The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “He’s waitin’ to see you,” says the big fellow, “an’ the sooner we get you off the streets, the better. We’ve got a closed cab –”

  “I don’t understand! You’re quite mistaken, sir – I know of nobody called … Cricket, did you say?” I was babbling with shock, and he absolutely laughed.

  “Say, I wish I could think as quick as you do! Ten years ago, Billy,” says he to his companion, “when we jumped this fellow, he started talkin’ Dutch! Now, come along, Mr Comber – ’cos I’d know you anywhere, an’ we’re wastin’ time and safety.” His voice hardened, and he took my arm. “We mean you no harm – like I once told you, you’re the last man I’d want to hurt!”

  Sometimes you feel you’re living your life over again. It was so now, and for an uncanny moment I was back in the alley behind Susie’s brothel, with the three figures materialising out of the darkness … “Hold it right there, mister! You’re covered, front and rear!” I knew now it was no use bluffing or running; for good or ill, they had me.

  “It wasn’t Dutch, it was German,” says I. “Very well, I’m the man you call Comber, and I’ll be happy to take your cab – but not to Mr Crixus! Not until I’ve been to the British ministry!”

  “No, sir!” snaps he. “We got our orders. An’ believe me, you’ll be a sight safer with us than in the British ministry, not if your whole Queen’s Navy was guarding it! So come on, mister!”

  God knew what that meant, but it settled it. Whatever Crixus wanted – and I still couldn’t take in that he’d got word of me (dammit, he should have been in Orleans, anyway) or that these fellows were real – he’d been a friend, after his fashion, and was evidently still well disposed. And with the three pressing about me, and my arm in a strong hand, I had no choice.

  “Very good,” says I. “But you don’t put a sack over my head this time!”

  He laughed, and said I was a card, and then they were bustling me out of the alley and into a closed growler – mighty practised, with one in front, one gripping me, the third behind. The big man shouted to the driver, and we were lurching along, back towards the station, as near as I could judge, and then we swung right across a broad quagmire of a street, and through the left-hand window I caught a glimpse in the distance of what I recognised as the Capitol without its dome – they still hadn’t got its bloody lid on, would you believe it, in 1859? – and knew we must be crossing the Avenue, going south. The big man saw me looking, and whipped down the blinds, and we bowled along in the stuffy darkness in silence, while I strove to calm my quivering nerves and think out what it all meant. How they’d found me, I couldn’t fathom, and it mattered less than what lay ahead … what the devil could Crixus want with me? A horrid thought – did he know I’d left Randolph to his fate on that steamboat? Well, I’d thought the bastard was dead, and he’d turned up later in Canada, anyway, so I’d heard, so it wasn’t likely to be that. He couldn’t want me to run niggers again, surely? No, it defied all explanation, so I sat fretting in the cab with the big man at my side and his two mates opposite, for what must have been a good half-hour, and then the cab stopped and we descended on what looked like a suburban street, with big detached houses in gloomy gardens either side, and underfoot nothing but Washington macadam: two feet of gumbo.

  They led me through a gate and up a path to a great front door. The big fellow knocked a signal, and we were in a dim hall with a couple of hard-looking citizens, one of ’em a black with shoulders like a prize-fighter. “Here he is,” says my big escort, and a moment later I was blinking in the brightness of a well-furnished drawing-room, only half-believing the sight of the bird-like figure crying welcome from a great chair by the fireplace. He was thinner than I remembered, and terribly frail, but there was no mistaking the bald dome of head and the glinting spectacles beneath brows like white hedgerows. He had a rug over his knees, and from his wasted look I guessed he was crippled now, but he was fairly whimpering in rapture, stretching out his arms towards me.

  “It is he! My prayers are answered! God has sent you back to us! Oh, my boy, my brave boy, come to my arms – let me embrace you!” He was absolutely weeping for joy, which ain’t usually how I’m greeted, but I deemed it best to submit; it was like being clutched by a weak skeleton smelling of camphor. “Oh, my boy!” sobs he. “Ave, Spartacus! Oh, stand there a moment that I may look on you! Oh, Moody, do you remember that night – that blessed night when we set George Randolph on the golden road to freedom? And here he is again, that Mr Standfast who led him through the Valley of the Shadow to the Enchanted Ground!”

