Flashman Papers Omnibus

by Fraser George MacDonald

  They made the mistake of giving him a month’s grace before he was topped, which meant that all America could picture the gallant lonely old martyr in his cell, worn with struggle but wonderfully cheerful, waiting with quiet courage for the end. It gave the wiser heads time for second thoughts; some suggested that he should be jailed, or put in an asylum, for they knew the revulsion with which his execution would be greeted, not only in America but the world; they knew that his martyrdom would only harden the resolve of the North to carry on his campaign, and the determination of the South to resist. On the other hand, there were those who hoped that his death would hasten the rupture between North and South which they regarded as inevitable.

  Messervy’s notion of a rescue occurred to others, by the way; there was a plot, but when J.B. heard of it he wanted no part of it.62 He wanted to die, I’m sure of that, because like the wiser heads he could see clearly what it would lead to. The last note he wrote, on the morning of his execution, put it plain:

  I John Brown am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land: will never be purged away; but with Blood. I had as I now think; vainly flattered myself that without very much bloodshed; it might be done.

  They hanged him outside Charles Town, Virginia, on December the second before a great host of troops, among whom were John Wilkes Booth, who murdered Lincoln six years later, and Stonewall Jackson. He didn’t kiss a little black child on his way to the gallows, as the sentimentalists like to believe, but as he rode on his coffin across the meadow he looked around and said: “This is a beautiful country. I never had the pleasure of seeing it before.” When they asked if he wanted a signal before they dropped him, he said it didn’t matter, but he didn’t want to be kept waiting. His admirers, of course, treasure such details, but what struck me peculiar when I read about it, and made me think, yes, that’s my old J.B., was that he was hanged in his carpet slippers.

  They rang the bells for him in the North, and there was talk of statues and memorials, and such an outpouring of eulogy and grief and noble sentiment as would have done credit to Joan of Arc and Lord Nelson together; I doubt if any man in the history of the United States was more deeply or sincerely mourned – and I ain’t forgetting friend Abraham, either. He was even more detested in Dixie than J.B., and he was just a politician, while J.B. was a fighting man and a rebel, a combination which no American can resist. Even in the South they respected him for his courage; I remember the verdict, delivered to me during the Civil War, of a grizzled Alabama veteran, crimson with booze and chewing on his Wheeling tobey:a “Ole Ossawatomie? Well, now, suh, Ah reckon he lived like a skunk – an’ died like a lion.”

  I’m not arguing. You know my views on bravery, and by now you should know ’em on J.B. He was a bit of a crook, and a lot of a humbug, and he put me through the mangle, and there’s a case to be made for saying he was the most evil influence ever let loose in North America. Three-quarters of a million is a powerful lot of dead men, to say nothing of wounded and crippled and bereaved. You may say their great war would have happened anyway, but he’s bound to bear some of the blame. Maybe he would have thought it a price worth paying for the destruction of slavery – but I say slavery would have ended anyway, without the war and without him.

  But that’s no business of mine. I came through Harper’s Ferry and the war that followed, so he did me no lasting damage, though he scared the innards out of me, and took a year out of my life. I can tolerate him, at my time of life, and when I hear the grandlings singing the old song, I can look back, if not with pride, at least with a curious satisfaction, as the young faces pass by in memory … Kagi, Stevens, Oliver, Watson, Leeman, Cook, Taylor, Ed Coppoc, the Thompsons, dear old Dangerous Newby, and all the other ghosts, white and black, whose features have faded … and last of all, the grizzled old Ironside with his eagle face and burning eyes.

  No doubt my satisfaction is because I’m still here, and they’re all long gone, one way or another. Watson died of his wounds; Coppoc and Green, who’d survived the engine-house fight, were hanged two weeks after J.B., as was Cook, who got himself captured in Maryland, the duffer; Stevens survived the four bullets they took out of him, but was hanged in the spring of ’60, with Hazlett, who’d escaped from the Ferry but was caught later; the black who was with him in the arsenal got clear away, and so did the fellows whom J.B. sent back with the wagon to collect arms, and the men who’d been left behind at the farm – Meriam, who’d brought the six hundred dollars, and Tidd, and another of the young men, and Owen Brown. All those who escaped served in the Civil War (two of ’em died in it), except Owen, who lived to a ripe old age.

