He paused, to see how I was taking it, but I was mum, so he went on:
“Needless tae say, once we knew of your presence, we referred to our official records, and identified ye as the British Admiralty agent who was active – aye, uncommonly active! – in this country ten years ago.” He gave a knowing smile. “Never fear, Mr Comber. We have no interest in that, ye’ll be glad to hear; our concern wi’ you is here and now.” He regarded me with eyes like amiable gimlets. “So … why are ye in the United States?”
Not a question, you’ll allow, to which I could give a short answer – but I didn’t need to. Since they weren’t concerned with my murky American past, my course was clear.
“There’s no secret about it. You’re welcome to the whole story – but not until I’m under the protection of the British minister, either here or in Washington.” I gave him my Flashiest smile. “Very good?”
It wasn’t, of course. “I’d remind ye, Mr Comber,” growls he, “that ye’re in no position to make conditions – having entered this country secretly, and associated wi’ two clandestine and illegal bodies –”
“Associated my eye! They kidnapped me – as your eavesdroppers have certainly told you! And I’m not an Admiralty agent, and never was, and my name ain’t Comber –”
“I dare say! Prescott, is it? Or Arnold, or Howard? Or have ye another one?”
“You’re damned right I have! It’s Flashman – and I’m a colonel in the British Army! And believe it or not as you choose, I was on my way home from India to report to Lord Palmerston when I was … why, what’s the matter?”
For he had recoiled a step, staring down at me in the oddest way – not as though he didn’t believe me, but as though he did, and couldn’t credit his senses.
“Flashman, did ye say? Flashman – the Afghan soldier?”
Well, this was gratifying – I’d not supposed my fame had carried so far. But of course he was British-born, by his voice, and must have heard of me years ago.
“The very same!” cries I, laughing. “I know it must sound damned unlikely – and I’ve no papers, or anything of the sort, and I don’t know a soul here to vouch for me, but a telegraph to our minister in Washington – Lord Lyons, I believe –”
“Stop you!” He leaned forward abruptly. “We may not have tae seek so far. Tell me – sharp, now! – what was your wife’s maiden name?”
“What? My wife’s … what d’ye mean –?”
“Answer!” snaps he. “Her maiden name!”
“Why … Morrison! But –”
“An only child, was she?” He rapped it out, face close to mine, and I found myself answering:
“Why … no – she had three sisters –”
“Their names?”
“What the devil! Now, see here –”
“Answer! Ye say ye’re Flashman! Prove it! Her sisters’ names!”
“Why … Mary … and Agnes … yes, and Grizel –”
“Where were ye married?”
This was staggering. “In Paisley Abbey – but how in God’s name do you know?” I was on my feet now. “Who the devil are you? D’ye mean to say ye know me?”
“I do that,” says he, and the sudden bark and blazing stare that had jolted the answers out of me were gone, and he was regarding me with grim astonishment. “I could wish I didn’t. But we’ll mak’ siccar – what took ye to Paisley in the first place?”
“Why, I was training militia –”
“That ye were! What for?”
“To … to help to put down the Chartists – there was rioting among the mill people –”
“When they read the Riot Act at Morrison’s mill – what like horse were ye ridin’, and what colour were your breeks?”
“Eh? How the … hold on, it was a white mare, I think … and my pants would be cherry-pink … My God, you were there?” In my mind’s eye were the dirty yelling faces, the shaken fists, the hail of clods and brickbats that had knocked the Provost’s hat off, the Peninsular veteran sergeant bawling to the wavering militia to hold their line, the snarling obscenities as the mob gave back sullenly before the bayonets, your correspondent near to soiling his fine Cherrypicker “breeks” with fear … and this glowering inquisitor with his rasping voice and peeler’s eyes remembered it, too. And here we were, twenty years after, facing each other in a New York attic … where his timely intervention had probably saved my life.
“Aye, I was there,” says he. “Was I no’? Man, I was the ringleader! No, ye won’t mind me – it’s my trade, no’ bein’ noticed. And there were no warrants out for Allan Pinkerton in those days, tae drive him from his native land!” His eyes glinted angrily, and then he shrugged. “At least ye didnae fire on us, like those fools at Monmouth Castle!”
