The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  A storm of yells and curses greeted this, and then I heard Thompson again, wild and high: “God bless you, Aaron Stevens! They may take our lives, but eighty million will rise up to avenge us –” and then Mrs Popplewell closed the door and leaned her back against it, looking solemn.

  “You was right, honey,” says she. “They ain’t in no mood to b’lieve you’s a gov’ment man.”

  “Oh, my God! Maybe they won’t come up, though!”

  “Don’ bet on it! They’s three or four a-settin’ on the stairs this minnit, drinkin’ theyselves wicked, an’ castin’ eyes at the rooms wheah them other shemales is!” She swayed across to the window. “It be dark in an hour or two. You bes’ slide out then, git yo’self to one o’ they off’cers, or someone’ll listen to yuh –”

  “Slide out – through that? Christ, woman, every militiaman in America’s out there! They’d tear me to pieces! No, no, I must hide – under the bed, or … somewhere! In the cupboard – the closet, you stupid slut! Oh, God, too small … look, could you throw some of your clothes over me, if I lay down? They’d never think … why not, confound you? Dammit, you could hide half Harper’s Ferry under that bloody tent you’re wearing! Help me, you brainless sow!”

  “Is that so? You wuz glad ’nuff to git under it!” snorts she. “My, ain’t you the bedtime hero, though? You some kin o’ Popplewell’s, Ah reckon!”

  “And these infernal Yankee pothouses don’t have chimneys, even –”

  “They got attics!” snaps she, pointing aloft – and there, praise be, was a trap in the ceiling. “If yo’ so downright timid –” But I was already on the table, throwing back the trap, and sure enough it opened into a great musty loft which must have extended over the whole building, dim and cluttered with rubbish, just the bolt-hole for a deserving poltroon. “God bless you! Back in a jiff!” cries I, and I’ll swear I heard her giggle as I heaved up, lowered the trap, and took stock, treading softly. From the small windows in either gable and the low skylights in the sloping roof I had a capital view all round: north to the armoury, south to Gait’s saloon and the Shenandoah bridge, and west to the Bolivar Heights overlooking the town, with the orange ball of the sun sinking in a dirty autumn sky; those distant buildings towards the Shenandoah shore must be the rifle works – was Kagi still there? Closer at hand the arsenal building seemed to be deserted; no sign of Hazlett.

  The front of the town was crawling with men keeping up a desultory fire on the armoury, and, weighing up, I could see only one line of retreat for J.B. – through the armoury proper and along the railroad between Bolivar Heights and the Potomac. But even as I looked I saw movement in that direction: the figures of militia, a good hundred of them, skirmishing in to close on the armoury from the rear. So now he was ringed in on all sides; his revolution was dead, and he and his juvenile fanatics with it.

  They went piecemeal, did J.B.’s pet lambs, and I saw most of ’em go – already there’d been Newby, Watson, and Stevens, and now, even as I prepared to tiptoe back to the trap, Bill Thompson. There was a commotion behind the hotel, and hastening to the skylight on that side I saw a noisy crowd milling at the mouth of the Potomac bridge tunnel. They were hustling Thompson on to the trestle, and then they stood off from him, levelling their pistols. For a second he was stock-still, hands by his sides, and then they were blasting at him point-blank, and he toppled over out of sight. The whole mob surged forward, shouting curses, and his body must have landed on the bank below, for they kept emptying their pieces downwards, and I found I was jerking with the shots, for it might have been me.

  I watched, sick and shuddering, until a fresh burst of firing came from the Shenandoah side, and from the other skylight, which was broken, I saw distant figures surging round the rifle works, and heard guns popping like toys in the distance. With the setting sun in my eyes I couldn’t make out much, but a few moments later there was a great haw-hawing and laughter as a group of roughnecks and some militia came hurrying down towards Gait’s saloon, shouting that that was another couple o’ the bastards settled, one white, one nigger, an’ ’twould ha’ been three, for there had been another nigger they’d been goin’ to lynch, but that cussed sawbones wouldn’t allow it, damn him, spoilin’ sport thataway – say, but if you boys wantin’ some target practice, that abolitionist skunk’s still a-layin’ there! Sure, got him in the shallows, tryin’ to swim for it … too much hot lead in him for swimmin’, though, haw-haw!

