It had happened in split seconds, one moment peaceful parley, the next carbines and revolvers booming in the confined space, the hostages diving for cover, Jerry yelling: “No, no, we surrender!”, the doors shuddering to the blows of sledge-hammers wielded by the leading Marines, a great roaring and cheering without and shouts of defiance within mingling with the crash of shots and splintering of timbers, black powder smoke filling the engine-house in a stifling cloud – and Flashy scrambling away as fast as his game leg would take him, intent on rounding the engines to take cover among the hostages. I didn’t get even halfway.
There was a rending crash behind me, and as I clung to the nearer engine for support I saw that a bottom section of the battered door was caving in: the planks were starting asunder, and through the narrow gaps could be seen glimpses of the attackers. J.B. had stepped away to reload his carbine, Joe had his back to the door, stretching sideways to shoot through a ragged hole in the wood, and suddenly he screamed like a wounded horse and staggered away from the door, clutching his left arm: behind him a bloody bayonet point was jutting through the planks.
“Stand firm, men!” bawls J.B. “Sell your lives dearly!”
He ran to the shattered section of the door, stooping to shove his Sharps through the opening, and firing: either side of him the two boys, Coppoc and Thompson, were shooting through the gaps point-blank at the Marines heaving at the outside of the door. Joe had half-fallen a couple of yards behind J.B.: he came up on one knee, his black face demonically contorted with rage and pain, mouthing curses that were lost in the uproar. J.B. turned and shouted, gesturing to him to come on.
“Courage, Joe! Don’t give in now!”
I can’t explain what followed, though I’ve had more than half a century to think about it. I can only tell you that Joe let out a terrible anguished cry and levelled his pistol at J.B. The old man was turned away, revolver in one hand and carbine in t’other, shooting through the half-wrecked door, when Joe squeezed the trigger – and his piece misfired. He screamed wordlessly, and I can only think that all the fury he felt at J.B.’s failure – betrayal, I’d heard him call it – had welled up at the last when death was staring him in the face, and he was venting it on the old fellow in a fit of blind anger, as a passionate child will strike out at a parent. That I can accept – what I cannot explain is what happened in the next second, when Joe thumbed back the hammer for a second shot, and I put two bullets in his back.
I can’t pretend I was consciously trying to save J.B. Why should I, when I’d no thought for any life but my own, and God knows I owed him nothing? I drew, and fired, as instinctively as you throw up a hand to ward an unexpected blow. Dick Burton, who fancies himself a psychologist, says I gave way to a primitive impulse of race-survival, and killed Joe because he was black and J.B. was white – would I have shot Kagi or Stevens if they’d been in Joe’s place, grins clever Dick. Likely not … but snooks to you, Burton, I’d not have shot Mrs Popplewell or Ketshwayo, either, because I quite liked them, you see, and Kagi and Stevens, while I detested Joe. So perhaps it comes to this, that deep down, for all the harm and horror he did me, I must have quite liked old J.B. – well enough, at any rate, not to have him shot by that black son-of-a-bitch if I could help it.
Anyway, I settled Joe, and he went down like a riven oak, his pistol exploding into the floor as he fell, and at that moment the bottom of the door gave way with a tremendous rending of timber, and through it like a ferret from its hole came the little Marine officer, flourishing his sword. He plunged straight past J.B., I threw myself aside, and he darted round the engines, yelling to the hostages to stand clear. Washington sang out: “There’s old Ossawatomie!” pointing over the engine to J.B., who was standing erect before the doorway, throwing lead for all he was worth as the Marines came bursting and yelling through the shattered wreckage of the door, their bayonets at the present.
