The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “What’s that, Joshua?”

  “Talk to the others … the younger men … as you’ve talked to me – you know, about passing through, and victory, and … and so on. They’ll heed you, because … well, you have such faith, you see, and a gift of words! I mean, if I were to say to ’em: ‘We’re all dead men, but it’s worth it’ … well, there you are, you see! I don’t put it too well, do I? But you can, old boy! Oh, ’twill raise their hearts – why it may make all the difference, and ensure that dear old J.B.’s dream comes true!”

  You see my game: being a respected senior, and a spiritualist, he was just the man to put the wind right up our younger enthusiasts with his reassuring chat about the life to come; with luck he’d reduce the low spirits of Kennedy Farm to absolute zero. Well, he did more than that; God knows what he said to them, privatim et seriatim, over the next two days, but it dam’ near caused a mutiny. Suddenly, Harper’s Ferry was finding no takers at all on ’Change. Owen got wind of the disaffection, and reported to J.B., reminding him glumly of what happened to Napoleon when he marched on Moscow against the popular will, and the old boy took his head in his hands and groaned. Then he called us all into the common-room, and brooded at us like a vulture on a tombstone.

  “I hear,” growls he, “that with the exception of Kagi, who I know is staunch, you are all opposed to striking the blow at the Ferry. I feel so depressed that I am almost willing to abandon the undertaking for the time being.” He threw back his head, waiting, but only Owen contradicted him, saying we had come too far, and must go ahead.

  “Must we?” grunts J.B., and glanced at me. “Joshua?”

  I drew myself up, all Horse Guards, and spoke with deep feeling. “You know my sentiments, captain. But since the plan is mine, I don’t feel entitled to a voice. I must beg to be allowed to abstain.”

  Rather neat, I thought, but one who obviously didn’t think so was Joe. He was glaring at me fit to kill – my abstention looked to him like a rank betrayal of my engagement to the Kuklos. He burst out: “Well, Ah ain’t abstainin’! Ah say we go, like cap’n says!”

  J.B. stared, frowning in astonishment – it came as a shock to him, I think, to be reminded that Joe knew all about the plan – the other blacks didn’t, you see, being mere cannon-fodder who hadn’t been admitted to our councils. No one else spoke; even Stevens stood mum, and I could only conclude that in talking to the young men he had realised their deep reluctance, and lost heart himself. Personally, I was offering up a silent thanksgiving, for I was sure that in the presence of those sullen, uneasy faces, J.B. was going to have to call it a day at long last. He gave Joe a weary, wintry smile.

  “I thank you for your trust and loyalty, Joe,” says he, “but I fear that you and I and Owen and Kagi – and Joshua, too, I believe – can hardly do the thing alone. For myself, I have only one life to live, and to lose, but I am not so strenuous for my plans as to carry them through against the company’s wishes.” He paused, sighing, and rubbed his forehead. All over, thinks I – and then the cunning old bastard faced his hole card. “Very well … I resign. We will choose another leader, and I will faithfully obey him, reserving only the right to advise when I see fit.”

  There was a gasp of dismay. J.B. bowed his head and walked from the room without another word … and would you credit it, within five minutes that pack of brainless sheep had re-elected him! Unanimously, too – for when I saw where they were going, two of the youngest shedding tears of remorse, the others shamed into a renewal of holy zeal, you may be sure I cast my lot with the majority. I could have throttled the old swine; the whole crazy scheme had been within a shaving of collapse, and he’d swung them round simply by passing the decision to them. I still say he wasn’t a good leader, but he was one hell of a farmyard politician.

  You’d have thought, with that moral victory under his belt, that he’d have gone for the Ferry then and there, while the boys were still excited in their reaction, and indeed for a couple of days I was in a mortal funk that he would do just that. Kagi, who must have got wind of our little mutiny, was writing urgently from Chambersburg, insisting it was now or never: the harvest had been good, so we’d have ample forage in Virginia, the moon was right, and the slaves were restive because the suicides had started.47 Further, Kagi pointed out, we didn’t have five dollars left even to buy food – we daren’t delay any longer.

