Only a yard away Jerry Anderson was hacking at the bricks to make a loophole; fragments rained down on me, and when I sang out he dropped down beside me, eyes wild in a blood-streaked face.
“My God, Josh!” cries he. “Are ye done for?”
“Brandy!” croaks I, and he thrust his flask at me. I clutched it, and as he jumped back to his loophole I set my teeth and spilled half the contents on my neck, squawling to wake the dead at the burning agony of it. I clapped the mouth of the flask to my leg wound, writhing and whimpering, and had just enough strength to pour the rest down my throat. I was half-fainting with pain, and I must have swooned again, for the next thing I knew there was a blinding glare before my eyes, the shooting had ceased altogether, and there were voices talking close by. I raised my head and saw that the glare came from a storm-lantern in the doorway, where J.B. seemed to be holding a parley with a couple of civilians, while Joe covered them with his six-guns. The light fell on the faces of the bodies near my feet, and I shrank back horrified as I saw that they were Watson and Oliver, both apparently dead, and beyond them the shattered corpse of Taylor sprawled on the blood-sodden straw. To my right, on the back wall behind the engines, young Ed Coppoc and Emperor Green, the black, had their rifles at the ready through loopholes in the brick, and Jerry Anderson was at his post on the side wall, straddling Oliver’s body. Dauphin Thompson, the pretty youth who looked like a girl, stood by the nearer engine, a rifle in his hands – my God, was this all that was left? Six sound men, three corpses, and Flashy playing possum … Now one of the civilians was speaking, a tall brisk chap with a trim moustache and goatee – my captain from the Wager House. By George, he got about, though, didn’t he?
“… you can only make it worse!” cries he, pointing to the bodies. “Sakes alive, man, isn’t that enough? You’re surrounded by hundreds of militia, and Colonel Lee’s marines! They’re under orders from the President of the United States to demand your unconditional surrender, nothing less!” He gestured about him. “Look at this – the end is certain, and resistance can mean only more bloodshed –”
“They know my terms!” rasps J.B. His face was dreadful in the lamp-glare, haggard with hunger and lack of sleep, but his voice was strong. “When all my men, living and dead, have been delivered to me here, with their arms and ammunition – and our horse and harness –”
“Your horse?” cries the other in disbelief. “God help us!”
“– then, and only then, I shall retire into Maryland, taking the prisoners with me,” continues J.B. calmly. “There I shall release them at a safe distance, and enter into negotiations with the government –”
“You’ll not take us into Maryland!” It was old Washington, coming round the back of the engines, and I saw there were half a dozen of the hostages lurking at the far side of the shed.54 He strode past where I was lying, up to the group in the doorway. “No threat shall compel me from this spot, I’ll tell you that!”
They stood eye to eye, the old soldier planted like a rock, J.B. with his head thrown back, rifle in hand, Frederick’s sword trailing at his hip. The goatee’d captain stepped between them, hands raised, forcing himself to speak quiet but firm.
“It won’t do, Captain Brown. Can’t you see, sir, Colonel Lee cannot yield to those terms – the United States cannot!” He took a deep breath. “Your position … oh, come, sir, in the name of sense – what do you hope for?”
J.B. turned on him, eyes flashing. “For honourable dealing, according to the usages of war! Would you have me surrender to the creatures who shot down my men like dogs – under a white flag? My own son, sir, dying there of wounds inflicted by those drunken cowards?”
“That was the militia! Colonel Lee is a gallant gentleman and stone-cold sober!” retorts the captain. “Oh, I am sorry for your son … but, my God, when men take up arms in treason against their country, they can expect to be shot like dogs! What of the poor souls you’ve killed this day?” He broke off with a helpless shrug. “Oh, where’s the sense of it? I beg of you, sir – see reason, and give up while you can. Colonel Lee will show you every consideration, and in the meantime,” he gestured at the bodies, “at least let Doctor Taylor see to your wounded.”
