“Keep to the business, you fat swine!” snaps she.
“Why, surely, dahlin’ … an’ see that you mind yours, an’ the Kuklos’s. Jus’ remember you ain’t takin’ this trip for pleasure alone.” There was an edge to the soft voice, and I thought, hollo, is someone’s piggy carcase aglow with jealous passion for our tiny poppet? It conjured up a tableau too hideous to contemplate …
“So theah it is, Mistuh Comber. All you need do is go ’long quietly, do whatevah Brown requiahs of you, go with him right down the line to Harper’s Ferry or wherevah it may be, put your trust in the Good Lawd … an’ go home to England with five thousan’ dollahs in your money-puss. An’ again, an’ for the last time,” he gave me his blandest fat smile, “don’t evah think you can jump off the wagon ’long the way. The Kuklos will be theah, always, an’ if you play false by wo’d or deed … then suh, you are crow-pickin’s.”
He rose, smoothing his coat and shooting his cuffs, and stowed his writings in his pocket. “I b’lieve that is all, so I confide you to deah Annette – an’ Joe, of course, an’ your unseen guardians. Your se’vant, ma’am … honoured to have made your acquaintance, suh. I bid you adieu, an’ good fortune … an’ you take care, now, ye heah?”
D’ye know, when I look back on those bizarre few hours when the Kuklos took me by the neck and twisted me to their crazy ends, the rummest thing of all wasn’t the amazing coincidence of Annette, or those grotesque hoods, or that obese monster so pathetically bang up to the nines, or even their incredible plot – but those last six words from Atropos: after all the threats and blackmail, the gentle ritual of the Dixie farewell. God help me, I believe he meant it.
When he’d gone, it occurred to me to twit Annette that she had an admirer in our dandy hippo. I asked innocently if he was her lover, expecting a fine explosion, and was taken flat aback by her reply:
“He is my husband.”
“Good God! He can’t be – what, that great bag of jelly? What happened to Mandeville?”
“He died.”
“And you married that? Well, I never … gad, what a wedding night that must have been …” I let out a yelp of horror. “But, my God … he knew … well, he suspected, I’m sure … what we’d been up to, I mean … before he arrived … you know, when we were …”
“He was already here, in this room. Watching us,” says she, cool as be-damned before the mirror, tittivating her low-cut bodice. “You will see there is a spy-hole in the door to the bedroom.”
“You don’t mean it! But … but …” I had a terrifying memory of lying helpless beneath his swordstick – and he’d just watched me rattling his wife. “Godalmighty! But … you mean … he don’t mind?”
“On the contrary.” She patted her hair. “He insists.”
“Well, strike me dead! I say … he must be a damned rum chap – phew! But … you, I mean – why the devil …?”
“Do I do it, you would ask?” She took a last sneer at the mirror, and faced me. “He is the richest man in Louisiana. He is also the brain, though not the head, of the Kuklos. You’ve been singularly honoured by his personal attention, a measure of your importance.” She gave me a withering look, up and down. “You probably think him mad. He is not. Whatever he plans, succeeds, and whatever he promises, he performs. Remember that, for your own sake. Now, it is past five o’clock, and I wish to dine before we leave.” She drew herself up like a tiny Guardsman. “Give me your arm and take me down.”
So I did, ruminating on the manners and morals of the Old South, and now that we’d broken the ice so splendidly we were soon chatting away in the dining-room like an old married couple, as I’ve described at the beginning of this chapter. I affected a carelessness I was far from feeling, because I wanted to test just how real were the threats that Atropos had made; her alarm told me all I wanted to know, and gave me some useful information: apart from Joe, who was lurking in the lobby while we ate, there were two Kuklos “shadows” watching me, and no doubt they or others would be on hand all the way to New York. I’d have to look damned slippy when the time came to run.
It was a mad pickle, you may think: held prisoner amidst all the bustle and confusion of civilised society – but if your captors know their business, and are ruthless enough, why, you might as well be chained in a dungeon. Rudi von Starnberg took me halfway across Germany against my will, simply by having a gun and a knife and being ready to use ’em if I so much as sneezed out of turn, and I’d no doubt the Kuklos would be equally unscrupulous. So I could only wait, and seem to play up – both of which I’m good at – and take comfort in the knowledge that they’d not harm me unless forced to, since I was no use to them dead or bound for Kentucky.
