The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  One of my visitors I even assailed with a thrown boot; he was a small boy, I suspect a child of the house, who came in when I was alone and asked: “Is it right you got shot up the ass, mister? Say, can I see?” I missed him, unfortunately.

  Another glum thing was that Cassy left that evening. She isn’t one of my prime favourites, looking back—too strong-willed and high strung—but I hate to lose a good mistress just when I’m getting the taste of her. However, they said it wasn’t safe for her to remain so near the Ohio, and an underground railroad man was to take her to Canada. We didn’t even have the chance of a lusty farewell, for when she came to say good-bye the ugly Mrs Payne was on hand to see fair play, with Cassy looking uncommonly demure and rather uncomfortable in a drab brown gown and poke bonnet. I gathered she hadn’t realised that I’d done my level best to desert her on the far bank of the Ohio, for she thanked me very prettily for all my help, while Mrs Payne stood with her hands in her muff, nodding severe approval.

  “Cassiopeia is quite recovered from her ordeal,” says she, “and looks forward with the liveliest anticipation to reaching Canada. There our friends will see to it that she is provided with shelter and such employment as fits her station. I have no doubt that she will prove a credit to all of us her benefactors, and especially to you, Mr Comber.”

  Cassy’s face was like a mask, but I saw her eyes glint in the shadow of the bonnet.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it,” says I. “Cassiopeia is a very biddable child, are you not, my dear?” I patted her hand. “There, there—just be a good girl, and mind what Mrs Payne and her kind friends tell you. Say your prayers each night, and remember your … er … station.”

  “There,” says Mrs Payne. “I think you may kiss your deliverer’s hand, child.”

  I wouldn’t have been surprised if Cassy had burst out laughing, or in a fit of rage, but she did something that horrified Mrs Payne more than either could have done. She bent down and gave me a long, fierce kiss on the mouth, while her chaperone squawked and squeaked, and eventually bustled her away.

  “Such liberties!” cries she. “These simple creatures! My child, this will never—”

  “Good-bye,” says Cassy, and that was the last I ever saw of her—or of the two thousand dollars we had had between us. I’ve never been able to recall for the life of me where it was stowed when we got off the steamboat at Fisher’s Landing, but I know I didn’t have it on my person, which was careless of me. Ah, well, I’ve no doubt she put it to good use—and it had been paid for her anyway.

  However, money was the least of my concerns just then. Unless there was some unexpected turn of events in the next few weeks I could see the American republic would be paying my board and lodging for some time to come. I had nightmares about it, in which I was in a place like the Old Bailey, but with great stained-glass windows, and a hanging judge in scarlet on the bench, and Spring and his mates all chained up, leering, in the dock, and a voice droning out, “Call Beauchamp Comber, R.N.” And I saw myself creeping into the witness box, goaded on by Lincoln and a U.S. marshal, and Spring bawling out: “That’s not Comber—Comber’s dead! That’s the notorious Flashy, monstrum horrendum, come to impose on your worships like the bloody liar he is!” And then consternation, and I was dragged to the dock and chained to the others, and the judge said it would be twice as bad for me as for them, and upon conviction I would be shot in the other buttock and then hanged. At which there was great cheering, and I pleaded with them that I had been led astray and that it all came of playing vingt-et-un with D’Israeli, and they said that made it worse still, and then the faces and voices faded, and I would find myself awake, boiling with sweat and my wound aching like be-damned.

  In the end, it wasn’t quite like that, as you shall see. Have you noticed that things are never quite as bad or good as you expect them to be—at least, not in the way that you expect? So it was now, when my rump had healed enough for me to travel, and Judge Payne brought along the marshal, and with much hand-clasping and cheek-kissing and hallelujahs I was despatched on my way to continue God’s work, as Payne put it.

  I won’t bother you with the journey, which was by coach and rail through Columbus, Pittsburgh and Baltimore, and then by packet down to Orleans. Sufficient to say that the marshal, a decent enough fellow called Cottrell, watched over me like a mother over a chick, very friendly, very careful, and that no official notice of our passage seemed to be taken, until we came to New Orleans.

