Flashman Papers Omnibus

by Fraser George MacDonald

  “Now, that you ain’t,” says he, gently chiding. “Oh, right dearly you’d like to be, but folks keep gettin’ in the way, don’t they? First the wo’thy Crixus, then ourselves.” The blade clicked out of sight, and he leaned comfortably on his cane, all patient amiability – and I’ve never seen anything more sinister than that hollow-eyed white visor with the smooth voice issuing from its shapeless mouth. “Now, see heah … if you’re reasonable no least harm will come to you, on my honour. All we seek is to talk with you, civil an’ quiet – but we have to know who we-all are talkin’ to, you see? Joe heah, on good authority, says your name is Comber; Miz Mandeville, on t’other hand –”

  “Why waste time?” Annette broke in, shrill and impatient. “If you want the truth from this snake, you’ll have to twist it out of him!” She was at his elbow, eyeing me spitefully – coupling apart, we’d detested each other heartily in the old days, and my innards shrank as I remembered those spurred boots and the cruel pleasure she’d taken in the whipping of her plantation wenches.

  “That’s not what we want him for, Annette deah,” sighs the fat horror. “You’re lettin’ outraged delicacy cloud your judgment.” He chuckled again. “Cain’t think why – I’ll wager you relished eve’y lovin’ moment of him jus’ now; you always do.” He shifted his game leg, wincing audibly, and tapped his cane sharply on my chest. “Now, suh, I’m gettin’ right weary standin’ heah when we could be settin’ at our ease, so … are you Arnold, or Comber – or both?”

  In my terror it didn’t even cross my mind to tell him I was neither, but Flashy – when you’re surrounded by Inquisition hoods with a swordstick at your throat, you tell ’em what they want to hear, believe me. And whoever this ghastly genteel apparition was, I know a killing gentleman when I meet one; everything about this oily fat flawn – his dandy clobber, his polite irony, the leer in his voice when he spoke to Annette – suggested a graduate of the Starnberg-Ignatieff school, and probably all the more vicious for being a flabby cripple.

  “Both … blast you! Yes, I called myself Arnold on her husband’s plantation – whatever the hell it is to you, whoever you are –”

  “In Louisiana you called yo’self Prescott!” cries the hood with the colonel’s uniform, and damned if he didn’t sound indignant. “Fan me, ye winds, the feller’s got mo’ names’n Lucifer! Yore a damned rascal, suh! What else you bin callin’ yo’self, hey?”

  “It don’t signify, Clotho,” says the beau. He turned to the other hood. “He’s our man, Lachesis.”

  “Then let’s get to business,” snaps the broadcloth one.

  “You see any profit in it?” grumbles the colonel. “How we goin’ to put trust in sech a scoundrel? Prescott, Arnold, Comber – lordy, whut next? An’ Ah tell ye, Atropos, he don’ look to me like the kind you kin bend to our pu’pose!”

  “He’ll bend, never fear,” sneers Annette. “I know him. He would sell his own mother for railroad fare.”

  The dandy Atropos heaved a gusty sigh, and turned his hooded head to survey them. “I would remind you-all, Miz Mandeville an’ gen’lemen, that we are lookin’ to Mistuh Comber as an al-ly, not as an enemy. I trust that is cleah?” There was an edge to the silky voice, and they stood silent. He gestured to the two masked ruffians who had been hovering hopefully above my prostrate form.

  “You two boys be off an’ repo’t to Hermes. Mistuh Comber will be discreet, I’m sure … won’t you, suh? Joe, assist the gen’leman to rise … theah, that’s fine! My ’pologies for the rough handlin’ … mere necessity, suh, an’ much regretted.” Bright eyes studied me through the holes of the hood. “Yeah … Now then, since we have established your … identities … and as we have a proposal to make to you, I think that as a token of confidence an’ courtesy, I should remove my disguise. Then we can conve’se at greater ease.”

  He raised a hand to the white monstrosity on his head, and there were shocked exclamations from the two other hoods, which he silenced with a flutter of pudgy fingers. “Unlike you gen’lemen, I have no public po-sition to protect,” says he. “I’m sure Mistuh Comber will have no objection to your remainin’ covered.”

  He pulled off his hood – and I’m bound to say he’d looked better with it on, for his face was as gross as his body, and all the worse because under the jelly jowls, swollen cheeks, and bulbous nose were features that might once have been handsome. He was about forty, and his fine head of blond hair, which he’d taken care not to disturb in removing the hood, was artfully dressed in the style they used to call windswept; that, and the elegance of his duds, were in obscene contrast to the bloated face, but it was the eyes that told me my first impression had been right in the bull: they were bold, blue, smiling, and amiable as fish-hooks.

