He was dead right, and the tirade of protest and appeal and raving refusal died on my lips: I could submit, or be shipped south to the gallows – or worse still, the lonely Alabama plantation where Mandeville’s swine of a husband had planned to have me worked to death in the cotton-fields. I didn’t doubt their ability to do it – or to snuff me out here and now and save themselves the trouble. I could feel myself going crimson with terror – which I do, God knows why, and makes folk think I’m about to go berserk. Clotho saw it, for he called to Joe to look out, and the pistol was jammed into my back … and all the while I could hear the morning traffic rumbling in the street far below the curtained windows, and the distant knocks of porters rousing guests … and that merciless fleshy face and the vile white hoods were waiting. So I must pretend to agree, play for time, say any damned thing at all …
“But … you’re Southerners, for heaven’s sake – and you want me to help this half-wit Brown start a slave rebellion?”
It was the right note, for to them it suggested I was weakening. Clotho grunted, Joe took his piece from my back, and Atropos eased his bulk on the table edge and leaned forward.
“Theah’s an ’lection next yeah,” says he, “but since you don’t value our politics it won’t mean molasses to you if I tell you Seward an’ his Republicans are like to win it –”
“Hey, whut ’bout Breckenridge?” protests Clotho.
“Breckenridge couldn’t win with Jefferson on the ticket,” retorts Atropos. “But it don’t matter who’s Pres’dent – Seward, Breckenridge, Douglas, or Jake the hired hand – after the ’lection, comes the crisis, Mistuh Comber.” He nodded impressively. “This country will then dis-unite, into North an’ South – with or without war. We of the South must break free, or see our way of life destroyed fo’evah. ’Twill be a mighty step, an’ when we take it, we must be united as nevah before, or we perish. Well, nothin’, suh, can do more to ensure Southe’n unity than an act of war committed by Northe’n abolitionists ’gainst a Southern State –”
“An act of brigandage!” mutters Clotho. “Dam’ Yankee villains!”
Atropos ignored him. “If John Brown raids into Virginny, the South’ll come togetheh as one man, ’cos they’ll see it as sure proof that the Nawth’ll stop at nothin’ to crush us an’ all we stand for – an’ at the same time, such a raid’ll split the Nawth wide open, with the doughfaces an’ moderates an’ save-the-Union-at-all-costs ninnies feelin’ shocked an’ shamed, an’ the wild spirits hurrahin’ ‘Good ole John Brown!’ an’ quotin’ Scripture.” His affected calm had dropped from his fat carcase like a shed cloak, and his genteel accent was fraying at the edges: he was rasping “Nawth” like a cotton-broker, and dropping “r”s right and left. “The Nawth’ll be tore all ways, an’ … well, who knows? Maybe we of the South will be able to cast off without a fight. An’ that’s why John Brown’s raid must go ahead … you see, Mistuh Comber?”
I wasn’t concerned about the sense of it then, though I can see it now; I had my skin to think of, and there were questions Comber was bound to ask.
“But if he raises a slave rebellion, and all the niggers go on the rampage –”
“He couldn’t raise dust in a mill!” It came unexpected from Lachesis’s hood. “He’ll stick on the first step, which is the takin’ of a federal arsenal, prob’ly Harper’s Ferry, jus’ over the Virginny line. He’s been braggin’ it for yeahs, tellin’ that loudmouth Forbes, who tol’ half Washin’ton! Why, ev’yone knows he’s set on the Ferry –”
“So he kin arm the nigras!” Clotho’s hood shook with his guffaw. “He ’spects they all come a-runnin’ to fawm up in battalions behin’ Napoleon Brown, an’ go a-crusadin’ through Dixie settin’ all t’other nigras free! Well, suh, that they ain’t! Virginny nigras too dam’ well off, an’ knows it – no Denmark Veseys or Nat Turners22 in that section! Plen’y of Uncle Toms, though!” He ended on a snarl. “They oughta burned that bitch Stowe at the stake!”
I turned in disbelief to Atropos. “But if the government know where he’s going to raid – dammit, they’ll guard the place, won’t they? And collar Brown before he can go near it!”
He shook his head. “Gov’ment don’t take Brown that serious – not officially, anyways. An’ they won’t start a ruckus in the North by arrestin’ him.” That was what Crixus had said – and the lunatic thought crossed my mind: were there Southerners in the government who, like these Kuklos fanatics, would be happy to see Brown stirring up merry hell …? Well, it mattered not one dam to me – and I realised that Atropos was watching me closely as he lighted another of his Regie gaspers.