His name meant nothing to me; he wasn’t the most famous detective in the world, then.28 But the great thing was that he knew and could vouch for me, and speed me to the British ministry; in my delight I gripped his hand and pumped it, congratulating him on his splendid memory; he said curtly that it was easy enough to remember going hungry on a cooper’s wages, and when I cried jovially that I meant his remembering my wife, and her family, he replied unsmiling that no one in Paisley was ever likely to forget Morrison and his brood. He wasn’t sharing my high spirits, I could see; in fact he was looking damned sour, frowning and tugging his beard like a man who doesn’t know what to do next.
“It’s no’ that simple!” snaps he, when I spoke of telegraphing Lyons. “Oh, aye, I ken fine who ye are, and a’ about the Crimea and the Light Brigade – I still see the old country papers! Didn’t I read lately about your great deeds in India and the Victoria Cross!” He ground his teeth. “And ye spoke of Palmerston – I suppose ye’re far ben wi’ the Queen, too!”
Being married to Elspeth, I understand Glaswegian, so I could agree that I had the honour of Her Majesty’s close acquaintance – but why should that upset him?
“Because ‘Comber’ was a poor crater of no account – but Flashman, V.C., is anither kettle o’ fish a’thegither!” cries he, becoming Scotcher by the minute. “And my orders are tae hold ‘Comber’ for my chiefs, and no’ let him near the British ministry!”
“Well, I ain’t Comber, so your orders don’t count –”
“Do they no’? That’s where you’re wrong!” He rounded on me. “Comber or Flashman, the United States want ye, and that’s the end o’ it!” He added quietly: “So ye’ll please to consider yoursel’ in my custody.”
“What? You told me a moment since they don’t give a dam about ten years ago, and by God, I’ve done nothing since …” My astonishment gave way to fury at the insolence of it. “Custody be damned! Who the dooce d’ye think you are? Since I was railroaded into this bloody country I’ve been assaulted, kidnapped, threatened, blackmailed, and dam’ near killed – and you’ve known all about it, damn your eyes, and never lifted a finger until now! Well, Mr Allan Pinkerton, I’ve had enough of it, and you’ll take me to the British minister or consul or whoever-the-hell it is here and now, or I’ll –”
“Or ye’ll what?” says he, and as I gargled to a stop before that ruthless stare, he pushed me unresisting back to my seat – I’m as persuadable as the next man, you know.
“There’s no help for it,” says he. “My chiefs may take a different view when they learn who ye are – but I doubt it. There’s too much at stake, and it all turns on what has happened tae ye in these few days past.” He regarded me sombrely. “The fact is, we need ye.”
“Well, you damned well can’t have me, d’ye hear? I never heard such moonshine – what the blazes can you need me for?”
“Perhaps tae preserve the union of these United States,” says he steadily. “But that far ahead I cannae see. Now, I’ll take ye to my chiefs – who are among the highest in the land, I may tell ye – and they’ll inform ye further.” He chewed his lip, considering. “This much I’ll tell you now, since the scheme is mine: for reasons quite different from those of Crixus and Atropos,
whose infernal plans must be frustrated at all costs … my superiors would have ye enlist with John Brown.”
* * *
a Play for high stakes (prob. from the tiger sign used to denote a gambling-house).
Chapter 11
They say that Yankees are the smartest salesmen in the world, and I’ll not deny it. I’d not have believed, when Pinkerton spoke those appalling words, that any advocate on God’s earth could have talked me into joining Brown of my own free will – Crixus had tried by moral ’suasion (which he’d certainly have augmented with blackmail, if necessary), the bloated fiend Atropos by naked threats, and now this steely-eyed bastard was announcing it as the policy of the U.S. authorities – he didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask, because the whole thing was outrageous. I mean to say, while Crixus probably, and Atropos certainly, had the means to compel me into the service of a mad farmer bent on starting a war, the United States hadn’t – they couldn’t hold an eminent British soldier against his will, deny him the protection of his embassy, and force him into criminal activity, could they? And yet … I finished up at Harper’s Ferry. Why? Because a certain shrewd New Yorker understood the true art of persuasion, which lies in convincing the gull, against all reason, that he can’t afford not to buy – salesmanship, that’s the ticket.
