The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “What the hell is it?” I demanded, now thoroughly terrified. “Spit it out, in God’s name!”

  “A man came aboard at Natchez. I was watching, when the passengers came up the plank, and by God’s grace he did not see me. He knows me! He is a trader from Georgia—the very man who sold me to my first master! The first time I escaped, he was among those who brought me back! Don’t you see, imbecile—if he should catch sight of me here, we are finished! Oh, he knows all about George Randolph—he will know me on the instant. He will denounce me, I will be dragged back to—oh, my God!” And he put his head in his hands and sobbed with rage and fear.

  He wasn’t the only one to be emotionally disturbed, I can tell you. He would be dragged back—by George, he would have company, unless I looked alive. I stood appalled—this was what my very first instinct had told me might happen, when Crixus had proposed this folly to me. But he had been so sure it would all be plain sailing, and in my cowardice I had allowed myself to be persuaded. I could have torn my hair at my own stupidity—but it was too late now. The damage was done, and I must try to think, and see a way out, and quieten this babbling clown before panic got the better of him.

  “Who could have thought that it would happen?” he was chattering. “Not a soul in Mississippi or Louisiana knows me—not a soul—and this fiend from Georgia has to cross my path! What is he doing here? Why didn’t Crixus see that this could happen? Why did I let myself be driven into this calamity?” He jerked up his head, glaring through his tears. “What are you going to do?”

  “Shut up!” says I. “Keep your voice down! He hasn’t seen you yet, has he?” I was trying to weigh the chances, to plan ahead in case we were discovered. “Perhaps he won’t—there’s no reason why he should, is there? He’ll be travelling on the boiler deck or the texas—there’s no reason why he should come down here, unless he has niggers with him, by God! Has he?”

  “No—no, there were no new coffles came aboard at Natchez. But if he should, if—”

  “He won’t, then. Even if he did, why should he see you, if you lie low and keep out of sight? He’s not going to go peering into the face of every nigger just for fun. Look, what’s his name?”

  “Omohundro—Peter Omohundro of Savannah. He is a terrible creature, I tell you—”

  “Look, there’s nothing to do but sit tight,” says I. It was a nasty shaker, no error, but common sense told me it wasn’t as bad as he made out it was. I don’t need any encouragement to terror, as a rule, but I can count chances, and there wasn’t a damned thing to be done except watch out and hope. The odds were heavy that Omohundro wouldn’t come anywhere near him; if he did, thinks I, then Master Randolph can look out for himself, but in the meantime the best thing to do is get some of his almighty cockiness back into him.

  “You keep out of sight and keep quiet,” says I. “That’s all we can do—”

  “All! You mean you intend to do nothing! To wait until he sees me?”

  “He won’t—unless your vapourings attract attention!” I snapped. “I’ll watch out for him, never fear. At the first hint that he may come down here, I’ll be on hand. You’ve got the key to your irons hidden, haven’t you? Well, then, you stay behind the bales and keep your eyes open. There isn’t a chance in a million of his seeing you, if you are careful.”

  That calmed him down a little; I believe that he had been more angry than frightened, really, which in itself was a relief to me. He blackguarded Crixus some more, and threw in a few withering remarks about my own shortcomings, and there I left him, with a promise to return later and report any developments. I won’t deny I was rattled, but I’ve had a lot worse perils hanging over me, and when I considered the size of the boat, and the hordes of folk aboard, white and nigger, I told myself we should be all right.

  The first thing was to get a sight of Omohundro, which wasn’t difficult. By discreet inquiry I got him pointed out to me by a nigger waiter: a big, likely-looking bastard with a scarred face and heavy whiskers, one of your tough, wide-awake gentlemen who stared carefully at whoever was talking to him, spoke in a loud, steady way, and laughed easily. I also discovered that he was travelling only as far as Napoleon, which we ought to reach on the following evening. So that was all to the good, as I told Randolph later; he wasn’t going to have much time for prying about the boat. But I didn’t sleep much that night; even the outside risk of catastrophe is enough to keep me hopping to the water closet, and reaching for the brandy bottle.

  Next day passed all too slowly; we lost time at Vicks-burg, and I became fretful at the realisation that we wouldn’t reach Napoleon and get rid of Omohundro before midnight. The man himself did nothing to set my bowels a-gallop; he spent the morning loafing about the rail, and sat long after luncheon with a group of Arkansas planters, gossiping. But he never stirred off the boiler deck, and I became hopeful again. With evening and darkness coming, it looked as though we were past the most dangerous time.