I believe he downed two of them, for I saw one reel away clutching his face, with blood running through his fingers, and another pitched headlong at his feet, and then the little officer was on him like a wild-cat, thrusting at his body. J.B. tumbled forward, and as the officer hacked at his head I saw that the blade was bent at right-angles; he hammered away at the old fellow’s skull, and all around was screaming, struggling confusion as the Leathernecks came surging in, bayonetting everything in sight. Jerry Anderson was skewered to the floor, shrieking horribly, as he tried to dive beneath an engine, young Thompson was flung bodily against the back wall and pinned, kicking like a beetle, by several blades, someone was bellowing “Quarter, quarter, we surrender!”, everywhere were snarling faces, glittering steel, swirling smoke – but never a shot now, for the last of our people was down or overpowered, and the Marines had been ordered not to fire; one of them, a red-faced corporal, glaring like a madman and roaring inarticulately, came lunging out of the press of struggling men, his bayonet driving at me, and as I threw myself back the little officer thrust him aside shouting “Not him! Prisoner!”, and I echoed him, bellowing “Not me! I’m a hostage!” The corporal fairly howled with disappointment, but kept his point to my breast as I struggled into the corner, my hands raised, and as I sat there trembling there was a long, bubbling scream from above, and Thompson’s body, streaming blood, slid down the wall beside me and collapsed across my legs. He was still alive, for I felt him give a convulsive shudder; then he was still, and as he died, so did the shouting and confusion. The Harper’s Ferry raid was over.
I reckon about two minutes had passed since Stuart jumped aside at the doorway, and in that brief terrible scrimmage four men had died, which was fewer than I’d have guessed as I gazed in horror at the shambles. There was blood everywhere, spattering the walls and soaking the straw, and more bodies strewn on the floor than there were men standing up, or so it seemed. A Marine was slumped against the post of the now-open door ahead of me, clasping a hand to his wounded face; another lay still across the threshold. J.B. was lying face down, his white head horribly dabbled, and beside him Joe was on his back, his pistol in his hand. The bodies of Oliver, Watson, and Taylor lay close by, Jerry Anderson was twitching in death beneath the engine, and Thompson, his girl’s face slack and ugly under the blond curls, lay lifeless on my legs until the Marine corporal rolled him clear.
The only unwounded raiders seemed to be Emperor Green, who was crouched wailing against the wall (he was the one who’d told Douglass he’d “go wid de ole man”, more fool he), and young Ed Coppoc, who was looking pretty cool, considering that four Leathernecks were standing over them with bayonets poised. The officer was shepherding the hostages out through the other door, which had been unbarred, and an almighty cheer went up from the crowds outside as they passed into the open air.
There was a time when I’d have lain shivering from shock after such an ordeal: I might even have wept (from reaction, not grief, you understand) at the carnage around me. But as I sprawled exhausted in that engine-house, watching the Marines making short work of heaving the bodies and wounded away, I felt nothing but a huge blissful weariness and a growing exultation – the nightmare that had begun at the Cape, when I heard Spring’s tread on the deck overhead, was surely past and done with now; the frantic days and nights when Crixus and Atropos and the damned Yankee bogies had plunged me into this mad business, the long months of weariness while J.B. mismanaged his preparations, the terror of the raid and this final horror in the engine-house – I was here, safe and whole, with nothing but two paltry scratches that did no more than ache, coated with blood and filth to be sure, but who minds that when you see before your eyes what might have been … young, handsome Oliver of the merry laugh; brash, eager Jerry Anderson; poor daft Taylor gone to explore his spirit world; Dauphin Thompson, who had blushed like a maiden if you so much as asked him the time – all being dragged out by the heels to lie in the mud under blankets. Bad luck, lads, but sooner you than me.
J.B. and Watson were still alive, so they carried them away on stretchers; the old man
’s hair was stiff with dried blood, and one hand dangled from the stretcher like a skinny brown claw. Then they marched out the two prisoners, which left me and the corporal and the late Joe Simmons. I made shift to rise, but the Leatherneck growled to me to stay put, those were his orders. I didn’t mind lying there, holding my private little thanksgiving service and listening to the distant murmur of the mob outside, and after a while Marines came at the double, placing lanterns on the engines, shrouding the broken windows and loopholes, heaving the wrecked door into place, and closing it behind the little officer and a tall civilian in a tile hat and frock: Messervy, surveying the ruin impassively, prodding at Joe’s corpse with his walking stick, and then picking his way carefully through the bloody straw to where I lay.
