The Symbol Seekers

by A. A. Glynn

‘Get out of my way, damn you!’ His face was a mixture of fear, anger and something else, a sort of deep-rooted greed which was also expressed in the possessive way in which he clutched the wooden box with its brass clasps. He wanted that box. He held it close to him, determined that no one would take it from him.

  Dacers’ thoughts began to race, trying to make sense of this man and the circumstances in which he encountered him. The condition of the the apartment door suggested that the man had forced it and had stolen the box. Now he was trying to make a quick getaway with it. He clutched it like a miser grasping his gold. Anger blazed in his eyes and he suddenly aimed a vicious kick at Dacers. Positioned on a lower stair, Dacers found it easy to grasp his foot and yank it forward. O fell backwards and landed flat on his back on the corridor floor. The box flew from his grasp, narrowly missed Dacers’ head, smote the uncarpeted stairway and skittered down it.

  O scrambled up from his lying position and lunged forward down the stairs in a blind effort to recover the box and barged into Dacers, flailing with his fists, trying to get past him. Dacers grasped O around the waist with both hands and, locked together, grunting and panting, they began to fall down the stairs. Just as they neared the box on the bottom stair, O planted a knee forcibly in Dacers’ groin.

  A gurgle of pain gusted out of Dacers and he released his grip on O who slithered down towards the box. He grasped it even before he was on his feet then began to stagger to a standing position. Dacers, winded, was grasping the rickety banister rails and hauling himself up from the grubby treads of the stairs. Down in the entrance hall of the tenement building, he could see O making unsteady progress towards the street doorway, again clutching the box close to him.

  Dacers fought against the pain in his groin and began to stumble down into the entrance hall with the notion that he could leap on O’s back before he went through the street door. Then he saw O freeze on the upper step of the entrance at the sight of three men coming up the steps of Marlborough Dwellings—two of them were the pair of Americans who had terrified him in Putney the day before. Their companion had a similar transatlantic look about him and he limped, dragging the toes of one foot as he walked.

  Dacers, too, froze at the sight of these newcomers. Two he recognised as the orator of the meeting at Cremorne Gardens and his companion. The third, most startling of all, was his bearded would-be murderer of the smart disguise who had disguised his limp by riding a horse. He was now without his beard but Dacers was in no doubt as to his identity. He could clearly see the large, distinguishing wart on his face.

  With lightning speed, a drama began to be acted out even as Dacers set foot in the entrance hall.

  The newcomers were face-to-face with O, who snapped out of his paralysis of fear and began to run down the steps to the street. The man who had addressed the Cremorne meeting, yelled: ‘By God, it’s O—and with the box!’

  O was now running along Thistle Street, still clutching the box. Naked fear was causing him to overcome his fatigue after his tussle on the stairs and he was running blindly, intent only on getting clear of the men who menaced him.

  ‘I’ll get him!’ hooted the man from Cremorne whom Dacers recalled his companion introducing as a sergeant-major. His hand came out of his topcoat pocket flourishing a revolver. His companion, the orator from Cremorne yelled an objection and grabbed him by his shoulder at the very moment he fired at the retreating O. The bullet screamed wide of him but it caused the terrified O to drop the box just as a second mis-fired shot exploded behind him inspiring him to pump his legs yet more energetically. The box forgotten, every fibre of his being was aching to be out of this situation. He saw the opening of an alley, a mere crack between a couple of mean, slanted structures, and he fled into it.

  On the steps of Marlborough Dwellings, the responsible Lewis Sadler was restraining Jefferson Dobbs. ‘You damned fool,’ he growled. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that shooting in this country can only bring trouble?’ He pushed the impetuous Dobbs against the side of the large entrance doorway. ‘Put that gun back in your pocket and leave it there,’ he ordered.

  Septimus Dacers was lurching across the entrance hall, intent on reaching this threesome of newcomers. He wanted to get his hands on the third man, the limping one who had tried to kill him and was in the act of trying to sneak away while his American companions were arguing. The entangled affair of the box and the devious Mr. O, of which Dacers had no detailed knowledge was forgotten. He only saw the man who had worn a false beard attempting to slip down the steps of Marlborough Dwellings and into the street.

