Flash For Freedom!

by George MacDonald Fraser

  The first thing I did was to find a barber, and let him remove the fine black beard which I had sprouted in the past two or three months. I kept my whiskers, of course—where would Flash be without his tart-catchers?—but had my hair trimmed fairly short to suit the role I intended to play. Then I passed on to a good tailor, and laid out most of my cash on a new finely-frilled shirt, in the Southern style, a silver-topped cane, and a curly-brimmed white stove-pipe hat.

  Finally, I sought out a printer, in one of the back streets, spun him a tale, and placed an order for a gross of cards in the name of Count Rudi von Starnberg, which was my new identity. It warmed me to think of how Rudi would have delighted in this, evil throat-cutting b-d that he was. I had the printer, who was all eagerness to oblige such a distinguished gentleman, run me off half a dozen of the cards then and there for immediate use, and promising to send round for the remainder next day, when they would be ready, bade him good morning. I had no intention of collecting them, of course, and doubtless they are still there. It occurred to me that if Rudi ever visited America he might find himself billed for them, which would have been most satisfactory.

  Now I was ready to face the United States in all my glory—an immaculately dressed Austrian nobleman, speaking French and English with the accent of Vienna, and as different as you could wish from some English scoundrel calling himself Comber who had vanished, bearded and nautically attired, some hours before. True, I had little cash and no place of abode, but you would never have imagined that from a glance at the splendid gentleman who now strolled at ease through the Vieux Carré, stopping to refresh himself with wine and water at one of the wayside cafés, glancing over a newspaper, and generally spying out the land. I spent a few hours getting the sense of the place, dined extremely well at a Creole eating place where they had the good sense not to smother everying in garlic, and then went to work.

  What I did, in my quest for quarters for the night, was to test a theory suggested to me years before by old Avitabile, the Italian soldier of fortune who had been governor of Peshawar. “When you're like-a light in the pocket, boy, in a strange town, you got to find a whore-house, see, an' wheedle-wheedle your way roun' the madame, you know? Do I got to tell you? No, sir. Your shoulders an' moustaches—jus' like-a mine—it's like-a fall under a log. You charm, you talk, you tell any goddam lies—but you get that madame into bed, boom-boom-boom—why, she's glad to lodge you for a week, ne' mind for a night! Didn't Avitabile travel clear from Lisbon to Paris, an' I didn't pay one night's lodging, not-a one, you bet. Goddam it, does a gentleman got to stay in hotels?”

  Well, if he could do it, so could I, and towards evening I set out to find a likely bawdy house. This, in New Orleans, was child's play; there may have been establishments in the Vieux Carré which were not bordellos, but precious few. All I had to do was find one with a susceptible madame, and take my ease for a few days.

  It took me all evening, and four false starts. What I did in each case was to select a good-class house, send my card up to the proprietress by the nigger porter, and then address myself to the arch-harpy herself. I had a story all ready, and even now I must say it sounds not half bad. I explained that I was an Austrian gentleman in search of his sister, who had eloped with a profligate Englishman and been abandoned by him during a visit to the United States. Since then we had heard nothing of her, except an unconfirmed report that she had somehow found her way into. . . into, er, an establishment such as madame was conducting. We were beside ourselves with grief and horror, and here was I, the son of the family, on a tragic quest to find the erring creature and bring her back to the bosom of her distracted but unforgiving parents. Her name was Charlotte, she was a mere eighteen, blonde and of exquisite beauty. . . could madame render me any assistance in tracing her? Money, of course, was of no object, if only I could rescue my dear Wilful sister from the dreadful plight into which she had fallen.

  This, of course, was purely introductory, to let me sum up the madame and see if she was likely game. The first four weren't—beaky, sharp-eyed old harridans whom I wouldn't have galloped for a pension, anyway. But they swallowed the story—no doubt it sounded well, coming from six-foot Harry with his curly whiskers and melancholy brown eyes, to say nothing of his wellcut clobber and light cavalry airs. Three of them even went the length of making fruitless inquiries among their staffs; the fourth, I'm afraid, didn't fully understand me—she said she had never heard of my sister, but she would undertake to procure her for me for seventy-five dollars. As with the others, I bade her a courtly good-night, thanked her profusely, and withdrew.