J.B. considered a moment, and then nodded to the other civilian, a stout little greybeard with a black bag who signed to Jerry to bring the lantern, and knelt down by Watson, fumbling for his pulse. Even through half-closed eyes in that light I could tell it was the Stars and Stripes for Watson, no error: his face was like wax, and he didn’t seem to be breathing. The little sawbones evidently agreed, for he pursed his lips and moved on to Oliver, whose eyes blinked open in the light. He stirred, and gave a little whispered sob.
“Paw … shoot me … oh, Paw, please, it’s awful sore! Let me … die … please, Paw!”
J.B.’s voiced croaked out of the shadows in an awful parody of reassurance: “Oh, you’ll get over it, Noll –”, interrupted by a stifled scream from Oliver as the belly-butcher probed at his chest. You mayn’t credit it, but I believe I heard the loving paterfamilias mutter something about “dying like a man”. Say that to me, you old sod, thinks I, and I’ll spit in your eye.
I was reviving, you see, under the spur of self-preservation, and while I was weak as a rat with fear and shock, and hurting like sin, I was by no means hors de combat: the feeling had returned to my leg, and the gash in my neck seemed to have stopped bleeding. But the outlook was uncertain, you’ll agree. If this parley (one of many in that extraordinary day, in which one side tended the other’s wounded between the hostilities) ended with J.B.’s throwing in his hand, all would be well: once he’d been disarmed I could show my true colours and refer them to Messervy. If he wouldn’t surrender, I could only keep mum – declaring myself a U.S. agent in the hope that the captain could protect me would be madness: why, the crazy old bastard would probably shoot me on the spot. Then there was the vexed question of where the devil I’d been all day … and Joe was lurking in the background … On the whole, the closer I appeared to be to death’s door, and unable to answer embarrassing questions, the better. So when the poultice-walloper shook his head over Oliver, and glanced towards me, lying there all blood-spattered and pathetic, I was ready with a feeble gesture to keep him at a distance – the last thing I wanted was the little bugger poking at me and exclaiming: “Why, this fellow’s barely scratched! A spoonful of jalop and he’ll be fitter than I am!”
I needn’t have fretted. Possibly he was fed up peering at abolitionists, for having glanced, he shrugged, and said he’d call again in the morning. (Those were his very words, as though we were in Tooting with the mumps; you may find them in the history books.)
Meanwhile the goatee’d captain had been moving heaven and earth to make J.B. see reason, with as much success as you’d expect. “I knew what we might be called on to undergo when I set my hand to this work,” says the stubborn old ragamuffin. “I have weighed the responsibility, and shall not shrink from it.”
“And your prisoners?” cries the captain. “If this madness continues, and they pay for it with their lives, you’ll take responsibility for that too, will you?”
“I shall take every care of them,” replies J.B. “They are in God’s hands. So are we all.”
The captain could have burst at the sanctimonious smugness of it, but he mastered himself, and stood up tall.
“You are a vain and selfish man,” says he. “God forgive you.” Then anger got the better of him. “You’ll die! To no purpose – you know that?”
“Oh, to some purpose, I believe,” says J.B., and laid a hand on his shoulder, as though talking to a child: “Be of good cheer, Captain Sinn. We shall this day light such a candle by God’s grace in Virginia as shall never be put out.”55
This was too much for old Washington, who went purple. “You dare – you dare to use those words!” He spluttered. “Why … why, it’s a blasphemy! You’re a pagan, sir, a brazen forehead –”
“Go behind the engines, colone
l,” says J.B. “There is no more to be said.” The old soldier stood fuming for a moment, then turned on his heel and strode off to the far side, where the other hostages were peeping over the engines, looking scared.
“Come along, doctor,” says the captain. “We have done what we could.” He hesitated in the doorway, and turned to J.B. “For the last time, Mr Brown – will you not reconsider?”
J.B. stood silent, staring at the ground, and Sinn and the doctor went out into the darkness.
