Chapter 13
I’ve been wounded several times, all of them damned painful, but you may take my word for it that a ball in the bum is the worst. By the time that ham-fisted sawbones had hauled it out I was weak and weeping, and my immediate recuperation wasn’t eased by the fact that Judge Payne and Lincoln agreed that Cassy and I must be spirited out of the house without delay, in case Buck and his friends returned with an officer and a warrant. With two men to support me and my buttocks in a sling I was helped about half a mile to another establishment, where I gathered the folk were red-hot abolitionists, and put to bed face down.
Of course I had already given a rough account of what had happened, in answer to the questions they fired at me after Buck had gone. The Judge wasn’t concerned with anything but the events of the last few hours, and was full of praise for my daring and endurance, while his wife, the ugly little woman, and the other females made much of Cassy, and called her a poor dear, and clucked over her cuts and bruises. They were all stout anti-slavers, of course, as I’d guessed they would be, and would you believe it, while that blasted doctor was probing and muttering over my bottom, the women downstairs actually sang “Now Israel may say and that truly”, with harmonium accompaniment. This to celebrate what Judge Payne called our deliverance, and the others cried “Amen”, and were furious in their wrath against these vile slave-traffickers who hounded poor innocents with dogs and guns—“and she such a sweet and refined young thing—oh, my land, the pity of her poor bruised limbs.” You ought to see her with a knife sometime, thinks I, or stripping for the buyers. And for me they had nothing but blessings and commiseration for my torn arse, which the Judge called an honourable scar, taken in the defence of liberty. Lincoln stood in the background, watching under his brows.
But when they had taken us to the new house, and I had been tucked up in bed, he came along, very patient, and begged our hosts for a little time alone with me.
“I’m afraid the good people of Portsmouth will have to do without me this evening,” says he. “They might find my presence in public somewhat embarrassing. Anyway, one successful speech in a day is quite enough.” So they left us, and he sat down beside the bed, with his tall hat between his feet.
“Now, sir,” says he, pointing that formidable head of his at me, “may I hear from you at some length? I last parted from a respectable British naval officer in Washington; tonight I meet a wounded fugitive running an escaped slave across the Ohio. I’m not only curious, you understand—I’m also a legislator of my country,41 a maker and guardian of its laws which, on your behalf, I suspect I have broken fairly comprehensively this night. I feel I’m entitled to an explanation. Pray begin, Mr Comber.”
So I did. There was no point in lying, much; I hadn’t time for invention, anyway, and he would have seen through it. So from New Orleans on I told him the truth—Crixus, my escape with Randolph, what happened on the steamboat, the Mandevilles, the slave cart and Cassy, Memphis, and our eventual flight. I kept out the spicy bits, of course, and Mandeville’s barbarous treatment of me I explained by pretending that Omohundro had turned up at Greystones with searchers and identified me—that was how they treated underground railroad men in the south, I said. He listened attentively, saying nothing, the bright eyes never leaving my face. When I had finished he sat silent a long while, studying. Then he said:
“Well,” and then a long pause. “That’s quite a story.” Another pause. “Yes, sir, that is quite a story.” He coughed. “Haven’t heard anything to touch it since last time I was in the Liberal Club. There’s—nothing you wish to add to it—at all? No detail you may have, uh, overlooked?”
“That is all, sir,” says I, wondering.
“I see. I see. No, no, I just thought—oh, a balloon flight over Arkansas, or perhaps an encounter with pirates and alligators in the bayous of Louisiana—you know—”
I demanded, did he not believe me?
“On the contrary, I don’t doubt it for a moment—more or less, anyway. No, I believe you, sir—my expressions of astonishment are really a tribute to you. In America, as in most other places, it’s only the truth that we find hard to believe. No—it’s not what you’ve told me, but what you haven’t told me that I find downright fascinating. However, I shan’t press you. I would hate to force you off the path of veracity—”
“If you doubt me,” says I stiffly, “you may ask the girl Cassy.”
