The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Yes … I see. You are in no doubt, sir … of the consequences … that is, the importance, of some of those implicated? Do you suggest that … when all is known … there would be a, er, a political scandal, perhaps?”

  I gave my mirthless laugh. “I may indicate that best, sir, by assuring you that among the Britons whom I know to be involved in the traffic—and whose complicity can be proved, sir—are two peers of the realm and one whose name was, until lately, to be found among Her Majesty’s Ministers. And I believe, sir, that the American names include men of comparable stature. The profits of the slave trade, sir, are immense enough to tempt the highest. Judge whether a scandal may be expected.”

  He was regarding me round-eyed. “Mr Comber,” says he, “your knowledge makes you a very dangerous young man.”

  “And therefore,” says I, smiling keenly, “you would say—a very endangered young man? I am used to risk, sir. It is my trade.”

  I was almost believing it myself by now, so I wasn’t surprised that they took it in. So much so, that being Yankees, and no fools, they made me go through my whole yarn again—from the Channel to Whydah, Gezo’s village, our escape, the voyage west, Roatan, and all the rest—in the hope of my slipping out some information unawares. But since I didn’t have any they were wasting their time. Finally they conferred while I cooled my heels, and announced that they would discuss matters with the British Ambassador, and in the meantime I would hold myself ready to go to New Orleans to testify against the Balliol College.

  I didn’t fancy this, at all, but again there was nothing to be done at the moment. So I bowed, and later that day I was hailed to the Ambassador’s house—a very decent old stick, and a pleasant change from those yapping Jonathan voices. I was a shade wary in case he, or any of his people, might by a chance in a thousand be acquainted with the real Comber, but all was well. I told my story for a fourth time, and that evening, when he bade me to dinner with him, I went through it yet again for the entertainment of his guests. And I’ll swear I didn’t put a foot wrong—but there was one man at that table with as keen a nose for a faker as I have myself. How or when he saw through me I shall never understand, but he did, and gave me one of the many nasty moments in my life.

  There were about a dozen at the dinner, and I didn’t even notice him until the ladies had withdrawn, and Charterfield, our host, had invited me to regale the gentlemen with my adventures on the Slave Coast. But he seemed to take an even closer interest in my story than the others. He was an unusually tall man, with the ugliest face you ever saw, deep dark eye sockets and a chin like a coffin, and a black cow’s lick of hair smeared across his forehead. When he spoke it was with the slow, deliberate drawl of the American back-countryman, which was explained by the fact that he was new to the capital; in fact, he was a very junior Congressman, invited at the last moment because he had some anti-slavery bill in preparation, and so would be interested in meeting me. His name will be familiar to you: Mr Lincoln.31

  Let me say at once that in spite of all the trouble he caused me at various times, and the slight differences which may be detectable in our characters, I liked Abe Lincoln from the moment I first noticed him, leaning back in his chair with that hidden smile at the back of his eyes, gently cracking his knuckles. Just why I liked him I can’t say; I suppose in his way he had the makings of as big a scoundrel as I am myself, but his appetites were different, and his talents infinitely greater. I can’t think of him as a good man, yet as history measures these things I suppose he did great good. Not that that excites my admiration unduly, nor do I put my liking down to the fact that he had a sardonic humour akin to my own. I think I liked him because, for some reason which God alone knows, he liked me. And not many men who knew me as well as he did, have done that.

  I remember only a few of his observations round that table. Once, when I was describing our fight with the Amazons, one of the company exclaimed:

  “You mean to say the women fight and torture and slay on behalf of their menfolk? There can be no other country in the world where this happens.”

  And Lincoln, very droll, inquires of him: “Have you attended many political tea parties in Washington lately, sir?”

  They all laughed, and the fellow replied that even in Washington society he hadn’t seen anything quite to match what I had described.

  “Be patient, sir,” says Lincoln. “We’re a young country, after all. Doubtless in time we will achieve a civilisation comparable with that of Day-homey.”

  I spoke about Spring, and Charterfield expressed amazement and disgust that a man of such obvious parts should be so great a villain.