He looked down at me, stroking his moustache with a gloved finger, the long-jawed Yankee Corinthian as ever was, and just the sight of him, looking so cool and civilised, cheered me up even further.
“Well, well,” says he. “How are you?”
I couldn’t be bothered to think of a smart answer, so I said pretty fair. He asked if I was wounded, and when I told him, he sighed, removed his hat and gloves, looked for a place to put them, declined the corporal’s offer to hold them, and finally set them down on the engine. Then he stooped to examine my neck and knee.
“Nothing that soap and water won’t cure,” says he. “Mr Green, would you be good enough to bring them yourself, with bandages, a towel, some spirits, and a Marine cloak and cap.” He rose, smoothing his coat, and resumed his hat and gloves.
“Now, I want a Marine guard round this building. No one to be allowed closer than twenty yards. That,” he indicated Joe’s body, “is to be removed after dark, and buried away from the town, and the burial party are then to forget all about it. This gentleman,” he turned to me, “never existed. You’ll not mention him, and if questions are asked by anyone, you never heard of him. Is that clear?” Green nodded, looking keen. “Corporal, you understand?”
“What gen’leman are you referrin’ to, sir?” asks the Leatherneck, staring to his front. Messervy gave a faint smile.
“I beg your pardon. I should have said sergeant … shouldn’t I, Mr Green?”
“Yes, sir!” beams Green. “I’ll see to it.”
“Capital. Now, I’ll be leaving here presently with someone in a Marine coat and cap. We are to be ignored, and I trust by that time you will have dispersed any gaping sight-seers. The soap and water now, if you please.”
They were all I needed to complete my restoration, and when Green had brought them and left us alone, I sluiced away the filth with a will; I felt as though I was cleansing myself of Harper’s Ferry, and John Brown, and the whole disgusting business. The wounds looked clean enough, and when I’d clapped on the dressings Messervy helped me with the bandages, talking to the point, as usual.
“Brown is not only alive, but surprisingly well, and damned talkative – which, as you know, is the last thing we wanted. The old brute must be made of leather. Run through the kidneys, the doctor tells me, and has lost any amount of blood, though you’d not know it to hear him. Conversing like a politician, which I suspect he is.” He knotted my neck bandage and stepped back. “Pity you didn’t shoot him. ’Twould have saved a few lives today … and who knows how many hereafter?”
“Well, mine wouldn’t have been one of ’em,” says I. “Not with Joe crowding me in that doorway.”
“Ah, yes, Joe.” He glanced at the body. “Your work, I take it … the Marines had orders not to shoot. Settling a score, were you?”
“Accident. He got in the way when I was sighting on Brown.” Why shouldn’t I get credit by pretending I’d tried to do Messervy’s dirty work for him? “Since you were so all-fired eager to have Brown dead, why didn’t you get the Marines to do it when they stormed this place? Or have someone shoot him yesterday – hang it, he was walking around town large as life? Why don’t you slip something in his dinner now? And don’t tell me it ain’t your style!”
“Unofficial death warrants have a habit of recoiling,” says he coolly. “My countrymen have one great failing – they talk too much.”
“Aye – so you shanghai some poor bloody foreigner to do the job! Well, I didn’t have the ghost of a chance, until today … and I’ll tell you, Messervy, I ain’t apologising! I served your turn because that damned little squirt Seward put a pistol to my head … but why the hell should I murder for you? Tell me that!”
He shrugged, leaning against the engine and stirring the straw with his cane. “It would have been convenient. Now … the law must take its course, and God only knows where that will lead. Still, that’s not your affair. I guess you did what you could to keep Brown out of Virginia –”
“You’re damned right! A pity your own people didn’t do as much! I still can’t fathom it – you knew what he intended, where he was, who his backers were, what men and money he had – confound it, you knew the very bloody place – here! Why in God’s name didn’t you stop him?”
