged Stevens to the Wager House,
one of them yelling: "You cowardly scum! Stop it, damn
you - cain't ye see the flag?" For a moment the firing
stopped, and then it was seen that Watson was crawling on
all fours back towards the armoury, and the mob set up a
great yell and let fly again. He scrambled up and ran, clutching
his stomach, with the bullets churning the dirt around
his feet, and went down again, but he still kept crawling and
298
need to roll to cover behind one of the gate-posts. That ffla ti,em wild, and they poured in fire harder than ever. ^Rut what, you ask, was Flashy doing while the tide of
.1 rolled o'er Harper's Ferry? Crouched shivering at the
irtains, that's what, sweating pints at the thought of what
those booze-sodden villains would do if they chanced to seek
nort abovestairs and discovered that the trembling occupant
nf the Popplewell chamber was none other than the raider
who'd come demanding breakfast ... I only had to look
out at the bloody shreds that had once been Newby, and
listen to the hell's chorus from below, to be almost physically
sick.
The same thought must have occurred to Mrs Popplewell,
for after an age in which we'd barely exchanged a word, I
felt her hand on my shoulder, and the jolly black face was
grim and set. "Bes' git yo' clo'es on, dearie," says she, and
I saw that while I'd been glued to the window and the horrors
outside, she'd been attiring herself in a vast gown of dazzling
green silk with yellow bows, an enormous hat with a yellow
plume, and matching ribbons in her hennaed hair - you can't
imagine what she looked like, luckily for you. She even had
a rolled umbrella.
"Sumpn's up down yonder," says she. "Ah's goin' to len'
an ear." And she tiptoed with elephantine delicacy to the
door, a finger raised and an ear to the panels.
"Don't open it!" I yelped. "Christ, if those brutes see
you, God knows what they'll do! If they find me here -"
"Git them pants on an' hold yo' noise! They ain't goin'
to see nobody!"
She opened the door a crack, and suddenly above the
clamour from below we could hear voices - and they didn't
soothe me one little bit, for the first words I heard were:
" ; . so string the bastards up, I say! Damn it to hell,
there's Mayor Beckham layin' dead, an' you want we should
be tender o' these dam' Kansas butchers? You an abolitionist
yo^self, or whut?"
1 m a soldier!" snaps another, one of your cold-steel
oices. "And these men are prisoners, to be treated as
such"
299
"Oh, sure, you're a soldier! Goddam Frederick militia
ain't you, comin' in at the tail-end! Well, Captain, we tuk these yere prisoners, as you call 'em, an' I reckon it's for us to say how they tret, ain't that so, boys?"
There was a roar of agreement, and the hairs rose on my neck as I heard Thompson's voice, crying out, but not in
appeal - he was shouting something about dying gladly in
liberty's cause, but it was drowned in yells of execration.
"Why, you vile white nigger, you! Have him out, boys, I
cain't stand to listen to him! Why, gimme that pistol, Jem
I'll finish him myself! Now - you see this gun, you Kansas
hawg, you feel it 'gainst yo' head "
"Put that down!" To my amazement, it was a woman
shrill with anger. "You won't sully this house with murder
while I'm here! Put it down, I say! The law will take its
course-"
"Law, by thunder - an' who asked you to stick in yore
pert nose, missie! This heah's men's work, I reckon, hey,
boys?"
"You pull that trigger, my son, and I'll give you men's
work!" shouts the captain. "Good for you, Miss Foulkes!52 They'll commit no outrage under this roof, I promise you!"
"Won't we, though? Oh, well, now, we wouldn't want
t'offend the good lady's feelin's! Would we, men? No, sir,
I reckon not! So with yo' kind permission, ma'am, we'll just
take the lousy abolitionist outside, an' 'tend to him there!
Heave him up, boys - an' that other wounded son-ofa-bitch,
too!"
"No, no, let him be - he's dyin' nice an' slow as 'tis, with
good ole Georgie Chambers's slugs in his guts! Let him
suffer, I say "
"Why, you drunken cur!" cries the captain. "If that man
could stand up with a gun in his hand, you'd all jump out
the window!"
A storm of yells and curses greeted this, and then I heard
Thompson again, wild and high: "God bless you, Aaron
Stevens! They may take our lives, but eighty million will rise
up to avenge us -" and then Mrs Popplewell closed the door
and leaned her back against it, looking solemn.
300
"You was right, honey," says she. "They ain't in no mood
b'lieve you's a gov'ment man."
"Oh my God! Maybe they won't come up, though!"
"Don' bet on it! They's three or four a-settin' on the stairs
this minnit, drinkin' theyselves wicked, an' castin' eyes at the
nnms wheah them other shemales is!" She swayed across to
the window. "It be dark in an hour or two. You bes' slide
nut then, git yo'self to one o' they off'cers, or someone'll
listen to yuh-"
"Slide out - through that? Christ, woman, every militiaman
in America's out there! They'd tear me to pieces! No,
no I must hide - under the bed, or ... somewhere! In the
cupboard - the closet, you stupid slut! Oh, God, too small
look, could you throw some of your clothes over me,
if I lay down? They'd never think . . . why not, confound
you? Dammit, you could hide half Harper's Ferry under that
bloody tent you're wearing! Help me, you brainless sow!"
"Is that so? You wuz glad 'nuff to git under it!" snorts
she. "My, ain't you the bedtime hero, though? You some
kin o' Popplewell's, Ah reckon!"
"And these infernal Yankee pothouses don't have chimneys,
even "
"They got attics!" snaps she, pointing aloft - and there,
praise be, was a trap in the ceiling. "If yo' so downright
timid -" But I was already on the table, throwing back the
trap, and sure enough it opened into a great musty loft which
must have extended over the whole building, dim and cluttered
with rubbish, just the bolt-hole for a deserving poltroon.
"God bless you! Back in a jiff!" cries I, and I'll swear
I heard her giggle as I heaved up, lowered the trap, and
took stock, treading softly. From the small windows in either
gable and the low skylights in the sloping roof I had a capital
view all round: north to the armoury, south to Gait's saloon
and the Shenandoah bridge, and west to the Bolivar Heights
overlooking the town, with the orange ball of the sun sinking in a ^y autumn sky; those distant buildings towards the Shenandoah shore must be the rifle works - was Kagi still
nere? Closer at hand the arsenal building seemed to be ^esened; no sign of Hazlett.
301
The front of the town was crawling with men keeping ur>
a desultory fire on the armoury, and, weighing up, I could
see only one line of retreat for J.B. - through the armoury proper and along the railroad between Bolivar Heights and
the Potomac. But even as I looked I saw movement in that
direction: the figures of militia, a good hundred of them
skirmishing in to close on the armoury from the rear. So
now he was ringed in on all sides; his revolution was dead
and he and his juvenile fanatics with it.
They went piecemeal, did J.B.'s pet lambs, and I saw
most of 'em go - already there'd been Newby, Watson, and
Stevens, and now, even as I prepared to tiptoe back to the
trap, Bill Thompson. There was a commotion behind the
hotel, and hastening to the skylight on that side I saw a noisy
crowd milling at the mouth of the Potomac bridge tunnel.
They were hustling Thompson on to the trestle, and then
they stood off from him, levelling their pistols. For a second
he was stock-still, hands by his sides, and then they were
blasting at him point-blank, and he toppled over out of sight.
The whole mob surged forward, shouting curses, and his
body must have landed on the bank below, for they kept
emptying their pieces downwards, and I found I was jerking
with the shots, for it might have been me.
I watched, sick and shuddering, until a fresh burst of firing
came from the Shenandoah side, and from the other skylight,
which was broken, I saw distant figures surging round
the rifle works, and heard guns popping like toys in the
distance. With the setting sun in my eyes I couldn't make
out much, but a few moments later there was a great hawhawing
and laughter as a group of roughnecks and some
militia came hurrying down towards Gait's saloon, shouting
that that was another couple o' the bastards settled, one
white, one nigger, an' 'twould ha' been three, for there had
been another nigger they'd been goin' to lynch, but that
cussed sawbones wouldn't allow it, damn him, spoilin' sport
thataway - say, but if you boys wantin' some target practice,
that abolitionist skunk's still a-layin' there! Sure, got him in
the shallows, tryin' to swim for it ... too much hot lead in
him for swimmin', though, haw-haw! .,302
p ^at was Kagi gone, J.B.'s right arm, who'd sat under
hat signpost by Chambersburg, twiddling a flower between
 fingers. He was the best of 'em, the Switzer - consoling,
in't it, th31 lt7s slways the good 'uns who stop the shot,
while fellows like me slip out from under? Which reminded
^at I'd some fair slipping to do yet, if I was to come out
intact. It was beginning to grow dark; lights were twinkling in
the town, and down below the crowds around the Wager
House and Gait's were kindling torches; by the sound of it
they were drunker than ever, and bursting with mischief.
Rain was pattering on the roof, and I debated whether to
wait in that gloomy loft until full dark, and then try to
scramble down from one of the windows . . . no, if I didn't
break my neck, there'd still be those boozy ruffians between
me and safety. Better to return to the room, where Mrs
Popplewell was probably still undisturbed, and lie up in comfort
until morning, or even longer if need be. If danger
threatened I could always take refuge in the loft again.
I tiptoed to the trap . . . and stopped short when I saw a
chink of light showing. Of course, with dusk coming she'd
lit the lamp. I stooped to raise the trap - and almost fell
over in terror, for someone was talking in the room below,
and it wasn't Black Beauty, unless her voice had broken in
my absence. I crouched quivering like an aspen, as a harsh
bass growl came to my ears:
"... never see a nigger yet that didn't lie truth out o'
| Dixie! You had him in here, ye black bitch! Hid him up,
didn't ye - yeah, yore abolitionist friend! Where'd he go,
hey?"
"Don' you call me liar!" It was Mrs Popplewell, no docile
darkle she. "Ah's a 'spectable woman, an' no white trash
goin' to bust in on me an' gimme his lip! You git out o'
heah, all on yuh, leave me be! Ah don't know nothin' 'bout
no abolitionist-"
"White trash? Strike me dumb, ye hear that? I've a mind
to haul you out an' lash you good "
^'You hold your noise!" It was the captain who'd interceded
for Thompson. "See here, my girl - there was a man "ere. We know it. You told the waiter here it was your
303
husband - what's his name, Popplewell? That right?"
"That's it - Popplewell!" The waiter, babbling. "But he got on the train went out at dawn - and she brung up breakfuss
for two this mornin', like he was still here . . . least I think that's what she said "
"There, now! You hear him, girl -"
"He's mistook!" Mrs Popplewell was standing firm. "Said
no sech thing! An' no man's been in heah! Whut kin' o'
female d'ye think Ah am?"
"A lyin' nigra whore, that's what!" bawls the ruffian voice.
"If you was alone, what you need two breakfasts for?"
"Ah is a large lady," retorts she with dignity, "an' Ah eats
hearty."
"Leave that, 'tis by the way!" says the captain impatiently.
"Now, see here, girl - how d'ye explain thisT' And there followed a breathless pause.
What the devil could "this" be? Something damning, obviously
- but you'd think a man in my plight could have
restrained his curiosity, wouldn't you? After all, it didn't
matter to me whether he was presenting his card or baring
his buttocks ... so before you could have said: "Don't, you
damfool!" I had my eye to the gap at the edge of the trap,
goggling down into the room.
I could see only a portion of it, filled mostly by Mrs Popplewell
in the height of fashion, holding her brolly like a
club, and two ugly scoundrels with beer-bellies and beards
crowding her either side. Of the captain I could see only an
outstretched hand - and on it lay my Tranter pistol, which
I'd forgotten in my haste.
"Well?" says he. "What o' this?"
"Ma husban' left it, fo' ma purtection!" cries she gamely.
"Did he now? Favours an English firearm, does he? You,
waiter - didn't you say the abolitionist who bespoke fortyfive
breakfasts53 spoke with a foreign accent - British,
perhaps?"
I didn't stay for the answer. If I'd been a man of iron
nerve, no doubt I'd have raised the trap, bade them a cheery
good-evening, and descended nonchalantly to explain myself
to the captain, who was plainly a man of intelligence and
304
nd judgment. And he might have believed me. Again, ^ou raffish companions might have shot me on sight. We
nnot tell, for what I absolutely did was to start to my feet ^sudden alarm, hit my head a shattering crash on a sloping
nist lose my balance, and step heavily on the trap, which
must have been rotten at the hinges, for it gave way with a
rending of timber, and down I went into the room like
Lucifer descending, the table bursting beneath my weight,
Mrs Popplewell screaming, and her interrogators exclaiming
in shocked surprise.
The only one who spoke to the point was the waiter, who
cried "By cracky, that's him!", and call me hasty if you will,
it seemed prudent to remove rather than offer explanations.
I was afoot and would have been through the open door in
an instant if one of the ruffians hadn't barred the way. I
sank my knee in his essentials, blundered into Mrs Popplewell,
saw the other thug start towards me and the captain
beside him levelling the Tranter, and knew in a split second
that there was only one thing for it. Casting gallantry aside, I
seized her amidships, swung her off her feet with a herculean
effort, and hurled her at them - and I'm here to tell you
that a tenth of a ton of well-nourished negress, pointblank
and well driven, is a damned effective missile. They went
down all three with a shock that rattled the hotel, and I was
out and bounding down the passage to the back stairs, miss-
Img my footing and going arse over tip to land with a sickening
jar beside the kitchen door. The outer door stood open,
I heaved myself up and went through it bull-at-a-gate into
a torch-lit twilight which seemed to be full of drunken, shouting
rascals who stared in astonishment as I raced through
them, heedless of direction; behind me a voice cried: "Stop
him! Halt, or I fire!" It was the captain - no slouch in pursuit,
he - and then came the crack as he let fly with the Tranter.
I plunged on, dodging between trees, cannoning into bodies,
knocking over a stand of piled rifles, with angry yells and
pounding feet behind me, and no notion of where my terriued flight was taking me.
^ell, it wouldn't have made much odds if I had taken are; a11 ^ys led to disaster and death, and mine took me
305
into the open ground between the Wager House and the
armoury gates, where I slipped in a puddle and went headlong
in the mud. At least in scrambling up I was able to take
my bearings, and damned discouraging they were, for every gun in Harper's Ferry seemed to be slinging lead at me from
the railroad tracks to my right, from the town to my left, and from the Wager House at my back. Shots were
slapping into the mud around me, militiamen were rushing
towards me from the hotel, and the only place that wasn't
stiff with ill-wishers, and seemed to offer the ghost of a
chance, was the armoury itself. I floundered out of the mire
and went bald-headed for the gates.
It was just my confounded luck that my flight took place
at the precise moment when those militia whom I'd seen
skirmishing towards the rear of the armoury a few minutes
earlier, launched their attack through the sheds at the remnants
of J.B.'s little force. Even as I was leaving the hotel
at speed, they were storming up among the workshops, and
J.B. and his boys, assailed from behind, were downing eight
of them before being forced to retire into the engine-house
just inside the armoury gateway. What with my panic and
the uproar around me, I knew nothing of this until I sped
screaming through the gates and met the militia coming the
other way; ahead of me the avenue between the sheds was
alive with roaring ruffians charging towards me in the failing
light, orange flames leaping from their muzzles - even as I
slithered to a terrified halt, shots were whipping past, and
as I turned to fly something like a whiplash seared across
my neck, and I knew I'd been hit, oh Jesus, this was death,
and I pitched forward in agony, sobbing: "God damn you,
Spring, damn you to hell!", clutching at my wound, the
warm blood running between my fingers, my ears deafened
by the hellish din of rifle fire and battle-cry, torchlight blinding
me, and I knew this was the end . . .
"Joshua!" A harsh voice was shouting, close by.
"Joshua!" I struggled up on one elbow - and not ten yards
before me were the great twin doors of the engine-house,
with J.B. himself standing between them, his Sharps smoking
in his hands, his scarecrow coat flapping round his lean
306
nks his battered hat jammed down on his brows. The s .- ^e left-hand arch was shut, but that on the right
.(jg and there was Joe, his face contorted with rage, w ^ in either fist, pumping shots at the advancing militia,
i Tavlor the Canadian kneeling, his Sharps at his shoulder
and Oliver was waving his rifle: "Come on, Josh - we'll
cover you!" By God, Flashy, you ain't dead yet, I thought, and then
I was on my feet, bellowing with fear, staggering towards
them. All four were firing now, and from the tail of my eye
I saw the militia's advance waver, but they were shooting
back damn them, slugs were buzzing about me, something plucked at the skirt of my coat - missed, you duffer!, but
the next one didn't, a hammer blow struck my thigh, numbing
my leg, and I went down like a shot rabbit, sprawling in
the mud within a few feet of cover and roaring, if I remember
rightly, for Jesus to save me. Which was optimism run mad,
I admit - but I was dying, remember.
God knows how I crawled the few yards to the enginehouse
doorway, heaving along on two hands and one knee,
plastered with filth, my precious blood leaking in two places,
howling my head off - and Taylor was darting forward, hoisting
me up and dragging me on. Then everything seemed to
be happening terribly slowly, but crystal clear, as is often
the case when you're helpless in deadly danger: Taylor's grip
loosed, and something warm and wet struck me in the face, and as I fell back he was standing over me, but where his
Ihead should have been was a hideous crimson mess, and I
cried out in horror, pawing at his blood and brains that had
spattered over me. Someone heaved me to my feet; it was
J.B., and I remember the earthy cattle smell of his coat as
niy face pressed against it, Joe's pistol exploding almost in my ear, his shout of "Goddam slavin' bastards!", Oliver
"ring round the door-post while rifle balls smacked into the
timber and brickwork, and the choking reek of powder
smoke in my mouth and eyes.
As I clung weeping to J.B. I heard Oliver sing out: "I see mnl, ^w!", and I can still see the eager grin on the pale,
andsome face under the wideawake hat, but as he whipped
307
the Sharps to his shoulder he suddenly staggered, with an
odd barking little cough, looking down at the bloody stain
spreading on his shirt. He dropped the Sharps and sat down
heavily against the door, raising his head in surprise and
exclaiming: "Oh, Paw, look!", and that is the last thing I
remember before . . . well, I could say something poetic
about blackness enfolding me like a shroud, or a dark mist
engulfing my senses, but the plain fact is that I fainted from
pure funk.
308
Wounds, believe it or not, can be quite
handy, if you know how to make use of them. I speak with
authority, having taken over twenty in my time, from my
broken thigh at Piper's Fort to the self-inflicted graze which
enabled me to collapse artistically during the Boxer Rising
(I was seventy-eight at the time, an age at which you can
get away with a lot). In between, I've been shot in the back,
the breast, the arm, the leg, and the arse, been blown up
now and then, flogged, scalped (by my own son, if you
please), racked, and roasted, had my shoulder opened by a
Chink hatchet, my cheek by a German schlager, and my
abdomen by a Turkish knitting needle (at least, I believe
she was Turkish), and still carry a scorch-mark on my elbow
from the hot metal of the cannon from which I was dam'
near blown at Gwalior. Not bad going for a thoroughbred
coward and decamper, and those are only the ones I remember
- there's a small-calibre hole in my left palm, and blessed
| if I know how I came by that. Senility creeping on, I suppose.
The point is that I've made capital out of my dishonourable
scars by adhering to one golden rule - Flashy's Sufferance,
I call it: always convey, but never say, that your injury
is a sight worse than it really is. It's elementary, really. In
convalescence this ensures sympathy, if you play it properly
- the barely perceptible wince, the sharp little intake of
breath, the faint smile followed by the quick shake of the
head, and never a word of complaint from the dear brave "oy - but far more importantly, in the heat of battle it
enables you to feign mortal hurt and shirk any further part
in the action.
Not that I was faking when I keeled over maiden-like in
309
the engine-house - I was convinced that the Great Peeler
had His hand on my collar at last, and only when I came to
and recalled that the pandemonium around me was not Hell
after all, did I discover that my wounds, while painful, were
not fatal, or even serious. My shirt and coat were sticky with
blood, but frenzied inspection assured me that this came not
from my jugular but from a nasty nick near the shoulder
and my other hurt was quite a curiosity: the slug must have
been almost spent, for it was only half-embedded in my leg
some way above the knee, like a currant on a cake. I pawed
at it, weeping tears of gratitude that it hadn't struck home
a few inches nor'-east, and the beastly thing fell out, leaving
an ugly hole oozing gore. I subsided, whimpering with
anguish and relief, clutching the affected parts and lying
petrified as I took in the appalling scene.
For the interior of that engine-house looked and sounded
like the Inferno gone wild: the building reverberated to the
incessant din of rifle fire, glass was shattering, timber splintering,
men were screaming and cursing, and all in halfdarkness,
for there wasn't a light in the place bar the flashes
from the guns, and only torch-glare outside. As I cowered
down by the wall, half-choked by smoke and panic, I could
just make out the shapes of bodies on the straw at my feet,
and beyond them shadowy figures which crouched in the
half-open doorway, shooting out, while answering shots
crashed into the walls and the long low fire-carts which
seemed to fill most of the great brick-built shed: one slug
hit a fire-bell with an ear-splitting clang, setting it swinging
and pealing. All I could do was lie there, trying to staunch
my neck wound with my sleeve, praying that I'd not be hit
again - God, of all the cruel strokes of fate, after all my
scheming and evasion and taking cover, at the eleventh hour
I'd leapt from the fire back into the frying-pan, and now
there was nowhere to run, even if I'd been able to.
Only a yard away Jerry Anderson was hacking at the
bricks to make a loophole; fragments rained down on me,
and when I sang out he dropped down beside me, eyes wild
in a blood-streaked face.
"My God, Josh!" cries he. "Are ye done for?"
