Chapter 6
By and large I’m partial to Americans. They make a great affectation of disliking the English and asserting their equality with us, but I’ve discovered that underneath they dearly love a lord, and if you’re civil and cool and don’t play it with too high a hand you can impose on them quite easily. I’m not a lord, of course, but I’ve got the airs when I want ’em, and know how to use them in moderation. That’s the secret, a nice blending of the plain, polite gentleman with just a hint of Norman blood, and they’ll eat out of your hand and boast to their friends in Philadelphia that they know a man who’s on terms with Queen Victoria and yet, by gosh, is as nice a fellow as they’ve ever struck.
When they came aboard the Balliol College, raging angry and full of zeal, I bided my time while they herded us all forward, and didn’t say a word until the young lieutenant commanding them had ordered us all under hatches. They were pushing us to the companion, and being none too gentle about it, when I stepped smartly out of the line and said to him, very rapidly and civilly, that I wanted to see his commander on a most urgent matter.
He stared down his Yankee nose at me and snaps: “Goddam your impudence. You’ll do your talking in New Orleans—much good may it do you. Now, git below!”
I gave him a cool stare. “Believe me, sir,” says I, in my best Cherrypicker voice, “I am in most solemn earnest. Please—do nothing untoward.” I tilted my head slightly towards the Balliol College hands who were being pushed below. “These people must not know,” I said quietly, “but I am a British naval officer. I must see your commander without delay.”
He stared at me, but he was sharp. He waited till our last man was down the companion, and then demanded an explanation. I told him I was Lieutenant Comber, Royal Navy, on special service from the Board of Admiralty—which, I assured him, I could prove with ease. That settled it, and when one of his men had collected my traps from below, I was hustled off under guard, the Yankee officer still eyeing me suspiciously. But he had other things to think about—there was Spring, shot through the back and unconscious, being taken down on a stretcher; Mrs Spring was under guard in the cabin; there were three corpses on our deck, including Sullivan’s; Looney was below with the other prisoners, raving in a voice you could have heard in Aldershot; there was blood and wreckage on the deck, and a dozen weeping nigger girls huddled by the rail. I made the most of them, drawing the lieutenant’s attention to them and saying:
“Take care of those poor people. They must suffer no more than they have done. Miserable souls, they have come through hell today.”
I left him not knowing what to think, and allowed myself to be conducted aboard the U.S.S. Cormorant by my Leatherneck escort. And there it was plain sailing all the way, as I knew it must be. Captain Abraham Fairbrother, a very spry young gentleman, didn’t believe a word I said, at first, but once I had slit open my belt and laid Comber’s papers before his bulging eyes he hadn’t a leg to stand on. It was all so impressively official, and my own bearing and manner, although I say it myself, were so overwhelming, that the poor soul took it all in like a hungry fish. Why shouldn’t he? I would have done.
Of course I had to tell him a tremendous tale, but that sort of thing has never presented me with difficulty, and barring the fact that I wasn’t Comber, the whole thing was gospel true, which always makes lying easier. He shook his fair young head in amazement, and vowed that it beat everything he had ever heard; he was full of venom against slavers, I discovered, and so naturally he was all admiration for me, and shook my hand as though it was a pump handle.
“I feel it an honour to welcome you aboard, sir,” says he. “I had no notion that such a thing … that such people as yourself, sir, were engaged in this work. By George, it’s wonderful! My congratulations, sir!” And believe it or not, he actually saluted.
Well, I fancy I can carry off this sort of situation pretty well, you know. Modest and manly, that’s Flashy when the compliments are flying, with a touch of a frown to show that my mind is really on serious matters. Which it was, because I knew I hadn’t got farther than the first fence so far, and would have to tread delicately. But Captain Fairbrother was all eager assistance: what could he do to serve me? I confess I may have given him the impression that the entire slave trade could expect its coup de grace when once I’d laid my report before the British and American governments, and he was itching to help oil the wheels.
