Flashman - Flashman and the Angel of the Lord Part 9

"Hold on," says 1. "You say 'we' convinced Seward - by which you mean the secret service, and don't tell me different! 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 President will not be a Democrat. My task is the peace "You're sure of that? Even if he were to take Harper's Ferry? d.a.m.n 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 n.i.g.g.e.rs, 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 b.a.l.l.s. The Southern States will raise the cry of 'Disunion or death!' ... and then?"

"Then the b.l.o.o.d.y war will break out, according to you and that fat Senator!" says I, impatiently, and he nodded slowly and sipped the last inch from his gla.s.s.

"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 departed, and the Secret Six (having disclaimed Brown faster than you can blow smoke) would beat their b.r.e.a.s.t.s in public and give thanks in private that dead men can tell no tales ... but many sober Yankees would be appalled and angry at the raid, and condemn Brown even while they 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 a.s.sert 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 gla.s.s. "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 const.i.tutions 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, G.o.d-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 d.a.m.nedest 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 pract.i.tioners ... and there is your certain war ready-made, 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."

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's well. But if you can't, and if 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! - I 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 a.r.s.enals and stir up b.l.o.o.d.y 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 pa.s.sing 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 - well, I'd known a lot worse. It would be hard lying and rotten grub, no doubt, but I'd be earning the grat.i.tude of the next President, 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 weather, you understand, but Messervy's information had borne him out ... until he'd made it plain that if the worst befell, I'd be expected to put Mr John Brown quietly to rest.

Fat chance. A scoundrel I may be, but I ain't an a.s.sa.s.sin, and you will comb my memoirs in vain for mention of Flashy 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 d.a.m.ned far-fetched.) 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 Was.h.i.+ngton." 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 Was.h.i.+ngton and your ministry. The militia will round up the rest of Brown's gang, and that'll be that. You'll have no difficulty with Lord Lyons, by the way; he'll be given notice of your coming, with an a.s.surance from a high quarter that you have rendered a signal service to the United States in a domestic maker, 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 grat.i.tude, et cetera. Very good?"

"I don't know Lyons," says I, "but I'll bet he's n.o.body'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 ".

"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 thangs, though, and if need arises, I'll get word to you."

He took a small purse from a drawer and tossed it over. "'That's $50 to keep in your money belt ... if Joe should wonder how you came by it, Mrs Mandeville gave it you." He frowned. "That's another thing. Brown will welcome you with open arms -"

"Just suppose he doesn't - what then?"

"He will, no question; you're a gift from G.o.d. 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 d.a.m.ned 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 G.o.d who'd expect him to earn his own living." And having a free run at ma.s.sa's white lady from time to time, thinks L "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 lip-whisker as we drove away.

Annette sat like a frozen doll for several minutes, and then to my astonishment broke out in a low hard voice: "You saved my life this morning. When that creature fired on us. My ... my courage failed me. But for you, I would have been killed. I ... thank you."

I didn't twig for a second, and then it dawned that she must 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 so soon, was IT' I slipped an arm about her and kissed her soundly. "Why, it's I should thank you, for steering me clear of those Kuklos villains. But, I say, you took me in altogether, you clever little puss - never a word that you were working for Brother Jonathan*(*Synonymous with "Uncte Sam".) all the time! And you a Southern Creole lady, too! How's that come about, 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 mind still fixed on that fateful moment at Madam Celeste's, siding stiff as a board while I munched at her cheek. "I never shot at anyone before! I ... I was in terror, not thinking what I was about or -"

"Nonsense, girl!" says I, squeezing her udders. "Why, you blazed away like a drunk dragoon - winged him, I shouldn't wonder! 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 kiJled him!" she whispered, staring ahead. "It would have been murder - mortal sin! Thou shalt not kill! Oh, let me be, d.a.m.n you!" She beat at my hands, trying to struggle free. "Have you no feeling? Can you think of nothing but .. but your filthy l.u.s.t - oh, when I might have had that upon my soul?"

was so shocked I absolutely let them go. "Upon your what? Heavens, woman, what the dooce are you talking about?"

"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 d.a.m.ned!"