310
"Brandy!" croaks I, and he thrust his flask at me. I
trhed it and as he jumped back to his loophole I set my c "th and spilled half the contents on my neck, squawling ^wake the dead at the burning agony of it. I clapped the
mouth of the flask to my leg wound, writhing and whimper.
and had just enough strength to pour the rest down my
throat. I was half-fainting with pain, and I must have
swooned again, for the next thing I knew there was a blinding
glare before my eyes, the shooting had ceased altogether,
and there were voices talking close by. I raised my head and
saw that the glare came from a storm-lantern in the doorway,
where J.B. seemed to be holding a parley with a couple of
civilians, while Joe covered them with his six-guns. The light
fell on the faces of the bodies near my feet, and I shrank
back horrified as I saw that they were Watson and Oliver,
both apparently dead, and beyond them the shattered corpse
ofTaylor sprawled on the blood-sodden straw. To my right,
on the back wall behind the engines, young Ed Coppoc and
Emperor Green, the black, had their rifles at the ready
through loopholes in the brick, and Jerry Anderson was at
his post on the side wall, straddling Oliver's body. Dauphin
Thompson, the pretty youth who looked like a girl, stood
by the nearer engine, a rifle in his hands - my God, was this
all that was left? Six sound men, three corpses, and Flashy
playing possum . . . Now one of the civilians was speaking,
a tall brisk chap with a trim moustache and goatee - my
captain from the Wager House. By George, he got about,
though, didn't he?
"... you can only make it worse!" cries he, pointing to
the bodies. "Sakes alive, man, isn't that enough? You're
surrounded by hundreds of militia, and Colonel Lee's
marines! They're under orders from the President of the United States to demand your unconditional surrender,
nothing less!" He gestured about him. "Look at this - the
nd is certain, and resistance can mean only more
bloodshed-"
i t^i^ know my terms!" f^P8 J.B. His face was dreadful
n the lamp-glare, haggard with hunger and lack of sleep, but
is voice was strong. "When all my men, living and dead,
311
have been delivered to me here, with their arms and ammunition
- and our horse and harness-"
"Your horsed" cries the other in disbelief. "God help us!"
"-then, and only then, I shall retire into Maryland, taking the prisoners with me," continues J.B. calmly. "There I shall
release them at a safe distance, and enter into negotiations
with the government -"
"You'll not take us into Maryland!" It was old Washing- |
ton, coming round the back of the engines, and I saw there a were half a dozen of the hostages lurking at the far side of
the shed.54 He strode past where I was lying, up to the group
in the doorway. "No threat shall compel me from this spot
I'll tell you that!"
They stood eye to eye, the old soldier planted like a rock
J.B. with his head thrown back, rifle in hand, Frederick's
sword trailing at his hip. The goatee'd captain stepped
between them, hands raised, forcing himself to speak quiet
but firm.
"It won't do, Captain Brown. Can't you see, sir, Colonel
Lee cannot yield to those terms - the United States cannot!"
He took a deep breath. "Your position . . . oh, come, sir,
in the name of sense - what do you hope for?"
J.B. turned on him, eyes flashing. "For honourable dealing,
according to the usages of war! Would you have me
surrender to the creatures who shot down my men like dogs
- under a white flag? My own son, sir, dying there of wounds
inflicted by those drunken cowards?"
"That was the militia! Colonel Lee is a gallant gentleman
and stone-cold sober!" retorts the captain. "Oh, I am sorry
for your son . . . but, my God, when men take up arms in
treason against their country, they can expect to be shot like
dogs! What of the poor souls you've killed this day?" He
broke off with a helpless shrug. "Oh, where's the sense of
it? I beg of you, sir - see reason, and give up while you can.
Colonel Lee will show you every consideration, and in the
meantime," he gestured at the bodies, "at least let Doctor
Taylor see to your wounded."
J.B. considered a moment, and then nodded to the other
civilian, a stout little greybeard with a black bag who signed
312
t rrv to bring the lantern, and knelt down by Watson, to ^ling for his pulse. Even through half-closed eyes in that furo j (;ouid tell it was the Stars and Stripes for Watson,
rror' his face was like wax, and he didn't seem to be nopofhing. The little sawbones evidently agreed, for he ^ged his lips and moved on to Oliver, whose eyes
blinked open in the light. He stirred, and gave a little
whispered sob.
"Paw shoot me . . .oh, Paw, please, it's awful sore!
Let me ... die ... please. Paw!"
J B.'s voiced croaked out of the shadows in an awful parody
of reassurance: "Oh, you'll get over it, Noll -", interrupted
by a stifled scream from Oliver as the belly-butcher
probed at his chest. You mayn't credit it, but I believe I
heard the loving paterfamilias mutter something about
"dying like a man". Say that to me, you old sod, thinks I,
and I'll spit in your eye.
I was reviving, you see, under the spur of selfpreservation,
and while I was weak as a rat with fear and
shock, and hurting like sin, I was by no means hors de combat: the feeling had returned to my leg, and the gash in my
neck seemed to have stopped bleeding. But the outlook was
uncertain, you'll agree. If this parley (one of many in that
extraordinary day, in which one side tended the other's
wounded between the hostilities) ended with J.B.'s throwing
in his hand, all would be well: once he'd been disarmed I could show my true colours and refer them to Messervy. If
he wouldn't surrender, I could only keep mum - declaring
myself a U.S. agent in the hope that the captain could protect
me would be madness: why, the crazy old bastard would
probably shoot me on the spot. Then there was the vexed
question of where the devil I'd been all day ... and Joe
was lurking in the background ... On the whole, the closer
I appeared to be to death's door, and unable to answer
embarrassing questions, the better. So when the poulticewalloper
shook his head over Oliver, and glanced towards I"^ lying there all blood-spattered and pathetic, I was ready w " a tGeble gesture to keep him at a distance - the last thing
wanted was the little bugger poking at me and exclaiming:
313
"Why, this fellow's barely scratched! A spoonful of jaloo and he'll be fitter than I am!"
I needn't have fretted. Possibly he was fed up peering at
abolitionists, for having glanced, he shrugged, and said he'd
call again in the morning. (Those were his very words, as
though we were in Tooting with the mumps; you may find
them in the history books.)
Meanwhile the goatee'd captain had been moving heaven
and earth to make J.B. see reason, with as much success as
you'd expect. "I knew what we might be called on to
undergo when I set my hand to this work," says the stubborn
old ragamuffin. "I have weighed the responsibility, and shall
not shrink from it."
"And your prisoners?" cries the captain. "If this madness
continues, and they pay for it with their lives, you'll take
responsibility for that too, will you?"
"I shall take every care of them," replies J.B. "They are
in God's hands. So are we all."
The captain could have burst at the sanctimonious
smugness of it, but he mastered himself, and stood up
tall.
"You are a vain and selfish man," says he. "God forgive
you." Then anger got the better of him. "You'll die! To no
purpose - you know that?"
"Oh, to some purpose, I believe," says J.B., and laid a
hand on his shoulder, as though talking to a child. "Be of
good cheer, Captain Sinn. We shall this day light such a candle by God's grace in Virginia as shall never be put
out."55
This was too much for old Washington, who went purple.
"You dare - you dare to use those words!" He spluttered. "Why . . . why, it's a blasphemy! You're a pagan, sir, a
brazen forehead "
"Go behind the engines, colonel," says J.B. "There is no
more to be said." The old soldier stood fuming for a
moment, then turned on his heel and strode off to the far
side, where the other hostages were peeping over the
engines, looking scared.
"Come along, doctor," says the captain. "We have done
314
g could." He hesitated in the doorway, and turned w T B "For the last time, Mr Brown - will you not
reconsider?"
T B stood silent, staring at the ground, and Sinn and the
doctor went out into the darkness.
I'd listened in growing consternation, for there was no
doubt what was coming, thanks to the blind stubborn folly
(aye, and vanity) of that pig-headed yokel - the besiegers
would storm the engine-house, their first ranks would be cut
down by the defenders' fire, and when the drunken rabble
finally burst in by sheer weight of numbers they'd butcher
every last one of us in a fury of spite and vengeance. I'd not
have a dog's chance of surrender, or to proclaim myself . . .
to them I'd be just another Kansas murderer, to go the
way of Thompson and Stevens and Watson - unless in the
meantime I could make myself known to old Washington,
and take shelter among the hostages when the final charge
came home; the Marines would have orders to look out for
them and see them safe. But how to put Washington wise,
without betraying myself to J.B. . . . ? and even as the
thought formed, here came our gallant commander, brushing
aside something that Jerry Anderson was saying,
ordering him back to his post, and moving purposefully in
my direction. He passed his sons' bodies without a glance
and loomed above me, and my innards turned over at the
sight of that ravaged headstone of a face with its burning
eyes; the tangled hair sprouting from under the old hat was
dirty white, like his scrub of beard, and when he spoke it
was like gravel under a door.
"Can you hear me, Joshua? Are you badly hurt? What
became of you?"
I had my answer ready, a red herring that should distract
him if anything could, delivered with a weary flicker of the
eyelids and a tremulous whisper, to let him see I was at my ^st gasp.
^gi ." I muttered. "Kagi ..."
What of Kagi?" cries he, stooping over me.
H^s . . . dead, captain," says I, very faint. "Shot . . . al the river ..."
315
"And the others? Leary? Copeland?" Those were the two
blacks.
"Dead ... I think . . ."I gave a muted gasp of agony by
way of business. "And . . . they killed Thompson, too
murdered . . . used his body . . . target practice ..."
He made a dreadful noise; it was his teeth grating. "So
they did with Leeman. The fool ran for the riiver, and was
taken. They put a pistol to his head and ..." He knelt down
by me, and there were tears on the leathery cheeks. "Did
you speak with Kagi?"
I ventured a weak shake of the head. "No ... I tried
to ... no use . . . too many of 'em . . . ahi, my leg!" I
gave just a touch of feeble thrash, eyes tight shut in
anguish.
"Joshua!" The callous ruffian actually grippted me by the
shoulder. "What happened? Why did you run from the
hotel?"
That was the question, of course, and I'd be<en cudgelling
my wits for an answer - and in a heaven-sent flash it came
to me, the perfect excuse that might also be my salvation,
if only I played it properly; the one thing thait might turn
this selfish lunatic from his fatal resolve.
"Kagi ..." I whispered. "Went to ... briing Kagi . . .
ah, too late!"
"What's that you say?" He was frowning in bewilderment.
"You wanted to fetch Kagi? To me, you meani? But why?"
Playing for time, while I chose my words, I gav^e a shivering
moan and bit my lip (fighting the agony, you know) and
could have cheered when he went on in a puzzle^d tone: "Joe
told me you had deserted ... I would not beliieve it! Why,
then? Joshua - do you hear me? Speak, man!'"
I decided it was time to rally a little, so I forced a brave,
wry smile, and when he asked if I was in great pain, I haltraised
a palsied hand and let him grip it in his horny fist.
"Not ... too bad ... thank'ee," says I. "Loss o' blood
... and my leg ... but I'll be ... at my post . . . presently
. . . never fear." Gad, I was game. "Got a gum . . . h^
you?" I'd no least intention of joining the defence, but it
showed the right spirit, and whatever happene<d I wanted a
316
handy. He drew a Colt from his belt and laid it by me,
P^-g again about Kagi, but I was taking my time.
"Ah . thank'ee, skipper . . . that's fine. Want to ...
nt fighting, you know." Talk about the last act of camlet. "If I must " I opened my eyes wide in gallant
appeal. "Must we, captain?"
"What d'ye mean, Joshua?" says he, frowning, and I
lynched my teeth as in sudden pain, breathed a silent
prayer, and let him have it.
"Why I went for Kagi," I began, gasped, and went on:
"I knew . you'd fight to a finish. You're like me," I
explained, with a ghastly grin. "No surrender, what? Aye
but the last thing Kagi said to me ... at the farm . . .
he said: 'At all costs, Josh, you must . . . see the captain
safe. He must live, even if ... we die. He has ... the voice
and it must not be silenced'." I paused, almost at the
end of my tether, but determined. "Well . . . when I saw
. this morning, that if we waited ... for the slaves, you
know . . . we'd be cut off ... killed, most likely ... I knew
I must bring Kagi to ... to talk to you . . . make you see
that your life was . . . well, too precious to lose." Another
pathetic smile. "I knew you wouldn't . . . listen to me. I
knew you'd heed Kagi, though . . . you always did . . . made
me quite jealous sometimes . . . ne'er mind . . ."I stopped
for another useful wince, and any fool could have seen I was
gathering my strength for one last noble effort. I gripped his
hand. "Listen to Kagi now . . . won't you? Surrender . . .
for his sake!" Inspired, I drivelled on. "And for the sake of
of all those poor black souls . . . crying for deliverance
. don't fail them now! Live . . . that the voice may not
be silenced! Oh, surrender, now . . . call back that captain
and Kagi won't have died in vain ..."
1 sank back, eyes closing, in an exhaustion that wasn't
entirely bogus, for I'd given it all I knew. Fine fevered stuff, in "^y ^st heroic style - a deathbed variation on the theme
id used when I talked Wheeler into running up the white
^g at Cawnpore two years earlier. Aye, but Wheeler was a cvel-headed soldier, not an ignorant fanatic, and when I
pened "^y eyes again my heart sank, for the bright eyes
317
were as hard as ever, and his mouth was turned down in a
stubborn scowl. He withdrew his hand from mine.
"You too, Joshua," says he. "First Anderson, now you
He hears Captain Sinn talk of treason, so his conscience
smites him now; he'll not fire again on his country's flag he
says." Good for you, Jerry; sanity at last. "And Kagi, you
tell me . . . and now you." He gave a deep sigh, and went
on in a weary voice. "Cannot you see, we are all dead men^ If we surrender, we hang, and where is my voice then? And
if we surrender, we shall have betrayed our cause - and that
I'll not do!"
God, he was dense. "Captain!" I croaked, and in my desperation
I forgot I was dying and came up on one elbow to
whine at him in earnest. "Don't you see, if we surrender
there's bound to be a trial! You'll be able to speak out then
- to tell America, tell the whole world, what . . . what
we came here for! The cause, dammit, and the darkies,
and everything . . . For God's sake," I yammered,
"everyone will hear you, and . . . and be inspired to carry on,
but if you die here, why, they'll never know! Don't you
understand?"
D'ye know, I doubt if he did, for before I'd done bleating
he had turned his glance aside in that brooding, distant way
I knew so well; he hadn't even noticed how suddenly I'd
come to life. I could have wept, for I wanted to shout in his
face: "Listen, you pudding-headed dotard, I'm showing you
the finest soap-box your bloody cause could have! You'll
speak your piece, and then you'll swing, and good riddance,
but they'll have heard you from Hell to Honolulu! (And
they did; that's the irony of it.) And I'll be out of here, alive
and safe, you selfish hound!" But it would have done no
good; I knew that, from the grim dull set of the lined puritan
face; he'd fixed what he called his mind, and that was that.
He stood up, moving stiffly, and brushed the straw from his
ragged britches. |
"I have stated my terms," says he, "and I believe them to be honourable. If they will not accept them, for the sake
of the prisoners ..." He paused, frowning, and I wondered
did he still have some wild hope that he could bluff his way
318
_ or even that the slaves would rise to his rescue? He
as daft enough.
He stood there a moment, a gaunt tattered figure silhouet-
a hv the lamp that still burned near the doorway,56 the e tline of his stark profile like that of some great bird of
and looked slowly around the engine-house half in ^hadow, the light glinting on the metal of the long fire-carts.
Maybe he was reviewing what was left of his pet lambs -
Joe on guard at the half-open door, Ed Coppoc at the side
loophole, the cherubic Dauphin Thompson at the rear wall,
Emperor Green stretched half-asleep on the straw, his lips
moving in an inaudible mutter, Jerry Anderson dozing with
his back to an engine, mouth open and fair hair tousled.
Beyond the engines I could hear the hostages stirring on the
straw: that, and the occasional uneasy gasp and groan from
Oliver, were the only sounds in the big gloomy shed. From
the dark outside came the distant sound of singing and laughter
from the Wager House and Gait's, and the dull incessant
murmur of the surrounding troops.
"No, I'll not go back on my word." It was J.B., calm and
quiet now, as though he were talking to himself. "I came to
this place of a purpose, to set free the slaves, and until that
is done I'll not lay down my arms. I came in no vindictive
spirit, seeking no man's blood, but only to liberate those.
held cruelly in bondage. To that end we have fought, a
handful of us against a great multitude. To surrender now
would be to deny our cause, and to abandon those we fought
for. We have kept the faith with them, and with our fallen
comrades, and I'll not break it at the last."
He raised his head and looked about him again, eyes
bright and far away, and just the glimmer of a smile on the
old face. "It doesn't end here," says he. "It begins."
* * !|t
"ey left us alone all night, and you may well wonder why.
here were more than a thousand men ringed about that ^"gy building by the armoury gates, besieging half a dozen;
^ rywe11' "^st of 'em were green militia and drunken louts,
here were near a hundred of America's crack regiment,
319
I
too, the vaunted Leathernecks from the Halls of Montezuma
- why the devil didn't they walk in on our pathetic rabble
then and there? I've heard it asked since (at a safe distanced by the usual valiant know-alls, and the answer is because
my old chief Robert Lee knew his business, that's why, and
wasn't about to waste lives, and risk the hostages, by brawling
in the dark when he could wait until daylight - and
until the spirits of those in the engine-house were that much
lower, and possibly open to reason.
So he waited, canny, imperturbable Lee, and if that long
cold night did nothing to weaken the resolve of the idiot-inchief
of our ridiculous garrison, it played havoc with the
yellow belly of the chief-of-staff, cowering in his corner in
despair. I'm not at my best wounded and in the dark, with
corpses at my feet, and not even a ray of hope visible - for
I'd quite given up the notion of making myself known to old
Washington: I doubted if he'd believe me, he never came
within whispering distance anyway, and I didn't dare try to
attract his attention, what with J.B. prowling about armed
to the teeth, and Joe turning every now and then to view
my recumbent form with scowling suspicion.
I'd half-expected him to be at my throat over my desertion
at the Wager House, but of course he wasn't. There was
nothing he could say or do, however much he mistrusted
me; we were both sailing under false colours with J.B., and
he couldn't expose me without exposing himself. But I can't
pretend to know what was passing in that strange black
mind. I knew that from having been a loyal agent of the
Kuklos, and devoted to Atropos, he'd apparently found his
Road to Damascus in the months at Kennedy Farm, and
become a worshipper of J.B. and a fervent enemy of slavery
- or at least so he said, and the glimpse I'd had of him during
the retreat to the engine-house bore him out, for he'd been
fighting like a Ghazi, blasting away and damning the militia. jj Well, I've known stranger changes of heart, and I'd seenM enough of J.B. to know the kind of spell he could cast; Joe
might be educated, but he had all the black's deep-seated
hatred of the white race, and I guess J.B. had given him a
different slant on his slave condition. Again, he may simply
320 I
been as mad as a hatter; many people are, you know. have gg certainly in the grip of some kind of brainstorm
that last night in the engine-house. Violent action does on .0 gome folk; faced with death, they lose all sense of
hit and ingrained conduct, and their primitive nature,
hidden under years of custom and training, comes raging out
_ why even I, in extremity, have been moved to belligerence
against chaps bigger than I am, and run risks that I go weak
to think of afterwards. Mind you, in my case the madness
don't last above a split second.
Not with Joe; his derangement was permanent, and it
took the oddest form - a growing anger against J.B. If that
astonishes you (and it did me) I can only illustrate it by
telling you what I heard passing between them in the long
watches of that awful night.
I never slept, you see, what with distress of mind and
body, and there was nothing to do but lie and quake in the
dark - for the lamp burned out after an hour, leaving us in
pitch black, so no one moved about much: Old Washington
came round to talk with J.B. at one time, but I couldn't hear
what they were saying: it wasn't a quarrel though, for their
voices never rose. I heard Jerry Anderson and Emperor
Green croaking that they'd never understood that what they
were doing was treason (a fine time to realise the error of their
ways, you may think); Jerry shut up after a while, but the nigger crawled under one of the engines and sobbed his
soul out, calling himself a pore blind fool, and railing against
J-B. and Douglass who had brought him to this mis'able
end, an' he hadn't wanted to do hurt to nobody, or free any
niggers, 'cos he was jes' a plain pore nigger hisself, an' oh
Lawd ha' mussy on an unhappy sinner.
His cries made a doleful chorus with the groans and pleas
of young Oliver, who was delirious most of the time, but
would wake now and then with a scream, and his agony was
terrible to hear. When he fell silent, J.B. called his name a
(^uple of times, and then I heard him say, "I guess he's "ead."
was after this that Joe pitched in his two penn'orth; I
_ay have dozed, for I was suddenly aware that he was
321
nearby, whispering angrily, and J.B. was snapping back at
him: indeed, the first words I heard were J.B. growling to
him to keep his place and mind who he was talking to.
"Min' ma place! An' whut place is that, hey?" That was
when I realised we had a new Joe on our hands: he'd never
have dreamed of taking that tone with J.B. at the farm.
"Ah'll tell yuh, John Brown - it's right heah, waitin' to git
kilt, when Ah should ha' bin in the hills this minute! That's
wheah ma place should ha' been!"
"You forget yourself, Joseph!" J.B. sounded more
shocked than angry. "Get to your post, my boy, and no
more of this!"
"Ah ain't forgettin' nothin'! You the one that's forgettin'
- how we was goin' to free the niggers and make an army
in the hills! Wheah is they - all them slaves you was goin'
to free, that was goin' to come in to us? You nevah looked
near 'em - you didn't try to rouse 'em! All you roused wuz
hostages - an' that dam' toy sword you wearin'! Call this a
rebellion? - gittin' ou'selves caged in heah like dam' runaways
in a bottom, gittin' shot down "
"Hold your tongue!" barks J.B. "You dare raise your
voice to me - are you mad? Or in fear of your life -"
"Ain't feared o' nothin'! 'Tis a lie - an' not th'only one
you tol', neethah! You say we wuz goin' clear out th'arsenal,
an' hightail! Well, you didn't! Jes' set heah, doin' nothin' an'
Stevens tellin' yuh to git out, an' Kagi sendin' messages,
an' you di'nt pay no heed, an' they gits theyselves kilt
'cos o' yo' foolin' an' playin' wi' yo' dam' sword'n pistols!"
