The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Not by me! Man alive, d’ye know what you’re saying? I’m a British officer, sworn to my country’s service – or have you forgotten that? I can’t meddle in –”

  “You have not heard me out – but you must!” He stood firm, jowls and all. “The peace of a nation is at stake! Very well, you may say that you are not an American, that this is no concern of yours or England’s – but you would be wrong as can be! As a man of honour –”

  “Honour? Honour, d’ye say?” A splendid horizon of humbug suddenly unfolded before me, and I sprang to my feet, John Bull incarnate. “What’s honourable about bamboozling this barmy peasant, I’d like to know? Hoodwinking, by George, playing Judas! Of all the caddish tricks – pshaw! And you talk about honour – dammit, you Yankees can’t even spell it!” I’m not sure I didn’t stamp my foot. “Oh, the blazes with this! I’ve heard enough! I demand to see the British minister – and that’s my last word to you!”

  He was swelling for another burst of eloquence, and Pinkerton was flushed with anger, but the lantern-jaw motioned them aside, and they conferred in urgent whispers while I stared nobly out of the window – mind you, I kept an ear cocked, and caught a few murmurs: “… no, no, ’twould be fatal – Lyons would be bound to refuse …”, “… must prevail on him somehow – why, he’s heaven-sent! …”, “… oh, he’ll see him, right enough – he’s set on the thing, heart and soul …”, “… aboard the ship, then, out of sight, couldn’t be better …”, which was all very mysterious. Not that I cared, now; for once, I was savouring the novelty of being able to face a group of selfish zealots who were intent on flinging me into the soup, and present a dead bat to all their urgings. I was quite cock-a-hoop, I can tell you. As they emerged from their confabulation I turned to look them blandly in the eye, and the Senator addressed me, magisterial but sour.

  “Very well, sir … since you are not to be moved, we have no choice but to place you in the charge of your consular officials, who will doubtless arrange for you to see Lord Lyons in Washington.” I could have cheered, but confined myself to a grave inclination. “In the meantime, there is an eminent personage in this city who desires to speak with you. I shall take the liberty of presenting you to him forthwith.”

  It gave me pause for a second; after all, my true identity had been known only for a few hours, and to a limited circle, I’d have thought; what “eminent personage” had got wind of me? Still, I’ve never minded being lion-hunted, so I waved a courteous assent, asking only who it might be.

  “Notwithstanding your deep interest in American affairs,” says the Senator with a sarcastic sniff, “I doubt if his name is known to you. Let us simply call him the next President of the United States.”

  For a moment I wondered if he meant Lincoln (and that was a prophetic flash, if you like) since he was the only American of any note I’d ever met, bar Kit Carson, and it wasn’t likely to be him. Then I remembered they’d already said Lincoln wasn’t on hand; besides, the Abraham of my acquaintance, while a handy man to have at your side when you’ve a bullet in the buttock and the slave-catchers are closing in, hadn’t struck me as a likely candidate for high office; too good-natured a rascal altogether, and dressed like a scarecrow.

  It didn’t signify, anyway, whoever it was; in a few hours I’d be among my own folk, preparing to shake the dust of America from my feet forever, and glad of it. So now it was back to the Black Maria again, with a sullen Pinkerton for company, and the other two in a carriage behind; we were borne swiftly along the waterfront to a quiet quay where a trim little sailing-cutter was waiting, manned by Navy tarpaulins, Pinkerton ushered us aboard, and in no time we were scudding out on to the crowded river, with my curiosity rising by the minute.

  There was any amount of water-traffic about Manhattan Island in those days – steam-launches, sailing craft, paddle-steamers, three-deckers even, and rowing boats, and what with the salt air and sunshine and cheery bustle, it was quite capital; I sat on a thwart drinking it all in, not minding the spray or the heaving, content to admire the view and wonder which river we were on, for I didn’t know East from Hudson and still don’t. We seemed to be making for the far shore, cutting through the water at a great rate, with the steam-boats shrilling their hooters and passengers crowding the rail to look down on us; as we neared the shore-line of wharves ahead, there seemed to be some jamboree in progress, and the sound of brass bands was mingling with the steam whistles and the cry of the sea-birds. A little flotilla, gay with bunting, was making for a big sea-going paddle-boat, there were banners flying, and people waving and hurrahing, and a tug was squirting its hoses high into the air, making watery rainbows in the sunlight, very pretty to see.