  “Your servant, Mistuh Comber,” says he, and gave me his arm; his hand was soft and manicured, but when I perforce laid mine on his sleeve it was like touching a hawser in velvet; he didn’t use scent or pomade, either. “Now, I b’lieve we’ll be more comf’table in the drawin’ room …”

  I’ll wake up presently, pray God, thinks I, for I’m certainly dreaming this, whatever it is. I was past wondering who or what they were, or what “proposal” they could have for me, or the meaning of those nightmare hoods and mythical names – one thing only I was sure of: they weren’t lunatics or practical jokers, but damned serious gentry who knew what they were about, and wouldn’t hesitate to silence me if I didn’t behave. I’d developed a wholesome terror of the obese shark conducting me to the adjoining room, ushering me to an armchair, bidding Joe pour me a glass of the poison they mis-spell “whiskey”, and begging me in that honeyed voice to be at my ease – with Joe looming behind me with his pistol in his waistband, if you please. I didn’t undervalue the choleric Colonel Clotho or the grim-voiced Lachesis, either; there was authority and purpose in the way they sat themselves down at either end of a table, the hooded heads facing me; from what the fat monster had said, the hidden faces must be well-known, to Americans at least. Annette lounged on a chaise longue at one side, watching me sullenly, and the elegant tub of lard rested his ponderous rump on the table before me, his game leg thrust out stiffly, lighted a long French cigarette, and blew thoughtful smoke while I waited in scared bewilderment to learn what they wanted of me – or of Comber, rather.

  “Now, then,” says Beau Blubber, “you wonderin’ who we are, an’ what we want of you. Well, you jus’ take breath while I tell you. But, first … does the word ‘kuklos’ have any meanin’ for you?”

  I racked my memory. “It’s Greek … means ‘circle’, I think.”

  “You think right, suh, an’ I daresay you are familiar with the classical names we three have adopted, bein’ those of the Parcae – Lachesis, Clotho, an’ myself, Atropos – tho’ I hope to convince you that those of the Eumenides would have been more fittin’.” His liver lips parted in a hideous grin at his learned joke; he and Spring would have made a pair. “They are our secret names, as officers of the Kuklos, which is a clan-des-tine society of our southe’n United States,21 de-voted to guardin’ an’ upholdin’ those liberties an’ institutions which our no’the’n fellow-countrymen are bent on destroyin’. I refer to slavery, Mistuh Comber, which they affect to abominate, but which we of the South hold to be a nat’ral condition which, for better or worse, is inevitable –”

  A strangled oath came from within Clotho’s hood. “Better or wuss, my ass! It’s awdained by the will o’ God, goddammit! Why, you sound like a dam’ doughface, Atropos! Yo’ pardon, Miz Mandeville, but Ah cain’t abide that kind o’ feeble talk!”

  If I wasn’t drunk or dreaming, I must be drugged again. I couldn’t be sitting in an American hotel, listening to a well set up military man in an Inquisitor’s hood, calling himself after one of the Fates, and apologising for coarse language to an aristocrat-turned-whore who used to be my mistress …

  “I doubt if Mistuh Comber is im-pressed by the rhetoric of the camp-meetin’, Clotho,” says Atropos. “To resume, suh – the
Kuklos is strong, widespread, an’ capable. For eve’y friend the abolitionists, Underground Railroad, an’ so-called freedom societies have in high places – we have two. They have many ad-herents ’mong the lowly, the nigras – so have we. Joe, theah, was born a slave on my family estate; he was my childish playfeller, then my body-se’vant – an’ is my best friend in all the world. Is it so, Joe?”

  “You bet, Mass’ Charles!” It sounded like a volcano rumbling.

