The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “But—but—I thought the free state folk sheltered slaves, and helped them. Surely they can’t take you off free state soil?”

  “Of course they can!” There were tears in her eyes now. “Oh, if we could be sure of finding an abolitionist settlement, or an underground railroad station, all would be well, but how do we know? There are laws forbidding people in Ohio to aid runaways; slaves are caught and dragged back across the river daily by these bands of catchers, with their guns and dogs! And with the time we have lost here, notices of my running from Memphis will have reached the Kentucky shore—my name will have been added to the list of the other poor hunted creatures trying to escape north!”

  “Well, what the blazes can we do?”

  She traced on the map again. “We must stay aboard our steamboat all the way to Pittsburgh, if indeed the boats run so far in this weather.38 If not, they will at least take us far enough up the Ohio to catch a train from one of the eastern Ohio towns into Pennsylvania. Once we are in Pittsburgh we can laugh at all the slave-catchers in the South—and you will be far beyond the reach of the Mississippi law.”

  Well, that was a comforting thought. “How long does it take?” says I.

  “To Pittsburgh by boat? Five days.” She bit her lip and began to tremble again. “Within a week from now I shall be either free or dead.”

  I wish she’d thought of some other way of putting it, and it crossed my mind that I might be a good deal safer parting company with her. On the other hand, a boat to Pittsburgh was the fastest way home, and if we kept to our cabin the whole way we should come through safe. They don’t look for runaway slaves in staterooms. They might look there for a murderer, though—and blast it, I hadn’t even done the murders! Could I fob them off on her if the worst came to the worst? But it wouldn’t—there must be a limit to the distance they could chase us.

  It was in a fine state of the shakes that we boarded the Bostona the next morning, and I didn’t know an easy moment until we had passed the Cairo fork that night and were steaming up the Ohio. I drank a fair amount, and Cassy sat gazing out towards the northern shore, but early on the second morning we reached Louisville without incident, and I began to breathe again. Evening saw us at Cincinnati and Cassy was in a fever of anxiety for the boat to move off again; Cincinnati, although on the Ohio side, was a great place for slave-catchers, and she cried with relief when the side-wheel started at last and we churned on upriver.

  But at breakfast time next day there was a rude awakening. The weather had grown colder and colder throughout our journey, and now when you looked overside there were great cakes of dirty brown and green ice riding down the current, and a powdering of snow lying on the Ohio bank. The fellows in the saloon were of opinion that the boat would go no farther than Portsmouth, if that far; the captain wouldn’t risk her in this kind of weather.

  And sure enough, down comes the captain presently, all gravity and grey whiskers, to announce to the saloon that he couldn’t make Portsmouth this trip, on account of the ice, but would put in at Fisher’s Landing, which was three miles short of the town, and set anyone ashore that wanted to go. The rest he would carry back to Cincinnati.

  They raised a tremendous howl at this, waving their tickets and demanding their money back, and one tubby little chap in gold glasses cries out angrily:

  “Intolerable! Fisher’s Landing is on the Kentucky shore—how am I to be in Portsmouth tonight? There won’t be a ferry running in this weather.”

  The captain said he was sorry; the Ohio side was out of the question, because the ice was thick all down the north channel.

  “But I must be in Portsmouth tonight!” fumes the tubby man. “Perhaps you don’t know me, captain—Congressman Smith, Albert J. Smith, at your service. It is imperative that I be in Portsmouth to support my congressional colleague, Mr Lincoln, at tonight’s meeting.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Congressman Smith,” says the captain, “but if you were going to support the President, I couldn’t land you in Ohio today.”

  “Infamous!” cries the little chap. “Why, I’ve come from Evansville for this, and Mr Lincoln has broken his journey home specially for this meeting, and is awaiting me in Portsmouth. Really, captain, when matters of such national importance as the slave question are to be discussed by eminent—”

  “The slave question!” cries the captain. “Well, sir, you may land in Kentucky for me, let me tell you, and I hope they welcome you warmly!”

  And off he stumped, red in the face, leaving the little chap wattling and cursing. I didn’t have to be told the captain was a Southerner, but I was vastly intrigued to find my path crossing so close to Mr Lincoln’s again. That seemed to me a good reason for turning back to Cincinnati, and giving Portsmouth a wide berth. He and his sharp eyes and embarrassing questions were the last things I wanted to meet just now.