  Dacers was dimly aware that the staircase behind him was filling up with shocked and inquisitive people, residents of Marlborough Dwellings’ modest apartments, some of whom had obviously been roused from their beds. They were possessed by collective alarm and a panic was spreading among then. ‘There were shots!’ called one jittery voice: ‘Is it the Fenians?’

  The notion of armed insurrectionists being loose in no-account little Thistle Street took hold among residents of nearby dwellings who had tumbled into the street at the sound of shooting. ‘The Fenians! It’s the Fenians!’ shouted one voice after another. ‘The Fenians!’ screeched a distraught woman. ‘It’s the damned Irish Fenians come to murder us all!’

  Dacers was acting almost in a world seeming to be detached from true reality: he had barged his way out of Marlborough Buildings and seized Ned Grandon by the shoulders just as he stepped down to the pavement, ready to launch himself into limping flight. Sadler and Dobbs ceased their arguing abruptly, realised with astonishment that the man who had accompanied the disguised girl in the flight through Cremorne Gardens was among them and handling the treacherous Grandon with whom they wanted to deal in their own way. They forgot their argument and closed in on Dacers belligerently.

  ‘Stand back!’ shouted Dacers loudly. ‘This man attempted murder and I’m making a citizen’s arrest. I call on all here to assist!’ A tenement of Marlborough Dwellings’ character naturally sheltered some who were hostile to the police but there was a surge of activity on the stairs as numerous individuals descended to the hallway.

  Young Adolphus Crayford was just walking into one end of Thistle Street at that moment having made an early start on a long trudge to a cheapjack publishing house to collect more prepared plates for more penny dreadful illustrations. He had to halt on the pavement to allow a heavy police van, hauled by a pair of lathered horses go rushing by with clattering hooves and rumbling iron-rimmed wheels. It thundered into Thistle Street where Crayford could see a number of people outside Marlborough Dwellings. Full of curiosity, he walked towards the place he called home and watched the police van stop outside it. Its rear door flew open and a number of top-hatted peelers spilled out. He could see that a number carried bulldog pistols.

  Meantime, the fleeing O found that the alley into which he ran, led him into a littered alley running behind shops in Southampton Row. He hastened along it until he found an outlet between two shops that led him into Southampton Row. Leaning against a wall, he recovered his breath. Then he saw a cabstand with a hansom waiting alongside it and he hurried towards it.

  ‘Where to, sir?’ called the cabbie from his high seat. O thought of some crowded place where he might hide himself in a throng until he gathered his wits fully.

  ‘Euston Railway Terminus’, he stipulated. So, Mr. O, the chickaleery bloke, the veritable box of smart tricks, rode away from a venture that had gone badly wrong, leaving the box that he believed contained something of fabulous value lying on the cobbles of a mean street. Still, he told himself, there would be other chances of audacious villainy and he would rise again. He would have to lie low for a time, dodging the police. He was marrying soon and that would mean a change of abode. He would fade away as he had done before, but he would most assuredly be back!

  At Marlborough Dwellings, there was a press of humanity crowding the entrance and a good n
umber of those present were policemen with ready bulldog pistols. Their leader was a heavy set man in a long top coat with frogged braiding across its chest. His choker collar bore the insignia of a street patrol inspector embroidered in silver thread.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he shouted in a stentorian North Country accent. ‘We’re from Southampton Row police station. We heard a couple of shots from this way and somebody said the Fenians had shown up—’ He broke off, seeing a struggling knot of men at one corner of the entrance steps. There, Sadler and Dobbs were trying to manhandle the hapless Ned Grandon away from Septimus Dacers and several others who had come to his aid. Fists were flying energetically. The police inspector waded into the melee, cuffing ears and thumping heads to break up the struggle then he detailed several of his men to watch the participants.

  He recognised Dacers who emerged bruised from the thick of the battle.

  ‘Why, Mr. Dacers! You remember me, Jack Tomlinson? I was with Inspector Twells and yourself in that affair of the Swell Mob and the stolen jewels. What’s the row here? I hear American accents flying around. Are some of these people the ex-American soldiers who’ve come over to make Fenian trouble?’