“I already have, and she confirms a great part of your story. Remarkable young woman, that; she has much character.” He cracked his knuckles thoughtfully. “Very beautiful, too; very beautiful. Had you noticed? Yes, I guess the Queen of Sheba must have looked something—‘black but comely’, wasn’t it? However—I was also going to add that your narrative of Randolph fits very well with what I read in the papers about his escape from the steamboat—”
“His escape?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. He turned up, in Vermont of all places, about two weeks ago, and is now in Canada, I understand. The liberal sheets were full of his exploits.” He smiled. “I don’t hold it against you that there was no mention of you in his very full relation. No mention of anyone, much, except George Randolph. But from all I’ve heard of him, that is consistent. Extraordinary fellow, he must be. He should be grateful to you, though—up to a point, at least.”
“I doubt it,” says I.
“Is that so? Well, well, I’ve no doubt you’ve noticed that even when gratitude costs nothing, folks are often reluctant to show it. They’ll even pay hard money to avoid giving it where it’s due. Strange, but human, I suppose.” He was silent a moment. “You’re sure there’s nothing further you wish to tell me, Mr Comber?”
“Why, no, sir,” says I. “I can think of nothing—”
“I doubt that very much,” says he, drily. “I really and truly do—you’ve never seen the day when you couldn’t think of something. But do you know what I think, Mr Comber—speaking plain, as man to man? I look at you, fine bluff British figurehead, well-spoken, easy, frank, splendid whiskers—and I can’t help remembering the story they tell in Illinois about the honest Southern gentleman—you ever hear that one?”
I said I hadn’t.
“Well, what they say about the honest Southern gentleman—he never stole the Mississippi river. No, don’t take any offence. It’s as I said in Washington—I don’t know about you, except what my slight knowledge of humanity tells me, which is that you’re a rascal. But again, I don’t know. The trouble with people like you—and me, I guess—is that nobody ever finds us out. Just as well, maybe. But it lays a burden on us—we don’t meet with regular punishments and penalties for our misdeeds, which will make it all the harder for us to achieve salvation in the long run.” He frowned at the carpet. “Anyway, I’m a lawyer, not a judge. I don’t really believe that I want to know all about you. It’s enough for me that you brought that girl across the Ohio river today. I don’t know why, for what reason, or out of what strange chance. It’s sufficient that she’s here, and will never wear chains again.”
Well, since that was what counted most with him, I was all for it; his talk about suspecting me for a rascal had been downright unnerving. It seemed a good time to butter him a bit.
“Sir,” says I eagerly, “all my efforts on that poor unfortunate girl’s behalf, the hardships of the flight, the desperate stratagems to which I was forced, the wound taken in her defence—wound, did I say? Scratch, rather—why, all these things would have been without avail had you not championed us in our hour of direst need. That, sir, was the act of a Christian hero, of a sublime spirit, if I may say so.”
He stood looking at me, with his head cocked on one side.
“I must have been mad,” says he. “Mind you, I quite enjoyed it there, for a moment—” he laughed uncertainly—“at least, now that it’s over, I think I did. Do you realise what I allowed myself to do? You, sir, are in a way to being as highly successful a slave-stealer as ever I heard of—at least, Arnold Fitzroy Prescott
or whatever his name is—he’s one. He’s also an accessory to two murders—that’s what they’d call it, although I’d say it was moral self-defence, myself. But a Southern jury certainly wouldn’t agree. In the eyes of the law you’re a deep-dyed criminal, Mr Comber—and I, the junior Congressman from Illinois, a pillar of the community, a trusted legislator, a former holder of the United States commission, a God-fearing, respected citizen—it’s all there in my election address, and the people believed it, so it must be true—I allowed myself, in a moment of derangement, moved by pity for that girl Cassy’s distress—I allowed myself, sir, to aid and abet you. God knows what the penalty is in Ohio for harbouring runaway slaves, assisting slave-stealers, resisting a warranted slave-catcher, and offering to disturb the peace by assault and battery, but whatever it is, I’m not in a hurry to answer for it, I can tell you.”
He scratched his head ruefully and began to fidget about the room, twitching at the curtains and tapping the furniture with his foot, his head sunk on his chest.