I’d listened in growing consternation, for there was no doubt what was coming, thanks to the blind stubborn folly (aye, and vanity) of that pig-headed yokel – the besiegers would storm the engine-house, their first ranks would be cut down by the defenders’ fire, and when the drunken rabble finally burst in by sheer weight of numbers they’d butcher every last one of us in a fury of spite and vengeance. I’d not have a dog’s chance of surrender, or to proclaim myself … to them I’d be just another Kansas murderer, to go the way of Thompson and Stevens and Watson – unless in the meantime I could make myself known to old Washington, and take shelter among the hostages when the final charge came home; the Marines would have orders to look out for them and see them safe. But how to put Washington wise, without betraying myself to J.B. …? and even as the thought formed, here came our gallant commander, brushing aside something that Jerry Anderson was saying, ordering him back to his post, and moving purposefully in my direction. He passed his sons’ bodies without a glance and loomed above me, and my innards turned over at the sight of that ravaged headstone of a face with its burning eyes; the tangled hair sprouting from under the old hat was dirty white, like his scrub of beard, and when he spoke it was like gravel under a door.
“Can you hear me, Joshua? Are you badly hurt? What became of you?”
I had my answer ready, a red herring that should distract him if anything could, delivered with a weary flicker of the eyelids and a tremulous whisper, to let him see I was at my last gasp.
“Kagi …” I muttered. “Kagi …”
“What of Kagi?” cries he, stooping over me.
“He’s … dead, captain,” says I, very faint. “Shot … at the river …”
“And the others? Leary? Copeland?” Those were the two blacks.
“Dead … I think …” I gave a muted gasp of agony by way of business. “And … they killed Thompson, too … murdered … used his body … target practice …”
He made a dreadful noise; it was his teeth grating. “So they did with Leeman. The fool ran for the river, and was taken. They put a pistol to his head and …” He knelt down by me, and there were tears on the leathery cheeks. “Did you speak with Kagi?”
I ventured a weak shake of the head. “No … I tried to … no use … too many of ’em … ah, my leg!” I gave just a touch of feeble thrash, eyes tight shut in anguish.
“Joshua!” The callous ruffian actually gripped me by the shoulder. “What happened? Why did you run from the hotel?”
That was the question, of course, and I’d been cudgelling my wits for an answer – and in a heaven-sent flash it came to me, the perfect excuse that might also be my salvation, if only I played it properly; the one thing that might turn this selfish lunatic from his fatal resolve.
“Kagi …” I whispered. “Went to … bring Kagi … ah, too late!”
“What’s that you say?” He was frowning in bewilderment. “You wanted to fetch Kagi? To me, you mean? But why?” Playing for time, while I chose my words, I gave a shivering moan and bit my lip (fighting the agony, you know) and could have cheered when he went on in a puzzled tone: “Joe told me you had deserted … I would not believe it! Why, then? Joshua – do you hear me? Speak, man!”
I decided it was time to rally a little, so I forced a brave, wry smile, and when he asked if I was in great pain, I half-raised a palsied hand and let him grip it in his horny fist.
“Not … too bad … thank’ee,” says I. “Loss o’ blood … and my leg … but I’ll be … at my post … presently … never fear.” Gad, I was game. “Got a gun … have you?” I’d no least intention of joining the defence, but it showed the right spirit, and whatever happened I wanted a piece handy. He drew a Colt from his belt and laid it by me, asking again about Kagi, but I was taking my time.
“Ah … thank’ee, skipper … that’s fine. Want to … go out … fighting, you know.” Talk about the last act of Hamlet. “If I must …” I opened my eyes wide in gallant appeal. “Must we, captain?”
“What d’ye mean, Joshua?” says he, frowning, and I clenched my teeth as in sudden pain, breathed a silent prayer, and let him have it.
