I’d known already that she came of impoverished bayou aristocracy who had literally sold her, aged fifteen, to the disgusting redneck Mandeville, with whom she’d been living at Greystones when I hove in sight in ’48. After my departure, Mandeville had drunk himself to death, leaving a heap of debt and Greystones mortgaged black and blue. As a personable enough young widow, she’d had offers a-plenty, but Mandeville had sickened her of marriage, if not of men, and after a succession of lovers she had decided that a career as a mistress was no great shakes, and had determined to try her luck on the stage – she’d been born with a talent for mimicry, and being vicious, immoral, and vain, she had taken to the theatre like a pirate to plunder. And it had taken to her; in a few years she was playing the principal houses in the States and Canada, making and spending money, mostly on men.
Then, during an engagement in Chicago, her company had been the victims of a daring robbery, and who should be called in when the police had failed but Allan Pinkerton, then making his mark as a private detective. He had been impressed by the help she’d given in pointing the way to the thieves, and identifying them, and had remarked that if ever she tired of acting, she might do worse than police work; it had been lightly said, and she’d forgotten it the more readily because a new and brilliant prospect had opened before her soon afterwards.
It was in a comedy at Orleans that she had caught the lustful gooseberry eye of Charles La Force, and while the very sight of him had set her shuddering, the size of his fortune, and the ruthless determination with which he’d pursued her, had made her think twice about repulsing him: he’d plied her with priceless gifts, haunted the theatre, and finally killed her beau of the moment in one of those ghastly knife-and-pistol duels which the Louisiana gentry favoured in those days, stalking each other through the bayous by night. After which his offer of marriage, with a royal cash settlement, had finally conquered her far-from-maiden heart, and she had trotted up the aisle with him, to her abiding regret.
For she had soon discovered that beneath his revolting exterior there lurked a monster whose depraved tastes would have had Caligula throwing up the window and hollering for the peelers; enforced bouts with Joe and other menials, while the husband of her bosom cheered them on, had been the least of it, and to make matters worse she had been drawn into the dark affairs of the Kuklos. But where any other wife would have lit out with whatever she could carry, Annette’s one thought had been to vent her hatred on him, and she had been hesitating between poison and a knife in bed when Pinkerton had again emerged, discreetly, upon the scene. By now he was undertaking occasional work for Washington, and had a finger on every pulse in America; he had kept her in mind, and when she had married Atropos he had seen her as an invaluable agent within the Kuklos, if she could be persuaded. She had leapt at the chance, and had been betraying Atropos happily ever since, until the present emergency had caused Pinkerton to employ her in more active work. And so, here we were.
It was plain from her account that loathing of Atropos was the ruling passion of her life, and knowing her cold and selfish nature, I found that odd. Granted she was compounded of equal parts of malice and cruelty, I’d still have thought she’d have preferred to decamp with his money and pursue her theatrical and amorous careers in France or England, rather than devote her existence to doing him despite. It didn’t seem to weigh with her, either, that in betraying him she was probably helping to destroy the way of life in which she’d been raised – the South, slavery, plantation society, and all that gracious magnolia stuff; no, she was wreaking vengeance on Atropos, and that was enough for her. Well, I’m a ready hater myself, God knows, and take the keenest pleasure in doing the dirty on deserving cases, but I’d never make grudgery my life’s work; I reckon you have to like, or love, something worth while, even if it’s just trollops and beer, or, if you’re lucky, cash and credit and fame … and Elspeth. It occurred to me, as I put Mandeville through her final mounting drill, that she wasn’t fit to fill my dear one’s corset, and I felt a great longing for those blue eyes and corn-gold hair and silky white skin and so forth, and for that brilliant simpleton smile of welcome and the witless prattle which would follow. At least I had that to look forward to; Annette Mandeville had nothing but her revenge. Oh, aye, and her eccentric conscience.
She was in a vile mood in the morning, snapping at me and roasting Joe, and for the last hour before he and I left to catch the train north, she sat in stony silence, staring out of the window. At the last, when Joe was putting our valises out in the passage, she closed the door quickly on him, and turned her pale elfin face to me; she was biting her lip, and then the tears came, and suddenly she was clinging round my neck, the tiny body shivering against me.
