The men got over their fears faster than the women, who danced with much less jollity, although everyone on the ship was always on hand to watch them. You couldn't have called any of 'em pretty, with their pug faces and great woolly mops of hair, but they had fine shapely bodies, and none of us had seen a proper woman for near on six weeks. The sight of those naked black bodies shuffling and swaying got me into a fever the first time I saw it, and the others were the same, licking their lips and muttering when was Murphy the surgeon going to set about his business?
I understood what this meant when we were all ordered to report and strip down for Murphy in his berth, where he examined us carefully to see that none of us had pox or crabs or yaws or any of the interesting diseases that wicked saiormen are prone to. When we were pronounced clean Spring had us each pick out a black wench—I thought this was by way of seaman's comforts, but it turned out that the more black wenches who could be got pregnant by white men, the better the traders liked it, for they would produce mulatto children, who being half-white were smarter and more valuable than pure blacks. The Cuban dealers trusted Spring, and if he could guarantee that all his female slaves had been bulled by his crew, it would add to their price.
“I want all these wenches pupped,” says he, “but you'll do it decently, d'you hear, salvo pudore, [Without offending modesty.] in your quarters. I'll not have Mrs Spring offended.”
It may sound like just the kind of holiday for a fellow like me, but it was no great fun as it turned out. I picked out a likely enough big wench, jet black and the liveliest dancer of the lot, but she knew nothing, and she reeked of jungle even when she was scrubbed down. I tried to coax some spirit into her, first by kindness and then by rope's end, but she was no more use than a bishop's maiden aunt. However, one has to make do, and in the intervals of our laborious grappling I tried to indulge my interest in foreign languages, which apart from horses is the only talent I can boast. I can usually make good use of a native pillow partner in this way, provided she speaks English, but of course this one didn't, and was as stupid as a Berkshire hog into the bargain. So it was no go as far as learning anything was concerned, but I did succeed in teaching her a few useful English words and phrases like:
“Me Lady Caroline Lamb. Me best rattle in Balliol College.” The hands thought this a great joke, and just for devilment I also taught her a tag from Horace, and with immense work got her perfect in it, so that when you pinched her backside she would squeak out:
“Civis Romanus sum. Odi pro fanum vulgus.” [I am a Roman citizen. I hate vulgar profane persons.]
Spring almost leaped out of his skin when he heard it, and was not at all amused. He took the opportunity to upbraid me for not having sent her back to the slave-deck and taken another wench, for he wanted them all covered; I said I didn't want to break in any more of 'em, and suggested that if this one learned a little English it might add to her value; he raised his voice and d-d my impudence, not realising that Mrs Spring had come up the companion and could hear us. She startled him by suddenly remarking:
“Mr Flashman is a constant heart. I knew it the moment I first saw him.”
She was mad, of course, but Spring was much put out, because she wasn't meant to know what was going on with the black women. But he let me keep Lady Caroline Lamb.
So it was a pleasant enough cruise to begin with, for the weather blew just enough to give us a good passage without being too rough for the niggers; their health remained good, with no deaths in the first week, which greatly pleased Spring; the work was light above deck, as it always is in a fast ship with a favourable wind, and there was time to sit about watching the flying fish and listening to the hands swapping yarns—my respect for them had increased mightily over our encounter with the British sloop, which had confirmed my earlier impression that these were no ordinary packet rats with the points knocked off their knives, but prime hands. And I've learned that no time is wasted which is spent listening to men who really know their work.
However, as always when I feel I can loaf for a spell, something happened which drove all other thoughts out of my head—even my daydreams about Elspeth, and how I might contrive to come home respectably before too long, and scupper old Morrison, too, if possible. What happened was little enough, and not unexpected, but in the long run it certainly saved my liberty, and probably my life.
On the seventh day out from Dahomey, Murphy came to me and said I must go directly to Comber, who was dying. Since we sailed he'd been stowed away in a little cubby off the main cabin aft, where there was a window and Mrs Spring could tend to him.