  “Well, now,” says Lincoln, “why not? Some of the greatest villains in history have been educated men. Without that education they might have been honest citizens. A few years at college won’t make a bad man virtuous; it will merely put the polish on his wickedness.”

  “Oh, come, now,” says Charterfield, “that may be true, but you must admit that virtue more often goes hand in hand with learning than with ignorance. You know very well that a nation’s criminal class is invariably composed of those who lack the benefits of education.”

  “And being uneducated, they get caught,” says Lincoln. “Your learned rascal usually goes undetected.”

  “Why, at this rate, you will equate learning with evil-doing,” cries someone. “What must your view be of our leading justices and politicians? Are they not virtuous men?”

  “Oh, virtuous enough,” says Lincoln. “But what they would be like if they had been educated is another matter.”

  When I had finished my tale, and had heard much congratulation and expressions of flattering astonishment, it was Lincoln who remarked that it must have been a taxing business to act my part among the slavers for so long. Had I not found it a great burden? I said it had been, but fortunately I was a good dissembler.

  “You must be,” says he. “And I speak as a politician, who knows how difficult it is to fool people.”

  “Well,” says I, “my own experience is that you can fool some people all the time—and all the people some times. But I concede that it’s difficult to fool all the people all the time.”

  “That is so,” says he, and that great grin lit up his ugly face. “Yes, sir, Mr Comber, that is indeed so.”

  I also carried away from that table an impression of Mr Lincoln’s views on slaves and slavery which must seem strange in the twentieth century since it varies somewhat from popular belief. I recall, for example, that at one point he described the negroes as “the most confounded nuisance on this continent, not excepting the Democrats”.

  “Oh, come,” says someone, “that is a little hard. It is not their fault.”

  “It was not my fault when I caught the chicken pox,” says Lincoln, “but I can assure you that while I was infected I was a most unconscionable nuisance—although I believe my family loved me as dearly as ever.”

  “Come, that’s better,” laughs the other. “You may call the nigras a nuisance provided you love them, too—that will satisfy even the sternest abolitionist.”

  “Yes, I believe it would,” says Lincoln. “And like so many satisfactory political statements, it would not be true. I try to love my fellow man, with varying success, the poor slaves among the rest. But the truth is I neither like nor dislike them more than any other creatures. Now your stern abolitionist, because he detests slavery, feels he must love its victims, and so he insists on detecting in them qualities deserving unusual love. But in fact those qualities are not to be found in them, any more than in other people. Your extreme anti-slaver mistakes compassion for love, and this leads him into a kind of nigra-worship which, on a rational examination, is by no means justified.”

  “Surely the victim of a misfortune as grievous as slavery does deserve special consideration, though.”

  “Indeed,” says Lincoln, “special consideration, special compassion, by all means, just such as I received when I had the chicken pox. But having the chick
en pox did not make me a worthier or better person, as some people seem to suppose is the case with victims of slavery. I tell you, sir, to listen to some of our friends, I could believe that every plantation and barracoon from Florida to the river is peopled by the disciples of Jesus. Reason tells me this is false; the slave being God’s creature and a human soul, is no better than the rest of us. But if I said as much to Cassius Clay32 he would try to prove me wrong at the point of his bowie knife.”

  “You have worked too long on your anti-slavery bill,” laughs Charterfield. “You are suffering from a surfeit.”

  “Why, sir, that is probably so,” says Lincoln. “I wish I had ten dollars for every time I have fought a client’s case, never doubting its justice and rightness, pursuing it to a successful verdict with all my powers—and finished the trial feeling heartily sick with that same worthy client. I would not confess it outside this room, but you may believe me, gentlemen, there are moments, God forgive me, when I become just a little tired of nigras.”

  “Your conscience is troubling you,” says someone.

