It was tremendous work, because even when I had got her clean she just lay there, quite played out in mind and body, moaning softly to herself. I was almost in despair as I tried to haul clothes on to her; she just lay back in the chair, her golden body heaving—gad, she was a picture, but I’d no time to enjoy it. I struggled away, coaxing, pleading, swearing—“come on, come on, you can’t give up, Cassy, not a staunch girl like you, you stupid black bitch,” and finally I shook her and hissed in her ear: “All you have to do is stand up and walk, confound it! Walk! We can’t fail now—and you’ll never have to call anyone ‘massa’ again!”
That was what did it, I think, for she opened her eyes and made a feeble effort to help. I egged her on, and we got her into the long coat, and adjusted the broad-brimmed bonnet and veil, and I jammed the shoes on her feet, and gloved her, and stuck the gamp in her hand—and when she managed to stand, leaning against the table, she looked as much like the outward picture of a lady as made no odds. No one would know there wasn’t a stitch on her underneath.
I had to half-lead, half-drag her out of the back way, and there was a feverish ten minutes while a nigger boy went and found a trap for us, and we waited crouched on the boardwalk against the wall, with the rain slashing down. But there was no sign of her pursers; they must have lost her utterly, and presently we were rolling down to the levee through the mud and bustle of the Memphis waterfront, and there in the glare of the wharf lamps was the good ship Missouri, with her twin whistles blasting the warning of departure. I lorded it with the purser at the gangplank, explaining that I would take Madame directly to our state-room, as she was much fatigued, and he yes-sirred me all over the place, and roared up boys to escort us; everyone was too occupied with crying good-bye and stand clear and all aboard to notice that I was holding up the graceful veiled lady on my arm by main strength.
When I laid her on the bed she was either in a swoon or asleep from exhaustion and fright; I was so tuckered myself that I just collapsed in a chair and didn’t stir until the whistles shrieked again and the wheel began to pound and I knew we’d done it. Then I began to slop the brandy down—lord, I needed it. The last-minute scare and hurry had been the final straw; the glass was chattering against my teeth, but it was as much exultation as nervous reaction, I think.
Cassy didn’t stir for three hours, and then she could hardly believe where she was; not until I had ordered up a meal and a bottle of bubbly did she understand properly that we had got away, and then she broke down and cried, swaying from side to side while I comforted her and told her what a damned fine spunky wench she was. I got some drink into her, and forced her to eat, and at last she calmed, and when I saw her hand go up, shaking, and push her hair back, I knew she was in command of herself again. When they can think of their appearance, they’re over the worst.
Sure enough, she went to the mirror, pulling the coat round herself, and then she turned to me and said:
“I don’t believe it. But we are here.” She put her face in her hands. “God bless you—oh, God bless you! Without you, I’d be—back yonder.”
“Tut-tut,” says I, champing away, “not a bit of it. Without you, we’d be in queer street, instead of jingling with cash. Have some more champagne.”
She didn’t answer for a moment. Then she says, in a very low voice. “You kept your word. No white man ever did that to me before. No white man ever helped me before.”
“Ah, well,” says I, “you haven’t met the right chaps, that’s all.” She was overlooking, of course, that I hadn’t any choice in the matter, but I wasn’t complaining. She was grateful, which was first-rate, and must be promptly taken advantage of. I walked over to her, and she stood looking at me gravely, with the tears brimming up in her eyes. No time like the present, thinks I, so I smiled at her and set the glass to her lips, and slipped my free hand beneath her coat; her breast was as firm as a melon, and at my touch she gave a little whimper and closed her eyes, the tears squeezing out on to her cheeks. She was trembling and crying again, and when I pushed away the coat and carried her over to the bed she was sobbing aloud as she clasped her arms round my neck.