  There I was delivered into the care of Captain Bailey, U.S.N., a very bluff gentleman who shook me cordially by the hand, and said they were glad to see me, hey, and a fine commotion there had been when Captain Fairbrother had lost me, by thunder, yes, but here I was, safe and sound, so all was well that ended well.

  “Mind you, Mr Comber, in these days I don’t ask too many questions,” says he. “I’m a sailor; like you, I do my duty. The past few months are a closed account to me, sir—one hears all about outlandish things like underground railroads and what not, but that’s nothing to the point. What I know is that facing me now is a brother officer in the service of a friendly power, who is going to give evidence on behalf of the U.S. Navy against slave-runners. Capital work.” And he rubbed his hands. “More than that—not my concern, sir. Not my concern at all. If anyone has been working for the underground railroad—which is an illegal organisation, of course—well, that’s not our province, is it? That’s for Washington, or state governments, to worry about.” He grew confidential. “You see, Mr Comber, we’re a strangely divided country here—some for slave-holding, others against. Now the government recognises it, officially, as you know, but a lot of very important people—some in the government itself—are against it. We have the strange position where federal government people, who may detest slavery, nevertheless are bound to enforce the law against things like underground railroading. So, often as not, a great many people frequently have to follow the example of your good Lord Nelson, and turn a blind eye to a great many things. Such as what you’ve been doing between your … er … departure from Captain Fairbrother and this moment, sir.” He frowned at me. “Do I make myself clear, sir?”

  “I think so, sir,” says I.

  “Ye-es,” says he. Then suddenly: “Look here, Comber, between these four walls, I heard from circles in Washington that you’ve been slave-stealing. Well, fine. I approve of that; so does half the government. But it couldn’t approve officially—my God, no! Officially, it should arrest you and heaven knows what besides. But we can’t, even if we wanted to. We need your evidence in this case, you’re a damned important agent, by all Washington accounts, and we can’t, for the love of mercy, have an international incident with the British.” He shook his head. “I could wish you had let well alone, young man—and yet, by God, from what I hear from the friends of a certain Northern Congressman, you did a capital piece of work, sir!” He beamed at me, winking. “So—there it is. Washington is concerned at all costs to keep your name and … er … recent activities quiet. You just make your statement in court, put on your hat, and take the first packet out from this port. You take me?”

  If only it could be that simple, thinks I. But I made one last effort to wriggle free.

  “Is my evidence so necessary, sir?” says I. “Surely these Balliol College people can be convicted …”

  “Convicted?” says he. “Why, we’re a long way short of that at the moment. You know the procedure, sir—when a slave-trading ship is captured, she must first of all be adjudged to be a slaver. You know how it is in your own mixed commission courts at Surinam and Havana and so forth—they hear evidence and pronounce themselves satisfied that she was carrying slaves. You must have seen it a score of times. And then—when the ship has been confiscated and condemned—then her master and crew may be charged with slave-trading, and on conviction, they can be hanged—although they seldom are. Jail terms sometimes, fines, etc. But with us it’s not quite the same, as you’ll see.”

  I was hanging on ev
ery word, hoping and praying that he would point out some loophole to me.

  “Here, in New Orleans, a court of adjudication will pronounce on the Balliol College, and according to that, her master and crew may be charged with slave-trading, and possibly—since Spring fought against ships of the U.S. Navy—with piracy. But none of these charges can even be brought, sir, unless the court of adjudication finds that the Balliol College was indeed a slaver. So far, then, we follow the same course as the mixed courts at Havana and elsewhere. But here, sir, there are much more powerful interests involved—this is New Orleans, remember, a long way from Washington, and New Orleans holds no grudge against slave-traders like Spring. To secure the confiscation and condemnation of the Balliol College as a slave ship, the case must be proved to the hilt and beyond. Now do you see why your evidence is vital?” He tapped his desk. “This is not just a criminal—a legal case, Mr Comber. It’s a political one, sir. See here,” he grew confidential again. “This man Spring. No ordinary blackbirder, that. Why, when he was brought in by Fairbrother’s people—what happened? The fellow was wounded—I tell you, sir, there was a bail bond posted faster than you could sneeze, a surgeon in attendance, more lawyers running about than you’d think existed. Why, sir? Because there’s money, and power, and political influence behind this damned trade—that’s why! There’s his ship—how many hundreds of thousands of dollars investment d’you think she represents—and not just dollars, either, but pounds sterling and pesos and francs? They couldn’t find any papers on her, because that damned wife of Spring’s heaved them all overside—so what happens now, but Spring’s counsel enter papers to show she’s registered in Vera Cruz, Mexico, of all places, and her owner is some bloody Dago with a name as long as your leg—Mendoza y Cascara, or something. Mexico, Lord save us! If there’s one place we don’t need complications with, it’s Mexico—and they know it. But they can prove she’s Mexican-owned—for all she’s Baltimore built, with an English skipper.”