“Have a care!” she sobbed. “Oh, have a care!” Then she kissed me fiercely and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
* * *
a A Northerner sympathetic to the South.
b Synonymous with “Uncle Sam”.
Chapter 13
I have only three memories of the trip from New York to Concord: Joe’s ugly face, under his plug hat, glowering at me from the opposite seat of a railroad car; the creaking bed-springs of the cheap rooming-house in which we stayed in Boston; and an advertisement poster of a young lady crying: “Oh, Ma, I gave my back the awfullest strain, dancing with Billy!” and fond mater replying: “Mustang Liniment, judiciously applied, will ensure certain relief, my dear!” The rest is blank, from the closing of Annette’s door to the opening of Sanborn’s, presumably because I was too used up to notice anything. They hadn’t been idle days, exactly, and Crixus, Atropos, and Mandeville had seen to it that my nights weren’t tranquil either, so it was small wonder I was tuckered out – I had sense enough, though, before we reached Boston, to tie the Tranter to my knee beneath the trouser, in case the watchful Joe decided to search me as I slept. A wise move, as it turned out, for when I woke in the rooming-house my stiletto had disappeared, but the Tranter was still in place.
It was Joe’s hammering at Sanborn’s knocker that brought me back to life, I think, reminding me that it was a case of on stage again, with a part to play, and no room for missed cues or bungled lines, with that black nemesis at my elbow. I remember thinking he must have telegraphed ahead, for it was Sanborn himself who opened the door and greeted us by name on the spot.
“Mr Comber, sir, welcome – welcome to Concord!” cries he, and I saw that the daguerreotype had not lied, for he was as intense and poetic as could be, with his fluffy whiskers and anxious eyes. “And this is Simmons, to be sure!” Abolitionist he might be, he still knew a mister from the riff-raff. He ushered us into a hall stuffed with furniture and smelling of birdseed, and sped ahead to close the door of a room from which came the rumbling conversation of worthies with beards and gold watch-chains across their weskits – you can always tell the quality of unseen company by the noise they make, and I was willing to bet that at least half of the “Secret Six” were on hand.
Sanborn led us into another room across the hall, moving with quick, agitated steps. “Captain Brown is with us!” says he, in a confidential whisper. “Do you know, we are celebrating his birthday today? Yes, indeed, he is now in his sixtieth year, but gentlemen, his frame and spirit are those of a vigorous youth! Yes, indeed, although,” he frowned, “he has lately been somewhat indisposed, a result, no doubt, of the privations endured on his recent glorious raid of liberation ‘into Africa’, as he calls it. Yes, indeed,” he rubbed his hands, a nervous habit which I realised was always accompanied by his favourite phrase. “Yes, indeed, he is only now recovering from a malarial ague. But he is in good heart, I assure you! Yes, indeed!”
I asked if they’d tried quinine powder, and he beamed. “There spoke the man of action – the practical man! Oh, Mr Comber, you cannot know how it rejoices me to see you!” And he absolutely wrung my hand again. “We have heard so much from our good friend in Washington – you know who I mean, I’m sure! And of the worthy Simmons �
�� er, Joe, isn’t it? Yes, indeed! Yes, Joe!” He was one of your tiptoe babblers, I could see, smiling, fidgeting, and suddenly remembering to offer us refreshment, with more prattle about the fatigue of travelling, and the crowded condition of railroad cars. If this is a sample of our abolitionist conspirators, I can see American slavery flourishing for a century or two yet, thinks I; Joe, I noticed, was regarding him like a cannibal inspecting an under-nourished missionary. He gave us a toddy apiece, promised there would be supper anon, muttered about seeing if Captain Brown was still occupied, and was away like a shot, leaving the door ajar. We sipped our toddies in silence, inspecting the antimacassars and potted plants, and presently I was aware of a child’s voice in the hall asking:
“Please, sir, may I have your signature?”
I glanced out, and there was a lad of about eight holding up a paper and pencil to a man who had just come out of the other room, with Sanborn at his shoulder; I had a glimpse of a fine shock of hair and a full beard, both grizzled, and then he was speaking to the lad.
“What’s this, my boy?” says he. “Not an order to pay the bearer, I hope?”