  Like your humble obedient. As I say, I take no pride in my part in Harper’s Ferry, and was a damned unwilling actor, but … well, I was one of John Brown’s pet lambs, after all, and dine out on it regular, and am redeemed (very slightly) in the eyes of such as Miss Prentice and others of the elect, who figure that an old man, however deplorable, must have some good in him if he stood at Armageddon and battled for the poor downtrodden darkies. They don’t know about Joe, of course.

  Which brings me back at last to the point where the trails parted, and I went my separate way from Harper’s Ferry, rejoicing, en route to Baltimore and home.

  I spent the day resting in the office which Messervy had made my quarters. He was out and prowling about most of the time, like a good little civil servant, and when we dined together in the evening he told me what he’d seen and heard. I could see he was depressed and agitated, for he frowned at least twice, and stroked his moustache both sides; what was disturbing him was that Stuart (as I told you a moment ago) had found all J.B.’s letters at the Kennedy Farm, and the Wager House was agog with rage and alarm at the proof they appeared to contain of diabolical Yankee designs.

  “That stupid oaf Wise –” this was the Virginia Governor “– has been reading them aloud to the drunken rabble over yonder, and you may guess the effect. By this time tomorrow half the South will have heard of them, and be convinced that a Northern army is on the march, with the Republican Party in the van, intent on rousing the slaves to butcher their masters and burn every plantation ’tween here and Texas. What immutable law,” he went on, “decrees that the obtuser the politician, the higher he will rise? I suppose it takes a peculiar combination of the imbecile, the toady, and the braggart to run for office in the first place. Can’t Wise see the harm he’s doing … or can he, I wonder?”

  I looked intelligent, and he explained that Wise was a former secessionist who might be out to make mischief. “He’s put them in a rare frenzy, I can tell you. Packs of drunken ruffians are out nigger-hunting this minute, and at least two fools have been arrested who claim to be John Brown raiders. Harper’s Ferry will be lucky if it’s still standing in the morning. I’ve put you on an earlier train, by the way – no sense lingering in this madhouse.”

  So it was about midnight that I wrapped a scarf round my chin, pulled my hat down, and made the short walk to the station with Messervy at my arm and the beefy birds striding ahead. As we passed the engine-house, shuttered and silent, with the Marine sentries on guard, I wondered about Joe, and Messervy must have read my thought, for he remarked: “They buried him down on the river a couple of hours ago. Lord love me, is that ass Wise still at his folly? I believe he won’t rest until he has the whole State in an uproar!”

  It was like Mafeking Night between the armoury gates and the station, the Wager House was blazing light at every window and shaking to the uproar within, there were groups of staggering merrymakers everywhere, militiamen and roughnecks, some discharging their pieces in the air, others forming raucous glee-clubs, and in two places thronging round tub-thumpers on makeshift platforms who were working themselves and their listeners into a riotous frenzy; their themes seemed to be the necessity of lynching John Brown, closing ranks against the murderous Yankees, and putting every black in the State under lock and key – or lynching them, too, if they felt like it. Our escort shouldered a way
through the torch-lit confusion of milling figures and flushed, yelling faces, to the comparative quiet of the station where the train stood – it had been there half an hour, and Messervy had timed our walk to arrive just as the bell was beginning to clang and the whistle was adding its plaintive wail to the general din.

  He didn’t shake hands, simply murmured, “Good-bye”, with a tap on the arm, and I climbed aboard into the quiet, dim-lit corridor with only a brief glance at the tall figure raising his cane to his hat-brim in nonchalant salute before he turned away. The darkie porter showed me into my cabin – and all of a sudden I was dizzy with tiredness and an overwhelming sense of relief as I sank on to the cot, the train jolted and clanked into motion, and a moment later was booming and rumbling over the trestles of the Potomac bridge across which I’d come running, rifle in hand and heart in mouth, only forty-eight hours before. Now it was behind me, the nightmare which I could hardly believe had ever happened – the rush of action in the dark, the shouted commands, the bearded faces hurrying by, the crack of shots, and the inferno of the engine-house … and here I was, safe and sound bar the two smarting wounds in my neck and knee, rattling over the ties out of that awful world, and back to life again.