  At the fifth knocking-shop, I struck pure gold. It was a splendid establishment, all plush and crystal, with a nigger band playing wild music, and in the saloons off the main hall the finest of trollops on view, willowy creatures of every colour from cream to jet black, with beautiful gowns cut away so that their breasts were bare, and strutting like duchesses. It was plain to see that outside New Orleans, fornication was still in its infancy.

  However, I had no time for these distractions. My business was with the madame, and as soon as I was ushered upstairs into her private apartment, I knew I was home. She was nearing fifty, a stately buxom piece who must have been a rare beauty and was still handsome, running to fat but well laced up in a green velvet gown which looked as though it must burst asunder at any moment. She was painted and powdered and jewelled like a May Day cuddy, with an ostrich plume in her red-dyed hair, and a big peacock fan which she used to disclose her fine bust and shoulders; it was this, and the quizzy gleam in her eye as she sized me up and down, that convinced me I need look no farther. Here was one who fancied Flashy, no error. The fact that she appeared to have been at the bottle already that evening may have helped; she swayed a mite too much as she walked, even for a retired strumpet. She was all affability—and to my astonishment, when she invited me to take a seat and state my requirements, her voice was purest Bow Bells. “Honnered to 'ave a gentleman of the nobility calling at hower little hestablish'nt,” says she, simpering and pressing my hand warmly. “Ow may we be of service, pray?” Well, thinks I, if I can't charm this one flat on her back, I've lost my way with women.

  It took me exactly three-quarters of an hour by her fine grandfather clock, which I thought quite smart work on first acquaintance. Ten minutes disposed of my mythical sister, of whom my plump hostess had naturally never heard, although she expressed touching dismay (“Why, the wicked villain!” and “Ow, yore pore mama!”). Another ten were spent in idle gossip, after which she suggested some refreshment, and I sipped a very reasonable Moselle while she fluttered her eyelids and shoved her tits at me. After half an hour we were quite intimate, and I was murmuring in her ear and tweaking her bottom while she giggled and called me a great sauce; with forty minutes gone I was unbuttoning her dress at the back—I have uncanny skill at this—and in a trice I had her standing in her corset. Before she could turn round I had impaled her, and was subsiding into a chair with her on my lap. She gave one protesting squeal of “Oh, Lor' ”, and then lay back against me—God, what a weight she was! I thought my thigh-bones would crack, but I bulled away for all I was worth, and the baggage revelled in it, plunging and writhing until I thought we must go over, chair and all. The clock chimed the three-quarters, I remember, just as we finished.

  This broke the ice splendidly, of course, and to cut a longish and damned tiring story short, I didn't spend only the night at Mrs Susie Willinck's establishment, but the best part of a week. Avitabile was absolutely right, you see; if you manage to get round a madame, you're made. But I must say in honesty that I doubt if many madames are as susceptible as Susie was. She proved to be one of those rare creatures who are even jollier and nicer—and randier—than they look, give her a man who was handsome and impudent and made her laugh and was a good mount, and she would do anything for him—so it followed naturally that she took to me from the start. Of course, the fact that I was English helped—she found that out smartly enough, on t
he first night, the shrewd old strumpet, but instead of being furious at the way I'd imposed on her, she just shook with laughter and called me a bonny young rascal and hauled me on to the sofa again. I had to tell her my name was Comber, and that I was on the run from the American Navy—which was true, in its way, although she naturally took it that I was a deserter. She didn't care; I was something new, and a lusty rogue, and that was enough for her.

  Mind you, I earned my keep. I've always been able to keep pace with most women, but this one, when roused, was like a succubus gone berserk. She had a knack of getting astride of me, pinning me down with her weight, and going to work in her own way; it was fearful, for the randy trollop would tease and plague me for close on an hour, until I was nearly bursting, and by the time she was done I would be ecstatically ruined, and certain sure I'd never be able to present arms again. On the other hand, she could be as soft as mush, and cry over me afterwards, which was rather disturbing. At first I put it down to her fondness for port, but in fact it was just that she was a genuinely sentimental soul—where lively young men were concerned, anyway.