Have you noticed, once you have succeeded in convincing a man of something incredible, he believes it with an enthusiasm that he wouldn’t dream of showing for an obvious, simple fact? It had been like that with Looney; now it was so with Fairbrother. He simply was all over me; I just had to sit back and let him arrange matters. First, I must be delivered to Washington with all speed; the bigwigs would be in a positive lather to see me—I doubted that, myself, but didn’t say so. Nothing would do but he must carry me to Baltimore in his own brig, while the sloop could take the Balliol College into New Orleans with a prize crew—there, observes Mr Fairbrother darkly, the miscreants would meet with condign punishment for slavery, piracy, and attempted murder. Of course, I would give evidence eventually, but that could wait until Washington had been thrown into transports by my advent there.
Washington, I could see, was going to present problems; they wouldn’t be as easy to satisfy as Captain Fairbrother, who was your genuine Northern nigger-lover and violently prejudiced in my favour. He was one of these direct, virtuous souls, bursting with decency, whose every thought was written plainly on his fresh, handsome face. Arnold would have loved him—and young Chard could have used a few of him at Rorke’s Drift, too. Brainless as a bat, of course, and just the man for my present needs.
I impressed on him the need for not letting any of the Balliol College crew know what I truly was, and hinted at dangerous secret work yet to come which might be prejudiced if my identity leaked out. (That was no lie, either.) He agreed solemnly to this, but thought it would be an excellent plan to take some of the freed slaves to Washington, just for effect; “tangible evidence, sir, of your noble and heroic endeavours in the great crusade against this vile traffic”. I didn’t object, and so about six yellows and Lady Caroline Lamb were herded aboard and bedded down somewhere in the bowels of the brig. Fairbrother wondered about Mrs Spring, whose presence on the College shocked and amazed him; they had caught her hurling Spring’s log, papers, and accounts out of the cabin window, whereby much valuable evidence had been lost (that’s all you know, I thought). Still, she was a woman …
“Take her to New Orleans, is my advice,” says I. “There are not two more diabolical creatures afloat than she and her fiend of a husband. How is he, by the way?”
“In a coma,” says Fairbrother. “One of his own pirates shot him through the back, sir—what creatures they are, to be sure! He will live, I dare say—which is no great matter, since the New Orleans hangman will, if the fellow survives, have the duty of breaking his neck for him.”
Oh, the holy satisfaction of the godly—when it comes to delight in cruelty. I’m just a child compared to them. His next remark didn’t surprise me, either.
“But I am inconsiderate, Mr Comber—here have I been keeping you in talk over these matters, when your most urgent desire has surely been for a moment’s privacy in which you might deliver up thanks to a merciful Heavenly Father for your delivery from all the dangers and tribulations you have undergone. Your pardon, sir.”
My urgent need was in fact for an enormous brandy and a square meal, but I answered him with my wistful smile.
“I need hardly tell you, sir, that in my heart I have rendered that thanks already, not only for myself but for those poor souls whom your splendid action has liberated. Indeed,” says I, looking sadly reflective, “there is hardly a moment in these past few months that I have not spent in prayer.”
He gripped my hand again, looking moist, and then, thank God, he remembered at last that I had a belly, and gave orders for food and a glass of spirits whi
le he went off, excusing himself, to splice the binnacle or clew up the heads, I shouldn’t wonder.
Well, thinks I, so far so good, but we mustn’t go too far. The sooner I could slip out of sight, the better, for while the Balliol College crew were alive and kicking there was always the risk that I would be given away. I didn’t want to get the length of the British Embassy in Washington, for someone there might just know me, or worse still, they might know Comber. But for the moment, with the brig heading east by north, and the Balliol College making north under guard to Orleans, it was all sunshine for Harry—provided I didn’t trip myself up. I was meant to be Navy, and Fairbrother and his officers were Navy also, so I must watch my tongue.