Now, I've seen folk take all kinds of fits after a shooting sc.r.a.pe, 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. "d.a.m.ned," she whispered. "d.a.m.ned 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 d.a.m.ned, 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 half-killed -'twasn't your fault they didn't kick the bucket, and you never thought twice about d.a.m.nation! Anyway, who says there's a h.e.l.l? Twaddle, if you ask me!"

It seemed to reach her, and she stared at me as though I were mad. "This was a human being!" cries she. "If I had killed him ..." She closed her eyes again, and began to tremble, turning away from me. I waited for the waterworks, but 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 padres 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 he 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 d.a.m.nation 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 h.e.l.l-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; G.o.d, these governesses have a lot to answer for.

She said not a word at supper - which she attacked with it fine appet.i.te, I may say - but when we returned to our room and found Joe waiting, she was quite her old imperious self, and talked according. He was in a fine excitement, thrusting Crixus's telegraph message into her hand; it was in code, and at length, but its purport was precisely what everyone, from Atropos to Pinkerton, had predicted: Joe 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, G.o.d 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 for-ward 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-las.h.i.+ng performance had been altogether in her best style.

So then it was bedtime, and since I- didn't expect much carnal amus.e.m.e.nt 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 con-science was still troubling her, she kept it on a tight rein, addressing heaven only in secular terms when amorous frenzy got the better of her. That interested me, for her usual form was to gallop in grim silence; more astonis.h.i.+ng still, she was ready to talk afterwards, briefly enough at first, but little by little at greater length, until we were conversing almost civilly. Whether it was grat.i.tude for having her life saved (as she thought, heaven help her), or I was in prime fettle, or she'd made her peace with G.o.d, 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 hove 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 a-plenty, 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 princ.i.p.al houses in the States and Canada, making and spending noney, 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 l.u.s.tful gooseberry eye of Charles La Force, and while the very sight of him had set her shuddering, the size of his 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 Was.h.i.+ngton, 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 pa.s.sion 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 life in which she'd been raised - the South, slavery, plantation society, and all that gracious magnolia stuff; no, she was wreaking vengeance on Atropos, and that was enough for her. Well, I'm a ready hater myself, G.o.d knows, and take the keenest pleasure in doing the dirty on deserving cases, but 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 ... and 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 pa.s.sage, 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 s.h.i.+vering against me.

"Have a care!" she sobbed. "Oh, have a care!" Then she kissed me fiercely and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

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 advertis.e.m.e.nt 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!"

Abolitionist he might be, he still knew a mister from the riff-raff. He ushered us into a hall stuffed with furniture and smelling 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 - you can always tell the quality 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 a.s.sure 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 Was.h.i.+ngton - 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 flouris.h.i.+ng for a century or two yet, thinks I; Joe, I noticed, was regarding him like a cannibal inspecting an under-nourished missionary. He gave us a toddy apiece, promised there would he supper anon, muttered about seeing if Captain Brown was still occupied, and was away like a shot, leaving the door ajar. We sipped our toddies in silence, inspecting the antimaca.s.sars 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 Stearns has started quite a fas.h.i.+on!"33 cries San-born. "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 brandis.h.i.+ng 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 going to make this man drop his gaze, or talk him out of anything.34 He came forward with a measured step, holding himself erect, and took my hand in both of his; his grip was rough and strong, and he spoke slowly, in a deep, rather harsh voice.

"Mr Beauchamp Comber," says he - p.r.o.nounced it Bo-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 31 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 G.o.d 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 to the other of us, nodding like an approving bishop - and 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. G.o.d 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 Brown, the worthy simple son of the soil with greatness in him, the homespun hero whose serenity was all the more 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. Any-way, for all his virtues, he was a b.l.o.o.d.y 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 t.i.tle 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 st.u.r.dy, 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 n.i.g.g.e.r, he turned to Joe, and told him that his presence there, as a coloured man eager to fight for the liberty of his oppressed 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 cJose 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."

or 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 reeord 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 b.u.g.g.e.rs loose and proclaim liberty throughout the land, or words to that effect.

He drank it in with stern approval, saying I surely had 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 know-ledge 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?""

It's how I see him still, laughing deep in his throat, slap-ping 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 h.e.l.l out of Harper's Ferry.

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 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, what you mean to do afterwards. You see, captain," says I soberly, "given preparation, any fool can take a place - holding it's another story. And using it."