  I kept an eye on him at dinner, though, and afterwards, when he went into the saloon and settled himself with the planters to booze and smoke the evening away, I was glad of a chance offered me to stay on hand. Through Penny-Jenny I had made the acquaintance of two or three fellows on the boat, and one of them, a red-faced old Kentuckian called Colonel Potter, invited me to make up a game of poker. He was one of your noisy, boozy sports, full of heavy humour and hearty guffaws; he fumbled at Penny’s thighs under the table, slapped backs, twitted me about the Battle of New Orleans, and generally played Bacchus. With him there was a pot-bellied planter named Bradlee, with a great fund of filthy jokes, and a young Arkansan called Harney Shepherdson, who had a yellow whore in tow. Just the kind of company I like, and I was able to watch Omohundro at the same time.

  He left his friends after a while, and during a pause in our game he approached our table. Potter welcomed him boisterously, pressed him to sit down, introduced us all round, called for another bottle, and said would Omohundro take a hand.

  “No, thankee, colonel,” says he. “Matter of fact, I’m taking the liberty of intrudin’ on your little party in the hope I can kindly have a little word with your friend here—” he indicated Bradlee, to my relief “—on a matter of business. If the ladies will forgive, that is; I’m due off at Napoleon in an hour or two, so hopin’ you won’t mind.”

  “Feel free, suh; help y’self,” cries Potter, and Omohundro turns to Bradlee.

  “Understand you have some niggers below, suh,” says he, and my innards froze at the words. “Couple of Mande’s ’mong ’em, accordin’ to my friends yonder. Now, while I’m not on a buyin’ trip, you understand, I never miss a Mande if I can help it. Wonder if you feel inclined to talk business, suh, an’ if so, I might take a look at ’em.”

  I leaned back, hoping no one would notice how the sweat was beginning to pump off me, as I waited for Bradlee’s answer.

  “Always talk business, anytime,” says he. “Got to warn you though, suh, my niggers don’t come cheap. Could be askin’ a right nice price.”

  “Could be payin’ one, for the right kind of cattle,” says Omohundro. “Be deeply ’bliged to you, suh, if I might take a look at ’em for myself; be much beholden to you.”

  Bradlee said it was fine with him, and heaved himself up, with his apologies to the table. I was shuddering by this time; I must get down to the main deck before them, and get Randolph out of sight somehow. I was on the point of jumping to my feet and making my excuses, when Potter, the interfering oaf, sings out:

  “Say, why’nt you take a look at Mr Prescott’s coffle while you about it, suh? He got some right prime stock there, ain’t you, though? Purtiest set o’ niggers I seen in a while—it’s so, suh, I assure you. Reckon Mr Prescott’s got good taste in mos’ things—eh, honey?” And he set Penny squealing with a pinch.

  What possessed him to stick his oar in, God knows; just my luck, I suppose. I found Omohundro’s eyes on me.

  “That so, suh? Well, I ain’t rightly buyin’, like I said, b
ut if—”

  “Nothing for sale, I’m afraid.” I strove to sound offhand, and he nodded.

  “In that case, your servant, ladies, colonel, gentlemen,” and he and Bradlee went off towards the staircase, leaving me floundering. I had to get away, so I started to my feet, saying I must fetch something from my cabin. Potter cried that we were just about to go on with the game, and Penny squeaked that without me to guide her she couldn’t tell the little clover leaves from the other black things on the cards, but by that time I was striding for the staircase, cursing Potter and with panic rising in my chest.

  I saw Omohundro and Bradlee disappear downwards just ahead of me, so I hung back, and then slipped down the spiral staircase in their wake. By the time I reached the main deck they were already over at the far port rail, where Bradlee’s coffle lay, calling for the overseer to bring another light. It was pretty dim on the main deck, with only a few flare lamps which cast great black shadows among the bales and machinery; the various coffles of niggers were scattered about, nesting among the cargo, with my own crew up forward, away from the rest.