“Why I went for Kagi,” I began, gasped, and went on: “I knew … you’d fight to a finish. You’re like me,” I explained, with a ghastly grin. “No surrender, what? Aye … but the last thing Kagi said to me … at the farm … he said: ‘At all costs, Josh, you must … see the captain safe. He must live, even if … we die. He has … the voice … and it must not be silenced’.” I paused, almost at the end of my tether, but determined. “Well … when I saw … this morning, that if we waited … for the slaves, you know … we’d be cut off … killed, most likely … I knew I must bring Kagi to … to talk to you … make you see that your life was … well, too precious to lose.” Another pathetic smile. “I knew you wouldn’t … listen to me. I knew you’d heed Kagi, though … you always did … made me quite jealous sometimes … ne’er mind …” I stopped for another useful wince, and any fool could have seen I was gathering my strength for one last noble effort. I gripped his hand. “Listen to Kagi now … won’t you? Surrender … for his sake!” Inspired, I drivelled on. “And for the sake of … of all those poor black souls … crying for deliverance … don’t fail them now! Live … that the voice may not be silenced! Oh, surrender, now … call back that captain … and Kagi won’t have died in vain …”
I sank back, eyes closing, in an exhaustion that wasn’t entirely bogus, for I’d given it all I knew. Fine fevered stuff, in my best heroic style – a deathbed variation on the theme I’d used when I talked Wheeler into running up the white flag at Cawnpore two years earlier. Aye, but Wheeler was a level-headed soldier, not an ignorant fanatic, and when I opened my eyes again my heart sank, for the bright eyes were as hard as ever, and his mouth was turned down in a stubborn scowl. He withdrew his hand from mine.
“You too, Joshua,” says he. “First Anderson, now you. He hears Captain Sinn talk of treason, so his conscience smites him now; he’ll not fire again on his country’s flag, he says.” Good for you, Jerry; sanity at last. “And Kagi, you tell me … and now you.” He gave a deep sigh, and went on in a weary voice. “Cannot you see, we are all dead men? If we surrender, we hang, and where is my voice then? And if we surrender, we shall have betrayed our cause – and that I’ll not do!”
God, he was dense. “Captain!” I croaked, and in my desperation I forgot I was dying and came up on one elbow to whine at him in earnest. “Don’t you see, if we surrender, there’s bound to be a trial! You’ll be able to speak out then – to tell America, tell the whole world, what … what we came here for! The cause, dammit, and the darkies, and everything … For God’s sake,” I yammered, “everyone will hear you, and … and be inspired to carry on, but if you die here, why, they’ll never know! Don’t you understand?”
D’ye know, I doubt if he did, for before I’d done bleating he had turned his glance aside in that brooding, distant way I knew so well; he hadn’t even noticed how suddenly I’d come to life. I could have wept, for I wanted to shout in his face: “Listen, you pudding-headed dotard, I’m showing you the finest soap-box your bloody cause could have! You’ll speak your piece, and then you’ll swing, and good riddance, but they’ll have heard you from Hell to Honolulu! (And they did; that’s the irony of it.) And I’ll be out of here, alive and safe, you selfish hound!” But it would have done no good; I knew that, from the grim dull set of the lined puritan face; he’d fixed what he called his mind, and that was that. He stood
up, moving stiffly, and brushed the straw from his ragged britches.
“I have stated my terms,” says he, “and I believe them to be honourable. If they will not accept them, for the sake of the prisoners …” He paused, frowning, and I wondered did he still have some wild hope that he could bluff his way out – or even that the slaves would rise to his rescue? He was daft enough.
He stood there a moment, a gaunt tattered figure silhouetted by the lamp that still burned near the doorway,56 the outline of his stark profile like that of some great bird of prey, and looked slowly around the engine-house half in shadow, the light glinting on the metal of the long fire-carts. Maybe he was reviewing what was left of his pet lambs – Joe on guard at the half-open door, Ed Coppoc at the side loophole, the cherubic Dauphin Thompson at the rear wall, Emperor Green stretched half-asleep on the straw, his lips moving in an inaudible mutter, Jerry Anderson dozing with his back to an engine, mouth open and fair hair tousled. Beyond the engines I could hear the hostages stirring on the straw: that, and the occasional uneasy gasp and groan from Oliver, were the only sounds in the big gloomy shed. From the dark outside came the distant sound of singing and laughter from the Wager House and Gait’s, and the dull incessant murmur of the surrounding troops.
“No, I’ll not go back on my word.” It was J.B., calm and quiet now, as though he were talking to himself. “I came to this place of a purpose, to set free the slaves, and until that is done I’ll not lay down my arms. I came in no vindictive spirit, seeking no man’s blood, but only to liberate those held cruelly in bondage. To that end we have fought, a handful of us against a great multitude. To surrender now would be to deny our cause, and to abandon those we fought for. We have kept the faith with them, and with our fallen comrades, and I’ll not break it at the last.”
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