J.B. was making outraged noises, but Joe swept on: "Whyn't
you git while we cud? Even that rat Comber had tole you
we dassn't stay heah! Why, you goddam ole fool, you
destroyed us! An' wuss - you betrayed us, an' the coloured
folks an' all, with yo' fine talk an' promises, an' gittin' us
trapped an' all git kilt, 'cos high'n mighty John Brown ain't
got the brains of a buzzard! An' didn't need to - cud ha'
been in the hills right now, rousin' the niggers to tear up
you white slavin' bastards if you'd jes' listened "
The oily double click of a Colt hammer stopped him dead,
and I knew J.B. was covering him.
322
"'et to your post, Joe." His voice was firm, but almost
g^e "I might shoot you for mutiny, but you are not in
you , ^ mind, so I have not heard you. Now - go!"
T ^g a long moment in which I held my breath in slid ' excitement - for J.B. didn't know what he was dealing
^ ^e blinding speed with which Joe could unlimber ^^fire'. suppose he blew the old man to blazes, we ""^it win clear yet, arrange a surrender - no, Joe himself
woi^ never allow that, he'd likely try to shoot his way
clea.
o!" says J.B. again, while I strained my eyes uselessly ^ist the darkness - and then there was the shuffle of the ^^ as Joe turned away and went to the open doorway; I ^his outline for a moment against the night sky glowing
fairly ^h ^e torches of the besiegers, then he crouched ^^n in the shadow. I could picture the black face contorted wlt^ anger, glaring out into the night - who'd have thought "' ^i? Joe, of all people, to tell J.B. the truth to his face. ^"h good it would do now - Oh, lord, why hadn't I lain ^&o in the hotel loft instead of barging about like a headlessfQ^,!?
i might have been snug and warm and larruping ^"'Popplewell this minute. Why hadn't I bolted from the ^arr!, or jumped out of the train to Hagerstown, or dived d0^ an alley in New York? Why, for that matter, had I let- "^If be lured into that Washington hotel by the designing dw^-f Mandeville, and gone like a lustful lamb to the slaughter with Spring's diabolical daughter, or slavered after that ^h-faced heifer in Calcutta? That had been less than a
yea ago, and here I was like a rat in a pit awaiting the wiers . . . and around me the blackness was fading to grey,
"gues and objects were coming into view in the dim interior of le engine-house, and in the distance a cock was crowing.
here was a stirring in the surrounding host, a whistle ^"g' ^houts of command, and the clatter of equipment;
themilitia were standing to. A kettle drum began to beat
in .sharp staccato roll followed by the tramp of marching
ee, Washington stood up beyond the engines, listening with
is;rey head to one side, signing to the other hostages to
_ e 141L ^6- was already on his feet; he put down his Sharps,
323
carefully examined the cylinder of his pistol, and finally drew
Frederick's sword with a slow grating noise that had every
head turning towards him.
"Stand to your arms, men," says he. "Be ready for a
sudden rush."
I picked up the pistol he'd given me, and checked the
loads with trembling fingers. God alone knew what I was
going to do with it, but I wanted it ready - God knew what
I was going to do about anything, if it came to that. . . wait
and fight back my fear, and hope for some miracle. I eased
myself up against the wall, moving my wounded leg. I'd
flexed and tested it in the darkness, and knew it would bear
my weight; the flesh around the bloody pock caused by the
slug was one great black bruise, and it ached abominably,
but that mattered less than the stiffness in my joints. Could
I run if need be? I hauled myself up by the wall, leaned on
the limb, and almost came a cropper - Jesus, I'd be lucky
if I could manage a hobble!
I clung to the rough brick for support, the sweat running
off me, for all that it was bitter cold. J.B. glanced round
and saw me; for a second he seemed puzzled, then he gave
me a grim approving nod; faithful to the last, he'd be
thinking . . .
"Someone comin', cap'n!" Jerry Anderson was at a loophole,
shrill with excitement. "Two officers - an' they ain't
armed! Oh, cap'n, don't shoot 'em - we don't want to fight
no more!"
324
I was lurching along the wall before the
words were well out of his mouth, clinging to the brickwork
like a stricken lizard and praying that my leg wouldn't betray
me for the news he'd shouted could mean only one thing another
parley before the storm, and I was going to be in
on it, if I had to crawl every inch of the way. Pain stabbed
through my knee, and I'd have fallen if I hadn't wrenched
Jerry's carbine from his hand and thrust it into the ground
as a crutch. It was too short by half, and I tottered there
like Long John Silver in drink, roaring for assistance, until
Emperor, who'd emerged from under the engine where he'd
been weeping, gave me a shoulder. J.B. was already at the
doorway, cocking his rifle, motioning Joe to stand aside,
when I arrived at a stumbling run, grabbing at the closed
side of the door. J.B. shot me a startled look, so I gave him
a glaring grin, a hand on the Colt in my waistband, to let
him see I was at his side, ready to sell my life dearly; he
said nothing, and we both turned our eyes to the crack of
the door.
Two men were walking towards us, a tall, black-avised
fellow striding like a guardsman, and a smaller chap in the
dark-and-light blue of the U.S. Marines. But what took my sye was the dense throng of people watching, hardly more man a long stone's throw away - there were hundreds of sin , among the armoury sheds and outside the gates on the
Pen ground towards the railroad tracks, militia mostly, but
j^any townsmen, and women and children, too, all spell-
und in a strange silence broken only by the steady tread
01 the two approaching officers.
ev hopped about twenty yards off, conferring, then the
325
Marine turned and marched back, and the big fellow came
on alone, more slowly. He wore what looked like a cavalry cloak and uniform cap, an erect soldierly figure, and I was
wondering where I'd seen him before when it dawned: he
was devilish like me. Not a double, perhaps, and lacking a
couple of inches of my height, but like enough, what with
his handsome head, broad shoulders, and damn-youm'lad
carriage. He walked up to the door, and J.B. shoved out
his carbine and demanded his business.
"James Stuart, lieutenant, First Cavalry," says he, in a
pleasant Southern voice. "Am I addressing Mr Smith?"
J.B. pushed the door wider, and Stuart surveyed him a
moment with keen blue eyes (mine are brown, by the way)
before glancing briefly at me, propped panting against the
timber and looking like the last survivor of Fort Despair, I
don't doubt. He pulled a paper from his breast and offered
it to J.B.
"I have a communication from my superiors, Colonel Lee,
commanding the troops . . . and Mr Messervy of the Treasury
Department," he added, his eyes averted from me - and
as I caught his slight emphasis on the second name, and
realised what it meant, I almost cried out - he knew who I
was, and was letting me know it! Of course, he must have
had my description from Messervy himself, and had
recognised me under all the blood and filth, the alert
resourceful subaltern - I was to form a good opinion of Jeb
Stuart in later years, but I never held him in higher esteem
than at that moment. For whatever happened now, even if
J.B. refused to chuck in the towel and it came to a final
storming party, the attackers would be looking out for me,
and I'd be immune, and safe, at last . . . Even as Stuart, at
J.B.'s request, began to read the letter aloud, I was warily
scanning the distant spectators - the militia, the Marines, a
group of officers apart, a regimental-looking buffer in civilian duds astride a horse by the trees (Lee himself, as it
turned out), and, sure enough, a tall, graceful figure pacing
leisurely to and fro by his stirrup: Messervy, all careless
elegance at six in the morning.
People were crowding behind us to hear the message '
326
Washington, a couple of other hostages, Jerry, and Joe abscr
, breathing down my neck. It was a plain demand for
render, promising that we'd be held pending orders from
resident Buchanan, but that if we resisted, Lee couldn'1
swer for our safety. J.B. listened in grim silence, and i*
n'd been there, and seen that huge crowd hemming us in
nd the militia standing to their arms, and out before then1
the navy frocks and sky-blue pants and white belts of th^
Marines drawn up at attention . . - well, you'd have knowf^
he must give in at last. But damme if he didn't come straight
back at Stuart with his own impudent demand that we b^
allowed to march out unmolested, and given time to ge1
clear away. Stuart said politely that there could be no term^
but Lee's - and still the stubborn jackass went at him, sound'
ine ever so calm and reasonable, never raising his voice, bul
keeping his carbine trained on Stuart's midriff and refusing
to budge: let us go, or we'd fight to the end.
How long these futile exchanges lasted, I don't know -"
Jeb said later that it was a long parley - but they becam^
quite heated, with Washington and his friends joining in
begging Stuart to bring Lee in person, Stuart shaking hi^
head, Jerry protesting that he hadn't known it was treason'
Joe grunting most alarmingly in my ear, and J.B. prosing
away blandly as though he were passing the time of day witt1
a fellow-idler on a street corner. At one point he asked i1
he and the lieutenant hadn't met before, and Jeb smiled
and said, yes, when his cavalry had dispersed J.B.'s rider^
after some scrimmage on the Santa Fe Trail three year^
before. "You were Ossawatomie Brown in those days," say^
he, and J.B. said solemnly that he was glad to see that Jet7
was well and prospering in the service.
"You behaved with great good sense on that occasion,''
^ys Stuart. "Will you not do the same now, and spare manY
lives?"
"My life is a small thing," says J.B. "I am not afraid 0
lose it."
"I dare say not," says Stuart. "It may be forfeit sooner
than you think."
_ "That is all one to me," says J.B.
327
"Well, I'm sorry," says Stuart. "But if you are determined,
and there is no more to be said ..."
There he paused, and all of a sudden there was that electric
feeling in the air that comes in moments of crisis. J b
sensed it, his hand tightened on his carbine stock, and imper^ ceptibly Stuart shifted his weight from his heels to his toes
He hadn't looked at me since that first glance, but now he
did, without any expression at all, and then his eyes travelled
to the Colt at my waist and back to my face again before
returning to J.B., all in a couple of seconds, while J.B
waited for him to finish his sentence, and Stuart waited .
for me? I could hear Messervy's voice in that Washington
office, clear as a bell: "John Brown must die somewhere
along the road ... for the sake of this country, and tens
of thousands of American lives, he must not survive for
martyrdom ..."
Stuart glanced at me again - and I've no wish to impute
anything to a chivalrous Southern gentleman, but if his look
wasn't saying: "Mr Messervy's compliments, and if you'll be
good enough to shoot the old bastard on the spot, and roll
out of harm's way, he'll be much obliged to you", then I've
never seen an unspoken invitation in my life.
He didn't have a hope. Not my style at all - especially
not in the immediate presence of a highly unpredictable
coloured gentleman who was one of the fastest guns I'd ever
seen and had been itching to give me lead poisoning for
months. I've often wondered how Joe, in his excited condition,
would have reacted to the assassination of his erstwhile
hero, but I'd no intention of finding out; I let my right
hand fall loose at my side - and what happened next is
history.
Stuart's version57 is a masterpiece of nonchalance: "So
soon as I could tear myself away, I left the door and waved
my cap." I'd say he tore himself away at the speed of light,
sideways like a leaping salmon, but I didn't see him wavej
because even as he sprang the Marines were charging forward
from fifty yards away, bayonets fixed, with the little officer brandishing his sword, and J.B. was letting fly a
shot and slamming the door to all in one movernen1'
328
f rtunately he closed it on my injured leg, and for several un  ds I took no further interest, being blind with agony, sec<^ rolling on the floor, in which time he and Joe had ^rnmed the bar into place, Coppoc and young Thompson Ja re blazing away through gaps in the door timbers at the weyancine Marines, and Emperor Green burst into tears and
t^ied to hide behind an engine.
It had happened in split seconds, one moment peaceful parley the next carbines and revolvers booming in the confined
space, the hostages diving for cover, Jerry yelling: "No,
no we surrender!", the doors shuddering to the blows of
sledge-hammers wielded by the leading Marines, a great
roaring and cheering without and shouts of defiance within
mingling with the crash of shots and splintering of timbers,
black powder smoke filling the engine-house in a stifling
cloud - and Flashy scrambling away as fast as his game leg
would take him, intent on rounding the engines to take cover
among the hostages. I didn't get even halfway.
There was a rending crash behind me, and as I clung to
the nearer engine for support I saw that a bottom section of
the battered door was caving in: the planks were starting
asunder, and through the narrow gaps could be seen
glimpses of the attackers. J.B. had stepped away to reload
his carbine, Joe had his back to the door, stretching sideways
to shoot through a ragged hole in the wood, and suddenly
he screamed like a wounded horse and staggered away from
the door, clutching his left arm: behind him a bloody bayonet
point was jutting through the planks.
"Stand firm, men!" bawls J.B. "Sell your lives dearly!"
He ran to the shattered section of the door, stooping to
shove his Sharps through the opening, and firing: either side
of him the two boys, Coppoc and Thompson, were shooting
through the gaps point-blank at the Marines heaving at the
outside of the door. Joe had half-fallen a couple of yards
ehmd J.B.: he came up on one knee, his black face demonically contorted with rage and pain, mouthing curses "at were lost in the uproar. J.B. turned and shouted, gestur'"g
to him to come on.
'Courage, Joe! Don't give in now!"
329
I can't explain what followed, though I've had mor? than
half a century to think about it. I can only tell you tMjq
let out a terrible anguished cry and levelled his pistol ^ j g
The old man was turned away, revolver in one hard and
carbine in t'other, shooting through the half-wrecked ^oor
when Joe squeezed the trigger - and his piece misfire^. i^p
screamed wordlessly, and I can only think that all th^ fury
he felt at J.B.'s failure - betrayal, I'd heard him call it^ had
welled up at the last when death was staring him in the t^ace
and he was venting it on the old fellow in a fit of blind ^ger
as a passionate child will strike out at a parent. That ^ can
accept - what I cannot explain is what happened in th^ next
second, when Joe thumbed back the hammer for a s^ond
shot, and I put two bullets in his back.
I can't pretend I was consciously trying to save J.B, Why
should I, when I'd no thought for any life but my Wn,
and God knows I owed him nothing? I drew, and fir^l, as
instinctively as you throw up a hand to ward an unexp^ted
blow. Dick Burton, who fancies himself a psychologist' says
I gave way to a primitive impulse of race-survival, and killed
Joe because he was black and J.B. was white - would I lave
shot Kagi or Stevens if they'd been in Joe's place, ^rins
clever Dick. Likely not . . . but snooks to you, Burto^i I'd
not have shot Mrs Popplewell or Ketshwayo, either, bemuse
I quite liked them, you see, aid Kagi and Stevens, w^ile I
detested Joe. So perhaps it comes to this, that deep <^wn,
for all the harm and horror hs did me, I must have ^wte
liked old J.B. - well enough, at any rate, not to hav^ hlm
shot by that black son-of-a-bith if I could help it.
Anyway, I settled Joe, and te went down like a riveif ^^ |
his pistol exploding into the Boor as he fell, and at tnat 
moment the bottom of the doo' gave way with a tremor^011
rending of timber, and througi it like a ferret from its^ ^e
came the little Marine office-, flourishing his sword^ ^e
plunged straight past J.B., I threw myself aside, an^ ^B
darted round the engines, yeling to the hostages to ^na
clear. Washington sang out: 'There's old Ossawatoi7111'
pointing over the engine to JB., who was standing erect
before the doorway, throwinglead for all he was wor^ as
33) |
Marines came bursting and yelling through the shattered ^e kage of the door, their bayonets at the present. wr! believe he downed two of them, for I saw one reel away
lutching his face, with blood running through his fingers, c d another pitched headlong at his feet, and then the little ^ficer was on him like a wild-cat, thrusting at his body. J.B.
mbied forward, and as the officer hacked at his head I saw
that the blade was bent at right-angles; he hammered away at the old fellow's skull, and all around was screaming, struggling
confusion as the Leathernecks came surging in, bayonetting
everything in sight. Jerry Anderson was skewered
to the floor, shrieking horribly, as he tried to dive beneath
an engine, young Thompson was flung bodily against the
back wall and pinned, kicking like a beetle, by several
blades, someone was bellowing "Quarter, quarter, we surrender!",
everywhere were snarling faces, glittering steel,
swirling smoke - but never a shot now, for the last of our
people was down or overpowered, and the Marines had been
ordered not to fire; one of them, a red-faced corporal, glaring
like a madman and roaring inarticulately, came lunging
out of the press of struggling men, his bayonet driving at
me, and as I threw myself back the little officer thrust him
aside shouting "Not him! Prisoner!", and I echoed him,
bellowing "Not me! I'm a hostage!" The corporal fairly
howled with disappointment, but kept his point to my breast
as I struggled into the corner, my hands raised, and as I
sat there trembling there was a long, bubbling scream from
above, and Thompson's body, streaming blood, slid down
the wall beside me and collapsed across my legs. He was
still alive, for I felt him give a convulsive shudder; then he
was still, and as he died, so did the shouting and confusion.
The Harper's Ferry raid was over.
1 reckon about two minutes had passed since Stuart
jumped aside at the doorway, and in that brief terrible scrimi^age
four men had died, which was fewer than I'd have
guessed as I gazed in horror at the shambles. There was
lood everywhere, spattering the walls and soaking the s raw, and more bodies strewn on the floor than there were n standing up, or so it seemed. A Marine was slumped
331
against the post of the now-open door ahead of me, claspinp
a hand to his wounded face; another lay still across the
threshold. J.B. was lying face down, his white head horribly dabbled, and beside him Joe was on his back, his pistol in
his hand. The bodies of Oliver, Watson, and Taylor lay close by, Jerry Anderson was twitching in death beneath the
engine, and Thompson, his girl's face slack and ugly under
the blond curls, lay lifeless on my legs until the Marine
corporal rolled him clear.
The only unwounded raiders seemed to be Emperor
Green, who was crouched wailing against the wall (he was
the one who'd told Douglass he'd "go wid de ole man"
more fool he), and young Ed Coppoc, who was looking
pretty cool, considering that four Leathernecks were standing
over them with bayonets poised. The officer was
shepherding the hostages out through the other door, which
had been unbarred, and an almighty cheer went up from the
crowds outside as they passed into the open air.
There was a time when I'd have lain shivering from shock
after such an ordeal: I might even have wept (from reaction,
not grief, you understand) at the carnage around me. But
as I sprawled exhausted in that engine-house, watching the
Marines making short work of heaving the bodies and
wounded away, I felt nothing but a huge blissful weariness
and a growing exultation - the nightmare that had begun at
the Cape, when I heard Spring's tread on the deck overhead, j
was surely past and done with now; the frantic days and |
nights when Crixus and Atropos and the damned Yankee
bogies had plunged me into this mad business, the long
months of weariness while J.B. mismanaged his preparations, the terror of the raid and this final horror in the
engine-house - I was here, safe and whole, with nothing but
two paltry scratches that did no more than ache, coated with
blood and filth to be sure, but who minds that when you see
before your eyes what might have been . . . young, hand- J some Oliver of the merry laugh; brash, eager Jerry Anderson;
poor daft Taylor gone to explore his spirit world;
Dauphin Thompson, who had blushed like a maiden if y011 so much as asked him the time - all being dragged out by

332
.'

heels to lie in the mud under blankets. Bad luck, lads, .ut sooner you than me.
t R and Watson were still alive, so they carried them
'  stretchers; the old man's hair was stiff with dried a "i gpd one hand dangled from the stretcher like a skinny
, -. claw. Then they marched out the two prisoners, which
i ft me and the corporal and the late Joe Simmons. I made
shift to rise, but the Leatherneck growled to me to stay put,
those were his orders. I didn't mind lying there, holding my private little thanksgiving service and listening to the distant
murmur of the mob outside, and after a while Marines came
at the double, placing lanterns on the engines, shrouding
the broken windows and loopholes, heaving the wrecked
door into place, and closing it behind the little officer and
a tall civilian in a tile hat and frock: Messervy, surveying
the ruin impassively, prodding at Joe's corpse with his walking
stick, and then picking his way carefully through the
bloody straw to where I lay.
He looked down at me, stroking his moustache with a
gloved finger, the long-jawed Yankee Corinthian as ever
was, and just the sight of him, looking so cool and civilised,
cheered me up even further.
"Well, well," says he. "How are you?"
I couldn't be bothered to think of a smart answer, so I
said pretty fair. He asked if I was wounded, and when I told
him, he sighed, removed his hat and gloves, looked for a
place to put them, declined the corporal's offer to hold them,
and finally set them down on the engine. Then he stooped
to examine my neck and knee.
"Nothing that soap and water won't cure," says he. "Mr
Green, would you be good enough to bring them yourself,
with bandages, a towel, some spirits, and a Marine cloak
and cap." He rose, smoothing his coat, and resumed his hat
and gloves.
Now, I want a Marine guard round this building. No one 10 be allowed closer than twenty yards. That," he indicated
oe s body, "is to be removed after dark, and buried away from the town, and the burial party are then to forget all ut u- This gentleman," he turned to me, "never existed.
333
You'll not mention him, and if questions are asked by any.
one, you never heard of him. Is that clear?" Green nodded
looking keen. "Corporal, you understand?"
"What gen'leman are you referrin' to, sir?" asks the
Leatherneck, staring to his front. Messervy gave a faint smile
"I beg your pardon. I should have said sergeant shouldn't I, Mr Green?"
"Yes, sir!" beams Green. "I'll see to it."
"Capital. Now, I'll be leaving here presently with someone
in a Marine coat and cap. We are to be ignored, and I
trust by that time you will have dispersed any gaping sightseers.
The soap and water now, if you please."
They were all I needed to complete my restoration, and
when Green had brought them and left us alone, I sluiced
away the filth with a will; I felt as though I was cleansing
myself of Harper's Ferry, and John Brown, and the whole
disgusting business. The wounds looked clean enough, and
when I'd clapped on the dressings Messervy helped me with
the bandages, talking to the point, as usual.
"Brown is not only alive, but surprisingly well, and
damned talkative - which, as you know, is the last thing we
wanted. The old brute must be made of leather. Run through
the kidneys, the doctor tells me, and has lost any amount
of blood, though you'd not know it to hear him. Conversing
like a politician, which I suspect he is." He knotted my
neck bandage and stepped back. "Pity you didn't shoot him.
'Twould have saved a few lives today . . . and who knows
how many hereafter?"
"Well, mine wouldn't have been one of 'em," says I. "Not
with Joe crowding me in that doorway."