  So that was Kagi gone, J.B.’s right arm, who’d sat under that signpost by Chambersburg, twiddling a flower between his fingers. He was the best of ’em, the Switzer – consoling, ain’t it, that it’s always the good ’uns who stop the shot, while fellows like me slip out from under? Which reminded me that I’d some fair slipping to do yet, if I was to come out intact. It was beginning to grow dark; lights were twinkling in the town, and down below the crowds around the Wager House and Gait’s were kindling torches; by the sound of it they were drunker than ever, and bursting with mischief. Rain was pattering on the roof, and I debated whether to wait in that gloomy loft until full dark, and then try to scramble down from one of the windows … no, if I didn’t break my neck, there’d still be those boozy ruffians between me and safety. Better to return to the room, where Mrs Popplewell was probably still undisturbed, and lie up in comfort until morning, or even longer if need be. If danger threatened I could always take refuge in the loft again.

  I tiptoed to the trap … and stopped short when I saw a chink of light showing. Of course, with dusk coming she’d lit the lamp. I stooped to raise the trap – and almost fell over in terror, for someone was talking in the room below, and it wasn’t Black Beauty, unless her voice had broken in my absence. I crouched quivering like an aspen, as a harsh bass growl came to my ears:

  “… never see a nigger yet that didn’t lie truth out o’ Dixie! You had him in here, ye black bitch! Hid him up, didn’t ye – yeah, yore abolitionist friend! Where’d he go, hey?”

  “Don’ you call me liar!” It was Mrs Popplewell, no docile darkie she. “Ah’s a ’spectable woman, an’ no white trash goin’ to bust in on me an’ gimme his lip! You git out o’ heah, all on yuh, leave me be! Ah don’t know nothin’ ’bout no abolitionist –”

  “White trash? Strike me dumb, ye hear that? I’ve a mind to haul you out an’ lash you good –”

  “You hold your noise!” It was the captain who’d interceded for Thompson. “See here, my girl – there was a man here. We know it. You told the waiter here it was your husband – what’s his name, Popplewell? That right?”

  “That’s it – Popplewell!” The waiter, babbling. “But he got on the train went out at dawn – and she brung up breakfuss for two this mornin’, like he was still here … least, I think that’s what she said –”

  “There, now! You hear him, girl –”

  “He’s mistook!” Mrs Popplewell was standing firm. “Said no sech thing! An’ no man’s been in heah! Whut kin’ o’ female d’ye think Ah am?”

  “A lyin’ nigra whore, that’s what!” bawls the ruffian voice. “If you was alone, what you need two breakfasts for?”

  “Ah is a large lady,” retorts she with dignity, “an’ Ah eats hearty.”

  “Leave that, ’tis by the way!” says the captain impatiently. “Now, see here, girl – how d’ye explain this?” And there followed a breathless pause.

  What the devil could “this” be? Something damning, obviously – but you’d think a man in my plight could have restrained his curiosity, wouldn’t you? After all, it didn’t matter to me whether he was presenting his card or baring his buttocks … So before you could have said: “Don’t, you damfool!” I had my eye to the gap at the edge of the trap, goggling down into the room.

  I could see only a portion of it, filled mostly by Mrs Popplewell in the height of fashion, holding her brolly like a club, and two ugly scoundrels with beer-bellies and beards crowding her either side. Of the captain I could see only an outstretched hand – and on it lay my Tr
anter pistol, which I’d forgotten in my haste.

  “Well?” says he. “What o’ this?”

  “Ma husban’ left it, fo’ ma purtection!” cries she gamely.

  “Did he now? Favours an English firearm, does he? You, waiter – didn’t you say the abolitionist who bespoke forty-five breakfasts53 spoke with a foreign accent – British, perhaps?”

  I didn’t stay for the answer. If I’d been a man of iron nerve, no doubt I’d have raised the trap, bade them a cheery good-evening, and descended nonchalantly to explain myself to the captain, who was plainly a man of intelligence and sound judgment. And he might have believed me. Again, his raffish companions might have shot me on sight. We cannot tell, for what I absolutely did was to start to my feet in sudden alarm, hit my head a shattering crash on a sloping joist, lose my balance, and step heavily on the trap, which must have been rotten at the hinges, for it gave way with a rending of timber, and down I went into the room like Lucifer descending, the table bursting beneath my weight, Mrs Popplewell screaming, and her interrogators exclaiming in shocked surprise.