“Theah you have it,” says he. “Brown’s raid’ll fail – but not before it’s served our turn: dividin’ the North, unitin’ the South.”
“But … God help us, why should he need me?”
“Come, now, Crixus told you that. Brown needs a trained officer if he’s to take that arsenal – why, the man’s but a peasant, half-crazy, half-iggerant, leadin’ a crew of jayhawkers an’ farmers, scrimmagin’ in backyards an’ robbin’ widder women. Forbes was his brain, to plan an’ advise an’ whip Brown’s gang into shape. But Forbes is gone, an’ Brown’s at a loss for a captain – so he appeals to Crixus, an’ lo! – Crixus has the very man, a foreign free lance well skilled in this kind o’ work.” The bloated features creased in a triumphant smile. “An’ I’m ’bliged to agree with him. The man who ran George Randolph can surely run Old Ossawatomie.”
It’s being six foot two and desperate-looking that does it, you know; if I’d been short-arsed with no chin and knock-knees, no one in search of a hero would have looked at me twice. I cudgelled my wits for some other objection, and hit on one that seemed unanswerable.
“But it won’t do, don’t you see? You’ve stolen me from Crixus – so how the hell can he send me to Brown now? Am I to roll up on his doorstep and say I’m ever so sorry for escaping, but I’ve changed my mind, don’t ye know, and to hell with my duty and the British ministry … Ah, the whole thing’s folly! You’re off the rails, all of you!”
Atropos shook his head, being patient. “The Kuklos don’t leap before it’s looked real close, Mistuh Comber. See now, heah’s how it is: Crixus knew of your escape ten minutes after you made it. Sure – Joe ‘discovered’ it, an’ Crixus has a passel o’ men scourin’ town for you right now … mos’ly aroun’ the British ministry.” He gave another of his greasy chuckles. “Joe hisself is one o’ those searchers, an’ presen’ly he’ll sen’ word to Crixus that he’s hot on your trail. An’ then … Crixus won’t heah no more for a day or two … until he gets a telegraph from Joe in Noo Yawk, sayin’ as he’s run you down an’ reasoned you into enlistin’ with John Brown –”
“Christ in the rear rank! You expect Crixus to swallow that? See here, I know he’s barmy, but –”
“He’ll be-lieve it,” says Atropos, “’cos he’ll want to believe it. It’s what he’s been strivin’ after an’ prayin’ for … God sent you, ’member? An’ he trusts Joe like his own son. When he gets that telegraph, he’ll be too ove’joyed to ask questions … an’ he’ll telegraph Joe to take you to Brown without delay.”
“That’s why Noo Yawk is right convenient,” puts in Lachesis. “Brown’s up-state now, an’ due in Boston soon, where you an’ Joe kin join him –”
“And then,” says Atropos, “you’ll be on Brown’s coat-tails all the way to Harper’s Ferry.”
I could say I’d never heard the like – but I had, all too often. When you’ve been pressed into service as “sergeant-general” of the Malagassy army, or forced to convoy a bogtrotting idiot figged up as Sinbad the Sailor through an enemy army, or dragooned into impersonating a poxed-up Danish prince – why, what’s a slave rebellion more or less? You develop a tolerance, if that’s the word, and learn that whatever folly is proposed – and this beat anything I’d struck – you must just seem to agree, and bend your mind to the only thing that matters: survival. So … they would send me North under
guard, and I must submit to that – but if I couldn’t slip my cable between Washington and New York (where I’d be well beyond the reach of Southern warrants, bien entendu) then my nimble foot had lost its cunning. Even if they kept a gun in my back (which ain’t easy, even in American society) until I was under Brown’s wing … well, he could try to hold on to me, and good luck to him.
Atropos’s smooth voice broke in on my thoughts. “Now, it is surely occurrin’ to you, suh, to pre-tend to give consent, an’ make off when oppo’tunity serves. Dismiss that thought, Mistuh Comber. You will go north in company with Miz Mandeville an’ Joe … an’ other se’vants of the Kuklos whom you won’t see, but who’ll be theah, eve’y step o’ the way. An’ when you ’list with Brown … why, Joe’ll be ’listed, too … an’ again, he won’t be the only one around. The Kuklos will be your guardian angel eve’y minute, an’ if you was to … step aside or make any commotion, why,” he gave me his fattest, smuggest smile, “you’d be dead … or boun’ for Kentucky in a packin’ case.”