“It's all up with him, poor lad,” says Murphy, fuming with liquor. “His bowels is mortified, I'm thinkin'; maybe that jezebel's spear wuz pizened. Any roads, he wants to see you.”
I couldn't think why, but I went along, and as soon as I clapped eyes on him I could see it was the Union Jack for this one, no error. His face was wasted and yellow, with big purple blotches beneath the eyes, and he was breathing like a bellows. He was lying on the berth with just a blanket over him, and the hand on top of it was like a bird's claw. He signed feebly to me to shut the door, and I squatted down on a stool beside his cot.
He lay for a few moments, gazing blankly at the sunbeams from the open window, and then says, in a very weak voice:
“Flashman, do you believe in God?”
Well, I'd expected this, of course; his wasn't the first deathbed I'd sat by, and they usually get religious sooner or later. There's nothing for it but to squat down on your hunkers and let them babble. Dying people love to talk—I know I do, and I've been in extremis more often than most. So to humour him I said certainly there was a God, not a doubt about it, and he chewed this over a bit and says:
“And if there is a God, and a Heaven—there must be a Devil, and a Hell? Must there not?”
I'd heard that before, too, so playing up to my part as the Rev. Flashy, B.D., I told him opinion was divided on the point. In any event, says I, if there was a Hell it couldn't be much worse than life on this earth—which I don't believe for a minute, by the way.
“But there is a Hell!” cries he, turning on me with his eyes shining feverishly. “I know it—a terrible, flaming Hell in which the damned burn through all Eternity! I know it, Flashman, I tell you!”
I could have told him this was what came of looking at the pictures in Bunyan's Holy War, which had blighted my young life for a spell when I first struck it. But I soothed him by pointing out that if there was a Hell, it was reserved for prime sinners only, and he probably wasn't up to that touch.
He rolled his head about on the pillow, biting his lip with distress and the pain of his wound.
“But I am a sinner,” he gasped. “A fearful sinner. Oh, I do fear I am beyond redemption! The Saviour will turn from me, I know.”
“Oh, I'm not sure, now,” says I. “Slaving ain't that bad, you know.”
He groaned and closed his eyes. “There is no such sin on my conscience,” says he fretfully, which I didn't understand. “It is my weak flesh that has betrayed me. I have so many sins—I have broken the seventh commandment. . .”
I couldn't be sure about this; I had a suspicion it was the one about oxen and other livestock, which seemed unlikely, but with a man who's half-delirious you can never tell.
“What is it that's troubling you?” I asked.
“In that—that village. . .” he said, speaking with effort “Those. . . those women. Oh, God. . . pity me. . . I lusted after them. . . in my mind. . . I looked on them. . . as David looked on Bathsheeba. I desired them, carnally, sinfully. . . oh, Flashman. . . I am guilty. . . in His sight. . . I. . .”
“Now, look here,” says I, for I was getting tired of this. “You won't go to Hell for that. Leastways, if you do, it'll be a mighty crowded place. You'll have the entire human race there, including the College of Cardinals, I shouldn't wonder.”
But he babbled on about the sin of lechery for a bit, and then, as repentant sinners alway
s do, he decided I was right, and took my hand—his was as dry as a bundle of sticks.
“You are a good fellow, Flashman,” says he. “You have eased my mind.” Why he'd been worried beat me; if I thought that when I go I'll have nothing worse on my conscience than slavering over a buxom bum, well, I'll die happy, that's all. But this poor devil had obviously been Bible-reared, and fretted according.
“You truly believe I shall be saved?” says he. “There is forgiveness, is there not? We are taught so—that we may be washed clean in the blood of the Lamb.”
“Clean as a whistle,” says I. “It's in the book. Now, then, old fellow. . .”
“Don't go,” says he, gripping my hand. “Not yet. I'm. . . I'm dying, you know, Flashman. . . there isn't much time. . .”
I said wouldn't he like Mrs Spring to look in, but he shook his head.
“There is something. . . I must do. . . first. Be patient a moment, my dear friend.”
So I waited, wishing to blazes I was out of there. He was breathing harder than ever, wheezing like an old pump, but he must have been gathering strength, for when he opened his eyes again they were clear and sane, and looked directly at mine.