  Some great swell taking his leave, thinks I, for the folk on the smaller boats were singing “Auld Lang Syne” and giving three cheers, again and again, and as we stood off I could see a knot of people on the big paddle-boat, waving their hats. We seemed to be waiting, and then there was a great volley of orders, and our sail cracked like a gunshot, and we went swooping in under the paddle-boat’s stern, and round to her lee, where we hooked on.

  “Put this on,” says Pinkerton, handing me a big wide-awake hat. “And turn up your collar. Right, come on!”

  He led the way up the side-ladder, with two of his fellows fore and aft of me, and others ahead shouting to the people to stand clear; we bustled through them, and I was shown into a small cabin, and bidden to wait.

  Which I did, for a good half-hour, wondering but not alarmed, until Pinkerton reappeared and conducted me without a word to a door where the Senator was waiting; he rapped on the panels, a voice cried to come in, and we were in a large stateroom in the presence of a wiry little gentleman in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a cigar as big as himself, and sighing with relief as he eased off his boots with his feet, and kicked them aside.

  “Ah, Henry!” cries he. “So this is the gentleman! Colonel Flashman, I am happy to make your acquaintance; my name is William Seward.30 Sit down, sir, sit down.” He exchanged a nod with the Senator, who went, and Seward grinned apologetically. “Forgive the informality of my feet, won’t you? They protest at this time of day.”

  I felt quite let down; hang it, I’d been expecting someone ten feet tall, and here this “eminent personage” was a slight, dapper bantam in his stocking-soles; brisk enough, with a head of greying reddish hair, bright blue eyes under bushy brows, and a curiously husky voice, but his only striking feature was a nose like a battleship – he looked not unlike a clever parrot, or an amiable Duke of Wellington, if you can imagine any such thing. Next President of the United States, though? I couldn’t see that – and, as we know, he never was, and who’s heard of him these days? Still, I can say I’ve been bullied by Bismarck, diddled by D’Israeli, cajoled by Lincoln, charmed (believe it or not) by Palmerston, and bored to submission by Gladstone – and not one of ’em was harder to resist than William Henry Seward. He was civil, pleasant, easy – and the most vicious arm-twister I ever struck – he didn’t even hint, let alone threaten, just showed you the inevitable, ever so amiable. Which, of course, was why he’d asked to see poor unsuspecting Flashy, when all other persuaders had failed.

  He soon had me settled with whisky and cigar, crying how pleased he was to meet such a distinguished soldier of whom he’d heard so much – that disarmed me to start with, I admit. Then he was full of India, of which he knew a surprising deal, questioning me about the Mutiny, wondering how the natives would take to Crown rule instead of John Company’s, asking how Christianity was doing in the country – not my style at all: if he’d asked how the Bombay bints compared to the Punjabi bibis, I could have set him right. Had I visited the Holy Land, as he hoped to do when he got to Europe? Waterloo, too, he must see Waterloo, and Stirling Castle, and look up his relatives in Wales – oh, he’d visited England before, as a lad, and sneaked in to have a look at old King William at Windsor, ha-ha!

  All this as he pottered about, setting his books in order, placing the flower-vase j
ust so, tapping the glass, smoking like a chimney, and at last settling himself in an armchair, remarking how grand it would be to see “the homeland” once more.