I’ll come to that presently; my immediate response, when Pinkerton sprang his mine, was to question his sanity and decline at the top of my voice, pointing out that if he didn’t drum up Lyons instanter, Palmerston would have a fit, the Queen would be most displeased, we might well burn Washington again, and he, Pinkerton, would find himself selling matches on the street corner. To which he replied bleakly that I’d better come along quietly.
I said I’d swim in blood first, so two minutes later I was being escorted down the backstairs by two of his stalwarts, standing on my dignity and doing what I was bid, in the sure knowledge that I was on a sound wicket, and the longer they held and hindered me, the more crow they’d have to eat in the long run. They put me in a Black Maria in the alley behind Madam Celeste’s bouncer repair shop (which I guessed was what the secret service call a “cave”, and Madam herself in government pay) and so to a brown building overlooking the river, nothing like a police station or jail, but staffed by sober, silent civilians who conducted me to a comfortable enough chamber which was something between a parlour and a cell (carpet on the floor, bars on the window), gave me a disgusting luncheon consisting of a cake of fried chopped beef smothered in onions and train oil, and left me to my own devices for a couple of hours.29
Believe it or not, by this time I was quite enjoying myself. I was safe, you see, gloriously safe, after all my trials nobly borne, and certain of eventual deliverance. Poor old Charity Spring’s scheme for my undoing had gone agley altogether, now that it was known who I really was (thank God for Pinkerton and his memory!). There could be no question now of my answering old charges in the distant South (the diplomatic stink would have been tremendous), the Kuklos couldn’t come near me, and poor old Crixus simply didn’t count. By now, I reflected happily, Pinkerton would be dismaying his chiefs with the news that the lowly Comber, whom they’d hoped to bend to their nefarious will (though why they should want him to join Brown’s ragged regiment was still beyond imagination) was none other than the admired Flashy, darling of the British Empire, and quite beyond their touch; I even had a jolly daydream in which I was summoned to the White House to receive President Buchanan’s apology for the lunch.
Pinkerton’s reappearance brought me back to earth. He had a couple of civilians in tow, and as soon as I clapped eyes on them I smelt “government”. One was a swell ministry ruffian, a genteel lantern-jaw with a flowered weskit and brass knuckles in his fob, no doubt; the other was your complete politico, with the pudding face of a bad-tempered baby and no nonsense. Pinkerton called him “Senator”, and he plumped down in a chair with his fists on his knees, scowled, cut my protest off short, and pitched right in.
“Pinkerton tells us you claim to be an English army colonel named Flashman.” He had the harsh, nasal rasp of New England. “Says he recognises you, from twenty years back. It won’t do, sir! Not good enough. He may be mistaken. He also says you refuse to give any account of yourself until you’ve seen your minister. Well, sir,” he stuck out his fat chin, “that won’t do, either! After you’ve explained yourself, and your connection with the Englishman who masqueraded in this country ten years ago under various names – and satisfied me that you are who you claim to be … then we’ll see about the minister.” He sat back, folding his hands over his guts. “Now, sir … you have the floor.”
I’d been all set to sail into him with demands that I be released forthwith, but the steady look of the shrewd eyes in that stubborn, podgy face, and the flat assurance of the man, told me it wouldn’t answer: they’d keep me here until hell froze or I talked – as I was certainly going to have to, sooner or later, to Lord Lyons, who’d be bound to pass it on to them, so why not save him the trouble? And I love telling a tale about myself, and startling the whiffers … so I decided to shelve my protests, asked for something to wet my whistle, warned them it would be a long story, and fired away.
Well, you know it by now, from my being pressed aboard Spring’s vessel, my masquerade as Comber, adventures on the Mississippi, slave-running, slave-stealing, Underground Railroad, Lincoln, and so on, to the point where I’d fled westward after Spring killed Omohundro. My peregrinations beyond the wide Missouri I dealt with only briefly, dismissed the Crimea and Mutiny in a modest sentence or two, and so came at last to my present misfortunes, all the way from the Cape to Madam Celeste’s, omitting only the tender passages … and I’m bound to admit, it is one hell of a tale, which I’d not believe myself if I hadn’t been there, every ghastly foot of the way.