Chapter 12
I blame myself. If there is one thing that can make me randier than usual, it is danger safely past, and with a creature like Cassy to occupy me I don’t give a thought to anything else. She, for her part, was probably still so distraught that she was ready to abandon herself altogether—she said later that she had never willingly made love to a man before, and I believed her. I suppose if you’ve been a good-looking female slave, used to being hauled into bed by a lot of greasy planters whether you like it or not, it sours you against men, and when you meet a fine upstanding lad like me, who knows when to tickle rather than slap—well, you’re grateful for the change, and make the most of it. But whatever the reasons, the upshot was that Mr and Mrs Montague spent that night and the rest of next day in passionate indulgence, never bothering about the world outside, and that was how I came adrift yet again.
Of course, a moralist would say that this was to be expected: he would doubtless point out that I had fornicated my way almost continuously along the Mississippi valley, and draw the conclusion that all my trials arose from this. I don’t know about that, as a general statement, but I’ll agree that if I hadn’t made such a beast of myself in Cassy’s case I would have avoided a deal of trouble.
What with sleeping and dallying, it was late on the next afternoon before I tumbled out to dress myself and take a turn on the promenade; it was a splendid sunny day, the good ship Missouri was booming along in great style, and I was in that sleepy, well-satisfied state where you just want to lean on the rail, smoking and watching the great river roll by, with the distant bank half hidden in haze, and the lumber rafts and river craft sweeping down, their crews waving, and the whistles tooting overhead. Cassy wouldn’t come out, though; she decided that the less she was seen the better, until we were up among the free states, which was sensible.
Well, thinks I, you’ve had some bad luck, my boy, but surely it’s behind you now. Charity Spring and his foul ship, the nosey-parkering Mr Lincoln, the Yankee Navy—they were all a long way south. I could smile at the ludicrous figure of George Randolph, although he had brought me catastrophe enough at the time; the abominable Mandeville and his shrew of a wife, the terror of the slave-cart, and the anxieties of Memphis—all by and done with. Up the Ohio to Louisville and then Pittsburgh, a quick trip to New York, and then it would be England again, and not before time. And Flashy the Vampire could go to work on his father-in-law—I was looking forward to that, rather.
I wondered, as I watched the brown water swirling by, what would become of Cassy. If she’d been a woman of less character I’d have been regretful at the thought of parting soon, for she was a fine rousing gallop, all sleek hard flesh like an athlete, except for her top hamper. But she was too much the spitfire, really; her present lazy compliance didn’t fool me. I’d bid her farewell around Pittsburgh, where she’d be as safe as the bank, and could travel easily to Canada if she wanted. There, with her looks and spirit, she’d have no difficulty in getting a fortune somehow, I’d no doubt. Not that I minded, but she was a game wench.
Presently I went back to the state-room, and ordered up a dinner—the first full meal we had sat down to in style, and the first Cassy had had since she was a little girl, she told me. Although we were alone in the cabin, she insisted on putting on the finest dress I had bought her; it was a very pale coffee-coloured satin, I remember, and those golden shoulders coming out of it, and that strange Egyptian head of hers, with its slanting eyes, quite kept me off my food. That night she tasted port for the first time in her life; I recall her sipping it and setting down the glass, and saying:
“This is how the rich live, is it not? Then I am going to be rich. What use is freedom to the poor?”
Well, thinks I, it doesn’t take long to get ambition; yesterday all you wanted was to be free. However, all I said was:
; “What you want is a rich husband. Shouldn’t be difficult.”
She clicked her lips in contempt. “I need no man, from now on. You are the last man I shall be indebted to—I should hate you for it, but I don’t. Do you know why? It is not just because you helped me, and kept your word—but you were kind also. I shall never forget that.”
Poor little simple black girl, I was thinking, to mistake absence of cruelty for kindness; just wait till it serves my interest to do you a dirty turn, and you’ll form a different opinion of me. And then she took me aback by going on:
“And yet I know that you are not by nature a kind man; that there is little love in you. I know there is lust and selfishness and cruelty, because I feel it when you take me; you are just like the others. Oh, I don’t mind—I prefer that. I tell myself that it levels the score I owe you. And yet, it cannot quite level it, ever, because even although you are such a man as I have always taught myself to hate and despise—still, there were moments when you were kind. Do you understand?”