  Mind you, I wasn't complaining, either way; I realised I was uncommon lucky to have found just the billet I was looking for, and I'll say this for Susie, although she was like a wild beast in bed, she was damned good to me during my stay with her. I soon recognised that it wasn't just that she was unusually partial to Adam's arsenal; she was one of these large-hearted females who can't go to bed with a man without conceiving an affection for him, and wanting to cherish and own him, even. She was as soft in that way as any woman I can remember, which was remarkable, for she knew men, and was far too worldly-wise to have any illusions about me. She must have seen I was a wrong 'un from the minute she laid eyes on me, and especially when she realised I was only romping her for the sake of a few nights' lodging. But although she knew I was the kind of heartless scoundrel who would use her shamelessly and then slide out when it suited me, she couldn't help liking me, apparently. She knew after the first couple of days that she was growing too fond of me, and it frightened her, so that she wished me away at the same time as she wanted me to stay.

  This ain't Flashy's vanity, by the way; she admitted it herself, when I'd been there about four days and spoke about moving on.

  “I otter be thankful,” says she. “You're as big a villain as the rest—worse, prob'ly. I know you'll just break my heart in the end, if you stay.”

  Thinking back to the previous night, it struck me that whatever was in danger of breaking belonged to me, and it wasn't my heart. “Oh, come, now, it's short acquaintance to be talking like that,” says I.

  “You would, though,” says she, smiling kind of wry. “I know your sort, an' what's worse, I know me. I was a fool even to let you in the 'ouse. You'd think, with all I've seen, an' the rotten swine I've known, that I'd 'ave more sense; I've been 'ere before. You men—you don't care a button; it's just another rattle to you, an' thanks ever so, dearie, an' good-night. But I like you too much as it is, an' I know what comes of that. Another two days an' you'd be bored, an' a flabby ol' faggot like me can't 'old a man against the kind of merchandise there is in this 'ouse—little yellow sluts with hard titties—humph!” She shook her head. “The trouble is—it'd hurt. I spose you think that's funny, from an' ol' bag like me.”

  “No,” says I, “but since I'm not staying anyway, you needn't worry. I'll tell you this much—I may not love you, Susie, but I like you, and you're a damned sight better in bed than any of your fellow girls would be.”

  “Gammon!” says she, hitting me with her fan, but she looked pleased. She didn't believe me for a moment, of course, but for once I wasn't buttering her. It's one of the great truths, that young pieces aren't in it where love-making is concerned, compared with their mothers and aunts who have been about long enough to enjoy it. For the real thing, give me a well-fleshed matron every time, with her eyes wide open and a mind of her own. But women, of course, will never credit this.

  The difficulty about my leaving, of course, was that the best way to get out of New Orleans was by the river, and that meant running the gauntlet of the Navy people who might be looking for me. Thanks to Susie, whose acquaintances were legion, there was no trouble about getting a passage to England, and it was arranged that I should go two days later, on a packet bound for Liverpool. One advantage to it was that she would weigh anchor at night, when I'd have a good chance of slipping aboard unnoticed.

  There was the question of my fare, and here Susie turned up trumps. She would advance me the cash—not, she said, that she expected it back. I protested at this, and she laughed and chucked me under the chin.

  “I've heard that, an' all,” says she. “If I'd a guinea for every dollar I've given to stake a man out of town, I'd be a rich woman, an' never once did I see a penny of it back. Oh, I know—you're full o' good intentions now, when you need the cash, but come next week you'll 'ave forgotten all about it.”

  “I'll pay it back, Susie,” says I. “I promise.”

  “Ducky,” says she, “I'd rather not—honest. I don't want to hear from you no more—really, I don't.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Oh, hold your tongue!” snaps she, and turned away, dabbing at herself. “There—now! Me face'll be all to do up again. Go on, let me alone!” And she went off, sniffing. Which, I must admit, I found very gratifying.

