Flash For Freedom!

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Er, Flash—, er, Brown, I mean. But, look here, my dear girl, I promised not to desert you—remember? D'you think I'm the kind to break his word? I must say—”

  “I don't know,” says she, slowly. “I only tell you what will happen if you do. It may cost me my life, but it will certainly cost you yours, Mr Flash-er-Brown.”

  “I wouldn't dream of leaving you,” says I, seriously. “Not for a moment. But, I say, Cassy—this is a top-hole plan! Why didn't you tell me before-it's absolutely splendid!”

  She gazed at me, and took a deep breath, and then turned to gaze into the fire.

  “You would think so, I suppose. Perhaps it seems a little thing to you—to be placed on a block, and auctioned like a beast to the highest bidder. To be pawed over and fumbled by dirty hands—stripped even, and gloated over!” The tears were starting again, but her voice never shook. “How could you even begin to imagine it? The hideous shame—the humiliation!” She swung round on me again—a habit of hers which I confess made me damned jumpy.

  “Do you know what I was, until I was thirteen? I was a little Creole girl, in a fine house in Baton Rouge, with my papa and two brothers and two sisters, all older than I. Their mother was dead—she was white-and my mother, who was a slave mustee, was mother to them as well. We were the happiest family in the world—I loved them, and they loved me, or so I thought, until my father died. And then they sold us—my loving brothers sold me, their sister, and my mother, who had been more than a mother to them. They sold us! My mother to a planter—me to a bawd in New Orleans!”

  She was shaking with passion. Something seemed called for, so I says:

  “Pretty steep work, that. Bad business.”

  “I was a whore—at thirteen! I ran away, back to my family—and they gave me up! They put me in a cellar until my owner came, and took me back to New Orleans. You saw that other paper, with the bill of sale. Do you know what it is? It is a receipt from a whipping-house-where slaves are sent to be corrected! I was only thirteen, so they were lenient with me—only ten lashes! Can you understand what that did to me? Can you? For they make a spectacle of it—oh, yes! I was tied up naked, and whipped before an audience of men! Can you even begin to dream what it is like—the unbelievable, frightful shame of it? But how could I make you understand!” She was beating her fist on my knee by now, crying into my face. “You are a man—what would it do to you, to be stripped and bound and flogged before a pack of leering, laughing women?”

  “Oh, well,” says I, “I don't really know—”

  “They cheered me! Do you hear that—cheered me, because I Wouldn't cry, and one of them gave me a dollar! I ran back, blind with tears, with that receipt in my hand, and the she-devil who kept that brothel said: 'Keep it to remind you of what disobedience brings'. And I kept it, with the other. So that I shall never forget!”

  She buried her head on my knee, weeping, and I was at a loss for once. I could think of one good way of comforting us both, but I doubted if she'd take kindly to it. So I patted her head and said:

  “Well, it's a hard life, Cassy, there's no denying. But cheer up—there's a good time coming, you know. We'll be away to Memphis in the morning, raffle you off, collect the cash, and then, hey! for the steamboat! Why, we can have a deuced good time of it, I daresay, for I'm bound for the east coast, you know, and we can travel together. Why, we can—”

  “Do you swear it?” She had lifted her head and was gazing up at me, her face wasted with crying. God, she was a queer one, one minute all cold steel and killing two men, and then getting the jumps over 'em—and from that she was plotting calmly, and suddenly raging with passion, and now imploring me with the wistful eyes of a child. By George, she was a handsome piece—but it wasn't the time or place, I knew. She was too much in a taking—I'll wager she had talked more that night than she'd done for years. But women have always loved to confide in me; I think it's my bluff, honest, manly countenance-and my whiskers, of course.

  “You do promise?” she begged rue. “You will help me, and never desert me? Never, until I'm free?”