There’s a moment, in any trial between two persons, whether it’s a game or an argument or a battle of wits or a duel to the death, when Party A thinks he’s got Party B cold. And that, believe it or not, is the moment when A is most vulnerable, if only B has the sense to see it. Atropos thought he had me to rights. He was a damned shrewd secret political, and his task had been to coerce me (or Comber, if you like) into joining John Brown, for the reasons he’d given. No easy task, given the kind of fellow he knew (or thought he knew) Comber to be, but he’d set about it like a true professional, using approved methods – viz., scare, unsettle, and bewilder your man, impress him with the power and genius of your bandobast,a and convince him that he has no choice but to obey. Very well, he’d done that, handsomely – but it was all based on the assumption that Comber would have to be forced into compliance. It hadn’t occurred to him that Comber might decide, on reflection, to be a willing party. Put that thought into Atropos’s self-satisfied head, and he’d be took aback; he might even be so dam’ subtle that he’d believe it. In any event, he’d be less cocksure than he was, and it never hurts to do that to an opponent. (I hadn’t been a prisoner of the Russian secret service for nothing, I can tell you.)
So I said nothing for several minutes, but sat there, mum and blank, while they waited in silence. Then I raised my head and looked the fat brute straight in his ghastly face.
“It’s a rum trick,” says I, “but I don’t doubt you’re serious. Well, sir, I’m a serious man, too, you know. You’ve put your proposal, on what you account fair terms. Now you can hear mine.” You could have heard a pin drop. “Ten thousand dollars. Or two thousand sterling. That’s my price.”
He didn’t even blink. The others let out gasps and exclamations – Annette gave a shrill didn’t-I-tell-you-so laugh – but Atropos just drew on his cigarette and asked:
“Why should we pay you when we can compel you?”
“Because a man well paid is a dam’ sight more reliable.”
“Don’t trust him!” cries Annette. “He’s a liar!”
“Ten thousan’ dollahs! Ye Gods!” Clotho’s hood was in danger of being blown off. “Of all the con-founded gall!” But Lachesis said not a word, only sat stock-still, sharp-eyed in his hood. Atropos considered me through his cigarette smoke.
I waited, then rose from my chair. “And I thought Americans were smart. Please yourselves – but remember you were the one who spoke of a free lance. That’s what I am – and you may believe it, I’m a sight better than that ass Forbes, who sold out Garibaldi.” I’d never heard of Forbes before that night, but I reckoned it was a neat touch. “And now … I’ve heard you out, I’m dog tired, and there’s a bed next door. Servant, marm … gentlemen.” I inclined my head and started for the bedroom, speaking over my shoulder. “Joe can guard my slumbers, if you’re nervous … and you can decide among yourselves whether ten thousand dollars is too much to pay for uniting your precious Dixie.”
* * *
a Organisation.
Chapter 9
“I’d not ha’ given you one red cent!” says Annette Mandeville. “You’d be doing it for your miserable life, and been thankful for that!”
“Ah, but we know your generous nature, don’t we? And suppose I’d refused?”
“You? Refuse? With your worthless skin at stake? You forget, I know the kind of cur you are – I heard you that day at Greystones, when my husband and his white trash caught you, and you whimpered and grovelled like a whipped nigra wench!”
“My, how you must miss the gracious life of the old plantation!”
“Whining for your life! And I’d thought you were a man!”
“Man enough for one eager little Creole lady, though, wasn’t I? But then, I was probably a welcome change after your nigger fieldhands … gently, Annette dear, that fork is for dessert, not for stabbing … Anyway, we’re not at Greystones now – and let me tell you, if your fat friend hadn’t agreed to pay me, I’d be on my way to the British ministry this minute. Why, I’d not even have to go that far – there’s a party of Englishmen at the corner table yonder, by the sound of them … who’s to stop me joining ’em, eh? Or sending for a constable? Not your ridiculous Kuklos, I’ll be bound! Or would they come rushing in, with their Guy Fawkes hoods –”
“You fool! Don’t you know the kind of men you’re dealing with – the danger you’re in? If you were to move two steps from this table, they’d be the last you’d ever take –”
“Oh, fudge! What, in a hotel dining-room, crowded with guests? Hardly the place for an assassination – what would the maître say?”