"Ah, yes, Joe." He glanced at the body. "Your work, I
take it ... the Marines had orders not to shoot. Settling a
score, were you?"
"Accident. He got in the way when I was sighting on
Brown." Why shouldn't I get credit by pretending I'd tried
to do Messervy's dirty work for him? "Since you were so
all-fired eager to have Brown dead, why didn't you get the
Marines to do it when they stormed this place? Or have
someone shoot him yesterday - hang it, he was walking
334
nd town large as life? Why don't you slip something in
S^'iinner now? And don't tell me it ain't your style!"
"I Inofficial death warrants have a habit of recoiling," says rnollv. "My countrymen have one great failing - they
talk too much." ^Aye - so you shanghai some poor bloody foreigner to do
the jobI Well, I didn't have the ghost of a chance, until today
and I'll tell you, Messervy, I ain't apologising! I served your turn because that damned little squirt Seward put a
nistol to my head . . . but why the hell should I murder for
you? Tell me that!"
He shrugged, leaning against the engine and stirring the
straw with his cane. "It would have been convenient. Now
the law must take its course, and God only knows where
that will lead. Still, that's not your affair. I guess you did
what you could to keep Brown out of Virginia -"
"You're damned right! A pity your own people didn't do
as much! I still can't fathom it - you knew what he intended,
where he was, who his backers were, what men and money
he had - confound it, you knew the very bloody place here!
Why in God's name didn't you stop him?"
"You and I tried," says he. "But we ain't politicians. What
did you call us - government ruffians?" He wrinkled his fine
nose, and became business-like. "That's neither here nor
there. The sooner you're out of this, the better "
"Hurrah for that! Lord Lyons "
"He don't want to see you. Yes, there's been a word in
his ear, from the very highest quarter - and warm in your
praise it has been, too. But he agrees with us that there's
no useful purpose to be served by prolonging your presence
in this country a moment longer than need be "
^Sensible chap! When do I leave?"
"You catch the Baltimore train tonight, from the station
over the way. It's a train you're probably familiar with," ^ys he drily, "since your friend Brown held it up two nights ^go. It is now running normally. At Baltimore, there's a ert" ^Teady reserved for you on a packet sailing for Liverpool
tomorrow. It's paid for, and this -" he handed me an
velope "-is three hundred dollars to cover expenses en
335
1
route ... for which I'd like a signed receipt, in the name
of Comber, I suggest."
I'll say this for the Americans, they waste no time. Why by tomorrow night I'd be at sea, with all this horror behind
me - a couple of weeks, and I'd be in England! Home, with
Elspeth, and my Indian honours thick upon me, and "warm
praise" conveyed by diplomatic channels ... it was too good
to be true, and standing there in that beastly bloodstained
shed, with the reek of powder smoke and the stench of
death, I felt the tears start to my eyes and absolutely had to
turn away. Messervy brought me back to earth.
"I've arranged quarters here where you can wait
unobserved until the train comes in tonight. Go straight
aboard, keep to your cabin until you reach Baltimore, then
take a cab directly to the dock and the ship - all your tickets
and directions are in the envelope with the money. In the
meantime you can shave off your beard, and I'll furnish you
with some decent clothes. Keep your collar up and your hat
down. No sense in taking risks."
That's a word that always makes me raise an eyebrow;
what risk, I asked, and received one of his ironic looks.
"Well, now, I don't suppose you'd want to run into anyone
from the Underground Railroad or the Kuklos on the street,
would you? Not that you haven't served their turn admirably
- John Brown has run his raid, which is what they both
wanted, and while Crixus will go into deep mourning when
he learns the result, I'd say Atropos will be drinking your
health with three times three. Still, better not to renew their
acquaintance, don't you think?"
At the mention of their names I'd started like the dear
gazelle. I hadn't given them a thought since the raid began,
but now . . .
"I'll telegraph to have someone keep an eye open in
Baltimore, anyway," he reassured me. "Those Kuklos
operators are still in the Tombs, by the way, and if Atropos
set other men to watch you . . . what of it?" He shrugged.
"He certainly has no reason to wish you harm, after this
splendid debacle. He doesn't know about that . . " ne pointed his cane at Joe's body ". . . and he never will. No,
336
Vit now he'll be congratulating himself on five thousand collars well spent-"
ijg can keep it for me!" says I, and meant it. "You're
hi though . . . why, he'll think I've done him proud!" "^"Which you have," says he drily. "Prouder than you did
rrixus or the U.S. Government. Not that your efforts aren't
noreciated." He was peering through a crack in the makeshift
door. "I think we might venture out now ... the citi- yens seem to have lost interest in the sight of Marines guarding a dilapidated fire-house, though I dare say the souvenir
seekers will be stripping it bare shortly. What, you
don't care to take a brick as a memento . . . ?"58
There were still a number of folk idling beyond the
armoury gates, staring hopefully through the railings, but
our way led into the armoury proper, where Messervy had
commandeered an office, guarded by two beefy civilians in
hard hats. One of them brought me an enormous fry from
the Wager House, with a jug of coffee - and I smiled to
think what the little waiter would have said if he'd known
who the customer was. From that I turned inevitably to fond
memories of the generous Mrs Popplewell - gad, she'd been
an unexpected windfall, splendidly equipped, if you like
abundance, which I must say I do after a long abstinence.
Resourceful lass, too, finding me a bolt-hole - and loyal,
the way she'd answered back those ruffians who'd been threatening her. Aye, she'd served her turn, in more ways
than one, bless her black bounties.
There was a cot in the office, but I was too excited to
sleep, so I followed Messervy's advice and removed my face
furniture, all but the moustache and whiskers, of course. It's
a great delight to see your chin again after a hard slog in
the field; reminds you that there are finer things in life, like
England, and home, and sleeping sound, and strolling down
Piccadilly with your hat on three hairs, and women, and t^ink ... and Elspeth.
I was grinning at myself in the mirror when Messervy "owled in and told me to put on my cap and coat, double quick, and to muffle up well: he had something to show me- I followed him, wondering, along an alley between the
337
armoury buildings; he stopped at a door and told me to pull
my cap well down over my brows.
"Stay close behind me," says he softly, and led the way
There was an open inner door ahead, with men's backs
turned to us. Messervy went right up behind them, and I
followed, peering over his shoulder. The little room was
crowded with people, standing and sitting, all intent on a
man lying propped up on a palette against the far wall, and 1
I bit back a gasp: it was J.B. '
He'd never been a happy sight, but now he looked like
the proceeds of a grave robbery. They'd washed the blood
out of his hair and beard, and given him a clean shirt, but
his face was gaunt and pallid, tight over the bones, and there
were dark stains under the sunken eyes - but they were
burning still, with that same grim fire, and his voice was
harsh and strong as ever. For he was croaking away on the
old line, about how he'd come to free the slaves, and for no
other purpose; no one had sent him here but God and J.B.
- or the Devil, if that was how they chose to view it - and
he could have got clear away, but had been concerned for
his hostages (and the fears of their wives and daughters in
tears, if you please), and had wanted to reassure anyone |
who thought he was only there to burn and kill.
Someone cried out that he had killed people going quietly
about the streets; J.B. replied that he didn't know about
that, and had done his best to save lives; he'd been fired on
repeatedly without shooting back.
"That's not so!" cries another. "Why, you killed an
unarmed man by the tracks - yes, and another one!"
J.B. turned his head with an effort and pointed a talon at
the speaker. "See here, my friend, it's useless to contradict
your own people who were my prisoners. They will tell you
otherwise."
There was a babble of protests and questions, and I saw
that two fellows sitting close to him had pencils and note- j
books - newspaper reporters, if you'll credit it. The rest of
them were sober citizens; Lee was there, and a dignified
cove who I believe was the Governor, and Jeb Stuart with
a face like thunder - and all crying out and badgering away
338 I
the old beggar, and him with a hole clear through to his kidneys, and his head cut to bits.
My first thought was, why, you bloody vandals. I don't
hnck easy, and have no more of the milk of human kindness
than you'd put in a cup of tea; I'll taunt and gloat over a
fallen foe any day, and put a boot in his ribs if he sasses
hack - but I'm a brute and a bully. These were your upstanding
pillars of society, bursting with Christian piety and love
thv neighbour, and here they were, shaking their sanctimonious
heads as they harassed and goaded a seemingly dying
man - aye, and feasted their eyes on him as though he were
a beast in a circus, when you'd have thought that decency
(on which I'm an authority, as you know) demanded that
he be let alone. They even had the effrontery to argue and
hector him, now that he was beat and helpless - I'd have
liked to see 'em argue with him eight hours back, when he was standing up with his guns on.
Why, Flashy, you ask, this ain't pity or sentiment, surely?
Not a bit of it: don't mistake disgust and contempt for the
tormentor with compassion for the victim. I didn't pity J.B.
one jot, but I was enraged, at first sight, by those worthy
ghouls enjoying the sensation ("Say, don't talk to me about
John Brown - why, I sat as close to him as I am to you this
minute! Spoke to him, too - an' told him, yes, sir!"), and
as I watched him, old and stricken and frail, answering so
calm and courteous . . . well, I couldn't help thinking: good
|for you, J.B., that's your sort.
And then it dawned on me that the old bugger was fairly
revelling in it. He'd got his audience at last, hadn't he just,
the first of that world-wide congregation who would revere
his name and sing his song and enshrine him in history forever.
I'll swear he knew it - Lee had asked him if he'd like
the mob excluded, but J.B. wouldn't hear of it; come one,
come all, was his style, so that he could preach to as many
as possible. That they were enemies, who'd come to vent
their abomination of him and his notions, or to gloat, or just
to indulge their curiosity, made it all the better for him; he collld answer their harrying and abuse with urbanity and ^solution - and that's where the legend was born, believe
339
me, in that shabby little paymaster's office, for in whatever
spirit they came, they left in something like awe . . and
admiration. "The gamest man I ever saw," the Governor
said, and Jeb Stuart (who was bloody rude to him at the
time, I may say) remarked to me years later that without
men like J.B. there wouldn't be an America.
You see, like so many legends, it was true. He deserved
their respect - and didn't he know how to make the most
of it, the vain old show-off? Here were his enemies, the
ungodly oppressors of the enslaved, against whom he'd
struggled for years, who'd cursed him for a border cutthroat
and nothing more - and now they were hanging on his words
recognising him in dead earnest, with wonder and no little
fear. Ironic, ain't it? He'd failed . . . and found his triumph.
Wounded and doomed, he was a man uplifted, and he laid
it off to them with his matchless mixture of deep sincerity
and sheer damned humbug.
You can read all three hours of it in the New York papers
of the time, and it's an education. I heard only some of the
words, but they should be enough to give you the tune,
which was truly extraordinary. There he was, wounded in
half a dozen places, too weak to stand, fagged out and facing
certain death, and talking as easily and pleasantly as though
he were in a drawing-room, answering their questions like
a kindly old professor dealing with backward students. When
a young militia greenhorn scoffed that he couldn't have
hoped to achieve anything with just a handful of men, J.B.
looked him over, smiled, and said patiently: "Well, perhaps
your ideas and mine on military matters would differ materially,"
and when another demanded that he justify his acts,
he sighed, as though explaining something to a dunce for
the umpteenth time:
"I don't wish to be offensive, but I think, my friend, that
you of the South are guilty of a great wrong against God
and humanity. I believe it is perfectly right for anyone to . . , ah, interfere with you so far as to free those you wickedly and 3
wilfully hold in bondage. Please understand, I don't say this
insultingly."
He went on to lecture them on the Golden Rule of doing
340
others as they would have others do unto them, which ^n come reason put Jeb Stuart in a bait, for he accused J.B. f nnt believing in the Bible, and got a pained look and a 0 ntle "Certainly I do", in reproof. Jeb, the ass, came back ^ ^.-^. when someone asked how much he'd paid his foli
wers and J.B. said, no wages whatever, Jeb cried out
nuslv: "The wages of sin is death!", to which J.B. replied
gently:
"I would not have made such a remark to you, if you had
been a prisoner and wounded in my hands." He rubbed salt
in it by observing that he could have killed Jeb "just as easy
as a mosquito".
They tried to make him tell who his Northern backers
were, and got nowhere. "Any questions that I can honourably
answer, I will," says he, and when they quoted a letter
in the papers from a prominent Yankee abolitionist predicting
a slave uprising, he even raised a laugh by saying
drily that he hadn't had the opportunity of reading the New
York Herald for the past day or two. More soberly he went
on:
"I wish to say that all you people of the South should
prepare yourselves for a settlement of the slave question,
and the sooner you are prepared, the better. You may dispose
of me very easily; I am almost disposed of now, but
the question is still to be settled."
Once or twice, I regret to say, he lied. He claimed that
I he'd been wounded "after I had consented to surrender, for
the benefit of others, not for my own". He didn't surrender,
ever, not that I heard. He also claimed that he had not
impressed any slave against his will - and to my astonishment
someone called out, "I know of one negro who wanted to
go back", and who should it be but Aaron Stevens, lying on
a palette farther along the wall; I had to crane my neck to ^ee him, mighty pale, with a bloody bandage on his chest. "^ho that negro was I don't know. But J.B.'s biggest
stretcher was that he'd done his damnedest not to kill anyone
1 dare say he meant it, but you've read my account and ^n judge for yourselves.
"hen someone called him a fanatic, he bristled up and
341
said they were the fanatics, not he, at which the Governor
weighed into him, telling him his silver head was red with
crime, and he'd do well to start thinking of eternity, jn put him down in his best style.
"Governor," says he cheerfully, "judging by appearances
I have about fifteen or twenty years start on you in the
journey to that eternity of which you so kindly warn me
Fifteen years or fifteen hours - I'm ready to go. The difference
between your tenure of life and mine is only a trifle
and I tell you to be prepared. All you who hold slaves have
more need to be prepared than I."59
* * *
"It's going to be worse than I feared," says Messervy, when
we were back in my quarters. "Far worse. If only he didn't
sound so almighty reasonable . . . and . . . and saintly, damn
it!" He was more upset than I'd seen him; absolutely
tweaked his moustache instead of stroking it. "What did you
think of him . . . from an English point of view, I mean?"
What I was thinking was that I was damned glad I'd shot
Joe when I did. I'm as sentimental as the next man, you see.
"From an English point of view? Well, they'd not take
him in Whites . . . not sure about the Reform, though. Oh,
very well, seriously, then - they mayn't put him up in Trafalgar
Square in place of Nelson, but it'll be a close-run thing. If
you hang him, that is. Put him in a madhouse, and nobody'll
notice."
"He's not mad," says Messervy. "I'm not sure he wasn't
the sanest man in that room. No, he'll hang. Before the next
election, fortunately, or he'd be liable to beat Seward for
the Republican nomination. Join me in a drink? My sorrows
are in need of submersion." He poured them out. "I ask
myself ... if he talks like that when he's shot full of holes,
what will he be like when he's better and standing up in
court, with every paper in the country reporting him? We'll |
be lucky," says he thoughtfully, "if this doesn't lead to war.j Well, we must just hope for the best."
I thought he was talking through his hat - one crazy farmer
being topped for murder and treason didn't strike me as a
342
nable casus belli. Which shows how much I knew. But ^^dn't matter to me, anyway, so I devoted myself to the 11 ^ gnd contemplation of home while he sat meditating. bra ,1 he gave a little rueful smile, and said reflectively:
"D've know, Flashman, sometimes I wish I had Presiden
1 power . . and the whole U.S. Treasury to draw on,
secretly."
I said I'd fancy it rather above half myself, and what had
he in mind?
"At this moment? I'll tell you. I'd consider very seriously
paving you and Pinkerton a fortune to rescue John Brown
from the clutches of the law and spirit him to Canada.
Twould be an international scandal, I dare say, and a great
rattling of sabres, but I've no doubt Buchanan and
Palmerston could settle it without too much fuss . . . possibly
with the assistance of Prince Albert and our Northern
Liberals. Interesting idea, don't you think?"
"Highly diverting. What good would that do?"
"Apart from sparing us a martyr, it would unite North
and South as nothing else could. Perfidious Albion meddling
in our most sacred private quarrel - even the diehard abolitionists
would be up in arms against you."
"You could have him shot trying to escape," says cynical
Flashy.
"Too late now," says he, and closed his eyes. "If only he
could have stopped a bullet in that engine-house ... if only
that ass Green had been carrying a sabre instead of his toy
sword.60 What we might have been spared . . . well, we can
only leave it to the lawyers and politicians and the great
American public, now."
343
We've come to the parting of the trails
J.B.'s and mine - and high time, too, if you ask me. He was
to take the high road to the gallows and immortal fame, and
I the low road to ... well, I'll come to that in a moment.
First I should tell you briefly, and at second hand, what
happened to him in the little time that was left to him, and
the momentous effect it had on America and, I dare say, on
the world.
My last memory of him is in that paymaster's office,
propped up on his mattress, battered but bright-eyed, not two
pounds of his stringy old carcase hanging straight, but laying
down the law in his best accustomed style, God help him . . .
and I suppose I must say God bless him, too, for form's sake.
Of all the men of wrath who have disturbed my chequered
course, he's about the only one towards whom I feel no ill will,
old pest and all that he was. He was decent enough to me, and
if he led me through hell and high water . . . well, you might
as well blame the lightning or the whirlwind.
I wasn't there to see his departure from the Ferry next
day, but he came near to being lynched. There was a great
crowd full of drink and fury when they put him on the train
to Charles Town; he and Stevens had to be carried through
the throng baying for their blood in panic as well as rage,
for the wildest rumours were flying - that the raid had been
only the prelude to a general invasion, that the slaves were
on the brink of rebellion, that a great conspiracy was brewing
in the North - it was even reported that a family in a village
just a few miles from the Ferry had been massacred, but
when Lee went galloping to the scene he found everyoiis
safe in bed, and the slaves tranquil.
344
The fact was that not a single slave had joined in the raid,
.u^n those taken by Stevens from Washington's farm 0 rl niaces nearby, and most of them had slipped off home an oon as they could, or been passive altogether. But the a <;rhief was done: a great thrill of fear ran through the ^luth Virginia was preparing for war, some places were
nder martial law, Dixie suspected (quite mistakenly) that
t was sitting on a black powder-keg ready to explode, and
the storm that broke in the newspapers only added to the
hvsteria. One of Lee's first acts had been to send Jeb Stuart
to the Kennedy Farm, where they found all J.B.'s papers and
correspondence, with the names of his Northern supporters,
which the brilliant old conspirator had left behind in a carpet
bag, and once the Democrats and pro-slavery journals got
hold of the names, the fat was in the fire. The "Black Republicans",
the Secret Six, and even moderate abolitionists,
became the villains of the day, plotting to wreak havoc in
the South, and among those who came in for special vilification,
and serve him right, was William H. Seward, the cigarchewing
blighter who'd blackmailed me into the business in
New York; he was "the arch agitator who is responsible for
this insurrection", and for all I know this may have cost him
the Presidency.
It did no good for him and other Northerners, including
Lincoln, to condemn the raid; all the South could hear was
the growing peal of admiration for Brown the champion of
liberty, which came even from those who deplored what
Brown the raider had done. You can see the South's point
of view: he was a murderous old brigand who was out to
overthrow them. And you can see the North's: he was a
fearless crusader who wanted only to set black men free.
Both views were true, and one can't blame the Southerners tor believing that he represented the North in its true
colours, or the North for believing, as one speaker put it,
that whether his acts had been right or wrong, J.B. himself ^as right. The truth was that he'd fuelled the passions of
e ^dest elements on both sides, and convinced even sene
and moderate people that the only answer was disunion
or war.61
345
His trial, which began only a week after the raid, fulfilled
Messervy's glummest fears. Here was the poor old hero so
weak and wounded that he had to be toted into court on a
cot, submitting to his fate with Christian patience - in fact
he wasn't as poorly as he looked, and could walk when he
had to. And he put on the performance of his life, telling
them he'd never asked for quarter, and if they wanted his
blood they could have it there and then, without the mockery of a trial. As to his defence, he was "utterly unable to attend
to it. My memory don't serve me; my health is insufficient
although improving. I am ready for my fate."
I'll bet there wasn't a dry eye from Cape Cod to Cincinnati.

The trial was a formality, or a farce, if you like. Much
was made of the speed with which it took place, but if they'd
given him until 1870 it would have made no difference, for
there could be no question of his guilt, or the penalty. His
lawyers would have had him plead insanity (half his ancestors
were barmy, you know), but the old fox wouldn't hear
of it - and d'ye know, if I'd been called to testify on the
point, I'd have had to back him up. I know that in these
pages I've frequently called him mad, and lunatic, and suggested
his rightful place was in a padded cell, but that's just
Flashy talking; we all say such things without meaning that
the object of our censure is seriously deranged. No, he
wasn't mad; read his letters, his speeches, the things he said
to reporters, and take the word of one who knew him well.
A fanatic, yes; a man driven by one burning idea, certainly;
a fool in some things, perhaps, but never a madman.
It wasn't a long trial, but seems to have had some interesting
features; one of the prosecutors was too drunk to plead,
they say, and t'other was the father of one of the men who'd
murdered Bill Thompson on the bridge (which I'd have
thought made for a nice conflict of interest, but I'm no
lawyer). None of that, or the legal wrangling about jurisdiction
and delays, was of the least importance. Only one thing
mattered, and that was the bearing of the accused - that's
what the world remembers, "the brave old border soldier",
calm, dignified and unflinching, rising gamely to speak with
346
chap supporting him either side, 1-ying patiently on his cot a sentence of death was passed, closing his eyes in uncon- a ^ and pulling the blankets up beneath his chin. Even
the most hard-bitten pro-slavers couldn't but admire "the conscientiousness, the honour, and the supreme bravery of
the man". You may imagine what :he good ladies of Concord
and Boston thought, and the ffervour with which they
wept and prayed for him.