“Oh, no, sir,” squeaks the kid. “I want to pay you, if you’ll take my pocket money as a trade for your name. It’s but six bits,” he added, digging out his coin, “an’ it’s all I have, but Pa says every cent is blessed that goes to the good cause.”
A practised toad, this one, with a soapy smile and his hair slicked down.
“The widow’s mite,” says the bearded man to Sanborn, and laid his hand on the infant’s head. “Bless you, my boy.” He pocketed the six bits and scribbled his name.
“Young Stearns has started quite a fashion!”33 cries Sanborn. “Yes, indeed! There, now,” says he, as the child took the paper, fawning, “you have a name that will live down the ages, and for only six bits, too!”
I’d already guessed who the owner of the beard was, and as he stepped into the room I was sure of it. From all I’d heard in the past three days, I’d formed a picture of John Brown as a towering figure with flowing white locks, glaring like a fakir and brandishing an Excelsior banner in one fist and a smoking Colt in t’other; what I saw was an elderly man, spare and bony in an old black suit, like a rather seedy farmer come to town for market. He had a long aquiline nose, large ears, and deep-set eyes under heavy brows. An imposing enough old file, you’d have said, but nothing out of the ordinary – until you met the gaze of those eyes, clear bright grey and steady as a rock. Gunfighter’s eyes, was my first thought, but they weren’t cold; you knew they could blaze or twinkle (and I was to see ’em do both), but what I remember most was their level certainty. No one was ever going to make this man drop his gaze, or talk him out of anything.34
He came forward with a measured step, holding himself erect, and took my hand in both of his; his grip was rough and strong, and he spoke slowly, in a deep, rather harsh voice.
“Mr Beauchamp Comber,” says he – pronounced it Bo-champ. He gave Joe the same hand-clasp. “Mr Joseph Simmons. Welcome, gentlemen.” I realised that he wasn’t as tall as he looked, a little over middle height. “My good friend Crixus tells me that you are an Englishman, Mr Comber, and that by joining us you risk being in disfavour with your own government. Have no fear of that, sir. I pledge my word not to reveal your presence among us, by speech or writing, and my friends –” he glanced at Sanborn “– pledge themselves also. That goes for you, too, Mr Simmons.” He nodded at Joe. “Indeed, the names of Comber and Simmons are forgotten from this moment.35 Crixus refers to you, sir, as Joshua; that’s good enough for me. Joshua … and Joe, it shall be henceforth.” He seemed pleased with that, and it must have been his patriarchal manner that called to my mind the verse about God seeing every thing that He had made, and behold, it was very good. “Joshua and Joe,” he repeated solemnly, and took hold of our hands again, one in each of his, and looked from one to the other of us, nodding like an approving bishop – and I knew upon instinct that here was one who, in his own modest way, was as big a humbug as I am myself. Only on later acquaintance did I come to realise that – again like me – he knew it.
Don’t mistake me: I’m not saying he was a hypocrite, or a sham, because he wasn’t. God help him, he was a sincere, worthy, autocratic, good-natured, terrible, dangerous old zealot, hard as nails, iron-willed, brave beyond belief, and possessed of all the muscular Christian virtues which I can’t stand. He was a humbug only in the public performance he put on for his supporters back East, playing the part of John Brown, the worthy simple son of the soil with greatness in him, the homespun hero whose serenity was all the more impressive because it was so at odds with the berserk savagery of his reputation on the wild frontier. It was a performance which he thoroughly enjoyed (for he was quite as vain as Messervy suspected) and for which he was naturally equipped, with his deliberate manner, calm searching eyes, strong handshake, and quiet tolerant humour – oh, it was worth paying money to see him lay it on (and they paid, too). That I found wholly admirable, for I couldn’t have done it better myself, and I’m an expert at being lion-hunted. In his own backwoods way, he had great style, and, odd though it may seem in one whose historical image is that of the Ironside fanatic, he also had considerable charm. Anyway, for all his virtues, he was a bloody hard man to dislike.
I didn’t sum all this up in a minute, of course, but I got the first whiff of it, and having both style and charm myself, and being a born crawler to boot, I responded to his welcome as befitted a bluff, honest, British crusader.