  The only one who spoke to the point was the waiter, who cried “By cracky, that’s him!”, and call me hasty if you will, it seemed prudent to remove rather than offer explanations. I was afoot and would have been through the open door in an instant if one of the ruffians hadn’t barred the way. I sank my knee in his essentials, blundered into Mrs Popplewell, saw the other thug start towards me and the captain beside him levelling the Tranter, and knew in a split second that there was only one thing for it. Casting gallantry aside, I seized her amidships, swung her off her feet with a herculean effort, and hurled her at them – and I’m here to tell you that a tenth of a ton of well-nourished negress, point-blank and well driven, is a damned effective missile. They went down all three with a shock that rattled the hotel, and I was out and bounding down the passage to the back stairs, missing my footing and going arse over tip to land with a sickening jar beside the kitchen door. The outer door stood open, I heaved myself up and went through it bull-at-a-gate into a torch-lit twilight which seemed to be full of drunken, shouting rascals who stared in astonishment as I raced through them, heedless of direction; behind me a voice cried: “Stop him! Halt, or I fire!” It was the captain – no slouch in pursuit, he – and then came the crack as he let fly with the Tranter. I plunged on, dodging between trees, cannoning into bodies, knocking over a stand of piled rifles, with angry yells and pounding feet behind me, and no notion of where my terrified flight was taking me.

  Well, it wouldn’t have made much odds, if I had taken care; all ways led to disaster and death, and mine took me into the open ground between the Wager House and the armoury gates, where I slipped in a puddle and went headlong in the mud. At least in scrambling up I was able to take my bearings, and damned discouraging they were, for every gun in Harper’s Ferry seemed to be slinging lead at me – from the railroad tracks to my right, from the town to my left, and from the Wager House at my back. Shots were slapping into the mud around me, militiamen were rushing towards me from the hotel, and the only place that wasn’t stiff with ill-wishers, and seemed to offer the ghost of a chance, was the armoury itself. I floundered out of the mire and went bald-headed for the gates.

  It was just my confounded luck that my flight took place at the precise moment when those militia whom I’d seen skirmishing towards the rear of the armoury a few minutes earlier, launched their attack through the sheds at the remnants of J.B.’s little force. Even as I was leaving the hotel at speed, they were storming up among the workshops, and J.B. and his boys, assailed from behind, were downing eight of them before being forced to retire into the engine-house just inside the armoury gateway. What with my panic and the uproar around me, I knew nothing of this until I sped screaming through the gates and met the militia coming the other way; ahead of me the avenue between the sheds was alive with roaring ruffians charging towards me in the failing light, orange flames leaping from their muzzles – even as I slithered to a terrified halt, shots were whipping past, and as I turned to fly something like a whiplash seared across my neck, and I knew I’d been hit, oh Jesus, this was death, and I pitched forward in agony, sobbing: “God damn you, Spring, damn you to hell!”, clutching at my wound, the warm blood running between my fingers, my ears deafened by the hellish din of rifle fire and battle-cry, torchlight blinding me, and I knew this was the end …

  “Joshua!” A harsh voice was shouting, close by. “Joshua!” I struggled up on one elbow – and not ten yards before me were the great twin doors of the engine-house, with J.B. himself standing between them, his Sharps smoking in his hands, his scarecrow coat flapping round his lean shanks, his battered hat jammed down on his brows. The door in the left-hand arch was shut, but that on the right was wide, and there was Joe, his face contorted with rage, a Colt in either fist, pumping shots at the advancing militia, and Taylor the Canadian kneeling, his Sharps at his shoulder, and Oliver was waving his rifle: “Come on, Josh – we’ll cover you!”

  By God, Flashy, you ain’t dead yet, I thought, and then I was on my feet, bellowing with fear, staggering towards them. All four were firing now, and from the tail of my eye I saw the militia’s advance waver, but they were shooting back, damn them, slugs were buzzing about me, something plucked at the skirt of my coat – missed, you duffer!, but the next one didn’t, a hammer blow struck my thigh, numbing my leg, and I went down like a shot rabbit, sprawling in the mud within a few feet of cover and roaring, if I remember rightly, for Jesus to save me. Which was optimism run mad, I admit – but I was dying, remember.