  ‘I do indeed remember you, Inspector,’ panted Dacers. ‘No, this has nothing to do with the Fenians, but I want this man arrested for attempted murder.’ He indicated Ned Grandon. ‘I’ll give you information later.’

  ‘Sergeant Simpson, put the bracelets on this man and keep a close watch on him and I want everyone involved in this row rounding up,’ stipulated the inspector. ‘Mr. Dacers, if you’re alleging attempted murder, you’ll need to make statements at the station.’

  A constable approached him carrying the wooden box retrieved from the street. ‘Found it outside, sir,’ he reported. ‘It seems someone from here was running away with it.’

  ‘Really?’ rumbled the inspector. ‘Stolen property?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector. It is very much stolen property. It was stolen from someone of great note,’ said a firm female voice accented with the soft touch of the Southern States of America.

  Dacers whirled around and his jaw dropped when he saw Roberta Van Trask pushing her way through the thinning group of people in the entrance hall. The soldierly form of Richard, her father’s coachman hovered behind her.

  She smiled at Dacers but concern showed in her eyes. ‘Mr. Dacers, you’ve been fighting and you seem to have a black eye. Are you all right?’

  Utterly bewildered, Dacers gasped: ‘I’m quite all right. But what are you doing here?’

  ‘I wanted to be involved in the matter you were chasing up, remember? You told me the full address you were going to in order to inquire after Mr. O and I’d be a very poor detective if I couldn’t accurately memorise an address, don’t you think?’ She gave him a heart-warming and sweetly disarming smile. ‘Father doesn’t mind me displaying the Van Trask pioneering spirit of adventure, so I persuaded Richard to bring me here. It seems I missed all the fun.’

  For the first time, he fully took in the cut of her skirt. Shorter than a crinoline, it was spread out and apparently wired only at the sides, where the crinoline had a vast under-framework. It plainly allowed the wearer much more freedom.

  ‘What on earth is that garment?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t you ever read the fashion notes? This is the crinolette, the up-to-the minute successor to the crinoline. It will be exactly the garment to suit our policewoman—when the government comes to its senses and permits such things as policewomen!’

  Inspector Tomlinson’s men had restored quiet to the hallway of Marlborough Dwellings, Sergeant Simpson and a couple of constables guarded the handcuffed Ned Grandon as well as Sadler and Dobbs, Dacers having remarked that their role in England might bear investigation.

  The Inspector held the long wooden box and noted that its brass locks had been damaged probably through the ill usage of being dropped down the stairs or dropped in the street. They looked as if they might easily be opened.

  Roberta approached Tomlinson. ‘I think you’ll find that object belongs to the United States, Inspector,’ she said. ‘My father is on the staff of the embassy in Grosvenor Square and he and Ambassador Adams know all about it.’

  ‘Sorry, Miss. I can’t release it,’ said Tomlinson. ‘It could be evidence and must be taken to the station, but I’ll tell my superiors your embassy might have a claim on it. There’s no reason why it can’t be opened to verify its contents if those locks can be forced.’

  Near the entrance to the building, Sadler, Dobbs and even Grandon strained their necks forward, eager to know what was contained in this box which had figured so dramatically in their lives. Tomlinson, Dacers and Roberta attempted to wrench the lid of the box open. The task proved stubborn until Tomlinson produced a big pocket knife and levered the damaged locks. The lid opened up. Inside, there was a faded length of stoutly woven fabric, wrapped around what was probably a length of pole. The fabric was discoloured, seemingly by exposure to much varied weather and sea spray. A large star on a broad band was plainly visible as part of the flag’s red white and blue design.

  ‘A Confederate flag!’ declared Roberta.

  She found a square of vellum tucked into one side of the folded flag. It bore a legend in neat, professional calligraphy:

  This is the flag of the Confederate States’ commerce raider, ‘Shenandoah’, which never surrendered to the government of the United States at the close of the War Between the States, 1861-1865. The commander and crew, having been preying on United States’ shipping in distant waters, did not know the war was over until six months after its close. Rather than surrender in an American port and face the charges of piracy threatened by the United States’ government, they embarked on an epic voyage to Liverpool by way of Cape Horn, facing many difficulties which were heroically borne and tested their calibre as courageous American seamen. Their ultimate surrender was to the British authorities.