  Neither, I decided, dare I. All of a sudden, thanks to the mutiny producing the opposite effect to what I’d expected, the raid seemed to be on the cards for the first time, and my thoughts turned to the horse stabled beneath the house, and the road to Washington. The fly in the ointment was Joe, whose suspicions of me had become thoroughly roused; his baleful eye was on me every minute, and he had taken to sleeping across the doorway in the loft. I evolved and rejected half a dozen schemes for evading him – and still J.B. gave no sign of making up his mind. If anything, he was more sunk in despond than ever, fearful that at any moment we might be discovered, and on the other hand fretting that we daren’t move without what he called “a treasury to sustain our campaign”.

  “There’s a bank in Harper’s Ferry, ain’t there?” cries Jerry Anderson, and J.B. exploded.

  “We are not thieves!” cries he. “Oh, for a few hundred dollars! I shall write to Kagi again – he must find us something!”

  And Kagi, damn him, did.

  It was a dirty October night when the blow fell. J.B. was in the kitchen, writing, and the rest of us were yawning and snarling after a day which had seen us mooning indoors, confined by the driving rain, with nothing to do but clean weapons and make do and mend and croak at each other. Supper had been a meagre affair, and I was noting with satisfaction that the feverish burst of enthusiasm which had followed J.B.’s re-election had dwindled altogether after days of inaction. What had damped everyone’s spirits most of all had been an announcement from the old man that he was contemplating “a decisive act in two or three weeks” – we’d heard that before, and as Leeman pointed out, in less than a week, never mind two or three, we’d be forced to disperse, if only to find some grub … and then there was a clatter of boots on the veranda, every hand was suddenly reaching for a rifle or revolver, the lamp was doused, and Stevens was challenging: “Who goes there?”

  “It’s Santa Claus – old Kriss Kringle, and see how you like it!” laughs an exultant voice, and in an instant the bar had been slipped and the lamp rekindled, and Kagi was standing grinning all over his face in the doorway, with the rain pouring off his shawl. There was a tall fellow with him, and as Kagi ushered him into the light I saw that he limped heavily and had one eye missing in his pale, sickly face.

  “This is Frank Meriam!” cries Kagi. “Where’s the captain?”

  J.B. emerged from the kitchen. “Captain Kagi! What does this mean? Why are you not at Chambersburg?”

  “Chambersburg, nothing, I’ve just come from the Ferry!” Kagi was afire with excitement. “Frank just came in by train today – oh, go ahead, Frank, show ’em!”

  The tall fellow pulled out a satchel from beneath his coat, undid the strap, and opened it over the table – and out poured a cascade of dollars, glittering and jingling. There were cries of amazement as Kagi stirred them on the table, laughing, and J.B. plumped down in a chair, staring in disbelief, while Kagi explained that Meriam was a friend from the North who had heard of J.B.’s dire need of funds, and here he was, at the eleventh hour, with his personal contribution to the cause. J.B. rose with tears in his eyes and seized Meriam’s hand.48

  “God has sent you!” cries he. “He has seen His children’s need and filled their measure, yea, to overflowing! How much is there?”

  “Six hundred bucks!” cries Kagi, and J.B. laid his hands on the gelt and raised his shaggy head in prayer, praising the Lord that He had furnished means to take His servants over Jordan and loose the whirlwind in Israel … and it seemed to me to be just the right time, as they all stood with bowed heads, muttering their amens, to slip quietly out of
the still-open door, button my coat, vault over the veranda rail, and make a bee-line for the stable door at the end of the lower storey.

  For I’d known, when the first coin clattered on the table, that all my hopes of many months had been dashed at the last minute: he would go to Harper’s Ferry, and I’d never get a better chance to light out for Washington and safety; I’d done my best, I had my boots on, my Tranter in my belt, and a clear road to Frederick (or any station bar Harper’s Ferry) where I could board a train south. As I fumbled for a match, lighting the stable lamp, I was telling myself that once I’d ridden a hundred yards I’d be free, for there wasn’t but the one horse, a sorry screw, but he’d do. I saddled him in feverish haste, soothing him as I slipped the bridle over his head … ten seconds and I’d be out and away, and I was leading him to the door, gulping with excitement, when I bore up with a whinny of terror and stood rooted. Black Joe was standing in the doorway, hands loose at his sides, looking like the Wild Man of Borneo.

  “You stinkin’ snake!” says he. “I always knew you’d run at the last! Git yo’ hand away f’m yo’ belt!”

  There was no point in pretending I was taking the beast out for exercise. I lifted my hands.