  Well, you know what my promises are; still I gave it, and I believe I meant it at the time. She took my hand, and kissed it, which disturbed me oddly, and then she says, looking me in the eyes:

  “Strange, that you should be an Englishman. I remember, years ago, on the Pierrepoint Plantation, the slaves used to talk of the underground railroad—the freedom road, they called it—and how those who could travel it in safety might win at last to Canada, and then they could never be made slaves again. There was one old man, a very old slave, who had a book that he had gotten from somewhere, and I used to read to them from it—it was called Nore's Epitome of Navigation, all about the sea, and ships, and none of us could understand it, but it was the only book we had, and so they loved to hear me read from it.” She tried to smile, with her eyes full of tears, and her voice was trembling. “On the outside there was a picture of a ship, with a Union Jack at its mast, and the old man used to point to it and say: 'Dat's de flag o' liberty, chillun; dat de ol' flag'. And I used to remember what I had once beard someone say—I can't recall where or when, but I never forgot the words.” She paused a moment, and then said in a whisper almost: “'Whoever stands on British soil, shall be forever free'. It's true, isn't it?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” says I. “We're the chaps, all right. Don't hold with slavery at all, don't you know.”

  And, strange as it may seem, sitting there with her looking at me as though I were the Second Coming, well—I felt quite proud, you know. Not that I care a damn, but—well, it's nice, when you're far away and don't expect it, to hear the old place well spoken of.

  “God bless you,” says she, and she let go my hand, and I thought of making a grab at her, for the third time, but changed my mind. And we went to sleep on opposite sides of the fire, after I'd stoked it up and shoved Little's body into the bushes; deuce of a weight to move he was, too.

  * * *

  It took us two full days to Memphis, and the closer we got the more uneasy I became about the scheme we had undertaken. The chief risk was that we would be recognised by somebody, and if looking back I can say that it was only a chance in a thousand—well, that's still an uncomfy chance if your neck depends on it.

  I was in high enough spirits when we set off from our camping place at dawn, for the glow of being free again hadn't worn off. It was with positive zest that I hauled the corpses of Little and George well into the thickets, and dumped them in a swampy pool full of reeds and frogs; then I tidied up the tracks as well as I could, and we set off. Cassy sat in the back of the cart, out of sight, while I drove, and we rolled along through the woods over the rutted road—it was more like a farm-track, really—until I Came to a fork running north-west, which was the direction we Wanted to go.

  We followed it until noon without seeing a soul, which I now know was pretty lucky, but soon after we had cooked up a fry and moved on we came to a small village, and here something hap pened which damped my spirits a good deal, for it showed me what a small place even the American backwoods can be, and how difficult it is to pass through without every Tom, Dick and Harry taking an interest in you.

  The village was dozing in the afternoon, with only a nigger or two kicking about, a dog nosing in a rubbish tip, and a baby wailing on a porch, but just the other side of town there was the inevitable yokel whittling on a stump, with his straw hat over his eyes and his bare feet stuck in the dust. I decided it was safe to make an inquiry, and pulled up.

  “Hollo,” says I, cheerily.

  “Hollo, y'self,” says he.

  “Am I on the road to Memphis, friend?” says I.

  He thought about this, chewing and polishing up one of those cracker-barrel witticisms which are Mississippi's gift to civiisation. At last he said:

  “Well, if y'don't know for sartain, you're a damfool to be headin' along it, ain't you?”

  “I would be, if I wasn't sure of direction from a smart man like you
,” says I.

  He cocked an eye at me. “How come you're so sure?”

  It's like talking before salt with the Arabs, or doing business with a Turk; you must go through the ritual.

  “Because it's a hot day.”

  “That makes you sure?”

  “Makes me sure you're thirsty, which makes me sure you'll take a suck at the jug I've got under my seat—and then you'll tell me the road to Memphis.” I threw the jug at him, and he snapped it up like a trout taking a fly.

  “Guess I might sample it, at that,” says he, and sampled about a pint. “Jay-zus! That's drinkin' liquor. Ye-ah—I reckon you might be on the Memphis road, sure enough. Should git there, too, provided you don't fall in Coldwater Creek or git elected guy-nor or die afore you arrive.” He threw the jug back, and I was about to whip up when he says:

  “You f'm Nawth? You don't talk like ol' Miss, nor Arkinsaw, neether.”

  “No, I'm from Texas.”

  “You don't say? Long ways off, the Texies. Young Jim Noble, be went down there, 'bout two years back. Ever run across Jim?”

  “I reckon not.”

  “No.” He considered me, the sharp, sleepy little eyes peeping out under the frayed straw brim. “Would that be Tom Little's wagon your drivin'? Seems I know that broken spoke—an' the horse.”