Being resigned, I felt easier, and even a touch light-headed, as we cowards will when we feel safe for the moment. The upshot was that, with bottle and belly-timber before him, Flashy became if not beastly, at least mischievously, drunk, enjoying himself in contemplating the charms of the choice little icicle across the table. I’d already noted that she’d put some elegant flesh on her elfin form over the years, and was altogether a juicier morsel than she’d been at Greystones; she might still wear the expression of an ill-tempered ferret, but that kind of viciousness on a handsome face has its own attraction, and I knew perfectly well that her artistic paintwork and stylishly coiled blonde hair had been designed for my benefit; she’d always loathed and lusted after me together, which only added spice to her allurement, and I looked forward as much as she did to the enjoyment of Mr Comber’s marital rights.
On this happy thought I was content to idle my way through the dinner, which like all American meals was gargantuan and over-rich; how the devil they can put away a massive breakfast of steak, ham, eggs, terrapin, or giant oysters, two dinners at noon and five, and still be fit to beat their bellies at supper, is beyond me; even Annette, who wasn’t two pisspots and a handle high, worked her way through five courses without breaking sweat on her pale immaculate brow. Unlike most of her compatriots, she didn’t shout through her food, so I had leisure to listen to the deafening chatter around us. From the trumpetings of two portly curry-faced gentry at the next table23 I gathered that President Buchanan was a weak-kneed nincompoop for not going ahead and “teachin’ them dam’ impident greasers a lesson” by annexing half their country; war with Mexico would, in the speaker’s opinion, rally the public behind “Old Buck”, ensure a Democratic victory in next year’s election, and be “one in the eye for that slippery bastard Seward an’ his dam’ Black Republicans.”
“Ah heah Seward’s goin’ to England,” says his companion.
“Bes’ place fo’ the nigra-lovin’ sunnavabitch! Ah hope his vessel sinks – Ah mean it, suh, Ah do! Kin you ’magine President Seward? That’s whut it’ll come to yet, you mark mah wo’ds!”
“Come now, suh, he may not git nom’nated, even!”
“You wanna wager, suh? Why, he’s got Weed an’ Greeley in his pocket … whut’s that ye say, ’Tilda? Give you ladies the vote an’ ’twill be President Douglas!24 Haw-haw! Why, he ain’t but a dam’ dwarf! You’d like to cuddle him, ye say? Ye heah that, Ambrose? ’Tilda thinks Douglas is right cuddlesome! Waal, now, honey, Ah reckon his beauteous Adele might have suthin’ to say ’bout that; Ah jus’ reckon she might – an’ so might yo’s truly! You keep yo’ cuddles for papa, ye heah?” And the lecherous old goat laid a fond paw on the arm of the languid ’Tilda, who might have been his wife, but I think not, from the wanton freedom with which she had been glancing in my direction.
“Ah declare ’Tilda would put Adele right in the shade!” cries the other roué gallantly. “Nevah seen her in sech looks! How you do that, ’Tilda? All the soirees an’ parties, you oughta be clean wore out, but darn if you don’t come up fresher’n dew on a lily! You got some magic potion, sweetheart?”
“Know whut she’s got?” cries her escort. “She got this ’lectric rejuvenatin’ contraption, an’ a coloured wench to mechanic it – why, they all the crack wi’ th
e smart gals, ain’t they, ’Tilda? Puts the bloom right back in those damask cheeks in no time at all – an’ all over, too! Haw-haw! Yessir, that’s mah honey’s secret!”
“Why, you make me soun’ like some kinda monster works on ’lectric’ty!” drawls the fair ’Tilda, lowering her lashes at me and showing her profile. “But mah machine is right stimulatin’.”
“Our train leaves in an hour,” says Annette sharply. “You will wait in the lobby while Joe fetches a carriage – and keep your tongue and eyes to yourself, do you hear?” Her mouth was tight with anger, and there was a little flush on her cheek. “Do nothing to excite attention.”