“You and I tried,” says he. “But we ain’t politicians. What did you call us – government ruffians?” He wrinkled his fine nose, and became business-like. “That’s neither here nor there. The sooner you’re out of this, the better –”
“Hurrah for that! Lord Lyons –”
“He don’t want to see you. Yes, there’s been a word in his ear, from the very highest quarter – and warm in your praise it has been, too. But he agrees with us that there’s no useful purpose to be served by prolonging your presence in this country a moment longer than need be –”
“Sensible chap! When do I leave?”
“You catch the Baltimore train tonight, from the station over the way. It’s a train you’re probably familiar with,” says he drily, “since your friend Brown held it up two nights ago. It is now running normally. At Baltimore, there’s a berth already reserved for you on a packet sailing for Liverpool tomorrow. It’s paid for, and this –” he handed me an envelope “– is three hundred dollars to cover expenses en route … for which I’d like a signed receipt, in the name of Comber, I suggest.”
I’ll say this for the Americans, they waste no time. Why, by tomorrow night I’d be at sea, with all this horror behind me – a couple of weeks, and I’d be in England! Home, with Elspeth, and my Indian honours thick upon me, and “warm praise” conveyed by diplomatic channels … it was too good to be true, and standing there in that beastly blood-stained shed, with the reek of powder smoke and the stench of death, I felt the tears start to my eyes and absolutely had to turn away. Messervy brought me back to earth.
“I’ve arranged quarters here where you can wait unobserved until the train comes in tonight. Go straight aboard, keep to your cabin until you reach Baltimore, then take a cab directly to the dock and the ship – all your tickets and directions are in the envelope with the money. In the meantime you can shave off your beard, and I’ll furnish you with some decent clothes. Keep your collar up and your hat down. No sense in taking risks.”
That’s a word that always makes me raise an eyebrow; what risk, I asked, and received one of his ironic looks.
“Well, now, I don’t suppose you’d want to run into anyone from the Underground Railroad or the Kuklos on the street, would you? Not that you haven’t served their turn admirably – John Brown has run his raid, which is what they both wanted, and while Crixus will go into deep mourning when he learns the result, I’d say Atropos will be drinking your health with three times three. Still, better not to renew their acquaintance, don’t you think?”
At the mention of their names I’d started like the dear gazelle. I hadn’t given them a thought since the raid began, but now …
“I’ll telegraph to have someone keep an eye open in Baltimore, anyway,” he reassured me. “Those Kuklos operators are still in the Tombs, by the way, and if Atropos set other men to watch you … what of it?” He shrugged. “He certainly has no reason to wish you harm, after this splendid debacle. He doesn’t know about th
at …” he pointed his cane at Joe’s body “… and he never will. No, right now he’ll be congratulating himself on five thousand dollars well spent –”
“He can keep it for me!” says I, and meant it. “You’re right, though … why, he’ll think I’ve done him proud!”
“Which you have,” says he drily. “Prouder than you did Crixus, or the U.S. Government. Not that your efforts aren’t appreciated.” He was peering through a crack in the makeshift door. “I think we might venture out now … the citizens seem to have lost interest in the sight of Marines guarding a dilapidated fire-house, though I dare say the souvenir seekers will be stripping it bare shortly. What, you don’t care to take a brick as a memento …?”58
There were still a number of folk idling beyond the armoury gates, staring hopefully through the railings, but our way led into the armoury proper, where Messervy had commandeered an office, guarded by two beefy civilians in hard hats. One of them brought me an enormous fry from the Wager House, with a jug of coffee – and I smiled to think what the little waiter would have said if he’d known who the customer was. From that I turned inevitably to fond memories of the generous Mrs Popplewell – gad, she’d been an unexpected windfall, splendidly equipped, if you like abundance, which I must say I do after a long abstinence. Resourceful lass, too, finding me a bolt-hole – and loyal, the way she’d answered back those ruffians who’d been threatening her. Aye, she’d served her turn, in more ways than one, bless her black bounties.
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