  I could make little of this, but one thing seemed clear.

  “But if she was carrying slaves when they took her—and had slave gear aboard—”

  “Slave gear doesn’t matter—the equipment treaty doesn’t hold up in New Orleans, sir. Mixed commission trials, yes, but not here. The slaves, sir—they’re the thing!”

  “Well, then—”

  “Precisely. That’s where we’ve got them. There were slaves aboard, and for all the treasure and effort that will be poured in on their side, I don’t see how they can get round it. Mind you, sir, the shifting and lying and trickery that goes on at a slave ship adjudication is something you must see to believe. It wouldn’t surprise me if Spring claimed they were all his sons and daughters, wearing chains because they’re perverted creatures. I’ve seen excuses just as wild. And in New Orleans—well, you can’t tell. I would to God,” he added, “that Fairbrother had had the sense to take the Balliol College to Havana—she’d have been nailed there, fast enough, and we’d have been spared all this. But with your evidence, Mr Comber, I don’t see how we can go wrong. Oh, they’ll fight; they’ve got Anderson, who’s as sharp a mind as ever took a brief—or bribed a witness. He’ll try every trick and dodge going, and the adjudicator will be leaning his way, remember. But when you take the stand—well, sir, where will they be then?”

  Where they would be was of small interest to me; where was Flashy going to be? I gulped and asked:

  “Do they … er … do they know about … that I’ll be giving evidence?”

  “Not yet,” says he, smiling happily. “You see, an adjudication isn’t a trial—we don’t have to come and go with the other side much beforehand, officially, although I can tell you that the politicking that’s been done in this case—offers of settlement, God knows what—has been amazing. Whoever is behind Spring, they’re people who matter. They want him and his ship clear—probably frightened of what he’ll divulge if he’s ever brought to trial. Oh, it’s a fine, dirty business, Mr Comber—the slime and corruption doesn’t end on the slave deck, I can tell you. No, they don’t know about you, yet—but I’ll be surprised if a little bird doesn’t tell ’em pretty soon. Lucky, in a way, that you didn’t turn up until now—court sits the day after tomorrow, and if you hadn’t been here we’d have had to go in without our best witness.”

  Lucky, I thought—just another few days lost up north and they might have started and got it over, and I’d have been spared my appearance and inevitable unmasking. I couldn’t see anything for it, now—unless I got the chance to run again, but Bailey, for all his amiability, was no less watchful than the marshal had been. Even at the navy office there was a damned little American snotty keeping me company wherever I went, and on the following day, when I was taken down to the building where the adjudication court sat, and was introduced to the counsel representing the U.S. Navy, the snotty and a petty officer were trailing at my heels.

  The counsel was a lordly man from Washington with a fine aristocratic beak and silver hair falling to his shoulders. His name was Clitheroe, and he talked to the air a yard above my head; to hear him, the business would be over in a couple of hours at most, and then he would be able to get back to Washington and direct his talents to something worth while. He talked briskly for a moment or two about my part in the proceedings—“decisive corroboration” was the expression he used—and then consigned me to the care of his junior, a quiet, dark little fellow called Dunne, who had said very little, and now took me apart into a side room, instructing my escort to wait while he had a private word with me.