  From where he stood under police guard, Lewis Sadler, sometime sergeant-major in General Edmund Vavasour’s Georgia Crackers, could not help uttering a heartfelt cry at what was revealed by this troublesome box which he and Dobbs had chased across many a mile: ‘My God! A scrap of the old rebel flag—the Unconquered Banner!’

  And Septimus Dacers formed his lips into a tight line, thinking his own thoughts. It was from the unconquered rebel ship Shenandoah, the man calling himself ‘Mr. Fortune’, founder and cunning criminal brain of the Dixie Ghosts, had slipped ashore at Liverpool to work mischief.

  CHAPTER 14

  SYMBOLS

  Dacers, spruced up and looking like a man intent on a vital course of action in spite of sporting a black eye, presented himself at the front door of Theodore Van Trask’s home yet again. The butler, Frederick, opened the door and made no attempt to hide his smile on seeing Dacers.

  ‘Miss Roberta will definitely see you, sir.’ He intoned. His usual stone face melted into an un-butler-like grin when he noted the black eye. Dacers entered rather nervously, seeming to have something on his mind.

  It was the morning after the showdown at Marlborough Dwellings. Dacers had spent the previous evening at Southampton Row police station with Inspector Jack Tomlinson, his superiors and Sadler and Dobbs. Ned Grandon, as one due to face criminal charges, was held in a cell. Dacers made a Statement concerning Grandon’s shooting attempt and, from Sadler and Dobbs, came the full story of their orders from General Vavasour to seek the box—for which he had an almost religious obsession. They told of their task of rallying support among surviving Southern supporters in Europe for his high-flown dream of returning Georgia into British hands. Possession of the flag of the Shenandoah, was simply a symptom of the old man’s desire for a symbolic relic of his dream of the unconquered banner. Whatever happened to his beloved Georgia in future, it should never be forgotten that Georgians once stood together under the rebel colours and made enormous sacrifices fo
r what they called freedom. It was Vavasour’s hope that at some time, in the future in the new Georgia he hoped to create, the Shenandoah’s unconquered banner would be given a place of honour.

  At the close of the interviews, the chief superintendent in charge, stroked his ample beard and indicated Sadler and Dobbs. ‘I can’t see that these men are answerable to any of our laws. Of course, they pursued this box thing which we know to have been stolen but they never found it, so they can’t be accused of handling stolen property. They seem only to have followed an illogical dream, but that is no crime. People the world over do that every day. Matters don’t rest with me, of course. This is the sort of thing that will be settled by people higher than myself.’

  Roberta received Dacers in the familiar ante-room and she, too noted his unusual nervous demeanour. She ordered tea for both of them and listened intently as he told her of the proceedings at the police station.

  At the end, she laughed. ‘Poor Mr. Dacers—was there never any mention of prosecuting whoever gave you that beautiful black eye? But I have news for you. My father told me that, early this morning, a government messenger brought word to Mr. Adams that the two men from Georgia will not be proceeded against but they are not here to do any good, so they will be deported. The third man will be charged with the attempted murder of yourself. And the flag affair has been settled. It was found to be historic property of the United States and will be given into Mr. Adams’ keeping. Father told me that Mr. Adams will exercise his discretion and return it to its owner in Birkenhead who, as you know, is an American honoured by both North and South and, indeed, by the whole world.’

  She paused, smiled enigmatically and said with some feeling: ‘That flag and its box were mere symbols. In fact, this whole affair seems to have been about symbols but then, maybe that was fitting. Symbols and gestures turn up throughout the whole of our Civil War. A young officer of a volunteer regiment who has never yet heard an angry shot rushes off to the photographer in his new uniform and has likeness taken as he poses with his hand thrust into the breast of his tunic like Napoleon. A symbol of his determination to make history on the battlefield. A youthful soldier falls face down in action and pleads with his comrades to lift him and turn him about so his family will know he died facing the enemy. Symbols and gestures, Mr. Dacers. Do they really have any worth?’