  “Atropos, Joe, Atropos, remember … ne’er mind. Well, suh, the Kuklos arranged for Joe to ‘run’ five yeahs ago. He became a ‘passenger’ on the Underground Railroad, an’, in time, one of its most trusted ‘conductors’. For two yeahs now he has been at Crixus’s right hand, his loyal aide – who observes, listens, an’ repo’ts to the Kuklos.” He gave a plump, satisfied simper. “Now you know, suh, how you come to be heah. We learned of your arrival at Baltimo’ as soon as Crixus did – like him, we have agents within the po-lice an’ gov’ment, who noted the anonymous info’mation which reached the autho’ities two days ago that one Beauchamp Comber, an officer of the British Admiralty, had reappeared in this country. It was a name already known to us,” continues the fat smug, “from the access we enjoy to the reco’ds of Crixus an’ the U.S. Navy, as that of the Englishman who, under the alias of James K. Prescott, ran the nigra George Randolph north in ’48. It was, howevah, nooz to us that this same Prescott had been party to a murder in N’awlins in the followin’ yeah –”

  “That’s a damned lie! I didn’t kill Omohundro –”

  He raised a plump hand. “Party, I said, Mistuh Comber. Howsomevah, the nooz of your arrival, an’ of your activities as an an-tye-slavery agent yeahs ago, were of no more than passin’ interest to us until we learned yeste’day – thanks to Joe theah – that Crixus was all on fire to secure your person an’ enlist your services on behalf of John Brown of Ossawatomie. Then, Mistuh Comber,” he pointed with his cane in emphasis, “then, suh, our interest in you became pro-found … an’ urgent.”

  He paused, and I could hear my heart thumping. I’d listened in mingled confusion and alarm, understanding his words without finding the least explanation in them, but now I could sense hellish bad news coming. The blank eyes in the hoods of Clotho and Lachesis stared at me unnervingly, and I stole a glance at Annette Mandeville, coiled in the corner of her seat like a little white serpent, watching me through narrowed lids with that well-remembered sulky curl on her thin lips – at any other time I’d have guessed she was fancying me above half, but it seemed unlikely just now.

  “So we made haste to secure you ou’selves,” Atropos went on. “Joe released you, an’ chere Annette met, beguiled, an’ conveyed you – all mighty smooth, you’ll allow. We three should ha’ been heah when you arrived, but we were delayed, which I believe …” his great belly heaved with amusement, “… gave her the oppo’tunity to indulge her taste for mixin’ business with pleasure –”

  “Damn you, Charles!” She came upright, flushed with anger. “You bridle your filthy fat tongue –”

  “But whatevah for, dahlin’? We-all know your lovin’ weakness … an’ Mistuh Comber was an old friend – which came as a right surprise to both of you, I collect.” He took another cigarette, smirking. “Still, that acquaintance may prove useful to our pu’pose – eh, Annie deah?”

  She answered nothing but a glare, and Lachesis drummed his fingers on the table. “Git to the pu’pose, then. Time presses.”

  Atropos struck a fuzee and applied it to his cigarette without haste, watching me carefully as he shook it out.

  “Crixus told you that John Brown plans to invade V’ginia an’ raise a rebellion of the nigras theah. An’ he wants you, Mistuh Comber, to take the place of Colonel Hugh Forbes” – he pronounced it “Fawbus” – “who was lately Brown’s loo-tenant. Now, suh,” he drew deeply on his cigarette, “we’d kindly like to heah what you-all think of that interestin’ proposal.”

  At first the question made no more sense than all the bewildering drivel and wild events of the past twenty-four hours – was it only a day and a night since I’d come to in that stinking doss-house? And here I was, with a pistol at my back, in the grip of Dixie fanatics (and Annette Mandeville, of all people), and still no wiser. But at least I could answer – though what the deuce it could mean to this foppish monster was far beyond me.

  “I’d not touch it with a ten-foot pole!” I told him, and Clotho gave a muffled grunt, while Atropos let smoke trickle slowly out of his nostrils, and nodded over my head to Joe.

  “Good boy, Joe … you read him aright, even if Crixus didn’t. So, Mistuh Comber … care to tell us why you wouldn’t touch it?”

  Being in a fair bottled-up taking, I exploded – and like an ass let my tongue run away with me.

  “Great God, man, d’ye think I’m as crazy as Crixus? What the dooce have I to do with his hare-brained schemes? Look here, for heaven’s sake – I don’t know what you want with me, and let me tell you I don’t care! I ain’t American, I don’t give a rap for your politics, or your slavery, or Crixus and his damned Railroad, or you and your infernal Kuklos, and I wouldn’t go near this madman Brown for a bloody pension –”

  Lachesis’s hand slapped the table like a pistol shot, cutting me short. “What’s that ye say? Heah’s strange talk from a liberationist, on my word!” He was sitting forward, and I could see his eyes shining within the hood. “You don’t care about slavery? Ah find that passin’ strange from a man engaged by the Queen’s Navy ’gainst the Afriky traders, who spied on them in the Middle Passage, an’ worked for the Underground Railroad, runnin’ Jawge Randolph to Canada –”

  “An’ dodged the patter-rollers to take a slave wench ’cross the Ohio!” Clotho was on his feet. “An’ got shot doin’ it! An’ killed a couple men along the way, ’cording to what Miz Mandeville say!”