  But Cassy wouldn’t have it; even landing in Kentucky was preferable to Cincinnati, and she pointed out that the farther I was upriver the safer I’ld be. She was sure there must be a ferry running at Portsmouth; it was only a short walk along the shore, she said, and once across we could journey inland to Columbus and from there quickly to Pittsburgh.

  If she didn’t mind, I didn’t, because I felt we must be beyond pursuit by now, but I noticed she hesitated at the gangplank, scanning the shore at Fisher’s Landing, and her steps were slow as we walked over the creaking wooden stage. Suddenly she stopped, caught my arm, and whispered:

  “Let us go back! I never thought to stand on this soil again—I feel evil hanging over us. Oh, we shouldn’t have landed! Please, let us go back quickly, before it’s too late!”

  But it was too late even then, for the steamboat, having landed about a dozen of us, including the incensed Congressman, was already backing away from the stage, her whistle whooping like a lost soul. Cassy shuddered beside me, and pulled her veil more tightly round her face. Truth to tell, I didn’t care for the look of the place much myself; just the stage, and a mean little tavern, and bleak scrubby country stretching away on both sides.

  However, there was nothing for it now. The other passengers crowded round the tavern, asking about a ferry, and the yokel there opined that there might be one later that day, but with the ice he couldn’t be sure. The others decided to wait and see, but Cassy insisted that we should push on along the bank; we could see Portsmouth in the distance on the far shore, and it did seem there would be a better chance of a ferry there.

  So we set off together, carrying our bags, along the lonely little road that wound among the trees by the river. It was a cold, grey afternoon, with a keen wind sighing among the branches, and through the trunks the brown Ohio ran by, with the massive floes grinding and booming in the brown water. There was low cloud and a threat of snow, and a dank chill in the air that was not just the weather. Cassy was silent as we walked, but her words still sounded in my ears, and although I told myself we were safe enough by this time, surely, I found myself ever glancing back along the deserted muddy track, lying drear and silent under the winter sky.

  We must have walked about an hour, and although it was still early afternoon it seemed to me to be growing darker, when we saw buildings ahead, and came to a tiny village on the river bank. We were nearly opposite Portsmouth by now, and already some lights were twinkling across the water. The river here seemed to be more choked with ice than ever, stirring and heaving but moving only gently downstream.

  The keeper of the tavern that served the place laughed to scorn our inquiries about a ferry; however, in his opinion the ice would freeze again overnight, and then we could walk across. He couldn’t give us beds, but we were welcome to couch down for the night, and in the meantime he could give us fried ham and coffee.

  “We should have stayed at Fisher’s Landing,” says I, but Cassy just sank down wearily on a bench without replying. I offered her some coffee but she shook her head, and when I reminded her it was only for one night, she whispered:

  “It is very near us n
ow—I can feel the dark shadow coming closer. Oh, God! Oh, God! Why did I set foot on this accursed shore again!”

  “What bloody shadow?” snaps I, for she had my nerves like fiddle strings. “We’re snug enough here, girl, within spitting distance of Ohio! We’ve come this far, in God’s name; who’s going to stop us now?”

  And as though in answer to my question, from somewhere down the road outside, came the yelping and baying of hounds.

  Cassy started, and I own that my heart took a sudden leap, although what’s a dog barking, after all? And then came the sound of footsteps, and men’s voices, and presently the door was shoved open, and half a dozen or so rough fellows came in and bawled for the landlord to bring them a jug of spirits and some food. I didn’t like the look of them by half, big tough-looking men with pistols in their belts and two of them carrying rifles; their leader was a tall, black-bearded villain with a broken nose who gave me a hard stare and a curt good day and then strode to the door to curse the dogs leashed up outside. I felt Cassy sink shuddering against me, and just caught her whisper:

  “Slave-catchers! Oh, God help us!”

  I fought down my instinctive desire to make a dash for the door; I’d made too many sudden dashes on this trip already. My throat was dry and my hands trembling, but I forced myself to drink my coffee, and even asked Cassy in a loud, steady voice if she required anything more to eat. Plainly we would have to get out of here as soon as possible, but we must not rouse an instant’s suspicion, or we were done for.