As it turned out, by playing the reserved Briton and steering the conversation as often as possible to India, about which they were curious, I passed the thing off very well. I had to talk some slavery, of course, and there was a nasty moment when I was almost drawn into a description of our encounter with the British sloop off Dahomey, but I managed to wriggle clear. It would have been easier, I think, with Englishmen, for Yankee bluebacks are deuced serious fellows, more concerned with their d - - - - d ratlines and bobstays than with interesting topics like drink, women and cash. But I was very pious and priggish that voyage, and they seemed to respect me for it.
However, there was a human side, I discovered, even to the worthy Bible-thumping Fairbrother. I had made a great thing, the second day, of visiting the freed slaves and giving them some fatherly comfort—husbandly comfort would have been more like it, but with those sharp Yankee eyes on me I daren’t even squeeze a rump. Lady Caroline Lamb was there, eyeing me soulfully, but I patted her head sternly and told her to be a good girl. What she made of this I can only guess, but that evening, when I was settling down in the berth I had been allotted aft, I was startled by a rapping on my door. It was Fairbrother, in some consternation.
“Mr Comber,” says he, “there’s one of those black women in my berth!”
“Indeed?” says I, looking suitably startled.
“My G - d, Mr Comber!” cries he. “She’s in there, now—and she’s stark naked!”
I pondered this; it occurred to me that Lady Caroline Lamb, following her Balliol College training, had made her way aft and got into Fairbrother’s cabin—which lay in the same place as my berth had done on the slaver. And being the kind of gently-reared fool that he was, Fairbrother was in a fine stew. He’d probably never seen a female form in his life.
“What shall I do?” says he. “What can she want? I spoke to her—she’s the big, very black one—but she has hardly any English, and she just stays there! She’s kneeling beside my cot, sir!”
“Have you tried praying with her?” says I.
He goggled at me. “Pray? Why, I … I don’t know. She looks as though …” He broke off, going beetroot red. “My G - d! Do you suppose that slaver captain has been … using her as … as a woman?”
Humanity never ceases to amaze me. Here was this fine lad, old enough to vote, in command of a hundred men and a fighting ship which he could handle like a young Nelson, brave as a bull, I don’t doubt—and quivering like a virgin’s fan because a buxom tart had invaded his cabin. It’s this New England upbringing, of course; even a young manhood spent in naval service hadn’t obliterated the effect of all those sermons.
“Do you suppose she has been … degraded?” says he, in a hushed voice.
“I fear it is more than likely, Captain Fairbrother,” says I. “There is no depth unplumbed by their depravity. This unfortunate young woman may well have been trained to concubinage.”
He shuddered. “Monstrous … terrible. But what am I to do?”
“I find it difficult to know what to advise,” says I. “The situation is … unique in my experience. Perhaps you should tell her to go back to the quarters she has been allotted.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I must do that.” He hesitated, pulling at his lip. “It is frightful to think of these ignorant young creatures being … misled … in that way.”
“We must do what we can for them,” says I.
“Indeed, indeed.” He cleared his throat nervously. “I must apologise, Mr Comber, for disturbing you … I was startled, I confess … totally unexpected thing … yes. However, I shall do as you advise. My apologies again, sir. Thank you … er, and good night.”
He fairly fled into his cabin, that good pious lad, and I listened in vain thereafter for the sound of his door reopening. Not that I expected it. Next day he avoided my eye, and went red whenever the slaves were mentioned. He probably still does, but I’ll wager his conscience has never been quite strong enough to make him regret his lost innocence.
We made capital speed to Baltimore, which is just another port at the far end of the uninviting Chesapeake Bay, and from there, after Fairbrother had reported to his commodore, and the importance of my presence had been duly emphasised, we were taken by train to Washington, about forty miles off. I was getting fairly apprehensive by now, and looking sharp for a chance to make myself scarce—although what I would do then, in a strange country without any means of support, I couldn’t imagine. I knew the longer I kept up my imposture, the more chance there was of being detected, but what could I do? Fairbrother, who had wangled leave from his commander to be my personal convoy to the capital, stuck like a leech; he was looking for a share of the glory, of course. So I just had to sit back and see what came—at worst, I decided, I could make a bolt for it, but in the meantime I would carry the thing through with a wide eye and a bold bluff front.