  Now what followed is gospel true, and you will just have to believe me. If it runs counter to your notions of how justice is done in the civilised world, I can’t help it; nothing in my experience leads me to believe that things are any different in England or France, even today. This is what happened.

  Dunne talked to me for about five minutes, around and about the case, but all very vague, and then begged to be excused for a moment. He went out, leaving me alone, and then the door opened and in comes a prodigious fat man, with a round face and spectacles, for all the world like some Friar Tuck in a high collar. He closed the door carefully, beamed at me, and says:

  “Mr Comber? Delighted to meet you, sir. My name is Anderson—Marcellus Anderson, sir, very much at your service. You may have heard of me—I represent the defendants in the case in which you are to be a distinguished witness.”

  My jaw dropped, and I must have glanced at the door through which I had come from Clitheroe’s office, for he gave a fat man’s chuckle and slid into a chair, observing:

  “Have no fears, sir; I shall not detain you above a moment. The admirable Clitheroe, and your, ha-ha, watchdog, Captain Bailey, would grudge me even that long, no doubt, but Mr Dunne is a safe man, sir—he and I understand each other.” He regarded me happily over his spectacles; Mr Pickwick as ever was.

  “Now, very briefly, Mr—er—Comber, when we heard that you were to testify, my client, Captain Spring, was mystified. Indeed, sir—do you know, he even seemed to doubt your existence? However, you will know why, I dare say. I made rapid inquiry, obtained a description of you, and when this was conveyed to my client—why, sir, a great light dawned upon him. Oh, he was thunderstruck, and I needn’t go into distressing detail about what he said—but he understood your, ha-ha, position, and the steps you had taken to safeguard yourself when the Balliol College was arrested some months ago.”

  He took off his glasses and polished them, regarding me benignly.

  “Rash, sir, very rash—if you’ll forgive me for saying so. However, it’s done. Now Captain Spring was incensed at what he considered—justifiably, I think—to be a disloyalty on your part. Yes, indeed, and it was his first instinct to denounce you the moment you took the stand. However, sir, it occurred to me—it’s what I’m paid for—that there might even be advantage to my client in having Lieutenant—” he paused—“Beauchamp Millward Comber as a witness for the plaintiff. If his evidence was—oh, shall we say, inconc
lusive, it might do the defendant more good than harm. Do you take me, sir?”

  I took him all right, but without giving me a chance to reply he went on.

  “It amounts to this, sir. If my client is cleared, as I feel bound to tell you I believe he will be—for we have more shots in our locker than friend Clitheroe dreams of—then we have no interest in directing attention to the antecedents of Lieutenant Comber. If Captain Spring is not cleared—” he shook his head solemnly “—then when the crew of the Balliol College are arraigned for slave-trading and so forth, their number will be greater by one than it is at present.”

  He stood up quickly. “Now, sir, Mr Dunne will be impatient to speak to you again. When we meet again, at the hearing, it will be as strangers. Until then, I have the honour to bid you a very good day.”

  “Wait … wait, for God’s sake!” I was on my feet, my mind in a turmoil. “Sir … what am I to do?”

  “Do, sir?” says he, pausing at the door. “Why, it is not for me to tell a witness how he shall give evidence. I leave that to your own judgement, Mr … er … Comber.” He beamed at me again. “Your servant, sir.”

  And then he was away, and two shakes later Dunne was back, aloof and business-like, describing to me the form and procedure of an adjudication court, all of which went straight by me. Well, I’ve been in some fearful dilemmas, but this beat everything. The navy expected my evidence to follow the lines of the statements I’d made in Washington, months back. If it did, Spring would cut me down in open court and I’d be for the dock myself. If it didn’t—if I lied myself hoarse—Spring would keep his mouth shut, but the Navy … my God, what would they do to me? What could they do? They couldn’t arrest me, surely … no, but they could investigate and question, and God alone knew what might come of that. The tangle was so terrible that I couldn’t think straight at all—there was nothing for it but to be carried along on the tide, and do what seemed safest at the time. I wondered if I should confess to Bailey, telling him who I really was and admitting my imposture, but I daren’t; I’d have been putting a rope round my own neck for certain.