  The newcomers were talking so much by now that our silence went unnoticed, and almost their first words confirmed what Cassy had said.

  “That nigger of Thompson’s’ll be hidin’ up in Mason’s Bottom,” says one. “That’s whar they always run afore they try the Portsmouth ferry. Well, he ain’t gettin’ no ferry tonight, for sure; he can lay out an’ freeze an’ the dogs kin pick him up in the mornin’.”

  “Too bad about the ferry, though,” says the leader. “Kinda had a notion to go over tonight, to th’ abolitionist meetin’.”

  “Since when you go to abolitionist meetin’s, Buck?”

  “Since I heerd that son-of-a-bitch of an Illinoy lawyer goin’ to be speakin’, that’s since when. Precious Mr Goddam Congressman Lincoln. That’s a bastard I get real discontented with, that is.”

  “You figurin’ on takin’ a few bad eggs along?” says the other, laughing.

  “Could be. Could be, if things had looked right, I might have taken me a picket rail, a nice big bag o’ feathers, an’ mustered up some hot tar to boot. I reckon that’s th’ only way to discourage some o’ these nigger-lovin’ duffers.”

  “Discourage ’em a dam’ sight better with a rope, or a good spread of buckshot,” says a third, and other suggestions followed, most of them unrepeatable.

  All this time I had felt Cassy trembling beside me, but now she suddenly whispered, in a shaking gasp:

  “We must leave! I can’t bear it any longer! Please, let us go—anywhere away from them!”

  I knew she was near breaking—this same wench who’d killed two men on a dark country road—so I helped her to her feet, and with a muttered good day led her towards the door. Naturally they turned to look at us, and the leader, Buck, says:

  “Ain’t no ferry movin’ tonight, mister. Where you figurin’ on goin’?”

  “Er … Fisher’s Landing,” says I.

  “No ferry there, either,” says he. “You be best here tonight.”

  I hesitated. “I think we’ll move on,” says I. “Come, my dear.”

  And we were almost at the door when he said:

  “Hold on one moment, mister.” He was sitting forward on his stool, and there was a grin on his loose mouth that I didn’t care for. “Pardon my askin’—but would your companion be a white lady?”

  Sickened, I turned to face him. “And if she is not?” says I.

  “Thought she warn’t,” says he, standing up. “Mighty fancy dressed, though, for a nigger.”

  “I like my women well dressed.” I tried to keep my voice level, but it wasn’t easy.

  “Sure, sure,” says he, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “Jus’ that when I see nigger ladies, an’ they’re wearin’ veils, an’ shiverin’ like they had the ague—well, I get curious.” He kicked his stool away and walked forward. “What’s your name, wench?”

  I saw Cassy’s eyes flash behind her veil, and suddenly she was no longer trembling, which made up for me. “Ask my master,” she said.

  He gave a growl, but checked himself. “Right pert, too. All right, Mister—what’s her name?”

  “Belinda.”

  “Is it now?” Suddenly he reached forward, before I could stop him, and twitched away her veil, laughing as she started back. “Well, well, now—right pretty, as well as pert. You’re a lucky feller, mister. An’ what might your name be?”

  “J. C. Stubbs,” says I, “and I’ll be damned if—”

  “You’ll be damned anyway, unless I’m mistaken,” he snapped, his face vicious. “Belinda an’ J. C. Stubbs, eh? Jus’ you wait right there, then, while I have a little look here.” And he pulled a handful of papers from his pocket. “I been keepin’ an eye on you, this few minutes, Mr J. C. Stubbs, an’ now I get a look at your little black charmer, I got me a feelin’—where is it, now?—yes, here we have it—uh, huh, Mr Stubbs, I got a suspicion you ain’t Mr Stubbs at all, but that you’re a Mr Fitzroy Howard, who offered a spankin’ mustee gel named Cassy at Memphis a few days back, an’—”

  He broke off with a shouted oath, because he was looking down the barrel of my Colt. There was nothing else for it; at the hideous realisation that we were caught I had snatched it from the back of my waist, and as he started back and his hand swept away his coat-tail I jammed the gun into his midriff with the violence of panic, and bawled in his face:

  “Move, and I’ll blow your guts into Ohio! You others, get your hands up—lively now, or I’ll spread your friend all over you!”