  You may think I've dwelt on my meeting with Susie at some length, but there's reason for it. For one thing, it may be a valuable pointer to young men who come after, and who find themselves adrift in a strange town. Secondly, it had a bearing on my life many years on, as my later memoirs will show. And she was unique, too: among all the women I've known she must be about the only one that I never had hard feelings with, on either side. And she could touch me, somehow—at least I remember thinldng, the night I left, that in all the journeys I'd set off on before, never a woman had been at such pains to see I had everything packed and ready, and that my clothes were brushed, and my money safe, and the rest of it. She fussed over me in a way that none of the others—wife, aunts, mistresses, whores, legions of them—had ever done. It's strange, and no doubt significant, that the warmest leave-taking I remember should be from a bawdy-house.

  I set out about ten, with a nigger carrying my valise, and Susie hustled me away. “Give us a kiss, dearie. Now, be off with you. 'Ave a glass in the Cider Cellars for me.” She was absolutely crying, the soft old slut. “An' take care of yourself you—you big scallawag, you!”

  We slipped out of the side gate into the alley. It was one of those lazy, warm nights, with many stars, and above the hum of the town I could hear a distant steamboat whistle on the river, where my ship, the Anglesey Queen, would be lying. We set off down the dark lane together, and just as we reached its end a dark shadow loomed up before us and I was aware of others suddenly coming in at my back. I stopped dead, and the figure in front of me, a tall man in a broad-brimmed hat, said:

  “Hold it right there, mister. Hands away from your sides. Now, don't make a move, because you're covered front and rear!”

  8

  I must have heard the same sort of thing barked at me in a dozen different languages, and it has never failed to paralyse me on the spot. My first thought was that these must be American Navy men, and my heart froze inside me. How the devil had they traced me? Could I bolt?—but there wasn't a hope. They knew their business too well—one a couple of yards dead ahead, and two others on my flanks, slightly behind me. But if I couldn't bolt I could bluff.

  “Wer ruft mich?” I demanded, trying to sound angry. “Was wollen sie?”

  “Don't come your Dutch on me, Mr Comber,” says the big one, and that settled it. They were Navy men, and I was done for.

  “You, nigger, gimme that bag,” he went on. “Billy, take him down to the levee and let him go. And now, mister, you step ahead right lively. Do as you're told and you won't get hurt; try to run and you're a dead man.”

  Sick with fear I s
tarted forward, with the big man and his mate right behind me, down a side-street and then, at their direction, into a maze of alleys until I had no earthly idea where I was. Why were they taking me out of the main ways, and why had they taken the nigger to the levee before letting him go? My G-d, were they going to murder me?—and at that instant the big fellow growls:

  “Stop right there,” and came up beside me.

  At this my nerve broke. “What d'you want with me? What are you going to do? In God's name, if you're the Navy, I can explain, I can—”

  “We ain't the Navy,” says he, shortly. “And we ain't gonna hurt you.” And amazingly he added: “You're the last man on God's earth I'd want to hurt.”

  I gaped at him, trying to make out the shadowy face beneath the hat brim, but he went on:

  “I've got a black bag here, and I'm gonna put it over your head, so you don't see where you're goin'. Now, don't fret ye'self; do as you're told an' you'll come to no harm.”

  He slipped the bag over my head, and I choked in its coarse muffled folds, panicking, but he took my arm and said:

  “Straight ahead now. Easy does it.”

  We walked for three hundred and sixty eight paces through innumerable turns, and then stopped. I heard a gate creak, and when we went forward there was gravel beneath my feet. Then up stone steps, and a door opened, and we were in a house. Forward up stairs—thickly carpeted, too. I was suffocating with dread and astonishment by the time we had passed down a wellcarpeted corridor, and I heard knuckles knock on a door and a voice call: “Enter!” I was pushed forward, the bag was whipped from my head, and as the door closed behind me I found myself blinking in the light of a great, well-furnished library. Behind a big oak desk a little bald-headed man was standing eyeing me benevolently over his spectacles, and waving a hand to an empty chair.