  With one or two stops at Vanity Fair, if he’d only known, but now he broke down altogether, blubbering, while my big guardian, Moody, sucked his teeth, and the black, who’d come into the room with him, glowered at me as though it were my fault that the old fool was having hysterics. He calmed down in a moment, mopping himself and repeating over and over that God had sent me, which I didn’t like the sound of – I mean to say, what had he sent me for? It might be that Crixus, having heard of my arrival, God knew how, was merely intent on a glad reunion and prose over good old slave-stealing times, but I doubted it, knowing him. He might have one foot in the grave and t’other hopping on the brink, but the grey eyes behind his glasses were as fierce as ever, and if his frame was feeble, his spirit plainly wasn’t.

  “God has sent you!” cries he again. “In the very hour! For I see His hand in this!” He turned to Moody. “How did you find him?”

  “Cormack telegraphed when he boarded the train at the Baltimore depot. Wilkerson and I were waiting when the train came in. He didn’t give any trouble.”

  “Why should he?” cries Crixus, and beamed at me. “He knows he has no truer, more devoted friends on earth than we, who owe him so much! But sit down, sit down, Mr Comber – Joe, a glass of wine for our friend … no, stay, it was brandy, was it not? I remember, you see!” he chuckled. “Brandy for heroes, as the good doctor said! And for ourselves, Joe! Gentlemen, I give you a toast: ‘George Randolph, on free soil! And his deliverer!’”

  It was plain he didn’t know the truth of how dear George and I had parted company, and I was not about to enlighten him. I looked manly as he and Moody and Black Joe raised their glasses, wondering what the deuce was coming next, and decided to get my oar in first. I didn’t need to pitch him a tale, much less the truth; you see, to him, Comber was the British Admiralty’s beau sabreur in the war against the slave trade; that was how he’d thought of me ten years ago, as a man of intrigue and mystery, and he’d not expect explanation from me now. So, once I’d responded with a toady toast of my own (“The Underground Railroad, and its illustrious station master!”, which almost had him piping his modest eye again), I put it to him plain, with that earnest courtesy which I knew Comber himself would have used, if he hadn’t been feeding the fish off Guinea since ’48.

  “My dear sir,” says I, “I can find no words to express the joy it gives me to see you again – why, as Mr Moody said just now, it is like old times, though how you knew I was in Baltimore I cannot think –”

  “Come, come, Mr Comber!” cries he. “Surely you haven’t forgotten? ‘An ear to every wall, and an eye at every window’, you know. Not a word passes, not a line is written, from the Congress to the taproom, that the Railroad does not hear and see.” He looked solemn. “It needs not me to tell you that you have enemies – but they may be closer than you think! Two days ago the police, here and in Baltimore, had word of your presence – aye, and of those brave deeds which our vicious and unjust laws call crimes!” His voice rose in shrill anger, while I thought, well, thank’ee Spring. “We have watched every road and depot since – and thank God, here you are!”

  “And you’re right, sir!” cries I heartily. “He has sent me to you indeed, for I need your help – I must reach the British ministry tonight at all costs –”

  He jerked up a hand to check me, and even then I couldn’t help noticing how thin and wasted it was; I’ll swear I could see the lamplight th
rough it.

  “Not a word! Say no more, sir! Whatever message you wish to send shall reach your minister, never fear – but what it is, I have no wish to know, nor what brings you to our country again, for I know your lips must be sealed. I can be sure,” says he, looking holy, “that you are engaged on that noble work dear to your heart and mine – the great crusade against slavery to which we have dedicated our lives! In this our countries are at one – for make no mistake, sir, we in America are purging the poison from our nation’s veins at last, the battle is fully joined against those traitors within our gates, those traffickers in human flesh, those betrayers of our glorious Constitution, those gentlemen of Dixie –” he spat out the word as if it had been vinegar “– who build their blood-smeared fortunes with the shackle and the lash –”

  At this point he ran short of air, and sank back in his chair, panting, while Moody helped him to brandy and Joe gave me another glower, as though I’d set the senile idiot off. He’d always been liable to cut loose like a Kilkenny electioneer whenever slavery was mentioned, and here he was, doddering towards the knackers’ yard, still at it. I waited until he’d recovered, thanked him warmly, and said I’d be obliged if Moody could convoy me to the ministry without delay. At this Crixus blinked, looking uncertain.