  For a moment my blood ran cold, and I stopped my hand from going to the pistol in the back of my belt.

  “Well, it was Tom Little's wagon,” says I. “Still would be, if be hadn't loaned it me yesterday. When I take it back, it will be his again, I guess.” If I'd stayed in that country, and learned to whittle with a Barlow knife, and chew tobacco, I'd have made president.

  “That a fact,” says he. “First time I heerd o' Tom lendin' anything.”

  “Well, I'm his cousin,” says I. “So he didn't mind lending it to me.” And I whipped up and made off.

  “Good for him,” calls the yokel after me. “He might ha' told you the road to Memphis, while he was about it.”

  By George, it rattled me, I can tell you. When we were out of sight I conferred with Cassy, and she agreed we must press on as hard as we could go. With every loafer in the county weighing us up, the sooner we were clear the better. So we pushed on, and might have made it next day if I hadn't had to rest the horsespavined old bitch she was. We had to sleep another night out, and the following morning we left the cart beside a melon patch, telling a nigger to mind it for us, and walked the last mile into Memphis town.

  It was a fair-sized place, even in those days, for half the cotton in the world seemed to find its way there, but to my jaundiced eye it appeared to be made entirely out of mud. It had rained from first light, and by the time we had walked through the churned-up streets, and been splashed by wagons and by damfools who didn't look where they were going, we were in a sorry state. But the crowded bustle of the place, and the foul weather, made me feel happier, because both lessened the chance of anyone recognising us.

  Now all that remained to be done was for me to sell a runaway slave and arrange for us to get out of town without any holes in our hides. Easy enough, you may think, for a chap of Flashy's capabilities, and I'll admit your confidence wouldn't be misplaced. But I wonder how many young chaps nowadays, in this civilised twentieth century, would know how to go about it, if they were planked down, near penniless and with their boots letting in, on a foreign soil, and asked to dispose of a fine-strung mustee woman whose depression and nervousness were growing steadily as the crisis approached? It takes thought, I tell you, and a strong grip on one's own gorge to keep it from leaping out.

  The first thing was to find when the next sale was, and here we were lucky, for there was one in the market that very afternoon, which meant we could do our business and, God willing, be out by nightfall. Next I must inquire about steamboats, so leaving Cassy under the shelter of a shop porch, I pioshed down to the levee to make inquiries. It was pouring fit to frighten Noah by now, with a howling wind as well, and by the time I tacked up to the steamboat office I was plastered with gumbo to the thighs and sodden from there up. To add to my difficulties, the ancient at the office window, wearing a dirty old pilot cap and a vacant expression, was both stone deaf and three parts senile; when I bawled my inquiries to him above the noise of the storm he responded with a hand to his ear and a bewildered grin.

  “Is there a boat to Louisville tonight?” I roared.

  “Hey?”

  “Boat to Louisville?”

  “Cain't hear you, mister. Speak up, cain't ye?”

  I dragged my collar closer and dashed the rain out of my eyes.

  “Boat to Louisville—tonight?” I yelled.

  “Boat to where?”

  “Oh, for pity's sake! LOUIS!—” I gathered all my lung power “—VILLE! Is there a boat tonight?”

  At last he beamed and nodded.

  “Shore 'nough, mister. The new Missouri. Leaves at ten.”

  I thanked him forcibly and ploughed back up town. Now all that must be done was render myself and Cassy as respectable as possible and go to work with our hands on our hearts. The first part we managed, roughly, in the back room of a cheap apartment house which I hired for the day; my good coat, which had been thrown over my head when I left Greystones—a prodigious stroke of luck that, for it had Spring's precious papers sewn in the lining—was sadly soiled, but we made the best of it, and rehearsed the final details of our plan. I was in a sweat about how Cassy would slip away from her new owner, but this she brushed aside; what made her grit her teeth to stop them chattering was the thought of mounting the slave block and being sold, which seemed strange to me, since it had happened to her before, and didn't involve any pain or danger at all.

  She was to run late that evening, make her way back to the apartment house, knock at my window, which was on the ground floor, and be admitted. I would have clothes for her by then, and we'd make our way to the levee and go aboard the Missouri as Mr and Mrs James B. Montague, of Baton Rouge, travelling north. In the dark it should be simple enough.

