Flashman - Flashman and the Angel of the Lord Part 3

We lay two days in the bay, and I didn't doubt that Spring's letters had gone ash.o.r.e with the pilot. Now that the grip had come, all my a.s.surance had melted like snow off a d.y.k.e, 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 brandis.h.i.+ng 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 slave-catcher and his gang, and the poker-faced Navy man whose name I'd forgotten, and blasted George Randolph, the run-away n.i.g.g.e.r I'd abandoned, and vague figures I couldn't make out, but I knew they were the c.u.manches 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,* (* The monster Flashman, shapeless, huge and horrible (adapted from Virgil's description of Polyphemus).) mark him well, ladies and harlots, for Juvenal never spoke a truer word, omne in praecipiti vitium stet.i.t,*(* Every kind of vice has reached its summit.) 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 n.i.g.g.e.r Cleonie whom I'd sold to the priest at Santa Fe, willowy Ca.s.sy 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 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 s.h.i.+p at sea, bound for Baltimore and that awful nightmare which thank G.o.d was only a dream after all, conjured up out of my fears. But there was no motion about the place on which 1 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 ash.o.r.e, then . . . but how, and for how long? I tried to conjure up my last memory of s.h.i.+pboard, but couldn't with the ache in my head, and to this day I don't know how I left the s.h.i.+p, 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 on y in a grubby s.h.i.+ft.

"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 s.l.u.t!" Another hoa.r.s.e 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 h.e.l.l 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! Ya.s.suh, 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 tap-room, 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 covered with tattoos, but what took the eye was that he was clieking 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+p, and a greasy disease in a billyc.o.c.k hat and bra.s.s watch-chain asked: "What s.h.i.+p would that be, sailor?"

"The Sea Witch, and I'm Bully Waterman,15 so get the h.e.l.l 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 ash.o.r.e above twenty-four hours. Whatever information Spring had sent to the authorities must have been in their hands for two days by now, and no doubt it would contain an excellent description, even down to my clothes. These consisted of a s.h.i.+rt 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 d.a.m.ned 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 G.o.ddam 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 "b.u.m" 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. d.a.m.ned interesting, I found it. Women were altogether more generous than men, especially as I moved up-town; when I approached two fas.h.i.+onable 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 t.i.ttering. I left off, though, when I became aware that I was being watched by a belted constable with a d.a.m.ned 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-and-image interior, and found the man himself delving like a navigator in the garden behind the church, whistling "The Young May Moon" in his s.h.i.+rt-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 a.s.sistance ye're seekin', Was.h.i.+ngton'll 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 Was.h.i.+ngton, 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 position in a Was.h.i.+ngton bank. Unfortunately, I had been set upon soon after landing the previous night, and was with-out cash or effects. He opened eyes and mouth wide.

"D'ye tell me? Dear G.o.d, what's the world 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've 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 feller-countryman, at least - there's enough of English and our-selves hereabouts, G.o.d 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 lookin', 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 bein' 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.

"Ah, well, here am I blatherin' on, an' you itchin' to take your way to Was.h.i.+ngton. Aye, but with your pockets all to let. Well, man dear, I was after thinkin' yonder that I'd be makin' ye a small loan for your train ticket, but d'ye know, I'd he party to an awful sin if I did that, so I would. Ye see," says he, shaking his pawky old head, "the day ye find a priest sittin' in the court at Trinity is a day ye'll be able to skate over Dublin Bay from Bray to Balbriggan - an' as for seein' St Stephen's Green from the court, well, I doubt if even ould Faylen could see that far from heaven, where he's been this five-and-thirty years, G.o.d rest his soul. An' tellin' me ye were a banker," he added sorrowfully, "an' you wid spurs an' bra.s.s b.u.t.tons stickin' out all over ye! Now, will ye take another drop o' tea ... soldier, an' tell me all about it?"

"You wouldn't believe it if I did," says I, rising. "Thank'ee for the tea, padre, and I'll bid you a very good day."

"Stop, stop!" cries he. "Sit down, man dear, an' don't be takin' offence at an ould man jist because he knows Phoenix Park shoulders when he sees them! Come, now, be easy, an' drink your tea. Can ye not see I'm burstin' to know the Coruth of it?"

His smile was so eager and friendly that I found myself smiling in turn. "What makes you think I'll tell truth this time?"

"Why shouldn't ye? Ye'll come to no harm from me if ye do. An' if ye don't - well, am I to have no diversion at all? Now then - whut's this I wouldn't believe? Jist you try me!"

"Very ,well ... I'm a British Army officer, I was on my way home from India, I was waylaid at Cape Town and crimped aboard a packet which arrived here yesterday, I'm dest.i.tute - but thanks to you I know where to find British authorities who'll help me back to England. And if you believe that -"

"And why would I not? It fits ye better than all that moon-s.h.i.+ne about bankin' an' Trinity, I'll say that for it! What's your name, my son?"

There was no earthly reason why I shouldn't tell him - so I shook my head. Least said.

"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 Was.h.i.+ngton, 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 gentle-manly 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 Was.h.i.+ngton - 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 Mary-land? 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 of his statement proved as wrong as could be. Someone did look at us, but I didn't notice at the time, possibly because I was busy parrying Rafferty's artful questions about the Army and India - at least I could satisfy him I was telling the truth about those.