  “By thunder, there is no lack of people determined to make my conscience trouble me,” says Lincoln. “As though I can’t tend to my own conscience, they must forever be running pins into it. There was a gentleman the other day, a worthy man, too, and I was ill-advised enough to say to him much what I’ve said tonight: that nigras, while deserving our uttermost compassion and assistance, were nevertheless, a nuisance. I said they were the rock on which our nation had been splitting for years, and that they could well assume the proportions of a national catastrophe—through no fault of their own, of course. I believe I concluded by wishing the whole parcel of them back in Africa. He was shocked: ‘Strange talk, this’, says he, ‘from the sponsor of a bill against slavery’. ‘I’d sponsor a bill to improve bad drains’ says I. ‘They’re a confounded nuisance, too’ A thoughtless remark, no doubt, and a faulty analogy, but I paid for it. ‘Good God,’ cries he, ‘you’ll not compare human souls with bad drains, surely.’ ‘Not invariably,’ says I, but I got no further, because he stalked off in a rage, having misunderstood me completely.”

  “You can hardly blame him,” says the other, smiling.

  “No,” says Lincoln. “He was a man of principle and conscience. His only fault lay in his inability to perceive that I have both commodities also, but I didn’t buy mine ready-made from Cincinnati, and I don’t permit either to blind me to reality, I hope. And that reality is that the slave question is much too serious a matter for emotion, yet I very much fear that emotion will override reason in its settlement. In the meantime, I pray to God I am wrong, and continue to fight it in my own way, which I believe to be as worthy as polemical journalism and the underground railroad.”

  After that talk turned to the great California gold strike that I had first heard of at Roatan, and which was obsessing everyone. The first rumours had spoken of fabulous wealth for the taking; then word had spread that the first reports had been greatly exaggerated, and now it was being said that the first reports had been true enough, and it was the rumours of disappointment that were false. Thousands were already heading west, braving the seas round Cape Horn or the perils of starvation, weather and Indian savages on the overland trails. Most of the men at that dinner agreed that there was obviously gold in quantity along the Pacific streams, but doubted if many of the enthusiastic seekers would find quite as much as they expected.

  “You are the cynic, Abraham,” says one. “What will the Tennessee wiseacres say of the New Eldorado?”

  When the laugh died down, Lincoln shook his head. “If they are real Tennessee wiseacres, Senator, they won’t ‘say nuthin’.’ But what they’ll do—if they’re real wiseacres—is buy themselves up every nail, every barrel-stave, every axe-handle, and every shovel they can lay hold on, put ’em all in a cart with as many barrels of molasses as may be convenient, haul ’em all up to Independence or the Kanzas, and sell them to the fortunate emigrants at ten times their value. That’s how to make gold out of a gold strike.”

  “Well, you can handle a team, surely?” cries the merry Senator. “Why not make your fortune out of axe-handles?”

  “Well, sir, I’ll tell you,” says Lincoln, and everyone listened, grinning. “I’ve just put the return on axe-handles at one thousand per centum. But I’m a politician, and sometime lawyer. Axe-handles aren’t my style; my stock-in-trade is spoken words. You may believe me, words can be obtained wholesale a powerful sight cheaper’n axe-handles—and if you take ’em to the right market, you’ll get a far richer return for ’em than a thousand per centum. If you doubt me—ask President Polk.”

  They guffawed uproariously at this, and presently we went to join the ladies for the usual ghastly entertainment which, I discovered, differed not one whit from our English variety. There was singing, and reading from the poetic works of Sir Walter Scott, and during this Lincoln drew me aside into a window alcove, very pleasant, and began asking me various questions about my African voyage. He listened very attentively to my replies, and then suddenly said:

  “I tell you what—you can enlighten me. A phrase puzzled me the other day—in an English novel, as a matter of fact. You’re a naval man—what does it mean: to club-haul a ship?”

  For a moment my innards froze, but I don’t believe I showed it. This was the kind of thing I had dreaded: a question on nautical knowledge which I, the supposed naval man, couldn’t have answered in a thousand years.

  “Why,” says I, “let’s see now—club-hauling. Well, to tell you the truth, Mr Lincoln, it’s difficult to explain to a landsman, don’t ye know? It involves … well, quite complicated manoeuvres, you see …”

  “Yes,” says he. “I thought it might. But in general terms, now … what happens?”