  I was red in the face with terror, and my hand was quivering on the butt, but to them I was probably a fearsome sight. Their hands shot up, a rifle clattered to the floor, and Buck’s ugly face turned yellow. He fell back before me, his mouth trembling, and the sight of it gave me a sudden surge of courage.

  “Down on the floor, damn you—all of you! Down, I say, or I’ll burn your brains!”

  Buck dropped to the boards, and the others followed suit. I hadn’t the nerve to go among them to remove their weapons, and for the life of me I couldn’t think what to do next. I stood there, swearing at them, wondering if I should shoot Buck where he lay, but I hadn’t the bate for it. He raised his head to cry hoarsely:

  “You ain’t gonna run nowhere, mister! We’ll get you before you’re gone a mile—you an’ that yaller slut! We’ll make you pay for this—”

  I snarled and mowed at them, brandishing my gun, and he cowered down, and then I backed slowly towards the door, still covering them—the Colt was shaking like a jelly. I couldn’t think—there wasn’t time. If we ran for it now, where would we run to? They’d overhaul us, with their filthy dogs—if only there was some way to delay them! A sudden inspiration struck me, and I glanced at Cassy; she was at my elbow, quivering like a hunted beast, and if she too was terrified at least it wasn’t with the terror that is helpless.

  “Cassy!” I snapped. “Can you use a gun?”

  She nodded. “Take this, then,” says I. “Cover them—and if one of them stirs a finger shoot the swine in the stomach! There—catch hold. Good girl, good girl—I’ll be back in an instant!”

  “What is it?” Her eyes were wild. “Where are you—”

  “Don’t ask questions! Trust me!” And with that I slipped out of the door, pulled it to, and was off like a stung whippet. I’d make quarter of a mile, maybe more, before she would twig, or they overpowered her, and that quarter mile could be the difference between life and death—but even as I was away with my first frenzied spring a dun-coloured, white-
fanged horror came surging up at my side, teeth dragged at the tail of my coat, and I came down in a sprawling tangle of limbs with one of those damned hounds snarling and tearing at me.

  By the grace of God I fell just beyond reach of its leash; I suppose the brute had gone for me because it knew a guilty fugitive when it saw one, and now it tore and frothed against its chain to be at me. I jumped up to resume my flight, and then I heard Cassy scream in the tavern, the Colt banged, somebody howled, and the door flew open. Cassy came out at a blind run, making for the thicket that bordered the river; I spared not a glance for the tavern door but went high-stepping after her for all I was worth, expecting a bullet between the shoulders at every stride.

  As luck had it the thicket was only a dozen yards away, but by the time I had burst through it Cassy was well ahead of me. I suppose it was blind instinct that made me follow her, now that my own chance of a clear getaway had been scuppered by whatever had gone amiss in the tavern—the stupid bitch could have held them longer than two seconds, you’d have thought—and there was nothing to do but shift like blazes. It was growing dusk, but not near dark enough for concealment, and she was running for dear life along the bank eastwards. I pounded down the slope, yelling to her, at my wits’ end over where we were going to run to. Could we hide—no, my God, the dogs! We couldn’t outstrip them along the bank—where then? The same thoughts must have been in Cassy’s mind, for as I closed on her, and heard the din of shouting rise a hundred yards behind me, she suddenly checked, and with a despairing cry leaped down the bank to the water’s edge.

  “No! No!” I bawled. “Not on the ice—we’ll drown for certain!”

  But she never heeded. There was a narrow strip of brown water between her and the nearest floe, and she cleared it like a hunter, slipping and falling, but scrambling up again and clambering over the hummocks beyond. Oh, Christ, thinks I, she’s mad, but then I looked behind, and there they were, running down from the tavern, with the dogs yelping in the background. I took a race down the bank and jumped, my feet flew from under me on the ice, and I came down with a sickening crash. I staggered up, plunging over the mass of frozen cakes locked like a great raft ahead of me, and saw Cassy steadying herself for a leap on to a level floe beyond. She made it, and I tumbled down the hummocks and leaped after her. Somehow I kept my footing, and slithered and slipped across the floe, which must have been thirty yards from side to side.