  “For that’s what it is, you know, to an American – why, I feel as excited as a child again, going on a visit to granpapa’s house.” Puff-puff on his cigar. “Or ought I to say grand-mama’s house? No, ’twould be ungallant to your gracious queen to saddle her with that venerable title yet awhile.” He chuckled, and grew thoughtful. “Ah, yes … old England … new America. Has it ever occurred to you, colonel, that our two nations are the only ones on earth who have a natural claim to each other’s sympathy and affection? The truth is, you see, we’re not two different nations at all, but merely two separate states … the European and American branches of the British race.” Puff-puff. “I say that with all respect to the Dutch, German, and French citizens of this country, of course. We Americans are still part of the British family – as you are.” He smiled at me through the smoke. “Don’t you agree?”

  I made some idle remark about the War of Independence, and he burst out laughing. “My dear sir, my grandmother’s family fought for the King on that occasion! Grandpapa Seward chose the right side, though; yes, sir, he was a colonel in Washington’s army, a true-blue American patriot … and a Welshman to the end of his days, I’m told.” Puff-puff. “No, colonel, political differences don’t run in the veins.”

  He lit himself a new cigar, and waved it philosophical-like. “What does polity matter, after all? Republic … monarchy … England was a republic once, long before there were United States.” Puff-puff. “As for those differences of which so much is made – accent, social custom, and the like – why, they are no greater, surely, between Devon and Delaware than, shall we say, between Cornwall and Caithness.” He regarded me with smiling blue eyes. “Now, you have travelled widely in this country, and while I dare say it has not felt quite like home … still, I would venture to wager that you have felt more at home here, than in France or Italy or Spain. Isn’t that so?” It was the first sidelong mention of my American activities that he’d made, and I wondered what was coming next, but he went cheerfully on: “Why, I dare say if you were to stop a man on Fifth Avenue – or better still, on the Oregon Trail! – ten to one his name would prove to be Smith or Jones, if it were not MacPherson or Clancy … ah, you smile – you’ve found it so?” In fact I’d been thinking of my Far Western acquaintances, and he was right: Wooton, Carson, Maxwell, Bridger, Goodwin …

  “Or take your own profession,” he went on. “If someone were to exchange your British Army List for our own, who could tell which was which, eh?” Puff-puff. “No, colonel, we may have our rivalries and jealousies, all those tiresome jests and jibes about the top-lofty Briton and the brash Yankee, but let me tell you, sir, the smart travellers who publish their ‘impressions’ and disparage the ‘differences’ between us, see only the surface of our countries. Beneath, we are one people still. One language, one law, one thing, as our Norse ancestors would say.” He gave a little grunting laugh. “As a politican and statesman, I confess I have frequently opposed British policy, even sought to frustrate British interest, but do you know …” he was leaning back, that beak of a nose pointing at the ceiling “… if ever the day came – which God forbid! – when the being – aye, the very existence! – of that dear old land were in danger, then I, as an American, would give my life to keep it whole.” He paused. “Nor do I doubt that an Englishman would do as much for my country … ah, your pardon, colonel, I see your glass is almost out.”

  If you have illusions, Seward, prepare to shed them now, thinks I, as he plied me with more liquor. For it was plain as a pikestaff whither he was bound, and if he thought he could come round me with his blood-brotherhood fustian, he was well out of court. I thought of keeping mum, to see how he would come to cases at last, but my natural mischief decided me to play him up, so I observed innocently that the occasion wasn’t likely to arise, surely?

  “In the United States?” He pushed out a lip as he set down the decanter. “A young country, at the crossroads, facing the awful question whether it shall be a free nation or a slave nation … whether slavery shall wither gradually, peacefully, and with compromise, or be slain suddenly in the terrible arbitrament of war … that is a country in grave peril, colonel. Oh, it may be that given time and moderation, the withering process will take place … unless some evil chance, some terrible folly, should bring the irrepressible conflict suddenly to a head.”

  Like some loony invading Virginia, for example – why the devil couldn’t he say it, instead of tiptoeing coyly about? We both knew what he wanted, that this was the last vain attempt to coax me into joining Brown – was he too scared to come straight out with it, or did he suppose that if he gassed long enough, about it and about, I’d be mesmerised into changing my mind? It was quite amusing, really, and I was content to smoke his excellent cigars and sip his indifferent liquor while he skirted delicately around the point. Hollo, was he getting there?