  “Don’t be a fool, Joe!” I croaked. “You don’t need me – he’s going to the Ferry, dammit! That’s all Atropos wanted – it don’t matter whether I’m there or not! Look, if you let me go, I’ll –”

  “I ought to burn yo’ brains!” snarls he, taking a pace forward. “An’ git away f’m that hoss! Now, Mistuh Comber, you come ahead good an’ slow – an’ git yo’ dirty ass back inside that house!”

  “What for? For Christ’s sake, man, see sense! He can run his bloody raid without me – or you! Look, we can both slide out –”

  “You made a deal, you dam’ traitor! Fi’ thousan’ dollahs, ’member? An’ yo’ goin’ through with it, the whole way!” I must have moved a hand, for suddenly there was a pistol in his fist, the hammer back. “An’ you know why you’s goin’ through with it, Mistuh Comber? ’Cos that good ole man up theah, he’s a-countin’ on you! He needs you, ’cos they ain’t another man in his jackass outfit can plan or plot wo’th a dam, ’cept you!” The hideous black face split in an awful grin. “So yo’ goin’ to be at his side … Joshua, to keep him right in his raid, an’ when he takes to the hills with the coloured folks, an’ when he rides south to set the people free! All the way, Joshua, you heah me?”

  I was so flabbergasted I could hardly find words to protest. “You’re crazy! He’ll never raise a rebellion! He’ll come adrift before he’s clear of the Ferry, you fool! His raid’ll be a farce – but it don’t matter! The raid itself is all that Atropos wants –”

  “– Atropos!” cries he. “– him an’ every other lousy slaver! You think Ah’m doin’ his dirty work?” He lunged towards me, waving the pistol in my face. “You think Ah’m jes’ ’nother yes-massa nigger, don’t yuh? You think Ah’m a chattel of that fat bastuhd M’sieu Atropos Goddam La Force, ’cos he petted me an’ let me screw his woman, an’ done me all kinda benefits? Well, mebbe Ah was once, but not no mo’!” His breath hit my face like a furnace blast, and the dreadful yellow-streaked black eyes rolled in frenzy. “You know why? ’Cos Ah foun’ me a man – a real man, a simple, no-’count ole farmer that tret me like a man, an’ talked with me like a man! Not like Ah wuz dirt, or a pet dog like when Ah was in the schoolroom with that – Atropos La Force that allus got fu’st pick o’ the sugar cookies an’ to ride the rockin’-hoss while Ah wuz the goddam groom!” He stepped back, shaking, and lowered the pistol from beneath my petrified nose. “An’ he’s gonna set ma people free! John Brown’s gonna do that! An’ yo’ gonna see he does, too, oh, right sure you are, Mistuh Joshua Comber! An’ Ah’m gonna be right theah to see you do it!”

  His hand flickered, and the pistol was gone. Another flicker, and it was in his hand again. He grinned at me, nodding. “See?”

  Another bloody madman – my God, was anyone in America sane? In a flash I understood the way he’d watched Brown, and hung on his words, and sat in the kitchen listening to his babblings – why, the old bugger had converted him! I couldn’t credit it – not Black Joe, the shrewdest, wickedest, best-read nigger in Dixie, whose slavery had been a rosebed compared to anything he could hope for as a free man? But it had happened, plainly; one look at those blood-injected eyes told me that, and God knows I’d seen enough of human lunacy not to waste speculation on the why’s and wherefore’s. And I was to be driven to sure destruction, just because this demented darkie had seen the light! I hadn’t a hope of running now, with this fearsome black gunslick dogging my every move. But I could still try to reason with him.

  “Joe, in God’s name, listen! You’re wrong! He doesn’t have a hope, I tell you! He’s going to his death – so are all the rest of ’em! Nothing I can do will save him! Damnation, man, you’ve heard the talk – the slaves won’t rise, and he’ll be –”

  “Shut yo’ lyin’ mouth!”

  “It’s the truth, man! Dammit, you say yourself I’m the only one who can make a plan and reckon the odds – d’ye think I don’t know, you bloody fool?”

  He hit me a back-hander that sent me sprawling on the straw, then leaned down to drag me to my feet. “We goin’ to the Ferry, you an’ me, ’long o’ the ole man – an’ then to the hills!” says he, his face close to mine. “You play false – you even look false, an’ Ah kill you dead!”