  “Must you go … in person? Can he not take a note … papers?” He gave a feeble little wave, forcing a smile. “Can you not stay … there is so much to say … so much that I would tell you –”

  “And I long to hear it, sir!” cries I. “But I must see the minister tonight.”

  He didn’t like it, and hesitated, glancing at Moody and Joe, and in that moment I felt the first cold touch of dread – the old bastard was up to something, but didn’t know how to spring it; while all sense and logic told me that he could have no business with me, at such short notice, my coward’s nose was scenting mischief breast-high – well, by God, he’d flung me into the soup once, and he wasn’t doing it again. I rose, ready to go, and he gave a whimper.

  “Mr Comber, sir, a moment! Half an hour will make no difference, surely? Spare me that time, sir – nay, I insist, you must! You shall not regret it, I assure you! Indeed, if I know you,” and he gave me a smile whose radiance chilled my blood, “you will bless the chance that brought you here!”

  I doubted that, but I couldn’t well refuse. He had that implacable light in his eye, smile or no, and Moody and Joe seemed to be standing just an inch taller than a moment since. I gave in with good grace and sat down again, and Joe filled my glass.

  Crixus studied a moment, as though unsure how to begin, and then said he supposed I knew how things stood in America at present. I said I didn’t, since my work had taken me east, not west, and I’d lost sight of colonial affairs, so to speak. He frowned, as though I’d no business to be messing with foreign parts, and I thought to impress him by adding that I’d been in Russia and India.

  “Russia?” wonders he, as though it were the Isle of Wight. “Ah, to be sure, that unhappy country, which forges its own chains.” I tried to look as though I’d been freeing serfs right and left. “But … India? There is no slavery question there, surely?”

  I said, no, but there had been a recent disturbance of which he might have heard, and I must go where my chiefs sent me. He didn’t seem to think much of India, or my irresponsible chiefs, and returned to matters of importance.

  “Then you may not know that the storm is gathering over our beloved country, and soon must break. Yes, sir,” cries he, getting into his stride, “the night is almost past, but the dawn will come in a tempest that will scour the land to its roots, cleansing it of the foulness that disfigures it, so that it may emerge into the golden sunlight of universal freedom! It will be a time of sore trial, of blood and lamentation, but when the crisis is past, Mr Comber, victory will be ours, for slavery will be dead!” Now he was at full gallop, eyes bright with zeal. “Yes, sir, the sands of pleading and persuasion are running out; the time has come to unsheath the sword! What has patience earned us? Our enemies harden their hearts and mock our entreaties; they stamp their foot with even grosser cruelty upon the helpless bodies of our black brethren!” I stole a look at our black brother Joe, to see how he was taking this; he was listening, rapt, and I’d not have stamped on him for a pension. “But the nation is waking at last – oh, its leaders shuffle and compromise and placate the butchers, but among the people, sir, the belief is growing that it is time to arm, that the cancer can be cut out only by the sword! America is a powder-keg, sir, and it needs but a spark to fire the train!”

  He paused for breath, and since the real Comber would have raised a cheer, I resisted the temptation to cry “Hear! hear!” and ventured a fervent “Amen!” Crixus nodded, dabbing his lips with a handkerchief, and sat forward, laying his skinny hand on mine.

  “Yet still the people hesitate, for it is a fearful prospect, Mr Comber! Not for four score years have we faced such peril. ‘It would destroy us!’ cry the fainthearts. ‘Let it be!’ cry the thoughtless. Still they hope that conflict may be avoided – but given a lead, they will cast away their doubts! It needs a man to give that lead, sir – to fire that train!” He was staring at me, his talons tightening. “And God, in His infinite wisdom, has sent us such a man!”

  For one horrible instant I thought he meant me. I’ve heard worse, you know, and I knew what this little fanatic was capable of when he had the bit between his teeth. I stared back, stricken, and he asked:

  “What do you know of John Brown?”

  That he’s a hairy impertinent lout who can hold more hard liquor than a distillery, was my immediate thought, for the only John Brown I knew was a young ghillie who’d had to be carried home on a hurdle the day I’d gone on that ghastly deer-stalk with Prince Albert at Balmoral, when Ignatieff had come within an ace of filling me with buckshot. But Crixus could never have heard of him, for this, you see, was years before Balmoral Brown had become famous as our gracious Queen’s attendant (and some said, more than that, but it’s all rot, in my opinion, for little Vicky had excellent taste in men, bar Albert; she always fancied me).