“Difficult, when we’re such a handsome couple,” says I, leering. “If we want to pass unnoticed, why the dooce are we parading before half Washington? Suppose one of Crixus’s people is about?”
“We know them all by sight. And they will not be seeking you here, or at the station. Joe has seen to it. Stop guzzling that wine, you fool! Now … follow me out closely.”
What with the booze, my natural taste for devilment, and confidence that I was perfectly safe as long as I didn’t try to run for it, I felt a sudden urge to put turpentine on her dainty little tail and light it. So when I’d drawn back her chair, and she had made for the lobby without a glance at me, I navigated carefully in her wake, turned in the doorway, surveyed the glittering splendour of the dining-room and its chattering gluttons, drew a deep breath and let out a Lakota war-whoop at the top of my voice. A woman shrieked, men sprang to their feet, a passing waiter went up like a galvanised grouse and dropped his loaded tray with a tremendous smash – and then there was dead silence as a hundred mouths gaped and two hundred eyes goggled; every head turned, in fact – save for a tall chap near the door who kept his eyes fixed on his plate, and another with his back turned who watched me like a hawk in a mirror on the far wall.
I strolled into the lobby, where Annette was standing rigid with fury; people were craning towards the dining-room to see what the row was. “Are you mad?” she hissed.
“You were right,” says I, “the boys are in there. But the Kuklos ought to train ’em better, you know; ’tain’t natural not to stare when a lunatic cuts loose in public. Now, then, where’s that dilatory Joe with the carriage, eh?”
Her eyes were blazing, but she swept off without a word, leaving me to look about and wonder which of the throng in the lobby might be Kuklos “shadows” – for Joe had disappeared, and the two betrayed by my little ruse in the dining-room hadn’t emerged, but I wasn’t fool enough to imagine that I wasn’t being watched. I gave up, though, for the patrons of Washington hotels in those days were such a mixed lot, my unseen watchers might have been anyone. There were the obvious politicos, standing about in knots puffing their cigars and disputing warmly, wealthy citizens with stout matrons dressed up like May Day cuddies, young blades in fancy weskits and amazing whiskers, with fashionable belles gushing and squealing on their arms, plantation aristocrats in their broad-brimmed straws with little nigger boys toting their bags, likely-looking fellows in city clothes but with the unmistakable silence of the frontier hanging round them like a shroud, barefoot slaves waiting patiently beyond the great doors leading to the marble porch, thin seedy fellows with ferret eyes questing for Senator This or Congressman That and muttering to each other before scurrying away like the political rodents they were, one or two top-drawer strumpets immediately recognisable by being the most tastefully dressed women in view, and everywhere the Great Curse of the New World, the American Child, in all its raucous, spoiled, undisciplined, selfish ghastliness, the female specimens keeping up an incessant high-pitched whine and the male infants racketing like cow-pokes on pay-day. There’s nothing wrong with grown Americans, by and large; you won’t find heartier men or bonnier women anywhere, but the only remedy I can see for their children is to run Herod for President.
Then Joe was at my elbow with a slouch hat and a long coat, guiding me out of the throng and down a passage to the same side door by which I’d entered the hotel, where a growler was waiting with Annette inside, raging silently. She said not a word as we bowled through the dusk to the station, and when we drew up close by the train – they had platforms in those days – she whisked out and into the carriage while Joe signed to me to sit tight. He descended, spying both ways before beckoning abruptly, and I strode quickly through the wreathing steam with the bell clanging overhead, and mounted into the sudden quiet of the train.
I wasn’t well acquainted with American railroads at that time, and was resigned to an uncomfortable long haul through the night to New York, in one of those reeking long coaches in which I’d travelled down from Baltimore, full of noisy unwashed louts whose favourite occupation was spitting at the stove. But no such thing; here was a quiet corridor with private compartments which they called “cabins”, fitted up in tip-top style. Annette was in Number 8, I remember; I had a glimpse of an alcove bed with curtains drawn back, a washstand and comfortable furniture, and then Joe was hustling me into Number 7, which seemed smaller but had a bed beneath the window. I asked him where he was going to sleep, and he replied curtly that he wasn’t. I made myself comfortable while he slipped out, and presently I heard his deep rumble in Annette’s cabin, and the conductor saying anything she wanted, ma’am, anything at all, she should just send her boy, and it would be attended to right smartly.