"Ask at the Was.h.i.+ngton station where the British minister's to be found," he advised me, "an' if they don't know, make your way to Willard's Hotel on Fourteenth Street, an' they'll set ye right. It's the great place, an' if they turn up their noses at your togs, jist give 'em your Hyde Park swagger, eh?

"But mind how, ye go, now!" cries he, as I mounted the step to the coach. "T'will be dark by the time ye get in, an' 'tis a desperate place for garotters an' scallywags an' the like! We wouldn't want ye waylaid a second time, would we?"

Grat.i.tude ain't my long suit, as you know, but he'd seen me right, and he was a cheery wee soul; looking down at the smiling pixie face under the round hat, I couldn't help liking the little murphy, and wondering why he'd been at such pains on my behalf. It's a priest's business, of course, to succour the distressed sinner, but I knew there was more in it than that. He was a lonely old man, far from home, and he was Irish, and had guessed I was on the run, and I was Army, like his father and uncles. And he had taken to me, as folk do, even when they know I'm not straight.

"I wish ye'd tell me your name, though!" says he, when I thanked him. I said I'd send him my card when I repaid the ten dollars.

"That ye will!" cries he heartily. "In the meantime, (hough - your Christian name, eh?"

"Harry."

"I believe ye - ye look like a Harry. G.o.d knows ye didn't look like - what was't? - Grattan? Grattan the banker from the Rathfarnham - the impidence of it!" He laughed, and 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 as the train pulled out, a little black figure vanis.h.i.+ng into the hissing steam.

I reckon Father Rafferty was one of those good fools who are put into the world to grease the axles for people like me. They charm so easy, if you play 'em right, and the bigger a scoundrel you are the more they'll put themselves out for you, no doubt in the hope that if you do reform, they'll get that much more treasure in heaven for it. You may be astonished to know that I did repay the loan, later on, but in no spirit of grat.i.tude or obligation, or because I'd quite liked the little a.s.s. No, I paid because 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 offend the local tribal G.o.ds; it ain't lucky.

It was dark when we pulled into Was.h.i.+ngton, and the conductor had never heard of the British ministry; oh, sure, he knew Willard's Hotel, but plainly wondered what business this rumpled traveller without a hat could have at such a select establishment. He was starting to give me reluctant directions when a chap who'd alighted from the train directly behind me said if it was Willard's I wanted, why, he was going that way himself. He was a sober-looking young fellow, neatly dressed, so I thanked him and we went out of the crowded station into a dark and dirty Was.h.i.+ngton evening.

"It's close enough to walk if you don't mind the rain," says my companion, and since it seemed only prudent to save my cash, I agreed, and we set off. It wasn't too damp, but Was.h.i.+ngton didn't seem to have improved much in ten years; they were still building the place, and making heavy weather of it, for the street we followed was ankle-deep in mud, and so poor was the lighting that you couldn't see where you were putting your feet. We jostled along the sidewalk, blundering into people, and presently my guide pulled up with a mild oath, glanced about him, and said we'd be quicker taking a side-street. It didn't look much better than an alley, but he led the way confidently, so I ploughed on behind, thinking no evil - and suddenly he lengthened his stride, wheeled round to face me, and whistled sharply.

I'm too old a hand to stand with my mouth open. I turned to flee for the main street, cursing myself for having been so easily duped, and after Rafferty's warning about footpads too - and stopped dead in my tracks. Two dark figures were blocking my way, and before I had time to turn again to rush on my single ambusher, the larger one stepped forward, but when he raised his hands it wasn't to strike; he held them palms towards me in a restraining gesture, and his voice when he spoke was quiet, even friendly.

"Good evening, Mr Comber. Welcome back, sir - why, you mayn't believe it, but this is just like old times!"

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 ident.i.ty 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 b.u.g.g.e.r who'd dragooned me into running that uppity n.i.g.g.e.r 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 n.o.body 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!"

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!"

G.o.d 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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 hustling 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 all 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 horrid thought - did he know I'd left Randolph to his fate on that steamboat? Well, I'd thought the b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 n.i.g.g.e.rs again, surely? No, it defied all explanation, so I sat 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 half-believing 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! G.o.d 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 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 G.o.d had sent me, which I didn't like the sound of - I mean to say, what had he sent me for? It might he that Crixus, having heard of my arrival, G.o.d 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 gla.s.ses were as fierce as ever, and if his frame was feeble, his spirit plainly wasn't.

"G.o.d has sent you!" cries he again. "In the very hour! lor (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 gla.s.s 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 our-selves, 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 hind I had parted company, and I was not about to enlighten him. I looked manly as he and Moody and Black Joe raised their gla.s.ses, 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 ill.u.s.trious station master!", which almost had him piping his modest eye again), I put it to him plain, with that earnest 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 pa.s.ses, 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 G.o.d, here you are!"

"And you're right, sir!" cries I heartily. "He has sent me to you indeed, for I need your help - I 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 n.o.ble 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 Const.i.tution, 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 oil. 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 f 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 G.o.d, 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 no difference, surely? Spare me that time, sir - nay, I insist, you must! You shall not regret it, I a.s.sure 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 Joe filled my gla.s.s.

Crixus studied a moment, as though unsure how to begin, and then said he supposed I knew how things stood in America at present. I said I didn't, since my work had taken me east, not west, and I'd lost sight of colonial affairs, so, to speak. He frowned, as though 1'd no business to be messing 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 G.o.d, 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 hack, 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 1'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 G.o.d'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 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 bra.s.s 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, acc.u.mulated 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!"