  A voice shouted, outside and overhead; it was Stevens. “Joshua, you down there? Josh?”

  Joe let go and stepped to the door. “Jes’ seein’ to the wagon, Mass’ Aaron! We be theah d’reckly!” He beckoned to me, stepping aside to let me pass out into the rain. “Dead …’member?”

  Some wiseacre once said that the prospect of death concentrates the mind wonderfully, but I’m here to tell you that the chance to work for a reprieve concentrates it a whole heap more. I was in the true-blue horrors when I came up from that stable, with Joe looming at my heels, and was no way cheered by the celebration taking place in the common-room. That pile of cash seemed to have acted like a tonic, heaven knows why, and all around were smiling faces and bustling activity, Kagi was pumping my hand and crying, at last, at last!, and J.B. was like a man transformed, eyes shining fiercely and beard bristling as he stood by the table, fingering the dollars while he dictated to Jerry Anderson, whose pencil was fairly flying across the paper. Tidd, I remember, was singing “The Girl I Left Behind Me” in his fine tenor, and the younger men were joining in and larking about – and all because it was now certain that in a few hours they’d likely be getting shot to pieces and dying along the Potomac or Shenandoah. I’d seen it before, the hectic gaiety that can take hold of young fools at the imminent (but not too imminent) prospect of action after they’ve waited long; I’ve never been prone to it, myself. I had my work cut out keeping the upper lip in good order, while asking myself fearfully how the devil I was going to keep a whole skin this time.

  There was only one way that I could see, and I bent my mind to it with everything I knew. If Harper’s Ferry could be taken with no heads broken – and I knew it could be, just, provided my plan was followed to the letter, and nothing went amiss – then there must arise a moment, surely, when I could give Joe the slip. A few seconds was all I’d need (it’s all I’ve ever needed), and I’d be into the undergrowth and going like hell’s delight, on foot if need be. He couldn’t watch me every second, not with the confusion that must occur in taking the armoury gates, the arsenal, and the rifle works. So that same evening, when J.B. was poring over my plans and consulting with Kagi and Stevens, and next day when (after a damned sleepless night, I can tell you, with Joe on a hair-trigger at my side) the final preparations were made, I worked on every last detail of the scheme as though my life depended on it – which it did …

  Kagi and Stevens to silence the watchman on the Potomac bridge as we approached – they were the best men, for the most vital task. The surly Tidd, next best, to cut t
he telegraph wires, with the garrulous Cook, who knew the Ferry well, to show him the way. Oliver, the best of the Browns, to take and guard the Shenandoah bridge; his brother Watson to guard the Potomac bridge. (The third brother, Owen, I insisted must stay at the farm, to hold our base – the truth was that I wanted him as far from J.B. as could be, because he was the kind of ass who’d argue with the old man and set him dithering with indecision.) With the bridges in our hands, I’d see to the armoury gates myself, with J.B. and Stevens … then to the arsenal across the street, leave Hazlett on guard, with anyone but Leeman (they were too harum-scarum to trust together) … the rifle works were nearly half a mile off – aye, Kagi could see to them … and that would be Harper’s Ferry receipted and filed … for a few hours at least. Provided the bridge and armoury watchmen could be dealt with quietly, there was no reason why we shouldn’t remain undetected until daybreak … and long before then I’d have slipped Joe, if I had to kill him to do it, and be on my merry way.

  I didn’t consult or argue about these dispositions, but rapped them out in my sharpest style, with J.B. nodding alongside, and the fellows accepted them without a murmur. They spent that last day cleaning weapons and assembling gear, and Stevens and I inspected ’em to the last button, while J.B. did the really useful work – writing out our commissions, if you please! Half the men were “captains” in his army, and the others “lieutenants”, except for Taylor, the Canadian, who was too cracked for anything, and of course the niggers, who were all privates. I was a “major”, you’ll be charmed to know … and I have the faded paper beside me as I write, with “John Brown, Commander-in-Chief” in his spidery hand at the foot. I keep it in my desk, alongside my appointment as “Sergeant-General” in the Malagassy army, my Union and Confederate commissions, the illuminated scroll designating me a Knight of the San Serafino Order of Purity and Truth (Third Class), the Order of the Elephant which I picked up in Strackenz, and all the other foreign stuff. Gad, I’ve been about, though.