  I lurked in the shadows, debating whether to go and warn Randolph, and decided not to; you never knew what that high-strung gentleman might do if he thought there was danger close by. It seemed best to lurk in the shadows unobserved, keeping an eye on Bradlee and Omohundro, and ready to intervene—God alone knew how—if they decided to take an interest in my coffle. The truth was I just didn’t know what to do for the best, and so did nothing.

  Peeping over a box I watched while Omohundro, by the light of the overseer’s lantern, examined a couple of Bradlee’s slaves, walking round them prodding and poking. I couldn’t hear what was said, what with the churning of the great paddle wheel and the steady murmur and crooning of the slaves, but after about five minutes Omohundro shook his head, I heard Bradlee laugh, and then the three of them moved slowly amidships, where Omohundro stopped to light a cigar. From where I lurked among the bales I began to hear their voices.

  “… and of course I don’t blame you, pricin’ high.” Omohundro was saying. “Reckon your figure is about right, these days, but that wouldn’t leave any margin of profit. Still, I’m right sorry; good bucks you have, suh, an’ well schooled.”

  “Guess I can train a nigger,” says Bradlee. “Yessir, I jus’ about think I can. Whup seldom, but whup good, my ol’ dad used to say, an’ he was right. Guess I ain’t laid a rawhide on a nigger o’ mine this las’ twelve-month; don’t have to. They got a respect for me, on ’count they know if I do trim one of ’em up, he’ll stay trimmed.”

  “That’s the style with ’em,” chips in the overseer. “On’y way, otherwise they git spoiled. Breaks my heart to see good niggers spoiled, too, by soft handlin’, like the coffle that Englishman brung aboard.”

  “How’s that?” says Bradlee. “I hear they’s prime; so Potter say in’.”

  “Oh, prime enough—just now But he don’t know how to handle ’em, an’ he in a right way to ruinin’ ’em, to my way o’ thinkin’. Shame, it is.” And then to my horror, he added: “Care to see ’em, gennelmen?”

  My heart stopped beating, and then Omohundro said:

  “Reckon not; he ain’t sellin’, so he tell me.”

  “No?” chuckles the overseer. “I guess he’ll be glad ’nough to, come a year or so. Leastways with one of ’em—the uppitiest yaller son-of-a-bitch you ever see. First-rate nigger, too—clean, straight, smart, an’ talks like a college p’fessor—oh, you know his sort, I reckon. All frills an’ goddam’ lip.”

  “Uh-huh,” says Bradlee. “Educated, likely, an’ spoiled to hell an’ gone. Got no use for ’em, myself.”

  “That kind of fancy fetches a good price, though, once the tar’s been taken out of ’em,” says Omohundro. “Make valets, butlers, an’ so forth—ladies in Awlins an’ Mobile payin’ heavy money for ’em.” He paused. “Think the Englishman knows what this feller’s worth?”

  “How could he?” says Bradlee. “He tells me he spent all his time in Afriky slave ships, till now. He don’t know the value of talkin’ niggers.”

  Shut up, shut up about my bloody niggers, I found myself whispering. Mind your own business and get upstairs where you belong, can’t you. And they would have done but for that benighted swine of an overseer.

  “Talkin’ niggers is right—this one of Prescott’s sure can handle his gab. Highest-falutin’ smart-assed buck in creation, answers back sassy as be damned. An’ what you think Mist’ Prescott do, gennelmen, hey? Why, he jus’ pats and smooths him! Yessir. Makes a body sick to listen.”

  “The English is soft on niggers. Ev’yone know that,” says Bradlee. “I’d like to see the buck’d talk back to me; I’d just about like to hear that.”

  “Well, suh, you don’t have to stir more’n twenty feet to see him,” cries the infernal clod. “Here, gennelmen, step across this ways—I see Mist’ Omohundro kinda interested anyway, that right, suh?”

  I should have strode out then and there, I know, and done something, anything, to keep them away from my coffle. I might have talked them away, or damned their eyes for going near my blacks, or made some diversion. But my consternation had reached the point where I had lost my nerve altogether; I hesitated, and then the overseer was up forward, barking at my niggers to rise and let the white man have a look at them. I waited, helpless, for the blow to fall.

  “Where that George?” the overseer was shouting. “Here, you George, ye black varmint, step out when I calls ye!”

  It was like watching a play I had seen before, and a bloody tragedy at that. Randolph, unsuspecting, stood up among his fellows, blinking in the light.