They made the mistake of givin _g him a month's grace
before he was topped, which meant: that all America could
picture the gallant lonely old martyr in his cell, worn with
struggle but wonderfully cheerful, waiting with quiet courage
for the end. It gave the wiser heads ti rne for second thoughts;
some suggested that he should be jaiBed, or put in an asylum,
for they knew the revulsion with wh_ich his execution would
be greeted, not only in America bixt the world; they knew
that his martyrdom would only harden the resolve of the
North to carry on his campaign, aixd the determination of
the South to resist. On the other fciand, there were those
who hoped that his death would hasten the rupture between
North and South which they regarded as inevitable.
Messervy's notion of a rescue occurred to others, by the
way; there was a plot, but when J.B&. heard of it he wanted
no part of it.62 He wanted to die, I'^n sure of that, because
like the wiser heads he could see clearly what it would lead
to. The last note he wrote, on the m orning of his execution,
put it plain:
I John Brown am now quite cer-tain that the crimes
of this guilty land: will never be purged away; but
with Blood. I had as I now thCnk; vainly nattered
myself that without very much bloodshed; it might
be done.
They hanged him outside Charl-es Town, Virginia, on December the second before a greal host of troops, among
wiom were John Wilkes Booth, who murdered Lincoln six
b}^l h-^' and stonewa11 Jackson, He didn't kiss a little
acK child on his way to the gallows, as the sentimentalists ^ e to believe, but as he rode on his coffin across the
347
meadow he looked around and said: "This is a beautiful
country. I never had the pleasure of seeing it before." When
they asked if he wanted a signal before they dropped him,
he said it didn't matter, but he didn't want to be kept waiting.
His admirers, of course, treasure such details, but what
struck me peculiar when I read about it, and made me think,
yes, that's my old J.B., was that he was hanged in his carpet
slippers.
They rang the bells for him in the North, and there was
talk of statues and memorials, and such an outpouring of
eulogy and grief and noble sentiment as would have done
credit to Joan of Arc and Lord Nelson together; I doubt if
any man in the history of the United States was more deeply
or sincerely mourned - and I ain't forgetting friend Abraham,
either. He was even more detested in Dixie than J.B.,
and he was just a politician, while J.B. was a fighting man
and a rebel, a combination which no American can resist.
Even in the South they respected him for his courage; I
remember the verdict, delivered to me during the Civil War,
of a grizzled Alabama veteran, crimson with booze and
chewing on his Wheeling tobey:* "Ole Ossawatomie? Well,
now, suh. Ah reckon he lived like a skunk - an' died like a
lion."
I'm not arguing. You know my views on bravery, and by
now you should know 'em on J.B. He was a bit of a crook,
and a lot of a humbug, and he put me through the mangle,
and there's a case to be made for saying he was the most evil
influence ever let loose in North America. Three-quarters of
a million is a powerful lot of dead men, to say nothing
of wounded and crippled and bereaved. You may say their
great war would have happened anyway, but he's bound to
bear some of the blame. Maybe he would have thought it a
price worth paying for the destruction of slavery - but I
say slavery would have ended anyway, without the war and
without him.
But that's no business of mine. I came through Harper's
* A particularly pungent cigar.
348
Ferry and the war that followed, so he did me no las^ng
damage, though he scared the innards out of me. and t^y^ a year out of my life. I can tolerate him, at my time ^ife,
and when I hear the grandlings singing the old song. I can
look back, if not with pride, at least with a curious satis^ction,
as the young faces pass by in memory . ^gi,
Stevens, Oliver, Watson, Leeman, Cook, Tayloi' Ed
Coppoc, the Thompsons, dear old Dangerous Newbv. ^ all the other ghosts, white and black, whose features have
faded . . . and last of all, the grizzled old Ironside w^ his
eagle face and burning eyes.
No doubt my satisfaction is because I'm still her^ ^^ they're all long gone, one way or another. Watson dieq yf
his wounds; Coppoc and Green, who'd survived the ^Sinehouse
fight, were hanged two weeks after J.B., asw^^ok,
who got himself captured in Maryland, the duffer; S^Vgns
survived the four bullets they took out of him, but ^g hanged in the spring of '60, with Hazlett, who'd e^ped
from the Ferry but was caught later; the black who was him in the arsenal got clear away, and so did the fellows
whom J.B. sent back with the wagon to collect arms, ^ the men who'd been left behind at the farm - M^am,
who'd brought the six hundred dollars, and Tidd, and
another of the young men, and Owen Brown. All those ^o
escaped served in the Civil War (two of 'em died in j^ except Owen, who lived to a ripe old age.
Like your humble obedient. As I say, I take no pndg in
my part in Harper's Ferry, and was a damned unwi||^g
actor, but ... well, I was one of John Brown's pet l%bs,
after all, and dine out on it regular, and am redeemed (vgj.y
slightly) in the eyes of such as Miss Prentice and othe^ y^ the elect, who figure that an old man, however depl%le,
must have some good in him if he stood at Armageddon and
battled for the poor downtrodden darkies. They don't ^
about Joe, of course.
Which brings me back at last to the point where the trails
Parted, and I went my separate way from Harper's F^rry,
rejoicing, en route to Baltimore and home.
I spent the day resting in the office which Messerw [^
349
. . . borrow some duds when I got aboard the packed perhaps
. . . the devil with it, sufficient unto the day ... I was
content to lie, exhausted, wondering idly if the porter oould
forage me a bottle of something sensible.
Pat on the thought there was a soft knock on the door,
and his beaming black face appeared.
"Yo' podden, suh," says he. "De party in de nex' ^bin
axes if you kin'ly like to partake o' some refreshment i 'fore
you settles to rest." He chuckled, with a knowing look.
"Says if yo' sociably inclined, be honnered to mal^ yo'
acquaintance over a little glass or two."
I'd seen that look before, in French hotels, and while it
was unexpected here it was by no means unwelcoifie - I
wasn't as exhausted as all that. Of course, I might b^ threading
his expression, and find myself closeted with ^me
boring old buffer who couldn't sleep . . . and MesservY had
told me to stay close . . . but what the blazes, it wa? only
next door, and the darkie was positively leering.
"That's most civil of the ... gentleman?" says I, ai^ he
tittered behind his hand in a way that settled my doubts aod
brought me off the cot, smoothing my hair and glanc^g in the glass. He effaced himself, and I slipped out and knurled
the timber adjoining. No reply, so I turned the handl^ an(^ found myself in an empty but well-lit cabin ... ah, i1 was one with an alcove bunk, with the curtains drawn. Eureka,
thinks I, twitching the curtains aside, and . . .
"Well, hello yo'self, handsome," says Mrs Popplew^h.
I stood rooted in astonishment, partly from the shc^k OI seeing her, of all people, when I'd expected some rai^s"
rattler, partly because she was reclining languidly of one elbow like that Continental tart in the painting - you l^ow
the one, bare buff except for a ribbon round her neck' ana a nigger maid in the background. Mrs Popplewell w^" f wearing even a ribbon; she lay there all black and glo^Y in the lamplight, smiling a welcome and extending a pi1"11? hand, and if I hadn't been so dumfounded I dare saw l d have pressed it to my lips on the spot, if you know whs11 mean.
"Seen you comin' to the train," says she, in answer  m^
352
incoherent inquiry. "Couldn't hardly b'lieve ma eyes! Why,
Ah mad? sure you was gone, in that awful fightin' las' night,
an' this rnornin'! Nevuh see such doin's - shootin' an' killin'!"
She seized my nerveless hand and dragged me into a
sitting position beside her. "Well, don' jes' gape like a fish
out o' water! Tell me whut happen, an' wheah you bin, and
how you come to be heah . . . unless ..." She grinned
hugely and transferred her hand from my wrist to my
britches "... unless you can think o' suthin' better to do
fust . . .oh, my, Ah should think you can!"
She was right, you know. The babble of questions that
rose to my lips became a muted howl as she fondled with
one hand and hauled me down with the other; I seized hold,
marvelling at my luck, and fairly wallowed, partaking
of refreshment as the porter had advised, and I must say
de party in de nex' cabin was sociably inclined to the point
of delirium. It was a wonder the train didn't jump the
tracks, and only when she had subsided, moaning, and I had
got my breath back, did we resume the conversation,
with mutual expressions of bewilderment before all was
explained.
Explained on my side, that is, for she brushed aside my
demands to know how she had fared with Sinn and the ruffians
who had been interrogating her. I'd have thought that
my sudden descent from the skylight and my precipitate
departure thereafter would have compromised her
altogether, but apparently not; she had been able to satisfy
Sinn of her innocence, she said, and ten dollars apiece from
her purse had been enough for the others.
"They ain't used to black ladies with money - tuk the
starch right out o' them," she chuckled. "But that don' matter
- Ah's heah, ain't Ah? But how'd you git out o' that
scrape - why, honey. Ah nevuh thought to see you 'live
again! Now you jes' tell Hannah, 'cos she's dyin' to heah - ^y, but lemme kiss you fust, you deah big lovin'-machine!
Theah, now, you jes' play gentle while you tell me ... but ^n' talk too long, will yuh, 'cos we got a deal o' pleasurin' lo do 'fore we gits to Baltimo' ..."
So I spun her, at greater length, the yarn I'd told her on
353
first acquaintance - that I was in the employ of the U.S.
Government, and had enlisted in J.B.'s band as a spy, even
to the length of taking part in their raid. All of which was
true enough, as was my explanation of why I'd taken refuge
with her until such time as it was safe for me to reveal myself
to someone in authority.
"You saw what it was like, all the confusion and shooting,
with those drunk madmen who'd have killed me on sight
... it was only after I got away from your room - and I
say, I'm awfully sorry I had to mishandle you so roughly "
"You mishandle me any ole way you like, dahlin'," she
purred, toying lazily in a most distracting fashion. "Go
on, honey . . . tell me mo' . . . but keep right on
mishandlin' ..."
"Well, I managed to get away, and by great good luck
the Marines had arrived, and I was able to make myself
known to Colonel Lee "
"That the fine soldier with the moustache Ah saw this
aft'noon? Came to the hotel, with Gov'ner Wise, an' the
other people? Say, there was one real fine man theah, big
an' han'some, kinda like you, but not neah as lovesome.
Made me all shivery, tho', jes' to look at him . . . my, but
Ah jes' love men with black beards'n whiskers! Like you
best with jes' yo' whiskers, tho' . . . gives me somep'n to
bite at!" And she nibbled my chin.
"Yes . . . well, when I'd spoken to Lee, of course, everything
was all right. You know what happened after that. . .
the Marines caught Brown and the others, and that was the
end of it. And now, I'm on my way to Baltimore, as you
see, to report to my superiors."
"You sure are one lucky man," says she, stroking my
whiskers. "An' Ah'm one lucky gal. Why, when Ah saw you
comin' to the train, with that tall gen'leman - say, he's a
right pretty feller, too. He a friend o' yours?"
"What? Who? Oh, that fellow ... no, don't know who
he is - one of the Governor's people, I think." Why, I don't
knov/, I felt the less I said about Messervy the better. "The
handsome man you saw with Colonel Lee, by the way, was
probably Lieutenant Stuart. Fancied him, did you? D'ye
354
know what, Hannah, I've a notion you fancy all men, don't
0^'
you'
"You bet, dahlin'," says she, pushing her tongue into my
mouth. "That's mah weakness. But Ah jes' fancy 'em one
at a time . . . now, hold on theah . . . you mus' be dry aftuh
all that talkin'." She slipped from my grasp and got out to
fill two glasses at the buffet. I put mine down at a gulp,
while she sipped hers standing. Then she put down her glass,
and vibrated her gleaming bulk in the lamplight, looking
down at me and hefting her huge poonts in her hands, smiling
wickedly at my reaction.
"Ah reckon you 'bout ready now," says she, and, once
again, she was right, absolutely.
"Well, now," says she afterwards, "that was whut Ah calls
. . . pleasure!" She shivered, sitting astride, and stretched
luxuriously, her arms above her head. Then she sighed,
regretfully, and removed her massive weight from my creaking
thighs, climbing out and donning her peignoir. "Ah'm
real sorry 'tis over . . . Shouldn't ha' done it, not once let
'lone twice. But Ah got to tell you, dahlin', you are the
screwin'est man Ah ever did see! That's my 'scuse." She
sighed again. "Anyway, that was pleasure . . . an' now business."
She sat down carefully on the chair across the
cabin, and asked mildly: "What happened to Joe Simmons7"
I gave a start that almost brought the cot loose from its
moorings, but I couldn't speak for shock, and she went on:
"You know Joe, now ... he was with you when you came
to the hotel, first time I saw you. Mr La Force's man, who
brought you up to N00 Yawk, and then to Concord, and so
on after." She fluttered her fingers, and even in my stunned
bewilderment I realised that the broad Dixie-nigra voice had
modulated into soft Southern tones. "We know he was in
that engine-house . . . but he never came out with the
others. What happened to him?"
"We?" It was all I could say.
"Sure ... the Kuklos." The plump pug face beamed in
a smile. "Didn't Atropos tell you we'd be watchin' you an' Joe all the way? Sure he did ... oh, we lost you in N00
Yawk for a spell, when the police took those three fellows
I 355
who were shadowin' you and Miz Mandeville. Mr La Force
was real grieved 'bout her . . . thought she was true to him,
never suspected she was operatin' for the gov'ment . . . till
you an' she showed up in company with Messervy. You see,
we have a man watchin' him, permanent. Those three men
of Hermes's, in N00 Yawk, they weren't the only ones we
got up there."
I found I was shaking in every limb as I lay there stark
on the cot; instinctively I jerked the sheets over myself, and
her big lips twitched in a smile.
"Don't do that, sweethea't ... I jus' love lookin' at you.
My, but you are the finest! Now, then . . . tell me 'bout
Joe."
"I ... I don't know what you mean! If he was in the
engine-house . . . well, he must have been killed or
captured "
"// he was in there? You know he was . . . you were in
there your own self. We saw you come out, this mornin',
with Messervy."
"You . . . you saw "
"Not me. One of my boys. I have two of them, they're
at the Ferry right now, watchin' the engine-house, waitin'
to see what happened to Joe." She was regarding me almost
amiably, shaking her head. "But you're all confused, so I'd
better tell you. I'm Medusa . . . you know Mr La Force
likes to give us those ole names. I've been in these parts all
summer, havin' you watched, at the farm an' so forth. Oh,
Joe didn't know 'bout that . . . didn't know 'bout me, even, being ' a lot lower down in the Kuklos than I am. All he had
to do was watch you, see you did as Mr La Force desired.
You know, the raid." She smiled approvingly. "You did that
right well, too . . . didn't you? Leastways, it happened . . .
which was what we wanted. Mr La Force'11 be right pleased
with you. Maybe give you the ten thousand dollars you asked
for ... if you feel like collectin'. Do you?"
She was watching me closely now, as I sat palpitating, too
shaken to think, let alone speak. I felt as though I'd been
struck by a thunderbolt ... it was incredible, too much to
take in.
356
"We didn't mind you workin' for the gov'ment ... or pretendin to work for them, whichever it was. As things
were, you didn't have a choice, did you? What did they want
you to do, anyway? Stop Brown makin' the raid ... or help
him to make it? Mr La Force couldn't make up his mind
'bout that . . . My belief is ... oh, well, it don't matter
what I believe. The raid went in; thafs what matters."
She rose from the chair, took my glass, and refilled it.
"You look like you need this, dahlin' ... go on, drink it
down! An' don't look like you saw a ghost - all's well . . .
except for Joe. We have to know what happened to him, in
that engine-house. He was quite a pet of Mr La Force's, you
know . . . he'll be real grieved if anythin' bad's happened
to Joe." She swayed ponderously back to her seat. "So
there's two questions to answer: what happened to Joe . . .
and why didn't he cut loose an' run at the hotel, when you
did? When I watched the two of you, from my window,
comin' to the hotel yes'day mornin', I thought: clever fellers,
they've done their work, an' now the raid's happened, they're gettin' away from Brown. You did - an' you know
what?" She chuckled, the great body shaking with mirth.
"When you came in my door, I thought, how does he know
to run to we? He can't know who I am, that I'm Medusa,
he can't know I'm Kuklos . . . and then pretty soon I saw
that you didn't, it was just chance brought you to me. An', jdahlin'," she broke into laughter, "I never miss such a
chance! Oh, that was some mornin's sport we had together!
I was so melted, I thought to tell you who I was . . . but
then, I'd seen Joe go back to Brown -1 couldn't understand
that. I suspicioned somethin' was wrong, somewhere ... so
I kept quiet. Showed you the way out to the loft, tho', didn't
I, when it looked like "
It don't usually take me long to act, when I'm cornered,
but I'd been so shaken that only in the last minute had I
summoned my wits sufficiently to move. One ghastly fact
had imprinted itself on my mind: she had men watching the
engine-house, they'd have seen the Marines bring out Joe's
body under cover of darkness and bury it by the river -
they'd dig it up for certain, and find two bullets in his back
357
. . . and who'd put them there, then? From all that I'd seen
of the Kuklos (especially in the last ten minutes) they were
experts; they'd know, or soon find out, that the attackers
hadn't fired a single shot . . . they'd report to Atropos that
his pet nigger had been shot and buried clandestine by the
government, for whom I might or might not have been acting
... by God, he'd want to get to the bottom of it ...
and he'd not ask as gently as this damned MedusaPopplewell
. . .
All this in a flash through my mind, to one lightning conclusion
- instant flight. And she was only one woman ... I
came off the bed in a bound - and stopped dead before the
Derringer in her great black hand.
"Oh, dahlin'," says she, "that was foolish. What you got
to be fractious for? H'm?" She shook her head, no longer
smiling. "Now, then . . . I've asked, an' I'm waitin'. Why
did Joe go back to Brown . . . and what happened to him
afterwards?"
Well, I could answer the first question, at least. "He went
back to Brown because he was betraying you. It's the truth!
He ... he went over to Brown's side ... I don't know why,
but he ... well, Brown convinced him, at the farm, that
the raid would lead to a slave rebellion . . . and that it would
succeed, and they'd all win their freedom! Joe believed him,
I tell you! He changed sides! He told me so! I swear to God,
it's true!"
She didn't move a muscle; the plump black features were
without expression. The Derringer stayed trained on my
midriff.
"An' what happened in the engine-house?"
"I don't know! I... I never saw him, after the attack . . .
I don't know, I tell you! Maybe he was killed, or captured "
"You didn't like him, did you? Fact is, you couldn't 'bide
him. So Mr La Force figured ... he thought it was real
amusin'. Figured you an' Joe were rivals for the favours
of Miz Mandeville. Were you?" When I didn't reply, she
shrugged. "It don't matter. She ain't around any more. Mr
La Force can't abide traitors."
"Well, Joe was a traitor! I swear he was!"
358
"I don't disbelieve you, dahlin'. I wouldn't trust a nigger
an inch myself." She sat there, black and placid, as she said
it. "Did you kill Joe?"
"No, for God's sake! Why should I?"
"Maybe 'cos you hated him. Maybe for the U.S.
Gov'ment. Maybe even 'cos you're tellin' true when you say
Joe went over to Brown, an' you killed him out o' loyalty
to Mr La Force an' that five thousand dollars he promised
you. Honey, I don't mind She leaned forward, smiling
almost wistfully - but the Derringer was steady as a rock.
"What's one black buck more or less? If you killed him,
fine! It don't matter to Hannah."
"I didn't! I swear to God "
"Dearest, you don't need to - not to me! It's what you
swear to Mr La Force that signifies ... an' whether he
believes you. An' I truly do doubt whether he'll believe
Joe betrayed him. You know Joe'n he were boys together?
Playmates? Why, he loved that Joe like a brother . . . 'bout
the only thing he ever loved, I guess. An' if Joe's dead . . .
an' my boys'll find it out, if he is ... I don't know what
Mr La Force'11 do." She shook her head sadly. "But if he
suspicions that you killed him - an' / do,so I guess he might
. . . well, I jus' hope you can prove you didn't."
I sat like a rabbit before a snake, while she regarded me
with pity and concern. Then she smiled again, and reached
out to stroke my cheek with her free hand.
"Oh, dahlin', don't look so down! I tell you, it don't matter
to me! You can kill every nigger in creation if you've a
mind to, far as I'm concerned. You know why?" Her eyes
narrowed, and her voice was trembling. " 'Cos you pleasured
me like I never been pleasured before ... I didn't know there was pleasurin' like that, an' believe me, boy, I made
a study! I come over faint, jus' thinkin' 'bout you." She
shivered and grimaced. "An' now I got to go back to
Popplewell. Oh, sure, there is a Popplewell, randy little Hint - all I tol' you 'bout him an' my other husbands is true,
'rcpt I married him two years ago, not two days, an' 'twasn't
him, but one o' my white boys, left me at the Wager House."
She gave one of her gross chuckles. "Think they'd take a
359
nigger woman there, be her husband never so rich? No ~
but they'd take the Devil hisself, if the Kuklos is payin' the
bill."
She stood up, and to my amazement slipped the Derringer
into the bosom of her robe. Then she stooped over me, took
my face in her hands, looking soulful, and kissed me with
sudden passion, her tongue and lips working feverishly at
my mouth and cheeks and eyes and back to my mouth again,
before she broke moistly away, breathing hard.
"Oh, Ah got sech a kindness fo' you, Mr Beauchamp
Comber, or Mr Tom A'nold, or whatevah yo' name is! Ah
don' know, an' Ah don' care! An' Ah got sech a mis'ry
when Ah think whut Mr La Force'11 do ..." She shuddered
enormously, with a little whimpering sigh - and I thought,
now's your time, lad, and thrust my whiskers between her
boobies, going brrr! She let out an ecstatic wail, the Derringer
clattered to the floor, and I sank clutching fingers into
her buttocks and munched away for dear life, for I could
see only one way out of this fearful dilemma, to play on her
feminine frailty in the only way I know how, but even as I
grappled, roaring lustful endearments, she heaved away
from me, eyes rolling, and thrust out a mighty hand to hold
me at arm's length.
"Oh, dahlin'! Oh, goddamussy!" she gasped, and in her
agitation it came out in broad Dixie. "Oh, honey, don' think
Ah ain't cravin' you, 'cos Ah is, sumpn cruel! But we ain't
got the time, dammit!" She stamped, rattling the cabin, and
her eyes were wild. "They's on'y one stop 'tween heah an'
Baltimo', an' it comin' up real soon - oh, lordy, dere's de
whistle! Don' stand theah!" she panted, seizing my wrist.
