Flashman - Flashman and the Angel of the Lord Part 5

Black Joe took his eyes off me for an instant, possibly to 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 s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 my balance and sprawled in the wreckage once more, and 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 b.u.t.tons of an infantry colonel; another might have been a prosperous professional man, with his immaculate broad-cloth coat and heavy watch-chain across his bulky middle, and the third was an absolute Paris fas.h.i.+on 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 b.u.t.ter. 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 eye-holes and blank gaping mouths.

Barring an ill.u.s.trated 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 ent.i.tled "All Hope Abandon", purporting to show what happened when the Spanish Inquisition got hold of you - which they undoubtedly would, my nurse a.s.sured 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 brandis.h.i.+ng 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, d.a.m.ned 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 c.o.c.ked 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 expected to hear out of those grotesque hoods, but my amazement redoubled when the fat dandy limped up and stooped his great bulk to inspect me through blank eyeholes.

"I'll lay seven to two he answers to both," drawls he - another Southerner, but where the others were broad Dixie, he was your refined magnolia, elaborately soft and courteous. "Good mornin', suh. Pray pardon this intrusion, an' our outlandish attire. No cause for alarm, I a.s.sure you."

It didn't a.s.sure me for a moment, with those three horrid masks looming over me, but the politely mocking voice stirred me to fury in spite of my terror. "d.a.m.n your impudence! Who . . . who are you, and what d'you mean by it - you and your infernal n.i.g.g.e.r, he's broke my b.l.o.o.d.y leg -"

"Hold yo' tongue!" snarled the colonel's hood, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed Joe's pistol and levelled it. "Stir a finger an' Ah'll burn yo' brains -"

"Stow it, Clotho," says the fat hood quietly, and set the weapon aside with his cane. "Pistols, 'pon my soul - we're in a Was.h.i.+n'ton ho-tel, suh, not a Memphis boa'din' house. 'Sides, firearms ain't necessary ..." He lowered his cane - and a glittering blade shot out from its ferrule, stopping an inch above my palpitating breast. ". . . are they? Have no fear, suh - just a precaution 'gainst any sudden outcry on your part, like hollerin' for help, or showin' fight." He gave a fleshy chuckle. "But you wouldn't be so foolish - would you now?"

Before that wicked point and soft-spoken menace I shrank back, gasping. "In G.o.d's name . . . what d'ye want with me? I'm a British officer, under the protection of my minis-try, d.a.m.n you -"

"Now, that you ain't," says he, gently chiding. "Oh, right dearly you'd like to be, but folks keep gettin' in the way, don't they? First the wo'thy Crixus, then ourselves." The blade clicked out of sight, and he leaned comfortably on his cane, all patient amiability - and I've never seen anything more sinister than that hollow-eyed white visor with the smooth voice issuing from its shapeless mouth. "Now, see heah . . . if you're reasonable no least harm will come to you, on my honour. All we seek is to talk with you, civil an' quiet - but we have to know who we-all are talkin' to, you see? Joe heah, on good authority, says your name is Comber; Miz Mandeville, on t'other hand -"

"Why waste time?" Annette broke in, shrill and impatient. "If you want the truth from this snake, you'll have to twist it out of him!" She was at his elbow, eyeing me spitefully - coupling apart, we'd detested each other heartily in the old days, and my innards shrank as I remembered those spurred boots and the cruel pleasure she'd taken in the whipping of her plantation wenches.

"That's not what we want him for, Annette deah," sighs the fat horror. "You're lettin' outraged delicacy cloud your judgment." He chuckled again. "Cain't think why - I'll wager you relished eve'y lovin' moment of him jus' now; you always do." He s.h.i.+fted his game leg, wincing audibly, and tapped his cane sharply on my chest. "Now, suh, I'm gettin' right weary standin' heah when we could be settin' at our ease, so . . . are you Arnold, or Comber - or both?"

In my terror it didn't even cross my mind to tell him I was neither, but Flashy - when you're surrounded by Inquisition hoods with a swordstick at your throat, you tell 'em what they want to hear, believe me. And whoever this ghastly genteel apparition was, I know a killing gentleman when I meet one; everything about this oily fat flawn - his dandy elobber, his polite irony, the leer in his voice when he spoke to Annette - suggested a graduate of the Starnberg-Ignatieff school, and probably all the more vicious for being a flabby cripple.

"Both ... blast you! Yes, I called myself Arnold on her husband's plantation - whatever the h.e.l.l it is to you, whoever you are -"

"In Louisiana you called yo'self Prescott!" cries the hood with the colonel's uniform, and d.a.m.ned if he didn't sound indignant. "Fan me, ye winds, the feller's got mo' names'n Lucifer! Yore a d.a.m.ned rascal, suh! What else you bin callin' yo'self, hey?"

"It don't signify, Clotho," says the beau. He turned to the other hood. "He's our man, Lachesis."