  I laughed, pleasantly perplexed. “If I had you aboard I could easily tell you. Or if we had a ship model, you know …”

  He nodded, smiling at me. “Surely. It’s of no consequence. I just have an interest in the sea, Mr Comber, and must be indulging it at the expense of every sailor who is unlucky enough to—lay alongside me, as you’d call it.” He laughed. “That’s another thing, now, I recall. Forgive my curiosity, but what, precisely, is long-splicing?”

  I knew then he was after me, in spite of the pleasant, almost sleepy expression in the dark eyes. His canny yokel style didn’t fool me. I gave him back some of his own banter, while my heart began to hammer with alarm.

  “It’s akin to splicing the mainbrace, Mr Lincoln,” says I, “and is a term which anyone who is truly interested in the sea would have found out from a nautical almanac long ago.”

  He gave a little snorting laugh. “Forgive me. Of course I wasn’t really interested—just testing a little theory of mine.”

  “What theory is that, sir?” asks I, my knees shaking.

  “Oh—just that you, Mr Comber—if that is your name—might not be quite so naval as you appear. No, don’t alarm yourself. It’s no business of mine at all. Blame my legal training, which has turned a harmless enough fellow into a confounded busybody. I’ve spent too long in court-rooms perhaps, seeking after truth and seldom finding it. Maybe I’m of an unusually suspicious nature, Mr Comber, but I confess I am downright interested when I meet an English Navy man who doesn’t smother his food with salt, who doesn’t, out of instinct, tap his bread on the table before he bites it, and who doesn’t even hesitate before jumping up like a jack-rabbit when his Queen’s health is proposed. Just a fraction of a moment’s pause would seem more natural in a gentleman who is accustomed to drinking that particular toast sitting down.” He grinned with his head on one side. “But all these things are trivial; they amount to nothing—until the ill-mannered busybody also finds out that this same English Navy man doesn’t know what club-hauling and long-splicing are, either. Even then, I could still be entirely mistaken. I frequently am.”

  “Sir,” says I, trying to sound furious, with my legs on the point of giving way, “I fail to understand you
. I am a British officer and, I hope, a gentleman …”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it,” says he, “but even that isn’t conclusive proof that you’re a rascal. You see, Mr Comber, I can’t be sure. I just suspect that you’re a humbug—but I couldn’t for the life of me prove it.” He scratched his ear, grinning like a gargoyle. “And anyway, it’s just none of my business. I guess the truth is I’m a bit of a humbug myself, and feel a kind of duty to other humbugs. Anyway, I’m certainly not fool enough to pass on my ridiculous observations and suspicions to anyone else. I just thought you might be interested to hear about the salt, and the bread, and so forth,” said this amazing fellow. “Shall we go and listen to them laying it off about the Last Minstrel?”

  It was touch and go at this point whether I launched myself head first through the open window or not; for a moment it seemed that the wiser course might well be headlong flight. But then I steadied. I cannot impress too strongly on young fellows that the whole secret of the noble art of survival, for a single man, lies in knowing exactly when to make your break for safety. I considered this now, with Lincoln smiling down at me sardonically, and decided it was better to brazen things through than to bolt. He knew I was an impostor, but he could hardly prove it, and for some whimsical reason of his own he seemed to regard the whole thing as a joke. So I gave him my blandest smile, and said: “I confess, sir, that I have no idea what you’re talking about. Let us by all means rejoin the company.”

  I think it puzzled him, but he said nothing more, and we turned back into the room. I kept a bold front, but I was appalled at being discovered, and the rest of that evening passed in a confused panic for me. I recall that I was dragooned into singing the bass part in a group song—I believe it was “’Tis of a sailor bold, but lately come ashore”, which no doubt caused Mr Lincoln some ironic amusement—but beyond that I can remember little except that eventually We all took our leave, and Fairbrother carried me off to quarters at the Navy Department, where I spent a sleepless night wondering how I could get out of this latest fix.