They heard me out in silence, and I was croaking hoarse when I finished. The Senator had barely moved, but his petulant glower had grown deeper as I talked; Pinkerton had listened intently, nodding and sniffing now and then and occasionally prowling about to view me from different vantages. The lantern-jawed sportsman had been out of my line of sight, but when I’d done he was the first to break the silence.
“It fits,” was all he said, and the Senator grimaced and eased himself in his chair, shaking his jowls in perplexity.
“You may say so!” growls he. “By Gadfrey, it’s the wildest thing I ever heard, I’ll say that!”
“Too wild to make up.”
“Oh, well, now! You mean you believe it?”
“I guess I know the papers on Comber by heart,” says lantern-jaw, “and he hasn’t contradicted ’em. Not once. What he’s added to what we knew already … well, sir, as I said – it fits. Every time.”
The Senator scowled harder than ever. “Where’s Lincoln just now?”
“Not in New York. But, you know, he couldn’t speak to this … this gentleman’s being Colonel Flashman.”
“No, dammit!” The Senator swung round in his chair. “See here, Pinkerton – are you sure of him?”
“Beyond any doubt whatever, sir. This is Colonel Flashman.”
“You’d take an oath on that?”
“It’s no’ a matter of oath!” Pinkerton was impatient. “I know!”
The Senator drummed his fingers, brooding, and then threw up his hands. “What the Hades, whichever he is, he’s all we have, in any event!” He rose and faced me. “Very well … Colonel Flashman! I make no apology for doubting you, sir, for if ever a man brought suspicion on himself …” He paused, breathing hard, and suddenly burst out: “Confound it, sir – do they know of this in England? About Comber, and impersonation, and slave-running, and … and heaven knows what?”
“No, sir,” says I. “I was on leave, you see.”
“My God!” He stared helplessly at the others, and then, squaring his shoulders, he sat down before me again, full of stern resolve.
“I’ll not waste words. We’ve had a deal too many already – but we had to be sure w
ho you were. Now that we know,” says he, without much confidence, I thought, “I am still bound to ask the question I’d have put to you if you were Comber.” He took a deep breath. “Are you prepared to place yourself at the disposal of the United States for an extraordinary service?”
“You mean to help this mad bugger Brown to start a war?” I had my answer ready, you may be sure. “No! Dammit, if I told Pinkerton once, I –”
“No, sir!” cries he. “Quite the contrary! To make sure that Brown does not start any such thing!”
I could only gape – by God, he was serious. “What on earth d’you mean? Make sure he doesn’t … how could I do that? In heaven’s name, if you want him stopped – why, arrest him, or shoot him, or banish him to Timbuktu –”
“That can’t be!” It was the lantern-jaw. “Crixus and Atropos both told you. For political reasons, we daren’t touch him.”
“But we can restrain him, given the means tae hand,” says Pinkerton. “Yoursel’, colonel.”
“Me? Restrain him? Why, my good ass, I don’t even know him … thank God!” Something Pinkerton himself had said flashed into my mind. “You said Brown was your friend! Well, you restrain him, then! I can’t, even if I wanted to, which I dam’ well don’t –”
“Hear me, sir!” cries the Senator, raising a statesmanlike hand. “You misunderstand entirely. No one can reason with John Brown. He is a man possessed, sir, not to be moved by persuasion. But he could be prevented –” he leaned forward dramatically “–by a lieutenant in whom he reposed absolute trust! A deputy, a counsellor on whom he relied completely for the military skill and knowledge which he himself lacks, could so hinder and delay his terrible design that it would die stillborn. He is a simple man, when all is said. And the events of this past week have conspired to make you –” he stabbed a finger at me “–and only you, that lieutenant, that deputy, who can frustrate him. Why, already Brown is looking to you, the man chosen for him by his trusted friend Crixus. And Crixus and the Kuklos, from far different motives, have set you on the path to the same dreadful end that they both seek. We are asking you to follow that path, so that their infernal machinations may be confounded!” So help me, it’s what he said; Senatorial oratory, you see. He took his finger out of my weskit and flourished it aloft. “There must be no abolitionist raid on Southern soil! The consequences would be too hideous to envision – war, sir, civil war, might well follow! That is what hangs in the balance, do not you see? But it can be prevented, sir, without loss of life, without so much as a tremor to disturb the tranquillity of –”
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 311