Then Joe returned, sitting on the floor with his back against the door, and a moment later the bell clanged and the steam whistled and the conductor bawled that this was the Night Flyer to Baltimo’, Wilmin’ton, Philadelphia, Trenton, an’ Noo Yawk, and we jolted and clanked into motion – and I reflected that my evasion would have to wait until journey’s end. I didn’t fancy dropping from a moving train, even if Joe hadn’t been on hand; he was a big, ugly gyascuta, that one, his sleeves tight on his enormous biceps as he sat with his arms folded on his barrel chest, the yellow-flecked eyes rolling at me whenever I stirred on the bed. I found myself studying him: he was your real jet-black Nubian, flat-nosed, thick-lipped, and could have walked into the K.A.R.a nowadays, no questions asked. Having nothing better to do for the moment, I indulged my idle curiosity.
“Joe,” says I, “why are you with the Kuklos?”
He glowered suspiciously. “Whut you mean?”
“Well, you’re Atropos’s slave – yet you’ve been with Crixus on the Railroad, had the chance to escape to free soil. Why didn’t you? You want to be free, surely?”
He studied me in turn, the black face expressionless. Then: “You got niggers in England … that so?”
“Yes, a few – and they’re all free. So are the niggers in our Empire, in Africa and the West Indies. No one owns ’em, or can make ’em do what they don’t like, or sell ’em down the river. Wouldn’t you like that?”
He sat, apparently thinking, though you couldn’t be sure with that face. At last he said: “Yo’ English niggers … how many on ’em got a fine coat, like this heah?” He ran a finger the size of a truncheon down his lapel. “How many on ’em got a silver timepiece an’ chain? How many got five dollahs in they pocket?”
“Why, Joe, you could have all those things, in Canada, say – and be free into the bargain! You could do whatever you liked, go wherever you liked, be your own master.”
He digested this, staring at the floor, and shrugged his huge shoulders. “Ah guess so,” says he slowly. “An’ Ah cud be tret like black trash whenevah Ah liked, an’ git out the way, nigger, whenevah Ah liked, an’ go hungry whenevah Ah liked, an’ beg mah bread’n go to jail whenevah Ah liked.” He raised his bullet head and stared at me; it was like looking into the eyes of an ape in a cage. “Don’ have none o’ that wi’ Mass’ Charles. Ah his slave, but he treat me like a man – an’ folks r’specks me, cuz Ah’s his nigger. Don’ git tret like no black trash, nossuh! Git good vittles, git good clo’es like these yeah …” He closed his eyes and gave a great growling sigh. “An’ Ah gits to hump his li’l white lady whenevah Mass’
Charles say so … oh, but she is prime white meat! None o’ yo’ free niggers gits that kin’ o’ pleasurin’, Ah reckon.”
I was shocked – not that I’m a prude, you understand, but because I knew the physical loathing that Annette had for black skin; why, at Greystones, any wench who’d had the misfortune to touch her by accident, hadn’t been able to walk for a week. The thought of her with this human gorilla … well, my little French aristo was paying a price for being the richest woman in Louisiana, wasn’t she just?
“You ask yo’ Afriky niggers whether they’d ruther be free – or Joe,” growls he, showing his gleaming teeth in a great wolfish grin. “See whut they tell yuh.”
“Ah, but they don’t know any better, Joe – you do. They’re savages, but you’re … well, civilised, I mean. I’ve seen how you carry yourself with Crixus – and with Atropos, too. You’re not a common nigger … why, I’ll bet you can read, can’t you?”
He stuck out a sullen lip. “Some. Writin’ an’ figurin’, though … they kinda tough.”
It’s not often you find yourself conversing with a caveman, and I was becoming interested. “But see here, if you can read a little, you can learn to write and … ah, figure, fast enough. Why, man, you could make something of yourself – and if you were free, you could buy all the white tarts you wanted. Mandeville’s nothing special, I can tell you! You’re a fool, Joe … but you needn’t go on being one, you know. You can be something better than a slave –”
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 308