Washington is an odd place. You could see the Jonathans had designed it with an eye to the future, when they envisaged it as the finest city in the world, and even then, in ’48, there were signs of building on every hand, with scaffolding about even in the middle of the city, and the outer roads all churned mud with the autumn rain, but fringed with fine houses half-completed. I got to know it well in the Civil War time, but I never liked it—sticky as Calcutta or Madras in summer, and yet its people dressed as though they’d been in New York or London. I could always smell fever in the air there, and why George Washington ever chose the site beats me. But that’s your rich colonial Englishman all over—never thinks twice about other people’s convenience.
But sticky or not, the officials who lived there were d - - - - d sharp men, as I discovered. Fairbrother delivered me at the Department of the Navy, where a white-whiskered admiral heard my tale and d - - - - d his stars at every turn; then he handed me on to a section much like our Board of Trade, where several hard-faced civilians took up the running and I went through the thing again. They didn’t seem to know what to make of me at all, at first, or what precisely they ought to do; finally, one of them, a fat little fellow called Moultrie, asked me exactly what could I contribute to the anti-slave trade campaign apart from giving evidence against the crew of the Balliol College? In other words, what was so remarkable about me that Washington was being troubled with me at all? Where was the important report that had been talked about by Captain Fairbrother?
Since it didn’t exist, I had to invent it. I explained that I had gathered an immense amount of detail not only about the slave-traders, but about those in Britain and America who were behind them, supplying them with funds and ships, and organising their abominable activities under the cover of legitimate commerce. All this, I explained, I had committed to paper as opportunity arose, with such documents as I had been able to obtain, and I had earmarked useful witnesses along the way. I had consigned one report to a reliable agent at Whydah, and another to a second agent at Roatan—no, I dare not disclose their names except to my own chiefs in London. A third report I would certainly write out as soon as I could—a rueful smile here, and a reminder that life for me had been fairly busy of late.
“Yes, yes, sir,” says he, “this is excellent, and very well, in its way. Your prudence about the disposal of your earlier reports is commendable. But from what you say you are obviously in possession of
information which must be of the first importance to the United States Government—information which Her Majesty’s ministers would obviously communicate to us. You have names, you say, of Americans who are behind the slave trade—who, at least, are involved in it at a safe remove from slaving operations. Now, sir, here we have the root of the thing—these are the men we must bring to book. Who are those men?”
I took a deep breath, and tried to look like a man in mental struggle, while he and his two fellow-inquisitors waited, and the secretary sat with his pen poised.
“Mr Moultrie,” says I, “I can’t tell you. Please, sir—let me explain.” I solemnly checked his outburst. “I have many names—both in my mind and in my reports. I don’t know much about American public affairs, sir, but even I recognise some of them as—well, not insignificant names. Now if I were to name them to you—now—what would they be but names? The mass of evidence that would—that will—lead to their proven involvement in the traffic in black souls, is already on its way to England, as I trust. Obviously it will be communicated to you, and these people can be proceeded against. But if I were to name names now, sir”—I stabbed a finger on the table—“you could do nothing; you would have to wait on the evidence which has been assembled. And while I trust your discretion perfectly, gentlemen—it would be an impertinence to do otherwise—we all know how a word once spoken takes wings. Premature disclosure, and consequent warning, might enable some of these birds to escape the net. And believe me, gentlemen …” I gritted my teeth and forced moisture into my eyes “… believe me, I have not gone through the hell of those Dahomey raids, and watched the torture of those poor black creatures on the Middle Passage—I have not risked death and worse—in order to see those butchers escape!”
Well, it wasn’t a bad performance, and it took them pretty well aback. Moultrie looked d - - - - d solemn, and his pals wore the alarmed expression of men in the presence of a portent they didn’t understand. Then Moultrie says:
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 150