  “If I do not come—wait,” says she. “I will come in the end. If I don't come by tomorrow, I'll be dead, and you will be able to go where you will. But until then I hold you to your word—your pledged promise, remember?”

  “I remember, I remember!” says I, jittering. “But suppose you can't run—suppose he chains you up, or something. What then?”

  “He won't,” says she, cahnly. “Be assured, I can run. There is nothing hard about running—any slave can do it. But to stay free—that is the impossible part, unless you have a refuge, a protector. I have you.”

  Well, I've been called a few things in my time, but these were new. If she'd known me better she'd have thought different, no doubt, but she was desperate, and I was her only hope-a hellish pickle for a girl to be in, you'll agree. I strove to calm my fluttering bowels, and presently we set out for the slave market.

  If you've never seen a slave auction, I can tell you it's no different from an ordinary cattle sale. The market was a great low shed, with sawdust on the floor, a block at one end for the slaves and auctioneer, and the rest of the space taken up with the buyers and spectators—wealthy traders on seats at the front, very much at ease, casual buyers behind, and more than half the whole crew just spectators, loafers, bumarees and sightseers, spitting and gossiping and haw-hawing. The place was noisy and stank like the deuce, with clouds of baccy smoke and esprit de corps hanging under the beams.

  I'd been scared stiff that when I entered Cassy for sale there would be all sorts of questions, cross-examination, and the like, which I wouldn't be able to answer convincingly, but I had been fretting unduly. I believe if you entered a Swedish albino at a Memphis sale and swore he was a nigger, they'd stick him on the block, no questions asked. That auctioneer would have sold his own grandfather, and probably had. He was a small, furious, redbearded man with a slouch hat, a big cigar, and a quart bottle of forty-rod in his coat pocket which he sucked at in between accusing his assis
tants of swindling him and bawling to everyone to give him some sellin' room.

  When I entered Cassy he hardly glanced at her bill of sale, but spat neatly between my feet and asked me aggressively if I was an underground railroad agent who'd thought better of convoying a nigger to Canada and decided to sell her off for private gain.

  The crowd round him all haw-hawed immensely at this, and said he was a prime case, which relieved my momentary horror at his question, and the auctioneer said he didn't give a damn, anyhow, and where the hell was Eli Bowles's nigger's papers, because he hadn't got them, and they'd drive a man out of his mind in this country, what with their finickin' regulations, and would they get the hell out of his way so he could start the sale? No, he wouldn't put up Jackson's buck Perseus, because he was rotten with pox, and everyone knew it; Jackson had better put him out to stud over in Arkansas, where nobody noticed such things. No, he wouldn't take notes of hand from any but dealers he knew—he'd enough tarnation paper as it was, and his clerk just used it to confuse him and line his own pockets, and he knew all about it, and one of these days wouldn't he make that clerk's ass warm for him. And, strike him dumb, but his bottle was half empty and he hadn't even started the sale yet—would they git out from under his feet or did they want to be still biddin' their bollix off at two in the morning?

  And more of the same, all of which was mighty reassuring. I left Cassy to be herded off with the other niggers, and got a place by the wall to watch the sale, which the little auctioneer conducted as if he was a ring-master, pattering away incessantly, and keeping up his style of irascible confusion all the time. The crowd loved it, and he was good, too, taking an occasional swill at his bottle and firing his comments at the lots while the bids came in.

  “See this here old wench of Masterson's, who died last week. Masterson died, that is, not her. Not a day over forty, an' a prime cook. Well, y'only had to look at the belly Masterson had on him; that's testimony enough, I reckon. Yes sir, it was her fine cookin' that kilt him—now then, what say? Eight hurinert to start—nine, for the best vittles-slinger 'tween Evansville an' the Gulf.” Or again: “This buck of Tomkins, he sired more saplin's than Methuselah—that's why they call him George, after George Washington, the father of his country. Why, 'thout this boy, the nigger pop'lation'd be only half what it is—we wouldn't hardly be havin' this sale today, but for this randy little hero. There was talk of a syndicate to send him back to Afriky to keep the numbers up—now then, who'll say a thousand?”