"You gotta git off, 'cos mah boys at the Ferry'11 telegraph
ahead when they fin' out whutevah's happened to Joe, an'
the Kuklos'll be a-waitin' at Baltimo' ... an' Ah cain't let
'em take yuh, Ah jes' cain't, 'cos, oh, mah dearie, if anythin'
wuz to happen to yuh, Ah b'lieve Ah'd die!"
She surged to the door and wrenched it open, and damned
if she wasn't snivelling great tears over her shiny black
cheeks.
"So git outa heah, now, will yuh . . . oh, gi' me one las'
360
kiss, do! Now, git yore ass offa this train ... an' take care,
ye heah?"
[Here the tenth packet of the Flashman Papers ends, at
what one must assume is the conclusion of the author's
memoir of John Brown and the Harper's Ferry episode.
What followed will no doubt appear in a later instalment
of Sir Harry's recollections; all that can be said with
certainty is that he did not catch the Baltimore packet to
Liverpool, since we know from evidence i^ the sighth
packet of the Papers, already published, that six months
after his emotional parting from Mrs Popplewell, he was
in Hong Kong, without having visited England in the
meantime.
361
APPENDIX I:
Flashman and John Brown
Flashman's was not an affectionate nature. That he loved (or at least was enthralled by) his wife, Elspeth, is evident
from his memoirs, and now and then his regard for other
ladies goes some way beyond the merely physical - usually,
one suspects, when he is writing in a mood of brandy-assisted
nostalgia. But outside his family - he plainly doted on his
great-grandchildren, and felt for his natural son, Frank
Standing Bear, a paternal affection which lasted for several
days - he seldom finds much to like in people. He betrays
an occasional fellow-feeling, at a safe distance, for such rascals
as Rudi von Starnberg, and has a half-amiable tolerance
of acquaintances whom he has no cause to detest, like his
old chief, Colin Campbell, and his Afghan blood-brother,
Ilderim Khan. But that, as a rule, is his limit.
Yet he seems to have had a kind of protective affection
|for John Brown. Underneath the sneers and curses there is
a hint of indulgence, an inclination to defend the old nuisance
and even to give him a Tuscan cheer, which is not
characteristic of Flashman. We may be sure it springs from
no kindly or charitable impulse, or the least sympathy with
Brown's aims; he found the man and his mission ridiculous,
and writes of them with contempt. At the same time, he
remembers Brown as "a bloody hard man to dislike", which is a rare tribute. Of course, it may have been a gratifying novelty to Flashman to come across a strong and fearsome
autocrat who treated him with some deference and respect;
a strong man, moreover, whom he could manipulate, and in whom he detected an appealing streak of humbug. And
however lofty his disdain of Brown, there is no doubt that
363
he took a perverse pride in their association: "I was one of
John Brown's pet lambs, after all." This is pure Flashman.
Throughout his memoirs, he revels in reflected glory, the
more so when it is ingloriously undeserved, and when it
comes to "dining out", Harper's Ferry plainly ranks with
Balaclava and Little Big Horn and Cawnpore. One detects
a condescending gratitude to Brown and his ragged commandos
for adding another leaf to the Flashman laurels, and
a complacent satisfaction that he helped them along the road
to immortality.
Whether he liked Brown or not, he has done him justice.
The figure who stalks his narrative is the man of the biographies
and contemporary accounts, even to his quoted
speech, thoughts, manner, appearance, and the small details
of everyday. From their first meeting at Concord to the last
glimpse of the weary, serene old prisoner lying in the paymaster's
office, Flashman's story tallies convincingly with
recorded fact, and differs no more from the standard authorities
than they do from each other. His record of Brown's
travels in the North may be verified in Villard, as may his
account of life at the Kennedy Farm, of which Mrs Annie
Brown Adams, Brown's daughter, who acted as lookout
for the conspirators, has left a lively record.
As invariably happens when there is a multitude of eyewitnesses,
there are many discrepancies to be found in
accounts of the actual raid on Harper's Ferry. It would have
been tedious and confusing to footnote them all, and most
of them are trivial: it hardly matters whether John Brown
visited the rifle works in person, or at which end of the
Potomac bridge the watchmen were posted, or whether Lee
was on horseback, or what kind of hat Jeb Stuart wore, or
the precise moment when Brown retreated to the enginehouse,
or the exact place and time of certain incidents. There
is no conflict on the main course of events, and here Flashman
is in step with other historians.
It was a weird affair, the handful of men invading in the
dark, the hold-up and release of the train, the taking of
the prisoners, the first haphazard shootings, the bewildered
township waking to find itself menaced by terrorists, gunfight
364
and murder alternating with parleys and demands for breakfast,
the militia storming in and taking to drink, the brutal
lynchings and the local doctor tending the invaders'
wounded, the siege of the engine-house, the final call to
surrender, the last bloody melee with the Marines, and, most
bizarre of all, the wounded Brown holding court while his
captors bombard him with questions. The whole thing has
elements of a modern hostage drama followed by a television
press conference.
It was a fiasco; the irony is that it need not have been.
Brown, the most incompetent of planners and irresolute of
leaders, gained an initial success of which a commando
leader might be proud - and then did nothing. He could
have stripped the arsenal and been in the hills without losing
a man; that he could have organised a slave rebellion is
highly improbable, but he would have struck a blow to shake
the nation (it was shaken enough, even by his failure). Why
did he delay? Did he cling to the hope that the slaves would
rally to him, as Cook had assured him they would? It is
possible, yet it seems more likely that Flashman's diagnosis
is sound: faced with crisis Brown simply did not know what
to do. His judgment failed him, as his courage never did,
and with that fatal indecision which was his besetting weakness
he threw away what little chance he had.
But while Flashman may have read him aright at the
Ferry, and while his whole portrait of Brown is a fair one,
he has probably come no closer than other biographers to
explaining the old abolitionist's strange and complex character.
It is not surprising. Brown was not understood in his
own time, and much that has been written about him since
has done more to embellish the legend than to clarify the
nature of the man. He and his cause are emotional subjects,
and the emotions often run to extremes. He has been
described in terms that would become a saint, and vilified
with an intemperance that is self-defeating. The impression
persists in most people's minds of a good and simple soul
on fire with a dream, a fanatical crusader pursuing a splendid
goal with imperfect means, a misguided Quixote whose head
_as wrong but whose heart was right. Great men and women
9 kb, 365
have given him the accolade, and who that reads his story
can dissent? Kindness, compassion, a burning love of liberty
a gift of inspiring devotion, and matchless courage, he hadif, as has been charged, perhaps not unjustly, he was also
devious, foolish, vain, selfish, unscrupulous, and irresolute
in crisis, his admirers can say that these are human faults
and far outweighed by the simple nobility of the martyr who
died, and died gladly, to make men free. And then there is
Pottawatomie. |
The question of his sanity cannot be answered now. He
was held fit to plead at his trial; rightly, so far as we can
tell, but not many laymen would, on the evidence, call him
normal or balanced. "Reasoning insanity" is the judgment
of one eminent historian, and it will do as well as any other.
We cannot know him, but it does not matter. He is part of
history and historic legend, and if what he tried to do was |
not heroic, then the word has no meaning.
366
APPENDIX II:
The Harper's Ferry Mystery
iThe most remarkable thing about John Brown's raid is that
t was allowed to happen at all. Months beforehand it was
mown in Washington's corridors of power that he intended
o invade Virginia, and that his first target would be Harper's
^erry. At least eighty people in the country, including the
Secretary for War and two U.S. Senators, had been told of
he plan; how many others had picked up the rumours, or
iad reason to believe that some great stroke was imminent,
t is impossible to say. Yet nothing was done to stop him.
^o defensive measures were taken.
This should be one of those great historical mysteries that
scholars love to debate; when one considers the oceans of
hk that have been spilled over Little Big Horn and the
Alamo, the comparative neglect of the question: "Why
ivasn't Brown stopped?" is almost as baffling as the mystery
itself.
Brown had invasion in mind as early as 1847, when he
described to Frederick Douglass how he would use a small
ficked band to run off the most restless and daring slaves
tnd wage a guerrilla campaign in the Alleghenies. In late
"854 or early 1855 he proposed a raid on Harper's Ferry to
Colonel Daniel Woodruff, a veteran of the War of 1812;
?rown's daughter Annie, the sentry of Kennedy Farm,
lernembered the Ferry being specifically mentioned at the
We. Hugh Forbes knew about the plan in some detail in
857, and revealed it to Senators Wilson and Seward in 1858,
lt ^ich time the Secret Six also knew of it, and the scheme
^s postponed. Early in 1859, James Redpath, who had met
prown and was to become his first biographer, published a
" 367
book dedicated to "John Brown, senior, of Kansas", citing
him as a believer in slave insurrection, advocating revolt
and hinting at future "servile and civil wars" - not hard
information, but a significant straw in a wind that had been
blowing for some time.
Secret intelligence-gathering was fairly makeshift in the
U.S. before the Civil War, and it is possible that the government
had no substantial knowledge of Brown's intentions
before 1859, or, if they had, that they did not take him
seriously. The wild schemes of a crazy farmer might well
be dismissed as moonshine, although given the growth of
abolitionist feeling in the North, and Southern anxiety about
slave unrest, it seems odd that no one thought them worthy
of any inquiry at all.
But "odd" is not the word for the behaviour of John
Floyd, Secretary of War, when he received a detailed and
(one would have thought) compelling warning of the raid
on August 25, 1859 - seven weeks before it took place. It
came in a letter, admittedly anonymous* but obviously the
work of a responsible person, who named "Old John
Brown" of Kansas, stated that he intended to liberate the
slaves of the South by general insurrection, gave particulars
of his preparation and armament, identified Harper's Ferry
as the point of invasion, and predicted that the slaves would
be armed and the blow struck within a few weeks.
Nothing could have been clearer, but Floyd, whom Bruce
Catton generously describes as a bumbling incompetent,
ignored the letter because, among its wealth of cogent information,
it contained one trifling error - the writer stated
that Brown had an agent "in an armoury in Maryland".
Floyd apparently had not the wit to connect "Old John
Brown" of the letter with the notorious John Brown on
whose head President Buchanan and the State of Missouri
* The writer of the letter was one David Gue, who had learned of the plot
from a Quaker named Varney. Many years later Gue claimed that he had
written out of no ill will to Brown, but "to protect [him] from the
consequences of his own rashness and devotion" by alerting the authorities
who, Gue hoped, would deter the raid by setting a guard on the arsenal.
Two copies of the letter were sent to Floyd, but only one reached him.
368
had put a price, but like a good little bureaucrat he knew
that there was no armoury in Maryland - that there was a
large undefended armoury within a stone's throw of Maryland,
just across the river in Virginia, did not occur to him. He decided, incredibly, that the rest of the letter must be
untrue; according to Sanborn, he did not even bother to read
it twice. Explaining himself later to the Mason Committee
investigating the raid, Floyd said that he was satisfied that
"a scheme of such wickedness and outrage could not be
entertained by any citizens of the United States". And the
committee decided that no one apart from Brown's gang
had "any suspicion of [the raid's] existence or design".
Committees know their own business best, and there is
no reason why a senior minister should not be an ill-informed
idiot; such things have been known. But even if Floyd was
guilty of nothing worse than stupidity and negligence, it
is still remarkable that despite all the advance publicity
John Brown and his projected raid had received, from the
halls of Congress to the Kansas border and from the
drawing-rooms of Boston to the saloons of Ohio, no one in
Washington took any notice or apparently felt a moment's
unease.
To be sure, governments can be uncommonly blind, deaf,
and lazy - to which the last survivor of John Brown's band
would certainly add: "Aye, especially when they don't want to see, hear, or move." There were many in the North, and
doubtless some in the South, who wanted the raid to happen;
Crixus and Atropos were not alone; but probably only a
cynic like Flashman would speculate that there were those
in authority who, knowing of the plot and having the power
to prevent it, allowed it to go ahead, for their own inscrutable
ends. Since there is no evidence to support this view,
we can only accept the alternative: that it was just monumental
bad luck that no responsible person got wind of the plot,
or took it seriously, or bothered to investigate it, or thought
it worth posting even a couple of armed sentries on an
unguarded arsenal at a time when talk of slave insurrection
was in the air, or decided to keep an eye on the most violent and ruthless abolitionist in the country, the butcher of
~E 369
Pottawatomie, who was stumping the sticks and cities
preaching the invasion of Virginia . . .
Bad luck indeed, for the upshot was that against all the
odds, and in spite of all his follies and hesitations and mismanagement,
John Brown was given what he had no right
to expect: a clear run at Harper's Ferry.
370
APPENDIX III:
John Brown's Men
John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back,
He's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord,
His pet lambs will meet him on the way,
And they'll go marching on.
Glory, glory, hallelujah . . .
John Henry Kagi, 24, killed
Aaron Dwight Stevens, 28, hanged
Owen Brown, 34, escaped
Watson Brown, 24, killed
Oliver Brown, 20, killed
Jeremiah Goldsmith Anderson, 26, killed
John Cook,29,hanged
Albert Hazlett, 22, hanged
Charles Plummer Tidd, 25, escaped
William Thompson, 26, killed
Dauphin Osgood Thompson, 21, killed
Edwin Coppoc, 24, hanged
Barclay Coppoc, 20, escaped
John Anthony Copeland, 25, hanged
William Leeman, 20, killed
Stewart Taylor, 22, killed
Osborn Perry Anderson, 29, escaped
Dangerfield Newby, 44, killed
371
Lewis Sheridan Leary, 24, killed
Shields Green, 23, hanged
Francis Jackson Meriam, 21, escaped
John Brown, 59, hanged
To which may now be added the names of
Beauchamp Millward Comber, 37, escaped
Joseph Simmons, 23, killed.
Fourteens persons were killed or wounded by the raiders at
Harper's Ferry. No slaves were liberated.
372
NOTES
NOTES
Tohn Arthur (Jack) Johnson (1878-1946), the first black boxer to
win the world heavyweight title, was the most unpopular of champions
and, in the opinion of the most respected ring historians, the
best He won the title in 1908 by beating Tommy Burns of Canada,
having pursued him from America to England and finally to Australia,
and lost it in 1915 to Jess Willard of the U.S.A. In the intervening years he was the object of a campaign of race hatred unique in sport;
in that colour-conscious age Johnson's arrogance in and out of the
ring, his cruelty to opponents, his white wives, his complacent smile
showing gold-capped teeth, his skipping bail to Paris to avoid a prison
sentence in America (he had violated the Mann Act by taking a
woman with whom he was having an affair across a State line), and
above all, his undoubted supremacy in a game which had always been
a peculiar source of white pride, brought out the very worst in the
sporting public. None was more vicious than the novelist Jack
London, who had covered Burns's "funeral" as he called it, for the New York Herald, and who conducted the notorious "Whip the
Nigger" campaign to "remove the golden smile from Johnson's face".
He and others persuaded Jim Jeffries, a former champion, to come
out of retirement to challenge for the title. The fight took place in
Reno, Nevada, in 1910, and so highly charged was the atmosphere
beforehand (fatal race riots had followed some of Johnson's previous
victories) that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was invited to act as referee;
it was felt, rightly, that no sportsman on earth was so universally
respected, or more likely to exert a calming influence. Doyle wanted
to accept, but his own campaign against the atrocities in the Belgian
Congo was demanding all his attention, and after a week's hesitation
"e reluctantly declined. In the event, Johnson won easily, there were no disturbances, and the quest for a "White Hope" lasted another we years, until Johnson succumbed (voluntarily, in the opinion of "My) to the gigantic but undistinguished Willard.
Hashman's view of Johnson was widely shared; his unquestioned
, ance as a ring mechanic apart, the black champion was not an
w if"11^ ^S"1'' but il is Q^y fair to quote the opinion of another
in ih wn ^lctonan' who had the rare distinction of meeting him ^j e ""g and coming out on his feet. Victor McLaglen was an eu British heavyweight long before he became a film actor; he
went six rounds to a draw in a "no-decision" bout with Johnson in
1909, and wrote afterwards that the champion "fought like a gentleman",
was "undoubtedly the hardest man to hit whom I ever met"
and was also "the most charming opponent". (See Terry Leigh-Lye' In This Corner, 1963; Nat Fleischer and Sam Andre, Pictorial History
of Boxing, 1959; M. and M. Hardwick, The Man Who Was Sherlock
Holmes, 1964; Jack London, in the New York Herald, 1908; Victor
McLaglen, Express to Hollywood, 1934.) [p. 131
2. Flashman was born in 1822, so the present memoir was presumably
written in 1913, two years before his death, [p. 14]
3. The famous march, one of many John Brown songs sung in the U.S.
Civil War, is said to have originated in "a sarcastic tune which men
in a Massachusetts outfit made up as 'a jibe' against one Sergeant
John Brown of Boston". If so, it soon became associated with the
famous abolitionist; a Union soldier. Private Warren Lee Goss,
records that when the 12th Massachusetts Regiment marched down
Broadway on July 24, 1861, they sang "the then new and always
thrilling lyric, John Brown's Body". Five months later Mrs Julia Ward
Howe (1819-1910), the author, reformer, and abolitionist, wrote new
words to the old tune; they subsequently appeared in the Atlantic
Monthly as "The Battle Hymn of the Republic". One tradition
(hinted at by Flashman) is that she had been scandalised by the words
which she heard soldiers singing; the accepted story is that she and
a party of friends were singing patriotic songs, and one of them suggested
to her that new verses would be appropriate. (See Stephen B.
Oates, To Purge This Land with Blood, 1970, quoting Boyd B.
Stutler, "John Brown's Body"; Warren Lee Goss, "Going to the
Front", in Battles and Leaders of the Civil War, vol. 1, ed. R. U.
Johnson and C. C. Buel, 1887.) [p. 17]
4. For evidence that Benjamin Franklin ("Agent No. 72") and his assistant,
Edward Bancroft, were working for British Intelligence during
their time at the American Embassy in Paris, and passed information
to London which resulted in heavy American shipping losses, see
Richard Deacon, A History of British Secret Service, 1980. [p. 24]
5. Flashman is habitually vague about dates, and it is impossible to say
when he left Calcutta - it may have been late in 1858 or even early
in 1859, but he was certainly at the Cape sometime in January or
February of the new year. In that case, it seems probable that the
stranded wreck was the Madagascar (351 tons), which ran ashore off
Port Elizabeth on December 3, 1858. (See Marischal Murray, Ships
and South Africa, 1933.) [p. 28]
6. The self-destruction of the 'Zoza tribe (more usually spelled Xhosa
or Amaxosa) began late in 1856, when the belief arose that spirits of
the dead, speaking through the medium of a girl of the tribe, had
promised that if all cattle and crops were destroyed, these would be
replaced in abundance on a certain day, and the hated white men
driven from the land. In obedience to their chief, the Xhosas
destroyed their food supplies entirely, and in the famine which
376
followed more than 60,000 are believed to have died. (See sources
to Note 9.) [p. 31] In view of recent South African history, and the common belief that
1994 would be the milestone marking the introduction of universal
suffrage, it is worth noting that in Cape Colony in the 1850s, under British rule, every man had the vote, regardless of race or colour.
The only qualifications were birth in the Colony and a financial condition
set so low that many non-whites were enfranchised. Like many
progressive features of the old British Empire, it is one that modem
revisionists are either unaware of or choose to forget. (See sources
to Note 9.) [p. 32]
The pollution of the Thames and the anti-smoking campaign were
perennial topics; the Act of Parliament removing the disabilities of
the Jews had passed in July, 1858, and Lionel de Rothschild had
become the first Jewish M.P. [p. 34]
Flashman's summary of South African affairs in 1859, if characteristically
sketchy, is accurate and perceptive, and his portrait of the Cape
Governor is fair; if anything, he gives him more sympathetic treatment
than he usually metes out to imperial pro-consuls, a class of
whom he tended to take a jaundiced view.
Sir George Grey (1812-98) was that peculiarly Victorian compound
of the man of action, scholar, visionary, and maverick. His guiding
principles were the welfare and progress of the people he was given
to rule, and getting his own way, and he pursued them with an energy
and impatience which frequently brought him into conflict with his
superiors at home, and eventually brought his career to a premature
close, which was his country's loss, for he was one of the best. He
left the army when he was twenty-three to explore northwestern
Australia, an adventure of extreme danger and hardship in which he
skirmished with Aborigines, was wounded, lost his supplies, and
finally tramped alone into Perth, so altered by suffering that he was
unrecognisable. He was twenty-nine when he was appointed Governor
of South Australia, and subsequently of New Zealand, where
he defeated the Maoris, won their friendship, and established a popular
and prosperous administration before being transferred to the
Cape in 1854. There he prevented a Kaffir uprising, encouraged
settlement, and acquired something rare, if not unique, in South
African history - the trust and respect of Britons, Boers, and tribesmen
alike. Foreseeing that the peaceful development of the country
depended on recognising and balancing the interests of all three (particularly
between the Boers and the black tribes) he worked tirelessly
to bring about a confederation, won the support of the Boers of the
Orange Free State and the British of the Cape, and would have
succeeded but for the reluctance of the home government to assume
further responsibility and expense in Southern Africa. His persistence
caused offence at the Colonial Office ("a dangerous man"), and he
was recalled in 1859, a few months after Flashman met him.
Palmerston's new administration reinstated him, but his plan of
377
confederation was shelved. In 1861 he was again Governor of New
Zealand, fought in the Maori wars (personally leading the attack and
capture of their main stronghold), and was making progress towards a
settlement between settlers and Maoris when, his highly individual
style having given renewed offence in Whitehall, he was recalled. He
was only fifty-five. The rest of his life was spent mostly in New
Zealand. He left behind a standard work, Polynesian Mythology and splendid libraries at Cape Town and Auckland, but his great
achievement was that, whatever his chiefs at home thought, the
people of all races and colours whom he governed were invariably
sorry to see him go.