“Not that I regret it, you understand. I’ld do it again, and again, and again, in spite of the law. Fine thing for a lawyer—humph! But there’s a higher thing than the law, and it belongs in the conscience, and it says that evils such as slavery must be fought until the dragon is dead. And in that cause I hope I’ll never stand back.” He stopped, frowning. “Also, if there’s one thing can get my dander good and high, it’s a big-mouthed Kentuckian hill rooster with his belly over his britches and a sass-me-and-see-what-happens look in his eye. Yes, sir, big-chested bravos like our friend Buck Robinson seem to bring out the worst in me. Still—I don’t imagine we’ll hear much more from his direction, and if we do, Judge Payne is fortunately a man of considerable influence—or Mrs Payne is, I’m never sure which—and by the time the good judge has come out from under the bedclothes and scrambled into his dignity again, I don’t think I’ll have much to fret over. Anyway, I can look after myself and lose no sleep. But you, Mr Comber, would be better a long way from here, and as quickly as may be.”
Now he was talking most excellent sense; I twisted round from my prone position to cry agreement, and gave my backside a nasty twinge.
“Indeed, sir,” says I. “The sooner I can reach England—”
“I wasn’t thinking of quite so far as that; not just yet awhile. I know you’re all on fire to get home, which is why you say you slipped away in New Orleans in the first place. Pity you allowed yourself to be … uh … distracted along the way. However, since you did, and have broken federal laws in the process, it puts a different complexion on things. For me, you could go home now, but it’s not that simple. The way I see it, my government—my country—needs you; they still want you down in New Orleans to give evidence against the crew of—the Balliol College, wasn’t it? Your testimony, as I understand it, can put those gentlemen where they belong—”
“But, Mr Lincoln, there is evidence enough against them without me,” I cried, all a-sweat again.
“Well, perhaps there may be, but a little more won’t hurt, if it makes certain of them. After all, that was why you sailed with them, why you risked your hide as an agent, wasn’t it?” He was smiling down at me. “To bring them to book, to strike another blow against the slave trade?”
“Oh, of course, to be sure, but … well … er …”
“You’re perhaps reluctant to go back to New Orleans because you feel it may be unsafe for you, after … recent events?”
“Exactly! You’re absolutely right, sir …”
“Have no fear of that,” says he. “No one is going to connect the eminently respectable Lieutenant Comber, R.N., with all those goings on far away up the river. That was the work of some scoundrel called Arnold FitzPrescott or Prescott FitzArnold or someone. And if anyone did connect them, I can assure you there would be no lack of influence working on your behalf to keep you out of trouble—there are enough sympathetic ears in high places in the federal government to see to that at need. Provided, of course, that you are doing your duty by that same government—and, incidentally, by your own.”
By George, this was desperate; I had to talk him out of it somehow, without raising more suspicions of me than he had already.
“Even so, Mr Lincoln, I’m sure it would be best if I could proceed home directly. The case against the Balliol College can surely be provided without my help.”
“Well, I daresay, but that’s not the point any longer. This is quite a delicate situation, you know. See here: I’ve stood up for you tonight—and for that girl—helped you both to break my country’s laws, and broken ’em myself, in a just, fine cause which I believe to be in my country’s true interest. And if it ever got out—which I pray to the Lord it won’t—there is enough anti-slavery sentiment in our federal government to ensure that it would all be winked at, and no more said. But they’re not going to wink if I, a Congressman, help a witness in an important case to avoid his duty. That’s why I’m bound to send you back to Orleans. Believe me, you have nothing to fear there—you can say your piece in the witness box, and then go home as fast as my distant influence and that of grateful friends will send you.”
Aye, and wait till the Balliol College scoundrels denounce me as Flashman, their fellow-slaver, posing as a dead man, thinks I; we’ll see how much influence is exerted on my behalf then. I made a last effort.
“Mr Lincoln,” says I, “believe me that nothing would give me more satisfaction than to accede to your request—”
“Capital,” says he, “because that’s what you’re going to do.” He regarded me quizzically. “Why you should be reluctant beats me—I begin to wonder if there’s an outraged husband waiting for you in Orleans, or something of that order. If so, tell him to go to blazes—I daresay you’ve done that before.”