“Clearly,” says I. “You’re maudlin. It’s the port, of course.” Tell the truth, I was half-amused, half-angry, at the way she told me what she thought of me. Still, if the fool wanted to think I was kind, she was welcome. She was looking at me in her odd, solemn way, and do you know, it made me somehow uncomfortable; those big eyes saw far too much. “You’re a strange chit,” I told her.
“Not as strange as the man who buys a dress like this one for a runaway slave girl,” says she, and blast me if the tears didn’t start again.
Well, there you are; understand ’em if you can. So to cheer her up, and put an end to her foolish talk I came round and took her, across the table this time, with the crockery rattling all over the place, the wine splashing on the floor, and my left knee in a bowl of fruit. It was a fine frenzied business, and pleased me tremendously. When it was over I looked down at her, with the knives and forks scattered round her sleek head, and told her she should run away more often.
She reached over for an apple and began to eat it, her eyes smouldering as she looked up at me.
“I shall never have to run again,” she said. “Never, never, never.”
That was all she knew. Our blissful little idyll was coming to an end, for next morning I made a discovery that turned everything topsy-turvy, and drove all thoughts of philosophy out of her head. I had determined to breakfast in the saloon, and leaving her in bed I took a turn round the deck to sharpen my appetite. It seemed to me that we ought to be making Louisville sometime that day, and seeing a bluff old chap leaning at the rail I inquired of him when we might expect to arrive.
He looked at me in amazement, removed his cigar, and says:
“Gawd bless mah soul, suh! Did you say Louisville?”
“Certainly,” says I. “When will we get there?”
“On this boat, suh? Never, ’pon my word.”
“What?” I gazed at the man, thunderstruck.
“This boat, suh, is for St Louis—not Louisville. This is the Mississippi river, suh, not the Ohio. For Louisville you should have caught the J. M. White at Memphis.” He regarded me with some amusement. “Do I take it you have boa’ded the wrong steamer, suh?”
“My God,” says I. “But they told me—” And then I remembered my shouted conversation in the rain with that drivelling buffoon at the steamboat office; the useless old bastard had caught the word “Louis” only, and given me the wrong boat. Which meant that I was some hundreds of miles from where I wanted to be—and Cassy was as far from the free states as ever.
If I was dismayed, you should have seen her; she was blazing wild and hurled a pot of powder at my head, which fortunately missed.
“You fool! You blockhead! Hadn’t you the sense to look at the tickets?” So much for all my kindness that she’d been so full of.
“It wasn’t my fault,” says I, trying to explain, but she cut me off.
“Do you realise the danger we are in? These are slave states! And we should have been close to Ohio by now! Your idiocy will cost me my freedom!”
“Stuff and nonsense! We can catch a boat from St Louis back to Louisville and be there in two days; where’s the danger?”
“For a runaway like me? Turning south again, towards the people who may be coming up river to look for me? Oh, dear Lord, why did I trust an ape like you?”
“Ape, you insolent black slut? Blast you, if you had taken thought yourself, instead of whoring about this last two days like a bitch in heat, you’d have seen we were on the wrong road. D’you expect me to know one river from another in this lousy country?”
Our discussion continued on these lines for a spell, and then we quieted down. There was nothing to be done except wait through an extra two days in the slave states, and while Cassy was fearful of the prolonged risk, she said she supposed we could make Louisville, and then Cincinnati and Pittsburgh, safe enough. However, the shock didn’t make our voyage any happier, and we were barely on speaking terms by the time we reached St Louis, where some more bad news awaited us. Although the river was thick with steamboats, traffic was so heavy that there wasn’t a state-room, or even a maindeck passage, to be had for two days, which meant that we must kick our heels in a hotel, waiting for the Bostona, which would carry us up the Ohio.