  “… if such a catastrophe should threaten,” he was saying, pacing slowly to and fro and contemplating his cigar ash, “and it lay with an Englishman to avert it – if he alone had been given, by chance, the power to avert it, at no peril to himself … would he feel himself bound, I wonder, to answer the call of blood, to put aside the petty, man-made trammels of mere citizenship, and do the little service that would mean so much … to his kinsfolk?” He’d be quoting Magna Carta in a minute. “What would you think, colonel?”

  I’ll tickle you, you insinuating little bastard, thinks I. “He’d not hesitate a moment,” I said. “In like a shot – I mean to say, he couldn’t refuse, could he? Unless, that is, he was prevented by his duty – if he was a soldier, say. That would rule him out altogether.”

  He didn’t blink, or start, or do anything but nod solemnly. “True … it depends, though, does it not, on one’s interpretation of that elusive word, ‘duty’?” He cocked his head. “To his Queen … his country? To his … race? To humanity, even?”

  “Nothing about humanity in Queen’s Regulations, I’m afraid.” I gave him my regretful grin, and he sighed and shook his head.

  “I’ve no doubt you’re right. And yet …” he resumed his seat and went into another of his philosophic trances at the ceiling “… I wonder how the Queen – whose Regulations they are, after all – would view the question? What advice, do you suppose, would she give to one of her officers if he had the opportunity to render such a signal service to the young cousin-country for which she and her people feel such a warm affinity?” Puff-puff. “If he could save it from the horror of civil strife … perhaps even from destruction? Where would she – and Prince Albert – conceive that his duty lay? I wonder …”

  He heaved another reflective sigh and sat up, stubbing out his cigar. “Well, we can’t say, can we? You know her, of course, which I do not … but I look forward with the keenest anticipation to the honour of being presented to her, at Court, in a few weeks’ time.” The blue eyes regarding me steadily were as innocent as a babe’s; he even smiled. “Oh, even a staunch republican feels his pulses quicken at the prospect of … conversing … with your gracious Queen, and her Consort. I shall also be meeting your Prime Minister, Lord Duhrby – oh, I must remember, Lord Darby, I should say! And Lord Palmerston, who takes a close interest in American affairs … you know him, I believe? I must tell him that you and I have spoken …”

  I’ve received quite a few vicious thrusts in the low lines in life’s fencing-match, but this was the real navel-slasher. It was beautiful, effortless, and deadly – not once had he said directly what he was after, or even mentioned John Brown, or me, for that matter, but the moment he’d spoken of being presented and “conversing”, the murderous blackmail was out, and a frightful scene was before me: the Queen, all goggle-eyed dismay, bloody Albert stuffed and shocked, Pam’s false teeth fairly popping out in agitation while the Next President of the United States sighed and shook his head: “…
no, ma’am, we couldn’t move him … country on the brink … peril of civil war … our fate in his hands … said it was no business of his, deaf to all entreaties … God knows what’ll happen now … his name, Your Majesty? Flashman … how’s that, Prince? … oh, F-l-a-s-h-m-a-n …”

  I’d be ruined. My promised knighthood would be dead as a tentpeg, and my career with it. I’d be shunned by St James’s, cut in Society, discarded at Horse Guards – for it wouldn’t be a damned bit of use pleading that America’s troubles weren’t my indaba,a or that as a serving officer I was positively forbidden to meddle in ’em. No, I’d be the villain who had spurned the appeal of our colonial cousins in their hour of dire need, cold-shouldering their President-elect, standing wilfully by the letter of the law when honour demanded that I should be guided by its spirit, and (horror of horrors!) embarrassing Victoria and dear Albert, and in front of the Yankees, too! I could see Elspeth’s lovely features dissolving in anguish as she learned that she’d never be bidden to tea at Balmoral again …