  “That one?” says Bradlee. “Well, he don’t look so dam’ pert, eh, Omohundro? Good clean buck, too, quadroon, I reckon—why, what’s the matter with you, boy? You seen a ghost?”

  Randolph was staring, with his hand to his mouth, at Omohundro, who was stooping to peer at him.

  “What’s that? Wait, though—hold on a minute! What’s your name, boy? I seen you before somewhere, ain’t I—yes! By God, I have!” His voice rose in a shout of amazement. “You’re George Rand—”

  In that moment Randolph was on him like a tiger, carrying the big man to the deck, and then falling himself as his shackles tripped him. He was up in an instant though, agile as a cat, smashing a fist into Bradlee’s face before the overseer, swearing in astonishment, managed to close with him. They reeled against the bales, locked together, and then Randolph jerked his knee up, and the overseer staggered away yelping, clutching his groin.

  “Get him!” bawls Omohundro. “He’s a runaway—Randolph! Stop him, Bradlee!”

  Hobbled by his irons—he hadn’t time to get at his hidden key—Randolph half hopped, half ran for the rail, with Bradlee clutching at his shirt, trying to drag him back. Omohundro got a hold, too, but stumbled and fell, cursing; as they tried to grapple him Randolph broke away, and before his irons finally tripped him he had covered half a dozen yards which brought him to the big box where I was crouching. He saw me as he fell, and shouted:

  “Help! Help me, Prescott! Fight them off!”

  Such an appeal, addressed to Flashy, meets a prompt response. I ducked back behind cover just as Omohundro came crashing over the bales, clutching at Randolph’s feet. The quadroon kicked free, scrambled on to the rail, and was trying to roll over it when he must have realised that he would fall plumb in the path of the great thirty-foot paddle wheel; he shrieked, rearing up on the rail, the overseer’s pistol banged, and I saw Randolph’s body arch and his face contort with agony. He fell, outwards, and the huge wheel blades came churning down on him as he hit the water.

  I daresay that if I had had a few minutes for quiet reflection it would have occurred to me that the safest course would be to stand my ground, playing the innocent trader amazed at the news that there had been a runaway in his coffle, and brazen it out that way. But I hadn’t those few minutes, and I’m not sure I’d have acted any differently anyway.
The overwhelming feeling that I had when I saw Randolph’s body fall, with Omohundro and Bradlee roaring bloody murder and the whole deck in uproar, was that here was no place for Flashy any longer. I was skipping away between the bales before the echo of the shot had died; Omohundro’s bellow to me to stop merely assisted my flight. I crossed the deck in half a dozen strides, and launched myself over the starboard rail in a fine flat dive; there was no wheel on that side, I knew, and when I surfaced in the warm Mississippi water with all the breath knocked out of me the Sultana was already a hundred yards away upriver.

  Chapter 10

  Even today I can’t feel anything but irritation and dislike for George Randolph. If he had only had the sense to keep his mouth shut and act humble for once, he’d never have been confronted by Omohundro that night; the odds are he’d have reached Canada without fuss and embarked immediately on a happy life as a professor at some liberal university, or the leader of a nigger minstrel troupe, or something equally useful. Instead his pride and folly had bought him a bullet in the belly and a grave in the Mississippi mud, as far as I could see; more important, he had put me in a highly dangerous and embarrassing position.

  My wits must have been cleared by the water, for I had the immediate presence of mind not to swim for the Arkansas shore, a mere hundred yards away, but to strike out instead across the stream for the Mississippi bank, which was almost three-quarters of a mile off. I’m a strong swimmer, and the water was warm, so I made it easily enough; by the time I climbed out across a mud bank and plumped down among some willows, the Sultana had stopped at the next bend, but after half an hour she started off again, doubtless to stop at the next landing and start the hue and cry.

  I blasted Randolph bitterly at the thought that I was a hunted fugitive once more, in the middle of a strange land with only a few dollars in my pocket. The one consolation was that they would scour the Arkansas side first, and I would have time to get inland in Mississippi unmolested. And then whither? There could be no going back south, with the Navy still doubtless on the look-out for me, and it would be madness to try to continue north along the river on foot. But north I would have to go eventually, if I were to reach home again; in the meantime I must find some place to lie up undetected until all the hullaballoo had died down, and I could work cautiously upriver to the free states, and so to the Atlantic seaboard and a passage home.