“Listen to me! There are two men in this room now, armed and watching you – try to escape or call for help and you’ll be shot down without mercy. I mean it. This is not England – such things happen here. I’ve known the Kuklos kill a man on the steps of the Capitol, before scores of people, in broad day. If you don’t believe me – run for the door! But if you value your life, you’ll keep faith with them.”
“My dear Annette! Can this be alarm on my behalf? Is that wifely concern I see in those bonny grey eyes?”
“I’m concerned that the Kuklos’s work is done – and that I play my part in it, and you play yours –”
“Then you’d better stop whispering like some Dago conspirator and finish your pudding like a good little wife, Mrs Beauchamp Comber, and smile ever so sweetly at Mr Comber, and insist on cutting his cigar for him … why, thank’ee, my dear! Are we on honeymoon, by the way? If so, let’s forego the savoury and coffee, and repair to our nuptial couch … no? Love’s first bloom has faded, has it? Oh, well … coffee, waiter!”
I was testing the wicket, and finding it confoundedly sticky – as I’d known it would be the moment I’d awoken from my exhausted sleep and remembered where I was and what had happened. And hopes that I’d dreamed the whole ghastly thing were dashed by the sight of Joe sitting by the bedroom door like a black nemesis, sporting his pistol. I was caught, for the moment, and could only hope that my little charade before retiring had taken some effect.
It was late afternoon when I came to, and someone had been busy while I slept, for beside the bed there was a new outfit of clothing – and damned if it didn’t fit perfectly, even to the collar. But what sent a chill down my spine was the name on the tailor’s tab: B. M. Comber; it was even stamped in the lining of the hat. I’d formed a respect for the Kuklos from the ease with which they’d spirited me away from Crixus, but these little touches told me they were formidable indeed.
While I dressed, Joe brewed me some coffee on a spirit stove, and directed me to the drawing-room. There was no sign of Lachesis and Clotho, but Atropos was writing at the table, and Annette was on hand, stony-eyed but mighty jimp in a gown that seemed to consist of flowers and gauze. He complimented himself on my appearance, and hoped I approved of the sober cravat he’d chosen for me. “Our colonial taste runs to more extrav’gant colours, but since your ac-cent marks you as English,
why, you best look it,” says he, chuckling fatly as though he’d never put a point to my throat in his life. “The suit’s well enough, I guess, an’ will serve for day an’ evenin’ – I fear we still lag behind London in our deplo’able failure to change after six o’clock. Now, suh, sit down, an’ tend to what I say.”
First of all, says he, five thousand dollars (“we felt your request for remuneration was reasonable, but stiff”) would be placed to the credit of B. M. Comber in a bank of the New York Safety Fund, and might be drawn at either of two addresses in Washington and New York, “but only after the day on which the country is ringin’ with the nooz that Old Ossawatomie has made an armed incursion into V’ginia.” The gross cheeks creased in a sardonic grin. “Then all you have to do is present the draft which you’ll find in the breast pocket o’ that noo coat you’re wearin’ … Now I see it on you, I don’t know as I can bring myself to like that collah …” He squinted critically while I examined the draft, on the Citizens’ Bank of Louisiana, and my spirits soared. It was all window-dressing to be sure, and they’d never put a cent to Comber’s account – but at least they were pretending to treat my offer of mercenary service seriously. Maybe they even believed it. Not that they’d trust me an inch … but they might be just a little less watchful. I pocketed the draft and told him the coat collar suited me to admiration.
“Well, if you’re content … now, suh, you an’ Miz Mandeville will travel to Noo Yawk by the Night Flyer, as Mistuh an’ Miz Beauchamp Comber – you’re bound to keep that name, ’cos it’s the one John Brown will be expectin’. Joe will accompany you, as your slave, an’ when he has telegraphed Crixus tomorrow that you’ve been ‘found’ in Noo Yawk, he will take you on to Boston or Conco’d, where you will meet Brown, prob’ly at the home of Franklin B. Sanbo’n, a prom’nent abolitionist. There you an’ Joe will ’list in Brown’s service. ’Tis all planned out, you see, neat as a Quaker’s bonnet,” says he with satisfaction. “By the by, ’til you leave Noo Yawk, you are in the care of Miz Mandeville – Miz Comber, I should say,” he shot her a greasy smirk, “an’ will obey any instructions she may give you. What these may be, I can only guess –”
Flashman Papers Omnibus Page 307