A handsome, slightly-built man with a cold eye and a quiet voice Grey seems to have been quite as assured and impatient of opposition
as Flashman found him: an idealist, he had a strong ruthless streak,
and his portraits do not suggest a man whom it would be safe to
cross. During his final months at the Cape his health was poor, and
his marital relations were approaching a crisis - something with which
we may be sure Flashman had nothing to do, or he would certainly
have told us about it. (See G. M. Theal, History of South Africa, vol. 3, "Cape Colony, 1846-60", 1908; James Milne, Sir George
Grey, the Romance of a Pro-consul, 1899; G. C. Henderson, Sir
George Grey, 1907; James Collier, Life and Times of Sir George
Grey, 1909; W. H. S. Bell, Bygone Days, reminiscences of pioneer
life in Cape Colony from 1856,1933; J. Noble, Descriptive Handbook of the Cape Colony, 1875.) [p. 34]
10. The first ministry of Lord Palmerston, who had sent Flashman on
secret service to India shortly before the great mutiny of 1857, had
ended in February, 1858, when he was succeeded as Prime Minister
by the Earl of Derby. Palmerston regained office in June, 1859, a
few months after the meeting of Flashman and Sir George Grey at
the Cape. [p. 35]
11. The outdoor swimming pool was an occasional feature of private
gardens at the Cape: the Constantia mansion, the first large country
house in the Colony, dating from the seventeenth century, had one
in its grounds. (See Alys Fane Trotter, Old Colonial Houses of the
Cape of Good Hope, 1900.) [p. 45]
12. A native of New England, especially a typical seafarer from the
coast of Maine, reputed to be unusually tough and reactionary, and
supposedly so-called because the region lay east and down-wind of
the main American Atlantic ports. The term was also applied to
ships, [p. 64]
13. There was no British Embassy in Washington at this time: H.M.
Government was represented by a minister, not an ambassador a
diplomatic distinction which Flashman could not be expected to
appreciate, [p. 68]
14. If so, it was a slow passage; a clipper would have done it in half the
time, given favourable weather, which Flashman's ship does not seem
to have had. [p. 69]
378
Captain Robert ("Bully") Waterman was one of the foremost clipper
captains of the day, famous for his record-breaking runs in the Sea
Witch between China and New York, and notorious for the brutal
discipline he imposed on his crews. Flashman mentions him twice in
earlier packets of the Papers, but there is no evidence that they ever
met. [p. 73]
There is something of a literary mystery here. The Knitting Swede's
hostelry is mentioned in The Blood Ship, published some time early
in this century by Norman Springer, but I cannot recall whether it
was located in Baltimore or not. However, the two bucko mates of The Blood Ship were certainly Fitzgibbon and Lynch - the names of
the skipper and mate of the vessel which carried Flashman to
America. These things can hardly be coincidental, [p. 74]
A remark attributed to Senator David R. Atchison of Missouri, when
urging on Border Ruffians before the sack of Lawrence, Kansas,
headquarters of the Free Staters, on May 21, 1856. [p. 91]
Crixus's account and Flashman's interpolations between them provide a rough but balanced biographical summary of John Brown up to the
spring of 1859. Whether the famous abolitionist was a Mayflower descendant has been disputed, but he certainly came of old American
stock. Born in Torrington, Connecticut, on May 9, 1800, he received
a rudimentary education and worked at various rural trades with
indifferent success; his business ventures ended in failure, and he was
usually hard pressed for money. He married twice, and had twenty
children. His hatred of slavery, inherited from his father and nourished
by his own observations, took an active form when he was still
in his twenties, and his home was a station on the Underground
Railroad. In 1851, at Springfield, Massachusetts, he organised a black
defence group, the League of Gileadites, to resist slave-catchers and
prevent fugitives from being returned to the South. It is not certain
when he conceived the idea of invading Virginia, but he was talking
about it as early as 1847, and in the winter of 1854-5 was discussing
a raid on Harper's Ferry and making notes on guerrilla warfare from
Stocqueler's Life of the Duke of Wellington. At this time several of
his sons, imbued with their father's abolitionist zeal, went to Kansas,
where the "slave or free territory" issue was coming to a head, and
were soon followed by Brown himself, ostensibly to set up in business
but in fact to fight on the Free State side. He soon became the most
notorious of the Border irregulars, organising a guerrilla band called
the Liberty Guards, with himself as captain and four of his sons, Owen , Frederick, Salmon, and John, junior, among his followers,
and earning a fearsome reputation as a result of one savage exploit
in the summer of 1856.
The Pottawatomie Massacre took place on the night of May
24-25, and arose directly from the destruction of the town of
Lawrence (see Note 17 above) and another incident on the following
day. On May 22 an anti-slavery orator. Senator Charles Sumner of
Massachusetts, denounced the Lawrence attack in the U.S. Senate,
fe 379
and was then assaulted by Representative Preston Brooks of South
Carolina, who invaded the cbimber and thrashed Sumner, who was
seated at his desk, so brutaly with his cane that the unfortunate
Senator did not recover for two years. Brown, who had been too late
to defend Lawrence, and was in a fury because the citizens had not
put up a fight, was already conemplating retaliation against the proslavers
when news of "Bully Ijrooks's" outrage reached him on May
23. At this, according to his San Salmon, the old man "went crazy ~
crazy!", and on being urged td use caution, cried: "Caution, caution,
sir, I am eternally tired of hearing that word caution! It is nothing
but the word for cowardice, "and set off to strike back at "the barbarians".
This consisted of flescending on three houses along the
Pottawatomie Creek, first rnuidering a pro-slavery man named Doyle and two of his sons, then another named Wilkinson, and finally one
Sherman. The killings were Ccrried out with the utmost brutality, the
men being forced from their teds and, despite the pleas of wives and
the presence of children, hustl.d out into the dark and literally hacked
to pieces with sabres; finger;, hands, and arms were severed and
skulls split. Owen and Salmon Brown killed the three Doyles, and
Brown's son-in-law. Henry Thompson, and a man named Theodore
Weiner, murdered the two otiier men. Brown himself does not seem
to have struck a blow, although he probably fired a single shot into
the corpse of the oldest Doylt,. Later, when his son Jason taxed him
with the killings. Brown said: "I did not do it, but I approved of it".
Nor did he ever deny responsibility, and only once offered anything
like an excuse for the crime: according to an old Kansas settler,
Brown claimed that the five iad been planning to kill him. "I was
satisfied that each of them hid committed murder in his heart . . .
and I felt justified in having Hem killed." This is doubtful, and even
Brown's most admiring biogiaphers are at a loss when confronted
with Pottawatomie; one suggests that he was in a trance, another
refers to the murders as "executions", but none can offer an acceptable
explanation, let alone a defence. At the time, Crixus's view of
the affair was shared by many in the North, who believed that Brown
was justified by necessity, and that his terrorist tactics and subsequent
skirmishing against the pro-slavery forces were of critical importance
in the Kansas struggle. Certainly Pottawatomie did nothing to lessen
support for Brown among Northern liberals; some might condemn
it, but others, especially the g-oup known as the Secret Six (see Note
32), gave him moral and financial assistance, and the great mass of
abolitionists regarded him as a champion. He continued to operate
against the pro-slavery forces with some success before being driven
from his base at Ossawatomk in a battle in which his son Frederick
was killed. For almost three years thereafter Brown divided his time
between campaigning for th; abolitionist cause in the East, and
preparing in the field for his projected invasion of Virginia.
There are many biographic; of Brown, and they cover the closing
years of his life in detail, drawing on a wealth of contemporary
380
sources. Indeed, there is almost an embarrassment of information;
one writer, Villard, has even been able to compile a daily calendar
of his life from mid-1855 to his death in December 1859. Most of the
early biographies, including those by Sanborn and Redpath, who
knew Brown personally, are friendly: one, by Peebles Wilson, is a
raging denunciation. Of special interest is the autobiographical sketch
written by Brown in 1857, which is the best source for his early life,
and is quoted in full in Villard. (See 0. G. Villard, John Brown, 1910 (the fullest account); Franklin B. Sanborn, The Life and Letters
of John Brown, 1885 (Sanborn was a friend and leading supporter):
James Redpath, The Public Life of Captain John Brown, 1860
(Redpath was a newspaperman who met Brown in the field); H.
Peebles Wilson, John Brown, Soldier of Fortune, 1913; Barrie Stavis, John Brown, the Sword and the Word, 1870; Gates; R. D. Webb, Life and Letters of Captain John Brown, 1861; Louis Ruchames (ed.) A John Brown Reader, 1959; Allan Keller, Thunder at Harper's Ferry, 1958.) [p. 92]
19. Hugh Forbes, the British adventurer whom Brown hired as an instructor
and military advisor at $100 a month, shared certain characteristics
with Flashman; he was tall, handsome, soldierly, plausible, and probably
something of a confidence man. He was born about 1812, had
been a silk merchant in Italy, claimed to have fought under Garibaldi,
and styled himself "Colonel", but when Brown met him in New York
 in 1857 he was eking a bare living as a fencing-master, translator and
H occasional journalist. In Brown's employ he worked on a manual of
guerrilla tactics and produced a pamphlet apparently designed to lure
U.S. soldiers to the abolitionist cause, but his chief talent was for
absorbing money to support his family whom he described as starving
in Paris. Eventually he and Brown fell out over alleged arrears of pay
and, perhaps more seriously, the Harper's Ferry project: Forbes was
convinced that an attempt to rouse the slaves for a guerrilla campaign
must fail, and proposed instead a series of "stampedes" in which small
parties of slaves would be run off from properties close to the NorthSouth
border, thus eventually making slave-holding impossible in the
region, and forcing the "slave frontier" gradually southwards. It was
at least a feasible plan, but Brown rejected it. Forbes then began writing
to Brown's leading supporters, from many of whom he had begged
money, hinting that unless further payments were made he would
divulge the invasion plan, a threat which he carried out in the spring of
1858, when he accosted two Republican Senators, Seward and Wilson,
on the floor of the Senate, and told them what was planned. The Senators,
both devoted abolitionists, seem to have kept the information to
themselves, but warned Brown's supporters, and the project was postponed.
(See Villard; Sanborn.) [p. 94]
20. The marble frontage, and later clues in Flashman's narrative,
suggest that the hotel was Brown's, at the junction of Pennsylvania
Avenue and Sixth Street. It was much patronised by Southerners.
(See Margaret Leech, Reveille in Washington, 1942.) [p. 110]
381
21. The Parcae, or Fates, of classical mythology were Clotho, Lachesis
and Atropos, the arbiters of birth, life, and death. The dandy's little
joke lay in suggesting that they should have called themselves Eumenides
("the good-natured ones"), the name ironically applied by the
Greeks to the Furies. The white hoods and the name "Kuklos" are
strongly reminiscent of the infamous Ku Klux Klan, founded by Confederate
ex-officers in Tennessee after the Civil War; originally a
social and literary club, it became an anti-negro terrorist organisation
which flourished intermittently into modern times. It certainly owed
its name to the Greek kuklos, a circle (not, as the fanciful theory has
it, to the triple click of a rifle being cocked), but there is no evidence
either of its existence before 1866, or to suggest that it had its origins
in the kind of Southern intelligence network which Atropos described
to Flashman. The identities of "Clotho" and "Lachesis" cannot even
be guessed at. [p. 122]
22. Telemaque ("Denmark") Vesey and Nat Turner led the two most
notable slave revolts, in 1822 and 1831 respectively. Vesey, a mulatto
who had bought his freedom with lottery winnings, organised a plot
to take Charleston, but was betrayed by a slave out of affection
for his owner, and went to the gallows with more than thirty black
comrades; several whites who were implicated in the plot were
imprisoned. Nat Turner, a black lay preacher who was inspired by
the Bible to believe himself the chosen deliverer of his people, led a
rebellion of some seventy slaves at Southampton, Virginia, in which
more than fifty whites and twice as many blacks died; Turner himself
was executed. How many other smaller outbreaks took place it is
impossible to say; no doubt some went unrecorded. Unrest was certainly
more widespread than Southerners cared to admit; the contention
that slaves were happy or resigned concealed a genuine fear
which was reflected in strict laws against black assembly and education,
patrols, curfews, and the kind of savage treatment dealt out
to a band of about seventy Maryland runaways who were executed
or sold down the river in 1845. Rumours spread of a general slave
conspiracy in the years before the Civil War, a by-product perhaps
of Southern fears of the growing abolitionist feeling in the North, for
they seem to have been unfounded, [p. 129]
23. If Flashman and Annette had a table for two, as he seems to suggest,
they were singularly favoured, since most American hotels of the
period favoured the common table - "the comfort of a quiet table to
yourself ... is quite unknown", complained a British traveller of the
period. "The living [dining arrangements] at these hotels is profuse
to a degree, but, generally speaking, most disagreeable: first, because
the meal is devoured with a rapidity which a pack of foxhounds,
after a week's fast, might in vain attempt to rival; and secondly,
because it is impossible to serve up dinners for hundreds, without
nine-tenths thereof being cold." (See Henry A. Murray, Lands of
the Slave and the Free, 1855.) [p. 140]
24. Stephen A. Douglas (1813-61), leader of the Democrats in the North,
382
was a portly, dynamic figure known to admirers as the "Little Giant"
and to enemies as the "Dropsied Dwarf" (he was only five feet tall),
and best remembered for the debates in which he successfully
defended his seat as Senator for Illinois against Lincoln in 1858.
Douglas was to the fore in the slavery question; his first wife was the
daughter of a slave-holder, but Douglas himself was a champion of
"popular sovereignty", holding that it was up to the residents to
decide whether a state should be slave or free, and his declaration
that any territory could exclude slavery irrespective of the Supreme
Court's ruling cost him the support of many Southern Democrats.
The party split before the Presidential election of 1860, with the Deep
South States breaking away, and although Douglas was nominated
as one of the candidates against Lincoln, he was heavily beaten. His
second wife, Adele, was a noted beauty and leader of Washington
society in the years before the Civil War. [p. 140]
The cynic was Anthony Trollope, who gave this unflattering view of
New York in his North America, 1862. [p. 151]
Flashman's impressions of New York are echoed by other British
travellers of the mid-nineteenth century, as well as by American
writers. Like them, he was struck by the size and up-to-date appointments
of the hotels, with their hundreds of apartments, half-hour
laundry services, no-smoking areas for ladies, dining-rooms which
seemed to foreshadow mass-production, peanut shells, cigar fumes,
and continual clamour and bustle which many European visitors, used
to smaller and cosier establishments, found trying. Nor is he alone
in his admiration of the city's women, and the freedom and independence
which they enjoyed (and asserted) compared to their European
sisters; Trollope had the same experience of paying ladies' fares on
the omnibuses, and James Silk Buckingham, an English observer of
the previous decade, enthused at some length about their beauty
("almost uniformly good-looking . . . slender and of good symm&try
... a more than usual degree of feminine delicacy ... a greater
number of pretty forms and faces than [in England]. . . dressed more
in the extreme of fashion . . ."). He also noted the deference shown
to them by American men, and their dependence on it. A contemporary
of Flashman's, G. Ellington, devoted a long book to the city's
women of every class and kind, from the society set of Fifth and
Madison Avenues to the fallen angels of the House of the Good
Shepherd; he is a mine of information on fashions, parties, amusements,
social behaviour (and misbehaviour), shopping, menus, and
polite trivia, as well as on the female underworld - the "cruisers" of
Broadway, the down-town cigar-store girls, the all-women gambling
and billiard halls, and the drug scene. From him we learn of the
popularity among society ladies and their imitators of powdered
hands, the Grecian bend, dancing "the German", blonde hair, and
exaggerated high heels; he knows the price of everything from Murray
Hill boarding-school fees to the going rate paid by white slavers for
"recruits", and presumably is a reliable guide to what was "done" 383
going to Saratoga and the White Mountains i summer - and what
was "not done" - being seen anywhere south i 14th Street. Among
other commentators, Theodore Roosevelt is crical of '50s New York
(which he was not old enough to remember srsonally), deploring
its vulgarity, devotion to money, and slavish coying of Paris fashion,
and is interesting on the "swamping" of "nave American stock"
(Dutch-Anglo-Scots-German) by Irish immigition, the growth of
Roman Catholicism, the New York mob's tenency to riot, the corruption
of local politics, and the attempt by it Democrat mayor to
align the city with the South in the Civil Waoy seceding from the
Union and establishing the commonwealth of '"ri-Insula" (the three
islands of Manhattan, Long, and Staten). The-lon. Henry Murray,
whose strictures on public dining arrangements re mentioned in Note
23, is an entertaining source of domestic detail -barbers' shops, hotel
security, Bibles in bedrooms, and bridal suites I'the want of delicacy
that suggested the idea is only equalled by th want of taste with
which it is carried out... a matrimonial couch hung with white silk
curtains, and blazing with a bright jet of gas frim each bedpost!").
Alexander McKay is worth reading on Anglo-American attitudes in
general, and American sensitivity to British opiiion in particular: his
reporting of conversations is first-class. (See Muray; Trollope; James
Silk Buckingham, America, 1841; G. Ellington The Women of New
York, 1869; Theodore Roosevelt, New Yok, 1895; Alexander
McKay, The Western World, 1850.) [p. 153]
27. The enamelling studio, in which ladies had tbir faces, shoulders,
and busts coated with a mixture of arsenic anc white lead, was the
forerunner of the modern beauty salon. To judgefrom advertisements
of the time, the range of cosmetics, treatment;, and appliances for
enhancing the female face and figure was almot as extensive as it is
now; Flashman's description is accurate, and he prices he quotes
tally with those of one of the Broadway studio. What the effect of
an application designed to last for a full year nust have been can
only be imagined. (See Ellington.) [p. 160]
28. Allan Pinkerton (1819-84), the most famous of ill private detectives
and founder of the agency which bears his nam, was born in Glasgow,
the son of a police sergeant. He trained as acooper, and became
an enthusiastic member of the Chartist movemen for workers' rights,
taking part in the Glasgow spinners' strike and ii the attempt to free
a Chartist leader from Monmouth Castle, Newport, in 1839, when
shots were exchanged between rioters and poliie. It was about this
time that Flashman was engaged in training mlitia at Paisley, and
was briefly involved in a disturbance at a mill belonging to his future
father-in-law, John Morrison (see Flashman). Subsequently Pinkerton's
Chartist activities took him into hiding to avoid arrest, and in
1842 he emigrated to Chicago. He worked as a cooper at Dundee,
Illinois, but crime prevention was evidently in iis blood, and after
running down a counterfeiting gang he was appointed deputy sheriff
of Kane County, and later of Cook County, Chicago. Here he organ384
ised his detective agency in 1852-3, and had considerable success
against railway and express company thieves. He foiled an assassination
attempt against President-elect Lincoln in 1861, and in the Civil
War became effective head of the U.S. secret service, but while he
was an efficient spy-catcher - he broke the Confederate espionage
ring operated in Washington by the glamorous Rose GreenhoW (see also Note 43) - he was less successful as a gatherer of military
intelligence, and his over-estimation of Confederate strength in the
peninsular campaign contributed to a Union reverse. He was
eventually replaced, but his agency continued to flourish; one of
its principal successes, ironically enough, was against a workingclass
movement, the Molly Maguires, who terrorised Pennsylvania
coalfields for more than twenty years before being penetrated by a
Pinkerton agent.
Almost from his arrival in America Pinkerton had been a dedicated & abolitionist and Underground Railroad agent. His house in Chicago
was used as a "station" on the escape route to Canada, and after
John Brown's Missouri raid of December, 1858, in which eleven
slaves were rescued, Pinkerton met them at Chicago, provided them
B-/ with a railroad car and $500 which he raised at a meeting by personally
' taking round the hat, and saw them, "rejoicing at the safety of the
Union Jack", across the Canadian border.
Physically he was as Flashman describes him - dour, tough, small
but burly, and of nondescript appearance; in his best-known picture,
taken during a meeting with Lincoln, he looks like a discontented
tramp with a conspicuously clean collar.
George McWatters, of the New York Metropolitan Police, was
another Scot, born probably in Kilmarnock about 1814, and brought
up in Ulster. He emigrated to the U.S. in the mid-1840s, studied law
and collected debts in Philadelphia, took part (unsuccessfully) in the
California gold rush, and settled in New York as a theatrical agent,
his principal client being Flashman's old paramour, Lola Montez. In
1858 he joined the New York police, and recorded his twelve years'
service in a wonderfully self-admiring autobiography which is
nonetheless a mine of curious information about the New York underworld
of his day. (See J. D. Horan and H. Swiggett, The Pinkerton
Story, 1952; Allan Pinkerton, Thirty Years a Detective, 1884;
Mrs Rose Greenhow, My Imprisonment, and the First Year of
Abolition Rule at Washington, 1863; George S. McWatters, Knots
Untied, or Ways and By-ways in the Hidden Life of American
Detectives, 1873.) [p. 166]
29. Flashman's reaction to the hamburger is what one would have
p? expected. He would not know it by that name; the expression "HamIt
burg steak" does not seem to have come into use until later in the
century, [p. 170]
30. For once we are able to assign a definite date to an incident in the
Flashman Papers. Senator Seward, the Republican leader, sailed from
New York for Europe on May 7, 1859, on the ocean steamer Ariel,
385
receiving a tumultuous send-off from two Republican committees and
three hundred well-wishers "with shouts and music, bells and
whistles, dipping ensigns, waving hats, hands, and handkerchiefs".