“Flashman,” says he, earnestly, “how came you aboard this ship?”
It took me aback, but I started to tell him (a revised version, of course), and he cut me off.
“It was against your will?” He was almost pleading.
“Of course. I wouldn't have. . .”
“Then you too. . . oh, in God's name tell me truthfully. . . you detest this abomination of slavery?”
Hollo, thinks I, what's here? Very smartly I said, yes. I detested it. I wanted to see where he was going.
“Thank God!” says he. “Thank God!” And then: “You will swear to me that what I tell you will be breathed to no one on this accursed vessel?”
I swore it, solemnly, and he heaved a great sigh of relief.
“My belt,” says he. “On the chest yonder. Yes, take it. . . and cut it open. . . there, near the buckle.”
Mystified, I examined it. It was a broad, heavy article, double welted. I picked out the stitches as he indicated, with my knife, and the two welts came apart. Between them, folded very tight, was a slender oilskin packet. I unfolded it—and suddenly thought, I've been here before: then I remembered slitting open the lining of my own coat by the Jotunschlucht, with de Gautet lying beside me, groaning at the pain of his broken toes. Was that only a few months ago? It seemed an eternity. . . and then the packet was opens and I was unfolding the two papers within it. I spread the first one out, and found myself gaping at a letterhead design which showed an anchor, and beneath it the words:
“To Lieutenant Beauchamp Millward Comber, R.N. You are hereby required and directed. . .”
“Good G-d!” says I, staring. “You're a naval officer!”
He tried to nod, but his wound must have caught him, for he groaned and gasped. Then: “Read on,” says he.
“. . . to report yourself immediately to the Secretary of the Board of Trade, and receive from him, or such subordinate official as he may appoint, instructions and directions whereby you shall assist, in whatsoever capacity the Secretary shall deem most fitting, against those persons engaged in the illicit and illegal traffic in human slaves between the Guinea, Ivory, Grain, Togo, Dahomey, Niger and Angola Coasts and the Americas. You are most strictly enjoined to obey and carry out all such instructions and directions as though they had proceeded from Their Lordships of the Admiralty or others your superior officers in Her Majesty's service.” It was signed “Auckland”.
The other paper, which was from the Board of Trade, was really no more than a sort of passport, requesting that all officials, officers, and other persons in H.M. service, and of foreign governments, should render to Lieutenant Comber all assistance of which he might stand in need, etc., etc., but in its way it was equally impressive, for it was signed not only by the President, Labouchere, but also coimtersigned by my old pal T. B. Macaulay, as Paymaster, and some Frog or other for the French merchant marine.
I goggled at these things, hardly understanding, and then looked at Comber; he was lying with his eyes shut, and his face working.
“You're a spy,” says I. “A spy on the slavers!”
He opened his eyes. “You. . . may call it that. If it is spying to help to deliver these poor creatures. . . then I am proud to be a spy.” He made a great effort, gasping with pain, and turned on his side towards me. “Flashman. . . hear me. . . I'm going. . . soon. Even if you don't. . . see this as I do. . . as God's work. . . still, you are a gentleman. . . an Army officer. Why, you are one of Arnold's people. . . the paladins. For God's sake, say you will help! Don't let all my work. . . my death. . . be in vain!”
He was in a desperate sweat, straining a hand out towards me, his eyes glittering. “You must. . . in honour. . . and, oh, for these poor lost black souls! If you'd seen what I've seen. . . aye, and had to help in, God forgive me. . . but I had to, you see, until I had done my work. You must help them, Flashman; they cannot help themselves. Their minds are not as ours. . . they are weak and foolish and an easy prey to scoundrels like Spring. . . but they have souls. . . and this slavery is an abomination in God's sight!” He struggled to get farther up. “Say you will help. . . for pity's sake!”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Take those letters.” His voice was weakening, and I could see blood seeping through his blanket; he must have opened his wound in his exertion. “Then. . . my chest. . . there under the canvas shirt. . . packet. Copy of Spring's accounts. . . last voyage. I took some of them. . . completed them this trip. Letters, too. . . evidence against him. . . and others. For God's sake get them to the Admiralty. . . or the American Navy people. . . oh, dear God!”