There was one I could cheerfully have consigned to blazes, as I lay there going hot and cold, chewing my nether lip. I have damnable luck, truly—how many poor devils have had to try and wriggle clear in arguments with folk like Lincoln and Bismarck? He had me with my short hairs fast in the mangle, and I daren’t protest any longer. What the devil was I to say, with those dark caverns of eyes smiling down at me?
“I doubt if it’s anything as simple as an outraged husband, though,” says he. “However, you don’t choose to tell me, and I don’t choose to press you. I owe you that much, on behalf of Randolph and the girl Cassy—in return you owe it to me to go to Orleans.” He stood beside the bed, that odd quirk to his mouth, watching me. “Come, Mr Comber, it isn’t very much, after all—and it’s in the cause dear to your heart, remember.”
There was nothing else for it, and I tried to keep the despair out of my voice as I agreed.
“So that’s settled,” says he cheerily. “You can go south again, but by a safe eastern route. I’ll speak to Judge Payne, and see that a hint reaches Governor Bebb. We’ll arrange for a U.S. marshal to accompany you. You’ll be safe that way, and you won’t run the risk of straying again.” He was positively benign, the long villain; I could have sworn he was enjoying himself. “The trouble with you jolly tars is you don’t seem to find your way on land any too well.”
He talked a little more, and then picked up his hat, shook hands, and went over to the door.
“Good luck in New Orleans, Mr Comber—or whatever your name is. In the unlikely event that we ever meet again, try and find out for me what club-hauling is, won’t you?” He pulled on his gloves. “And God bless you for what you did for that girl.”
It was some consolation to think that I’d fooled Mr Lincoln some of the time, at least; he believed I had a spark of decency, apparently. So I thought it best to respond with a few modest and manly phrases about saving an innocent soul from bondage, but he interrupted me with his hand on the door.
“Keep it for the recording angel,” says he. “I’ve a feeling you’re going to need it.”
And then he was gone, and I was not to see him again until that fateful night fifteen years later when, as President of the Unit
ed States, he bribed and coerced me into ruining my military reputation (which mattered something) and risking my neck (which mattered a great deal) in order to save his Union from disaster (which didn’t matter at all—not to me, anyway). But that’s another tale, for another day.
That night in Portsmouth he left me in a fine frustrated fury. After all my struggling and running and ingenuity, I was going to be shipped back to New Orleans—and inevitably a prison cell, or worse. I couldn’t even run any more, what with my behind laid open, and there would be a marshal to see that I got safe into the clutches of the American Navy, too. By George, I was angry; I could have broken Lincoln’s long neck for him. You’d have thought, after all I’d done for his precious abolitionist cause—albeit against my will and better judgment—that he’d have had the decency to let me go my ways, and given me a pound or two out of the poor box to boot. But politicians are all the same; there’s no trusting them whatever, not only because they’re knaves, but because they’re even more inconsistent than women. Selfish brutes, too.
At least, though, I was still alive, and fairly full of sin and impudence, when I might easily have been dead or chained on an Alabama plantation, or rotting at the bottom of the Mississippi or the Ohio. For the future, although it looked pretty horrid, I would just have to wait and see, and take my chance—if it came.
I was allowed up next day, and sat in state on the edge of a chair, with my wounded cheek over the edge, and various people came to see me—abolitionists, of course, who wanted to shake the hero’s hand, and in the case of the older ladies of the community, to kiss his weathered brow. They came secretly, because like all towns thereabouts Portsmouth was split between pro-slavers and abolitionists, and my whereabouts was known only to a safe few. They brought me gingerbread and good wishes, and one of them said I was a saint; normally I’d have basked in it, as I’d done on other occasions, but the thought of Orleans took the fun out of it.
One of my visitors I even assailed with a thrown boot; he was a small boy, I suspect a child of the house, who came in when I was alone and asked: “Is it right you got shot up the ass, mister? Say, can I see?” I missed him, unfortunately.
Flashman Papers Omnibus Page 165