(Frederic Bancroft, The Life of William H. Seward, 1900; G. G. Van
Deusen, William Henry Seward, 1967.) [p. 177]
31. William Henry Seward (1801-72), who had been a schoolteacher
and lawyer before embarking on a political career, was an implacable
enemy of slavery. As Governor of New York he had refused to move
against those who rescued slaves, passed laws to hinder the recapture
of runaways, and in a memorable speech in 1858 coined the phrase
"irrepressible conflict", which "means that the U.S. must and will,
sooner or later, become either entirely a slave-holding or entirely a
free-labour nation". His nomination as Republican candidate in the i
1860 Presidential election was widely taken for granted, and when/
he visited Europe in 1859 he was received with the attention due w a President-elect: as he had forecast to Flashman, he met the Queen,
Lord Palmerston (who had just become Prime Minister for the second
time), the Foreign Secretary Lord John Russell, Gladstone, Lord
Macaulay, and many other prominent figures. When the Republicans
met in Chicago in the following year Seward was still firm favourite,
but although he won the first two ballots he was defeated on the
third by the comparatively unknown Abraham Lincoln, the "prairie
lawyer" as Seward called him. He became Lincoln's Secretary of
State and rendered vital service to his country in the Trent Affair of
1861, when the seizure by an American warship of a British vessel
carrying Confederate diplomats to Europe caused a crisis which might
well have led to war. Three things helped to a peaceful solution:
the breakdown of the transatlantic cable made hasty communication
impossible; Prince Albert and the Queen moderated the tone of the
British Government's demand for the release with apologies of
the diplomats, and Seward performed the apparently impossible by
climbing down without losing face.
It was a turning-point in American history, for if the U.S. had
refused to yield, and war had followed, she could not have hoped to
fight Britain and the Confederacy together; the Civil War would have
been lost and Southern independence assured. Yet yielding would
have outraged the American public, which was jubilant at Britain's
discomfiture, and might have weakened Lincoln's government to the
point where it could no longer save the Union. That Britain was for
once entirely in the right, naturally made the problem no easier.
Seward solved it with a reply to the British demand which was a
masterpiece of flannel, confused the question brilliantly (he even contended that the diplomats' persons were contraband), managed
to suggest that America had won the argument, and concluded by
saying that the diplomats would be "cheerfully liberated". He heaped
coals of fire on the lion's head by granting free passage across
American soil to the British expeditionary force which had been sent
to Canada in anticipation of war with the U.S., but had been forced
386
to put in at an American port because the St Lawrence was icebound.
Seward's other claim to fame is as the purchaser of Alaska in
1867.
Flashman paints a fair picture of the shrewd, egotistical little statesman
of whom it was said, justly or not, that he never spoke from
conviction. His passion for cigars, and for informal behaviour (one
observer described it as "lawless") is well attested; in private he was
genial, given to cursing, and to kicking off his shoes. He could not
be described as an Anglophile, yet he obviously took entirely for
granted what came to be called the "special relationship"; references
to the natural "sympathy and affection" between the "European and
American branches of the British race" are to be found in his speeches
and letters. (See Bancroft, Van Deusen, and S. E. Morison, Oxford
History of the American People, vol. 2,1965. William Howard Russell
describes an interview with Seward in My Diary North and South, 1862.) [p. 184] 12. The Secret Six were Dr Samuel Howe, a devoted freedom fighter who
had served in the Greek army against the Turks and aided the Poles
against the Russians before becoming a pioneer in the education
of the deaf and blind; Gerrit Smith, philanthropist, reformer, and
Congressman who had run for the governorship of New York; Theodore
Porker, a leading theological scholar and a tireless and influential
abolitionist; George Steams, a Boston businessman who, with Smith,
was Brown's principal source of funds; Thomas fiigginson, a fiery
clergyman who became colonel of the first black regiment during the
Civil War; and Franklin Sanborn, schoolmaster, poet, and author,
who was Brown's biographer and most devoted supporter. (See
Villard; Oates; Sanborn.) [p. 188]
3. "Young Steams", the twelve-year-old son of George L. Steams, one
of the Secret Six, had given all his pocket money to John Brown two
years earlier, to help the anti-slavery cause. In return, Brown wrote
the boy a remarkable letter, his famous "Autobiography", in which
he describes his childhood in picturesque detail mingled with sound
moral advice. The "Autobiography", addressed to "My Dear Young
Friend" and dated Red Rock, Iowa, 15th July, 1857, was much
admired by Brown's supporters as evidence of his warm human qualities,
but excited the scorn of Brown's fiercest critic, Peebles Wilson,
who found it "valuable as an exhibit of his scheming to finance [his]
operations". No doubt Brown knew it would impress young Stearns's
parents, on whom he depended for funds, but that is not to say
that he was being insincere, or was unmoved by the boy's gift. Anyway,
it is a fascinating document; simple, homely, naive perhaps,
eccentrically punctuated, and quite beautifully written. One would
have to be a hardened cynic to be altogether untouched by it,
and if, as Wilson suggests, it was written for sordid motives,
then Brown, in addition to being a fine English stylist, carried
hypocrisy into the realms of high art. (See Peebles Wilson; Villard;
Sanborn.) [P. 206]
387
34. There are two words to describe John Brown's appearance: grim and
formidable. Even allowing for the fact that photography of the time
required the sitter to hold his pose for some seconds, which often
resulted in a fixed stare, the face that looks out of his pictures is a
daunting one; the long Anglo-Saxon head, prominent nose and ears,
wide mouth set like a trap, stern certainty of expression, and above
all, the level implacable eyes ("piercing blue-grey, flashing with
energy or drooping and hooded like an eagle") bring to mind immediately
words like Ironside, Yankee, Puritan, and Covenanter. It is, if
not handsome (as most of his sons were), an extremely fine face, and
it is easy to understand the spell that he seems to have cast over his
followers and supporters; equally easy, too, to see why he was called
a fanatic. The most impressive portraits show him clean-shaven; the
early photograph, taken when he was in his mid-forties, one hand
raised in pledge while the other holds the white flag; the imposing
Boston portrait of 1858, by J. J. Hawes; the daguerreotype of 1857,
in which he looks drawn and tired - quite the least convincing is the
full-bearded painting by N. B. Onthank, based on a photo taken in
the month when Flashman met him; by the time of his famous raid
Brown had trimmed his beard short. Although only five feet nine
inches in height, he looked taller, despite the stoop of his later years;
he walked slowly, had a deep, metallic voice, normally wore a "serious
and patient" expression, and had a fine head of dark brown hair
sprinkled with grey. [p. 207]
35. This promise of Brown's explains what would otherwise have been
an insoluble mystery: why, in the highly detailed records of the
Harper's Ferry raid, and in all the correspondence of John Brown
and his associates, is there no mention of "Comber" and Joe Simmons?
Plainly, Brown kept his word - as did those American agents
and officers who were well aware of the presence in Brown's band,
and at the Ferry, of these two additional raiders, [p. 207]
36. Brown visited London in 1849 on a wool-marketing venture which
proved a costly failure. He travelled to Yorkshire, and spoke highly
of English farming, stone-masonry, and roast beef, but thought the
horses inferior to those of the U.S. He had time for a brief trip to
the Continent, where he visited Paris, Hamburg, Brussels, and the
field of Waterloo. The "poodle hair" story is to be found in his
biographies, [p. 210]
37. Undoubtedly Mrs Julia Ward Howe, who two years later became
famous as the author of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic". (See
Note 3.) [p. 213]
38. This grim joke of Brown's was obviously one he enjoyed repeating;
it occurs in a different context in his biographies, as do many of the
remarks which Flashman reports from their first meeting at Sanborn's house. Artemus Ward's description of Brown appeared in the Cleveland Plain Dealer of March 22, 1859. [p. 215]
39. From the martial hymn, "Lift Up Your Heads, Ye Gates of Brass",
by James Montgomery (1771-1854). [p. 216]
388
40. Jerry (Jeremiah Goldsmith) Anderson echoed his words to Flashman
in a letter of July 5,1859: "Their cries for help go out to the universe
daily and hourly . . . there are a few who dare to answer this call
... in a manner that will make this land of liberty and equality shake
to the centre." [p. 217]
41. The speaker may have been Henry David Thoreau, the celebrated
American writer, who makes the comparison in his "Plea for Captain
John Brown" (A Yankee in Canada, 1866). Thoreau first met Brown
in 1857, and became an immediate admirer, writing of his "rare p, common sense ... a man of ideas and principles" and "his pent-up
I i fire". He also coined the description quoted earlier by Flashman: "A
volcano with an ordinary chimney flue", [p. 223]
42. The first of Brown's anecdotes is to be found in his own "Autobiography",
the second in Villard. [p. 225]
43. It is remarkable that Flashman never mentions "the Senator" by
name, and it is possible that he never knew it, but this was Henry
Wilson of Massachusetts. The physical description fits, and Senator
Wilson described his meeting with Brown at the Bird Club (an abolitionist
group who dined regularly at a Boston hotel) when he testified
before the Senate Investigating (Mason) Committee after the
Harper's Ferry tragedy; his account echoes Flashman's. Whether the
warning note reached him or not is unimportant; the date apart, it
merely confirmed what he knew already, for he was one of the Republican
Senators (Seward being the other) to whom Forbes had disclosed
the plot a year earlier. Wilson was a fervent abolitionist, a former
farm labourer and shoemaker who became chairman of the Senate
Military Affairs Committee during the Civil War. He was one of many
leading politicians (President Buchanan and Seward were others) who
came under the spell of the magnetic Mrs Greenhow, the Washington
hostess who was also a highly successful Confederate spy. When she
was arrested by Pinkerton, love-letters signed "H" were found among
her papers, but hand-writing experts decided that they were not Wilson's,
which in view of his official position was just as well. (See
Leech.) [p. 227]
Flashman is slightly misquoting Sir Francis Drake's famous dispatch
to Walsingham: "There must be a beginning of any great matter, but
the continuing unto the end until it be thoroughly finished yields the
true glory." [p. 234]
Newby's Christian name was Dangerfield, but he may have been
known jokingly as "Dangerous". The average age of Brown's followers
was twenty-five; only two of them were over thirty, and this
has led some commentators into the error of underrating them. In
fact, they were a formidable party (in spite of Flashman's occasional
disparagements) with no lack of experience of irregular warfare, and
the standard of their weapon handling and marksmanship appears to
have been high. The ironical nickname "pet lambs", which occurs in
"John Brown's Body", speaks for itself. (For a full list of Brown's
band, see Appendix III.) [p. 245]
389
46. Frederick Douglass (1817-95) was born in Maryland, the son of a
white father and a Negro-Indian mother. He escaped from slavery in
1838, worked as a stevedore and handyman, and became a lecturer
for the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society; his success as a speaker
and journalist, combined with his fine presence and polished manners
gave rise to the suggestion that he had never been a slave at all'
but he refuted this by publishing a detailed autobiography. He was
frequently assaulted by pro-slavery supporters, for he went out of his
way to fight segregation, and was also in danger from slave-catchers
but purchased his freedom in 1846 with funds raised on a visit to - Britain. He published an abolitionist newspaper. The North Star campaigned for women's suffrage, was active in black recruiting during
the Civil War, and held the post of marshal of the District of
Columbia before becoming U.S. Minister to Haiti. As Flashman says
he was the most famous black man in America; as a campaigner for
his people he was to the nineteenth century what Martin Luther King
was to the twentieth, [p. 250]
47. The "mutiny", Brown's resignation as leader, and his reelection,
took place more or less as Flashman describes. Villard says that "twice
at least" there was almost a "revolt" against the plan. Watson
Brown's letters to his wife at this time give an interesting indication
of the feeling at Kennedy Farm; in them he describes the suicide of
a local slave whose wife had been sold, and the murders of five other
slaves, and says: "I cannot come home as long as such things are
done here," but it seems plain that, like some of his companions, he
regarded Harper's Ferry as a death-trap, [p. 257]
48. Francis Meriam, the son of an abolitionist family, had made previous
attempts to join Brown, but he was a frail, unbalanced youth, and
according to Owen Brown his only qualification was his hatred of
slavery. In September, 1859, he heard from a black freedman in
Boston, Lewis Hayden, that Brown was short of money, and resolved
to contribute part of a recent inheritance to the cause; he arrived at
Harper's Ferry on the day before the raid, and was brought to the
farm - by Kagi, according to Flashman, by one of Brown's sons,
according to Villard. [p. 259]
49. If Flashman's map of Harper's Ferry is primitive and incomplete, it
should be remembered that he was drawing it more than half a century
later, and relying entirely on his memory of only a small part of the
town, observed mostly at night and in a state of some alarm. It was a
curious-looking place that he saw in 1859, half-village, half-armoury,
standing on its peninsula surrounded by heights, and enclosed along
its river banks by the tracks of two railways, the Winchester & Potomac
and the Baltimore & Ohio, which ran on trestles and stone
embankments designed to prevent flooding; six years later it had been
reduced to ruin by nine major Civil War actions fought in the vicinity,
and with the old landmarks gone it is not surprising that most historians
of the Brown raid have confined themselves to written descriptions,
or that Flashman's rough sketch leaves much to be desired.
390
For example, in the area marked "Town", where he has shown a
bare right angle of shops and houses, there were many more buildings
behind, as there were between the arsenal and the rifle works; there
were also some minor buildings between the Wager House and the
armoury railings, close to the tracks, and beside Gait's saloon on the
Shenandoah shore. He has forgotten that the arsenal and the large
building adjoining (formerly an arsenal, then a storehouse) were
within a railed enclosure, and has erred in showing the Shenandoah
bridge farther downstream than it actually was. But despite these
flaws, his map is accurate enough in its essentials - the relative positions
of the Wager House, the armoury gates and engine-house, the
arsenal, Gait's saloon, the railway lines, and the forked covered
bridge across the Potomac - as I have been able to verify by comparison
with the U.S. Government Printing Office maps of 1859, made
available to me through the kindness of Jeff Bowers and Kyle McGrogan
of the Harpers Ferry National Historical Park. (See GPO publications,
"John Brown's Raid" and Harpers Ferry pamphlets of 1981
and 1993; Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, October 29, 1859;
Dave Gilbert, A Walker's Guide to Harper's Ferry, and photographs
and illustrations in Villard and others.) [p. 268]
50. "Old soldier" was a natural mistake on Flashman's part. Colonel
Lewis Washington, great-grandnephew of George Washington,
behaved with soldierly courage throughout the Harper's Ferry raid,
but in fact he held his military title as an aide to the Governor of
Virginia. (See Keller.) [p. 281]
51. It was a strange chance that brought two of America's great military
heroes together at a time when both were still virtually unknown.
Robert Edward Lee (1807-70), a lieutenant-colonel of cavalry with
a sound but unremarkable record as a military engineer and superintendent
of West Point Military Academy, happened to be in Wash.ington
on leave from Texas in October, 1859; James Ewell Brown
Stuart (1833-64), a subaltern who had invented a patent device for
attaching a sabre to a belt, was waiting in the hope of showing it to
the Secretary for War when news came of the Harper's Ferry crisis
and he was abruptly despatched to summon Lee to the White House.
When Lee was sent to deal with Brown's raid, Stuart accompanied
him as aide - a curious beginning to a famous association. Only a
few years later. Lee, as commander-in-chief of the Confederate
armies, was being hailed by many as the greatest captain since Wellington,
a reputation which his surrender to Grant at Appomattox did
nothing to diminish, and "Jeb" Stuart's skill and daring had made
him the outstanding cavalry general of the U.S. Civil War; Lee called
him "the eyes of the army". (See Captain Robert E. Lee, Recollections
and Letters of General Robert E. Lee, 1904, and works cited in
Note 57.)
Flashman, who served on both sides in the Civil War, as a Confederate
staff colonel and as a major in the Union forces, with whom
he won the Congressional Medal of Honor (mysteries which will no
391
doubt be explained when the relevant packet of his Papers comes to
light), seems to have known both men well. That he rode with Stuart
is already established (see his interview with President Grant in Flashman and the Redskins). He refers to Lee as "my old chief"
in the present volume, and in an earlier one (Flashman) recalls a
conversation which suggests that they were more than official
acquaintances, [p. 2951
52. The young woman who intervened on Thompson's behalf was Miss
Christina Fouke (not "Foulkes"), sister of the Wager House's proprietor.
In a letter to the St Louis Republican she explained that she
wanted to see the law take its course, and to prevent any outrage in
the hotel, [p. 300]
53. Although Flashman did not know it, his order for breakfasts for the
raiders and hostages had been filled by the hotel, not without reluctance.
The dishes were carried to the armoury by waiters, but Brown,
Washington, and another hostage ate nothing, apparently suspecting
that the food might have been poisoned, [p. 304]
54. In fact there were eleven hostages in the engine-house, chosen
by Brown as being the most important of the thirty-odd whom he
had taken prisoner. The remainder were left in the watch-room,
which was attached to the engine-house but had no communicating
door. [p. 312]
55. In view of Brown's religious upbringing, it is not surprising that he
was familiar with the famous last words of Bishop Hugh Latimer,
burned at the stake in 1555: "Be of good comfort, Master Ridley,
and play the man. We shall this day light such a candle by God's
grace in England as shall never be put out." [p. 314]
56. Flashman's memory must be playing him false here. There may have
been a lantern in the engine-house during the parley with Captain
Sinn, but Brown would hardly have left it burning afterwards to assist
the besieging marksmen. Whatever illumination there was probably
came from the engine-house stove, [p. 319]
57. J. E. B. Stuart described the parley at the engine-house door in a
letter to his mother, and seems to make it clear that this was his only
interview with Brown. However, Captain Dangerfield, clerk of the
armoury, who was one of the hostages in the engine-house, and gave
a detailed account of his experiences to the Century Magazine, states
that Stuart made an earlier visit to the engine-house during the night
with a demand for surrender, and said that he would return at dawn
for a reply. Dangerfield's recollections are so convincing - he talked
at length with Brown during the night, and gives a vivid description
of the fighting and final storming of the engine-house - that it is
difficult to know what to make of this discrepancy, unless Dangerfield
confused Stuart with Captain Sinn, who as we know called on Brown
to surrender during the night. (Sanborn; H. B. McClellan, Life
and Campaigns of J. E. B. Stuart, 1885; John W. Thomason, Jeb
Stuart, 1930.) [p. 328]
58. Messervy was right. There was some trade in Harper's Ferry
392
souvenirs, including fakes of the pikes with which Brown had
intended to arm the slaves, [p. 337]
"There have been few more dramatic scenes in American history,"
wrote 0. G. Villard of the extraordinary interview with John Brown
which took place only a few hours after his capture. It was recorded
by a reporter from the New York Herald, and the essentials are
given in Sanborn. What must strike anyone who reads it is Brown's
complete composure and alertness throughout; considering his
wounded condition, it was a remarkable performance. Once or twice
he gives a sharp retort to an aggressive question, but for the rest he
is unfailingly courteous, measured, and even good-humoured. The
impression he made on his interrogators was profound, and the report
of Governor Wise of Virginia is particularly significant in view of the
controversy about Brown's sanity:
They are mistaken who take Brown to be a madman. He is a
bundle of the best nerves I ever saw ... a man of clear head, of
courage, fortitude and simple ingenuousness. He is cool, collected,
and indomitable.
Flashman's brief version of the interview corresponds with the Herald report, but he differs on small points from Harper's Weekly, which says that Brown's hair "was a mass of clotted gore" and that
"his speech was frequently interrupted by deep groans, reminding
me of the agonised growl of a ferocious beast." [p. 342]
Because the Marines had been ordered to wear full dress. Lieutenant
Green was carrying only a light ceremonial sword. This almost certainly
prevented his killing Brown in the engine-house, [p. 343]
Political reaction to the raid was predictable. Stephen Douglas spoke
for the Democrats when he called it the inevitable result of Republican
policy. The Republican leaders denounced it and disclaimed all
responsibility, but could not deny their sympathy with Brown's cause,
if not with his methods. Lincoln thought it right that he should hang
"even though he agreed with us in thinking slavery wrong. That
cannot excuse violence, bloodshed and treason". Seward condemned
the raid as a criminal act of sedition and treason, but could pity the
raiders "because they acted under delirium". Neither statement did
anything to mollify a South furious at the discovery that wealthy and
influential Northerners like the Secret Six and others had been
Brown's paymasters. For their part, three of the Six took prompt
evasive action: Sanborn decamped to Canada, but soon returned and
was briefly arrested; Dr Howe and George Steams followed him
and stayed away until after Brown's execution. Of the other three,
Theodore Parker was dying in Europe; Thomas Higginson, the most
militant of the Six, stayed put and tried, with Sanborn, to organise
Brown's escape (see Note 62); Gerrit Smith went temporarily mad
and spent six weeks in an asylum. Of all Brown's supporters, Frederick
Douglass had most to fear; within hours of the raid a warrant
was out for his arrest on charges of murder, treason, and inciting
393
slave revolt, and he fled to Canada on the day after the raid, and
subsequently to Britain, [p. 3451
Plotting to rescue Brown began within a few days of his capture. A
group who included two of the Six, Higginson and Sanborn, commissioned
one of Brown's defence counsel to investigate the possibility
of an escape, but Brown himself refused to be party to any such
attempt. Allan Pinkerton may also have considered the possibility of
a jail-break; his biographer quotes him as follows: "Had it not been
for the excessive watchfulness [of Brown's captors] . . . the pages of
American history would never have been stained with the record of
his execution." [p. 347]
394
The Flashman Papers
"If ever there was a time when I felt that watcher-oftheskieswhenanew-planet
stuff, it was when I read
the first Flashman" p.g. wodehouse
FLASHMAN
"A truly splendid book" dennis wheatley
ROYAL FLASH
"Flashman is going to end up a folk hero" Listener
FLASH FOR FREEDOM!
"I swear they'll have Flashy as a set book in school one
day" Oxford Mail
FLASHMAN AT THE CHARGE
"Mr Fraser is a skilful and meticulous writer, twice as
good as Buchan and twenty times better than Fleming"
auberon waugh, Evening Standard
FLASHMAN IN THE GREAT GAME
"Mr Eraser's idea has triumphantly carried five books
and now looks good enough for half a dozen more"
c.p. snow, Financial Times
FLASHMAN'S LADY
"The chief reason for Flashman's continuing popularity
is the simple fact that George MacDonald Fraser writes
superbly" Washington Post
FLASHMAN AND THE REDSKINS
"The Flashman books bristle with action . . . and they
are very, very funny" The Times
FLASHMAN AND THE DRAGON
"A marvellous book . . . the dialogue sparkles like
George Bernard Shaw" Punch
FLASHMAN AND THE
MOUNTAIN OF LIGHT
"George MacDonald Fraser is a marvellous reporter
and a first-rate historical novelist"
kingsley amis, Sunday Telegraph
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