  God knows how I crawled the few yards to the engine-house doorway, heaving along on two hands and one knee, plastered with filth, my precious blood leaking in two places, howling my head off – and Taylor was darting forward, hoisting me up and dragging me on. Then everything seemed to be happening terribly slowly, but crystal clear, as is often the case when you’re helpless in deadly danger: Taylor’s grip loosed, and something warm and wet struck me in the face, and as I fell back he was standing over me, but where his head should have been was a hideous crimson mess, and I cried out in horror, pawing at his blood and brains that had spattered over me. Someone heaved me to my feet; it was J.B., and I remember the earthy cattle smell of his coat as my face pressed against it, Joe’s pistol exploding almost in my ear, his shout of “Goddam slavin’ bastards!”, Oliver firing round the door-post while rifle balls smacked into the timber and brickwork, and the choking reek of powder smoke in my mouth and eyes.

  As I clung weeping to J.B. I heard Oliver sing out: “I see him, Paw!”, and I can still see the eager grin on the pale, handsome face under the wideawake hat, but as he whipped the Sharps to his shoulder he suddenly staggered, with an odd barking little cough, looking down at the bloody stain spreading on his shirt. He dropped the Sharps and sat down heavily against the door, raising his head in surprise and exclaiming: “Oh, Paw, look!”, and that is the last thing I remember before … well, I could say something poetic about blackness enfolding me like a shroud, or a dark mist engulfing my senses, but the plain fact is that I fainted from pure funk.

  Chapter 19

  Wounds, believe it or not, can be quite handy, if you know how to make use of them. I speak with authority, having taken over twenty in my time, from my broken thigh at Piper’s Fort to the self-inflicted graze which enabled me to collapse artistically during the Boxer Rising (I was seventy-eight at the time, an age at which you can get away with a lot). In between, I’ve been shot in the back, the breast, the arm, the leg, and the arse, been blown up now and then, flogged, scalped (by my own son, if you please), racked, and roasted, had my shoulder opened by a Chink hatchet, my cheek by a German schlager, and my abdomen by a Turkish knitting needle (at least, I believe she was Turkish), and still carry a scorch-mark on my elbow from the hot metal of the cannon from which I was dam’ near blown at Gwalior. Not bad going for a thoroughbred coward and decamper, and those are only the ones I remember – there’s a small
-calibre hole in my left palm, and blessed if I know how I came by that. Senility creeping on, I suppose.

  The point is that I’ve made capital out of my dishonourable scars by adhering to one golden rule – Rashy’s Sufferance, I call it: always convey, but never say, that your injury is a sight worse than it really is. It’s elementary, really. In convalescence this ensures sympathy, if you play it properly – the barely perceptible wince, the sharp little intake of breath, the faint smile followed by the quick shake of the head, and never a word of complaint from the dear brave boy – but far more importantly, in the heat of battle it enables you to feign mortal hurt and shirk any further part in the action.

  Not that I was faking when I keeled over maiden-like in the engine-house – I was convinced that the Great Peeler had His hand on my collar at last, and only when I came to and recalled that the pandemonium around me was not Hell after all, did I discover that my wounds, while painful, were not fatal, or even serious. My shirt and coat were sticky with blood, but frenzied inspection assured me that this came not from my jugular but from a nasty nick near the shoulder, and my other hurt was quite a curiosity: the slug must have been almost spent, for it was only half-embedded in my leg some way above the knee, like a currant on a cake. I pawed at it, weeping tears of gratitude that it hadn’t struck home a few inches nor’-east, and the beastly thing fell out, leaving an ugly hole oozing gore. I subsided, whimpering with anguish and relief, clutching the affected parts and lying petrified as I took in the appalling scene.

  For the interior of that engine-house looked and sounded like the Inferno gone wild: the building reverberated to the incessant din of rifle fire, glass was shattering, timber splintering, men were screaming and cursing, and all in half-darkness, for there wasn’t a light in the place bar the flashes from the guns, and only torch-glare outside. As I cowered down by the wall, half-choked by smoke and panic, I could just make out the shapes of bodies on the straw at my feet, and beyond them shadowy figures which crouched in the half-open doorway, shooting out, while answering shots crashed into the walls and the long low fire-carts which seemed to fill most of the great brick-built shed: one slug hit a fire-bell with an ear-splitting clang, setting it swinging and pealing. All I could do was lie there, trying to staunch my neck wound with my sleeve, praying that I’d not be hit again – God, of all the cruel strokes of fate, after all my scheming and evasion and taking cover, at the eleventh hour I’d leapt from the fire back into the frying-pan, and now there was nowhere to run, even if I’d been able to.