  I confessed I’d never heard of an American called John Brown, and Crixus said “Ah!” with the satisfied gleam of one who is bursting with great news to tell, which he did, and that was the first I ever heard of Old Ossawatomie, the Angel of the Lord – or the murderous rustler, whichever you like. To Crixus he was God’s own prophet, a kind of Christ with six-guns, but if I give you his version, unvarnished, you’ll start off with a lop-sided view, so I’ll interpolate what I learned later, from Brown himself, and from friends and foes alike, all of it true, so far as I know – which ain’t to say that Crixus wasn’t truthful, too.

  “Picture a Connecticut Yankee, a child of the Mayflower Pilgrims, as American as the soil from which he sprang!” says he. “Born of poor and humble folk, raised in honest poverty, with little schooling save from the Bible, accustomed as a lad to go barefoot alone a hundred miles driving his father’s herd. See him growing to vigorous manhood, strong, independent, and devout, imbued with the love of liberty, not only for himself, but for all men, hating slavery with a deep, burning detestation, yet in his nature kind, benevolent, and wise, though less shrewd in business, in which he had but indifferent success.”

  [Flashy: True, for his childhood, but omits that when he was four he stole some brass pins from a little girl, was whipped by his mother, lost a yellow marble given him by an Indian boy, had a pet squirrel, and a lamb which died. On his own admission, J.B. was a ready liar, rough but not quarrelsome, knew great swathes of the Scriptures, and grew up expecting life to be tough. As a man, his business career could indeed be called indifferent, since he made a hash of farming, tanning, sheep-herding, and surveying, accumulated little except a heap of debts, law-suits, and twenty children, and went bankrupt.]

  “Then, sir, about twenty years ago, he conceived a plan – nay, a wondrous vision, whereby slavery in the United States might be destroyed at a stroke. It was re
volutionary, it was inspired, but his genius told him it was premature, and wisely he kept it in his heart, shared only with a few whom he trusted. These comprehended his sons, on whom he laid, by sacred oaths, the duty to fight against slavery until it was slain utterly! That duty,” says Crixus, “they began to fulfil when, grown to manhood, they sought their fortunes in Kansas, on whose blood-drenched soil was fought the first great battle between Abolitionist and Slaver, between Freedom and Tyranny, between Mansoul and Diabolus – and there, Mr Comber, in the scorching heat of that furnace of conflict, was tempered the soul and resolution of him whom we are proud to call Captain John Brown!”

  [Flashy: We’ll leave the “wondrous vision” for the moment, if you don’t mind, and deal with “Bleeding Kansas”, which like everything to do with American politics is difficult, dull, and damned dirty, but you need to know about it if you’re to understand John Brown. The great question was: should Kansas be a free state or a slave one, and since it was up to the residents to decide, and America being devoted to democracy, both factions rushed in “voters” from the free North and the slave South (Missouri, mostly), elections were rigged, ballot-boxes were stuffed, and before you knew it fighting and raiding had broken out between the Free Staters and the “Border Ruffians” of the slavery party. Brown and his sons had joined in on the free side, and taken to strife like ducks to water. It was the first real armed clash between North and South, and you get the flavour of the thing from the Missouri orator who advised: “Be brave, be orderly, and if any man or woman stand in your way, blow ’em to hell with a chunk of cold lead!”]17

  “Nor was it long,” says Crixus, “before Captain Brown’s fame as a champion of freedom was heard throughout the land. Too late to prevent the wanton destruction of the town of Lawrence by Border Ruffians, he was moved to wrath by the news that the conflict had spread to the halls of Congress, where the brave Senator Sumner raised his voice against the despoilers of Lawrence, and was clubbed almost to death in his very seat by a coward from South Carolina! In the very Senate, Mr Comber! Conceive if you can, sir, the emotions stirred in the honest bosom of John Brown – and ask yourself, is it matter for wonder that when, a few hours later, he came on Southern bullies threatening violence to a Free State man, he should smite them with the sword? Yet there are those who would call this just chastisement murder, and clamour for the law to be invoked against him!”