  “You claim now yore not an abolitionist?” Lachesis rose in turn, accusing me like the lawyer he probably was. “That’s not what the U.S. Navy reco’ds say – we’ve seen ’em, an’ it’s all theah, under the name Comber!”

  I’d forgotten, in my fright and confusion, that I was meant to be Comber – bigod, was this the time to announce myself as Flashy? No, I daren’t, for they’d never credit it – and if they did, God alone knew what they’d do. I’d been a political long enough to know that these secret bastards can’t abide loose ends or innocent parties who stray into their beastly plots; it rattles ’em, and you’re liable to find yourself head foremost in a storm drain with a knife in your ribs. Atropos wasn’t the sort to think twice about slitting a throat, I was sure, the others were probably no better, and Mandeville was a callous little bitch – no, for my skin’s sake I must cleave to what they believed to be true. I struggled for words – and noisy voices were passing the door, fading down the corridor … Jesus, four floors below careless diners would be wolfing steak and fried oysters in the breakfast-room – and those hideous white death’s-heads were before me, Joe’s pistol was behind – and Atropos was restraining my questioners with a languid gesture of his cane.

  “Easy, theah, gen’lemen; no call for heat.” He sounded almost amused, and the gargoyle face was smiling inquiry at me. “Well, suh?”

  I tried to brush it aside. “Why, that’s all past and done with! I’m not with the Admiralty – haven’t been for years … retired ages ago, on half-pay –”

  Lachesis pounced. “That’s not what ye told Crixus!”

  “You said you wuz on a mission fo’ the British!” cries Clotho.

  “Ah wuz theah …’member?” Joe’s voice spoke behind me like the knell of doom, and I could only bluster.

  “What I told Crixus is my business! Damnation, what’s it to you? Who the hell d’you think you are to bullyrag me, rot you?”

  I’ve no doubt they’d have told me, but Atropos intervened again, more firmly this time.

  “Gen’lemen, you’re wastin’ breath. All this makes no nevah-minds. Whether Mistuh Comber is workin’ for
the British or not, don’t signify a bit. You see, suh, we need you … an’ we got you. All that matters is that Crixus wants you to go along with John Brown.” He dropped ash from his cigarette, the ugly face regarding me blandly. “An’ so do we.”

  God knows what I looked like as I digested those unbelievable words. For a second I didn’t take them in, and when I did I was too dumfounded to speak, or laugh hysterically, or make a bolt for it. But I started to come to my feet, and Atropos raised his cane and gently pushed me back into my seat.

  “If you had said ‘aye’ to Crixus, we could ha’ left you with him to get on with it. But Joe figured you wanted no part of his plan – that you were tellin’ him ‘maybe’ but thinkin’ ‘no’ … so we had to lay hold on you. To persuade you.”

  I heard myself croak: “You must be as daft as Crixus! Why the hell should I do what you want?”

  “Because,” says he patiently, “it ain’t far to Kentucky.”

  “What the devil d’ye mean?”

  “There’s a warrant – maybe a rope – waitin’ there for Beauchamp Comber, on a charge of stealing a nigra wench con-trary to the Fugitive Slave Act. If that ain’t enough, we could send you down the river to answer for the killin’ in N’awlins that you didn’t do.” He glanced at Annette. “You say he killed two men in Ole Miss?”

  “I remember their names: Hiscoe and Little. There was a reward poster billing Tom Arnold as the murderer.” She was absolutely smiling, enjoying herself, the malicious slut. “Better still, there’s a plantation in Alabama where he can be lost for the rest of his life –”

  “I never murdered anyone, I swear! It was the wench, Cassy! I’d no part –”

  “You nevah killed no one, did ye?” came the growl from Clotho’s hood. “Haw! You sho’ have the damnedest luck!”

  Atropos gestured him to silence. “So you see, there appear to be com-pellin’ reasons why you should do as we ask, Mistuh Comber. If you came to trial, I doubt if Lord Lyons would stir himself to save you; gov’ments don’t relish that kind of emba’ssment. You’re a long way from home, suh,” says the flabby son-of-a-bitch with a mock-rueful grin on his repulsive face. “I reckon you got no choice.”