We kept under cover for those forty-eight hours, except for one trip that I made down to the steamship office, and to buy one of the new Army Colt revolvers, just in case. At the same time I was able to take a look at the town, which interested me, because in those days St Louis was a great swarming place that never went to bed, and was full of every species of humanity from the ends of America and beyond. There were all the Mississippi characters, steamboat people, niggers, planters, and so on, and in addition the place was choc-a-bloc with military from the Mexican war, with Easterners and Europeans on their way to the Western gold fields, with hunters and traders from the plains, men in red shirts and buckskins, bearded to the eyes and brown as nuts, salesmen and drummers, clergymen and adventurers, ladies in all the splendours of the Eastern salons shuddering delicately away from the sight of some raucous mountain savage crouched vomiting in the muddy roadway with his bare backside, tanned black as mahogany, showing through his cutaway leather leggings. There were skinners with their long whips, sharps in tall hats with paste pins in their shirts, tall hard men chewing tobacco with their long coats thrown back to show the new five- and six-shooters stuck in their belts; there was even a fellow in a kilt lounging outside a billiard saloon with a bunch of yarning loafers as they eyed the white and yellow whores, gay as peacocks, tripping by along the boardwalk. From the levee, crammed with bales and boxes and machinery, to the narrow, mud-churned streets uptown, it was all bustle and noise and hurry, and stuck in the middle was the church St Louis was all so proud of, with its Grecian pillars and pointed fresco—just like a London club with a spire stuck on top.
And I was sauntering back to the hotel, smoking a cigar, and congratulating myself that we would be on our way tomorrow, when I chanced to stop outside an office on one of the streets, just to cast an idle eye over the official bills and notices posted there. You know the way of it; you are just gaping for gaping’s sake, and then suddenly you see something that shrivels the hairs right down to your backside. There it was, a new bill, staring me full in the face:
ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD!!
I will pay the above sum to any person or persons who will capture, DEAD or ALIVE, the Murderer and Slave stealer calling himself TOM ARNOLD, who is wanted for the brutal killings of George Hiscoe and Thomas Little, in Marshall County, Mississippi, and stealing away the female slave, CASSIOPEIA, the property of Jacob Forster, of Blue Mountain Spring Plantation, Tippah County, Mississippi.
The fugitive is six feet in height, long-legged and well built, customarily wears a Black Moustache and Whiskers, and has Genteel Manners. He pretends to be a Texian, but speaks with a Foreign Accent. Satisfactory proofs of identity will be required.
ONE HUNDRED DOLLAR
S REWARD!!
Offered in the name and authority of
JOSEPH W. MATTHEWS,
GOVERNOR OF MISSISSIPPI.
I didn’t faint away dead on the spot, but I had to hold on to a rail while the full import of it sank in. They had found the bodies, and assumed I had murdered them, and the traps were in full cry. But here—hundreds of miles away? And then I remembered the telegraph. They’d be looking in every town from St Louis to Memphis by now—you’d have thought, with killings happening every day in their savage country, that they wouldn’t make such a row over another two: but of course it was the slave-stealing that had really stirred them up. Here was added reason for getting to the free states quickly; in Ohio they wouldn’t give a damn how many nigger-beaters’ throats I’d cut, especially in such a good cause—I’d learned enough in my brief unhappy experience of the United States to know that it was two countries even then, and they hated each other like poison. Yes, up there I’d be safe, and on trembling legs I hurried back to the hotel, to break the glad news that they were after us with a vengeance.
Cassy gasped and went pale, but she didn’t cry, and while I was stamping about chewing my nails and swearing she got out a map which we had bought, and began to study it. Her finger was trembling as she traced the route down from St Louis to the Cairo fork, and then north-east up the Ohio river. At Louisville she stopped.
“Well, what now?” says I. “That’s only a two-day journey, and we’ll be beyond their reach, won’t we?”
She shook her head. “You do not understand. The Ohio river is the boundary between the slave states and the free, but even in the free states we are not safe until we have gone well upriver. See—” She traced again. “From Louisville to Cincinnati and far beyond that, we still have slave states on our right hand, first Kentucky and then Virginia. If we were to land on the Indiana or Ohio shores, we should be in free states, but I could still be retaken by the slave-catchers who are thick along the river.”
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 162