“Thank’ee, Captain Brown,” says I, guessing that my use of the title would flatter him sick. “Proud to be with you at last, and honoured to be accepted. They tell me, sir, that it’s your birthday. Warmest congratulations, and many of ’em. Now, I hope you won’t take it amiss,” I continued heartily, “if I offer a small gift to mark the occasion. I’d not dream of doing it if I didn’t know that you won’t keep it for yourself, but will apply it to the great cause we’re all privileged to serve.” I hauled out Messervy’s fifty dollars and handed them over. “It’s all I have on me, I’m afraid, but … well, I can’t do less than that manly little chap I saw out in the hall just now, can I, what? So … many happy returns, skipper!”
Shocking bad form, you’ll agree, but this was America, and I’d weighed my man: he snapped it up like a trout taking a fly, looking moved and furrowed, and told me with another hand-clasp that I had bought shares in freedom, and he’d not forget it. I didn’t grudge the fifty bucks; that was my sturdy, open-handed character established, and I’d be living at his charges for several weeks, anyway.
Then, in case anyone thought he was neglecting the nigger, he turned to Joe, and told him that his presence there, as a coloured man eager to fight for the liberty of his oppressed brethren, was a birthday present in itself, and one whose value couldn’t be reckoned in money. He asked Joe where he came from, and when Joe said he was an escaped slave who had worked for Crixus on the Railroad, and that his family were still on a Southern plantation, Brown gripped him again, and put a hand on his shoulder, swearing that he wouldn’t rest until that unhappy family had been plucked from the teeth of the wicked, whose jaws would be broken. He got quite warm about it, and for the first time I saw that gleam beneath his brows, and heard the rasp in his voice, which somebody described as being like a volcano disguised by an ordinary chimney flue.
Joe didn’t know what to make of it, but looked confused, and when Brown let go his hand I saw him wince as he worked his fingers. Sanborn, who had been listening in rapture, took Joe out, and Brown settled his coat and begged me to be seated, so that we might talk. He pulled up a chair close in front of me, put his big gnarled hands on his knees, looked me over carefully, and then said: “Well, now, friend Joshua, tell me who you are, and what you know, and what you have done.”
For one horrid instant I thought he’d found out about me – that I was Flashy, and the Yankee secret service, and all the rest – and then I saw it was just his manner of speech
, with that grave look that stern pedagogues give to naughty children to convince ’em that lying’s useless. What he was after was “Comber’s” story, and to inspect me.
So I described my “life” in the Royal Navy, and how I’d spied on the slavers, and run into Crixus, and brought George Randolph north – he lit up at that, calling it the “bravest stroke” he’d ever heard of, so I embellished Comber’s record with my own service with that maniac Brooke against the Borneo pirates. He asked if they held slaves in Borneo, and I said, droves of them, and that was why I’d been there in the first place, to turn the poor buggers loose and proclaim liberty throughout the land, or words to that effect.
He drank it in with stern approval, saying I surely had fine experience of irregular warfare; he mentioned Toussaint and Spartacus, and asked if I’d studied Wellington’s campaign in the Peninsula, and the ways of the Spanish guerrillas “who were much in my mind when I surveyed the field of Waterloo, pondering how the great captain would have gone about the task of liberating our black brethren held in cruel bondage by evil laws.” Knowing the late Duke Nosey, I could have said that he’d certainly not have put pikes in their fists and told ’em to take to the hills, but thought it better to express toady interest in his visit to Waterloo.
He said it had been during a tour he’d made to study European fortifications, so that he could acquire the knowledge necessary if he was to build strongholds in the Alleghenies for revolting darkies; I nodded solemn agreement, reflecting that Messervy had been quite wrong – this fellow wasn’t only mad, he was raving, in a quiet sort of way. Alas, he hadn’t been able to pursue his military studies at any length, since his time had been taken up with selling wool in London, where he’d won a bronze medal for his wares – and here he pulled it from his pocket, chuckling that it had been some set-down for the smart Londoners, a poor rustic Yankee winning their prize. He became quite jolly in his recollection, and went into a long story of how some English wool-merchants had tried to take a rise out of him by asking him to feel a sample and give an opinion.
Flashman Papers Omnibus Page 315