  I couldn’t be bothered to undress – I’d no nightshirt, or a blessed stitch except what I was wearing, anyway. Have to do something about that … no time to shop in Baltimore, even if I’d been fool enough to venture into the town … borrow some duds when I got aboard the packet, perhaps … the devil with it, sufficient unto the day … I was content to lie, exhausted, wondering idly if the porter could forage me a bottle of something sensible.

  Pat on the thought there was a soft knock on the door, and his beaming black face appeared.

  “Yo’ podden, suh,” says he. “De party in de nex’ cabin axes if you kin’ly like to partake o’ some refreshment, ’fore you settles to rest.” He chuckled, with a knowing look. “Says if yo’ sociably inclined, be honnered to make yo’ acquaintance over a little glass or two.”

  I’d seen that look before, in French hotels, and while it was unexpected here it was by no means unwelcome – I wasn’t as exhausted as all that. Of course, I might be misreading his expression, and find myself closeted with some boring old buffer who couldn’t sleep … and Messervy had told me to stay close … but what the blazes, it was only next door, and the darkie was positively leering.

  “That’s most civil of the … gentleman?” says I, and he tittered behind his hand in a way that settled my doubts and brought me off the cot, smoothing my hair and glancing in the glass. He effaced himself, and I slipped out and knuckled the timber adjoining. No reply, so I turned the handle and found myself in an empty but well-lit cabin … ah, it was one with an alcove bunk, with the curtains drawn. Eureka, thinks I, twitching the curtains aside, and …

  “Well, hello yo’self, handsome,” says Mrs Popplewell.

  I stood rooted in astonishment, partly from the shock of seeing her, of all people, when I’d expected some railroad rattler, partly because she was reclining languidly on one elbow like that Continental tart in the painting – you know the one, bare buff except for a ribbon round her neck, and a nigger maid in the background. Mrs Popplewell wasn’t wearing even a ribbon; she lay there all black and glossy in the lamplight, smiling a welcome and extending a plump hand, and if I hadn’t been so dumfounded I dare say I’d have pressed it to my lips on the spot, if you know what I mean.

  “Seen you comin’ to the train,” says she, in answer to my incoherent inquiry. “Couldn’t hardly b’lieve ma eyes! Why, Ah made sure you was gone, in that awful fightin’ las’ night, an’ this mornin’! Nevuh see such doin’s – shootin’ an’ killin’!” She seized my nerveless hand and dragged me into a sitting position beside her. “Well, don’ jes’ gape like a fish out o’ water! Tell me whut happen, an’ wheah you bin, and how you come to be heah … unless …” She grinned hugely and transferred her hand from my wrist to my britches “… unless you can think o’ suthin’ better to do fust … oh, my, Ah should think you can!”

  She was right, you know. The babble of questions that rose to my lips became a muted howl as she fondled with one hand and hauled me down with the other; I seized hold, marvelling at my luck, and fairly wallowed, partaking of refreshment as the porter had advised, and I must say de party in de nex’ cabin was sociably inclined to the point of delirium. It was a wonder the train didn’t jump the tracks, and only when she had subsided, moaning, and I had got my breath back, did we resume the conversation, with mutual expressions of bewilderment before all was explained.

  Explained on my side, that is, for she brushed aside my demands to know how she had fared with Sinn and the ruffians who had been interrogating her. I’d have thought that my sudden descent from the skylight and my precipitate departure thereafter would have compromised her altogether, but apparently not; she had been able to satisfy Sinn of her innocence, she said, and ten dollars apiece from her purse had been enough for the others.