"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, a.s.sist 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 ... ident.i.ties . . . 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 told me my first impression had been right in the bull: they were bold, blue, smiling, and amiable as fish-hooks.

"Your servant, Mistuh Comber," says he, and gave me his arm; his hand was soft and manicured, but when I per-force 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 G.o.d, 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 d.a.m.ned 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 gla.s.s 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 cla.s.sical names we three have adopted, bein' those of 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' inst.i.tutions 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 a.s.s! It's awdained by the will o' G.o.d, G.o.ddammit! 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 coa.r.s.e language to an aristocrat-turned-wh.o.r.e 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, Ma.s.s' 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 'pa.s.senger' 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 a plump, satisfied simper. "Now you know, suh, how you come to be heah. We learned of your arrival at Baltimo' as soon as Crixus did - like him, we have agents within the po-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 d.a.m.ned 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 pa.s.sin' 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 pro-found ... 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 h.e.l.lish 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 went 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 were delayed, which, I believe . . ." his great belly heaved with amus.e.m.e.nt, ". . . gave her the oppo'tunity to indulge her taste for mixin' business with pleasure -"

"d.a.m.n 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 with-out haste, watching me carefully as he shook it out.

"Crixus told you that John Brown plans to invade V'ginia an' raise a rebellion of the nigras theah. An' he wants you, Mistuh Comber, to take the place of Colonel Hugh Forbes" - he p.r.o.nounced 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 m.u.f.fled 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 a.s.s let my tongue run away with me.

"Great G.o.d, man, d'ye think I'm as crazy as Crixus? What the dooce have I to do with his hare-brained schemes? Look 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 d.a.m.ned Railroad, or you and your infernal Kuklos, and I wouldn't go near this madman Brown for a b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.h.i.+ning within the hood. "You don't care about slavery? Ah find that pa.s.sin' strange from a man engaged by the Queen's Navy 'gainst the Afriky traders, who spied on them in the Middle Pa.s.sage, 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!"

1'd forgotten, in my fright and confusion, that I was meant to be Comber - biG.o.d, was this the time to announce myself as Flashy? No, I daren't, for they'd never credit it - and if they did, G.o.d alone knew what they'd do. I'd been a political long enough to know that these secret b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 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 sure, the others were probably no better, and Mandeville was a callous little b.i.t.c.h - no, for my skin's sake I must cleave to what they believed to be true. I struggled for words and noisy voices were pa.s.sing the door, fading down the corridor . . Jesus, four floors below careless diners would be wolfing steak and fried oysters in the breakfast-room - and those hideous white death's-heads were before me, Joe's pistol was behind - and Atropos was restraining my questioners with a languid gesture of his cane.

"Easy, theah, gen'lemen; no call for heat." He sounded almost amused, and the gargoyle face 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 Britis.h.!.+" cries Clotho.

"Ah wuz theah ... 'member?" Joe's voice spoke behind me like the knell of doom, and I could only bl.u.s.ter.

"What I told Crixus is my business! d.a.m.nation, what's it to you? Who the h.e.l.l 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 Comber is workin' for the British or not, don't signify a bit. You 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."

G.o.d 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 come 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 tellin' 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 h.e.l.l should I do what you want?"

"Because," says he patiently, "it ain't far to Kentucky."

"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 s.l.u.t. "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, Ca.s.sy! I'd no part -"

"You nevah killed no one, did ye?" came the growl from Clotho's hood. "Haw! You sho' have the d.a.m.nedest 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-b.i.t.c.h 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 s.h.i.+pped 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, G.o.d 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 were waiting. So I must pretend to agree, play for time, say any d.a.m.ned thing at all .. .

"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 mola.s.ses 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 dis-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'll 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?"

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 questions Comber was bound to ask.

"But if he raises a slave rebellion, and all the n.i.g.g.e.rs 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 a.r.s.enal, prob'ly Harper's Ferry, jus' over the Virginny line. He's been braggin' it for yeahs, tellin' that loudmouth Forbes, who tol' half Was.h.i.+n'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 b.i.t.c.h 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 h.e.l.l . . . ? 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 ... G.o.d help us, why should he need me?"

"Come, now, Crixus told you that. Brown needs a trained officer if he's to take that a.r.s.enal - why, the man's but a peasant, half-crazy, half-iggerant, leadin' a crew of jayhawkers an' farmers, scrimmagin' in backyards an' rob-bin' 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-a.r.s.ed with no chin and knock-knees, 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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sel 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 Noo 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 ... G.o.d 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."

"'That's why Noo Yawk is right convenient," puts in Lachesis. "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 coat-tails 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 "sergeant-general" of the Malaga.s.sy army, or forced to convoy a bog-trotting 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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'll 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 thought he had me to rights. He was a d.a.m.ned 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 a.s.sumption 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 self-satisfied 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 c.o.c.ksure 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 excla- mations - 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 G.o.ds!" Clotho's hood was in danger of being blown off. "Of all the con-founded gall!"