He fell back, moaning, but by then I was ferreting through his chest, snatching out a slender packet sewn in an oilskin cover. I slipped it and the letters quickly out of sight in my pocket, and bent over his cot.
“Go on, man! What more? Are there any others like yourself—agents, officers, or what?”
But he just lay there, coughing weakly and breathing in little moaning gasps. I closed the chest and sat down to see if he would revive again, and after a moment he began to mumble; I leaned close, but it was a moment before I could make out what he was saying—in fact, he was singing, in a little whisper at the back of his throat; it was that sad little song, “The Lass so good and true”, that they call “Danny Boy” nowadays. I knew at once, without telling, that it was the song his mother had used to sing him to sleep, for he began to smile a little, with his eyes closed. I could have kicked the brute; if he'd spent less time making his soul and belly-aching to me about hell fire, and minded his duty, he would have had time to tell me more about his mission. Not that I cared a button for that, but all knowledge is useful when you're in the grip of folk like Spring. But he was going to slip his cable with all the good scandal untold, by the looks of it.
Sure enough, when his whispered song died away, he began muttering, “Mother. . . Sally. . . yes, Mother. . . cold..,” but nothing to make sense. It was maddening. Of course, my generation were preoccupied with their mothers, which sets me apart; mine died when I was little, you see, and I never really knew her, which may account for a deal. It crossed my mind, in that moment, what will I have to say in the last few seconds before I slip over the edge of life? Whose name will be on my repentant lips? My father's?—now there would be a cheery vision to carry over to the other side, all boozy face and rasping voice. Elspeth's? I doubt it. Some of the other ladies?—Lola, or Natasha or Takes-AwayClouds-Woman or Leonie or Lady White Willow or. . . no, there wouldn't be time. I'll have to wait and see. Which reminds me, young Harry East, when they pulled what was left of him into the dooli at Cawnpore, muttered, “Tell the doctor”, and everyone thought he meant the surgeon—but I knew different. He meant Arnold, which as a dying thought has one advantage, that the Devil, if you meet him later, will be an
improvement.
So I speculated, as Comber's breathing slackened, and then I saw the shadow of death cross his wasted face (there is such a shadow, down from the temple and across to the chin, seen it scores of times) and he was gone. I pulled the blanket over his head, went through his jacket pockets and chest, but found nothing worth while except a pencil case and a good clasp knife, which I appropriated, and then went topsides to tell Spring.
“He's gone at last, is he?” was his charitable comment. “Aye, omne capax movet urna nomen. [Every name is shaken in death's great urn.] We need not pretend he is a great loss. Blackwall fashion was about his style[25]—a sound enough seaman, but better fitted for an Indiaman than our trade. Very good, you can tell the sailmaker to bundle him up; we'll bury him tomorrow.” And he continued to survey the horizon through his glass, while I slipped away to think over the momentous news I'd learned from the dying Comber. Obviously the fact that he had been an Admiralty man working against the slavers was of the first importance, but for the life of me I couldn't see what use it might be to me. For all that I'd soothed his passing moments out of an uncommon civility, I didn't mind a snap whether his precious evidence ever reached government hands or not. In fact, it seemed to me that if an information was laid against the Balliol College and her master, those who had sailed with him would land in the dock as well, and they included H. Flashman, albeit he wasn't aboard willingly. Yet my knowledge, and Comber's, might be valuable somehow, provided I kept them safe from prying eyes.
So it seemed to me at the time anyway, so I took a leaf out of Comber's book, and in the privacy of my berth sewed his two letters into my belt. I hesitated a long while over the packet, for I knew the secrets it contained would be fatally dangerous to whoever shared them; if Spring ever found out it would be a slit throat and a watery grave for me. But curiosity got the better of me in the end; I opened it carefully so that it could be re-sealed, and was presently goggling my way through the contents.
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