  “They ain’t used to black ladies with money – tuk the starch right out o’ them,” she chuckled. “But that don’ matter – Ah’s heah, ain’t Ah? But how’d you git out o’ that scrape – why, honey, Ah nevuh thought to see you ’live again! Now you jes’ tell Hannah, ’cos she’s dyin’ to heah – say, but lemme kiss you fust, you deah big lovin’-machine! Theah, now, you jes’ play gentle while you tell me … but don’ talk too long, will yuh, ’cos we got a deal o’ pleasurin’ to do ’fore we gits to Baltimo’ …”

  So I spun her, at greater length, the yarn I’d told her on first acquaintance – that I was in the employ of the U.S. Government, and had enlisted in J.B.’s band as a spy, even to the length of taking part in their raid. All of which was true enough, as was my explanation of why I’d taken refuge with her until such time as it was safe for me to reveal myself to someone in authority.

  “You saw what it was like, all the confusion and shooting, with those drunk madmen who’d have killed me on sight … it was only after I got away from your room – and I say, I’m awfully sorry I had to mishandle you so roughly –”

  “You mishandle me any ole way you like, dahlin’,” she purred, toying lazily in a most distracting fashion. “Go on, honey … tell me mo’ … but keep right on mishandlin’ …”

  “Well, I managed to get away, and by great good luck the Marines had arrived, and I was able to make myself known to Colonel Lee –”

  “That the fine soldier with the moustache Ah saw this aft’noon? Came to the hotel, with Gov’ner Wise, an’ the other people? Say, there was one real fine man theah, big an’ han’some, kinda like you, but not neah as lovesome. Made me all shivery, tho’, jes’ to look at him … my, but Ah jes’ love men with black beards’n whiskers! Like you best with jes’ yo’ whiskers, tho’ … gives me somep’n to bite at!” And she nibbled my chin.

  “Yes … well, when I’d spoken to Lee, of course, everything was all right. You know what happened after that … the Marines caught Brown and the others, and that was the end of it. And now, I’m on my way to Baltimore, as you see, to report to my superiors.”

  “You sure are one lucky man,” says she, stroking my whiskers. “An’ Ah’m one lucky gal. Why, when Ah saw you comin’ to the train, with that tall gen’leman – say, he’s a right pretty feller, too. He a friend o’ yours?”

  “What? Who? Oh, that fellow … no, don’t know who he is – one of the Governor’s people, I think.” Why, I don’t know, I felt the less I said about Messervy the better. “The handsome man you saw with Colonel Lee, by the way, was probably Lieutenant Stuart. Fancied him, did you? D’ye know what, Hannah, I’ve a notion you fancy all men, don’t you?”

  “You bet, dahlin’,” says she, pushing her tongue into my mouth. “That’s mah weakness. But Ah jes’ fancy ’em one at a time … now, hold on theah … you mus’ be dry aftuh all that talkin’.” She slipped from my grasp and got out to fill two glasses at the buffet. I put mine down at a gulp, while she sipped hers s
tanding. Then she put down her glass, and vibrated her gleaming bulk in the lamplight, looking down at me and hefting her huge poonts in her hands, smiling wickedly at my reaction.

  “Ah reckon you ’bout ready now,” says she, and, once again, she was right, absolutely.

  “Well, now,” says she afterwards, “that was whut Ah calls … pleasure!” She shivered, sitting astride, and stretched luxuriously, her arms above her head. Then she sighed, regretfully, and removed her massive weight from my creaking thighs, climbing out and donning her peignoir. “Ah’m real sorry ’tis over … Shouldn’t ha’ done it, not once let ’lone twice. But Ah got to tell you, dahlin’, you are the screwin’est man Ah ever did see! That’s my ’scuse.” She sighed again. “Anyway, that was pleasure … an’ now – business.” She sat down carefully on the chair across the cabin, and asked mildly: “What happened to Joe Simmons?”

  I gave a start that almost brought the cot loose from its moorings, but I couldn’t speak for shock, and she went on:

  “You know Joe, now … he was with you when you came to the hotel, first time I saw you. Mr La Force’s man, who brought you up to Noo Yawk, and then to Concord, and so on after.” She fluttered her fingers, and even in my stunned bewilderment I realised that the broad Dixie-nigra voice had modulated into soft Southern tones. “We know he was in that engine-house … but he never came out with the others. What happened to him?”