Flash For Freedom! fp-3

by George MacDonald Fraser

  I didn't like to think what that would be, knowing Madame Annette, but since she seemed so unconcerned I saw no reason why I should fret, and consequently grew careless. I had been in the habit of opening one of her bedroom windows, so that we might hear if anyone approached the house from the road, but on the third day I forgot, so that we never heard the pad of hooves across the turf.

  We had just finished a bout; Annette was lying face down on the bed, silent and sullen as usual, and I was trying to win some Warmth out of her with my gay chat, and also by biting her on the buttocks. Suddenly she stiffened under me, and in the same instant feet were striding up the corridor towards the room, Mandeville's voice was shouting:

  "Annie! Hullo, Annie honey, I'm home! I've brought —" and then the door was flung open and there he stood, the big grin on his red face changing to a stare of horror. My mouth was still open as I gazed across her rump, terror-stricken.

  "My God!" he cries, "Betrayed!"

  Well, I'd heard the same sort of exclamation before, and I've heard it since, and there's no doubt it's unnerving. But I doubt if there's a man living who can move faster with his pants round his ankles than I can; I was off that bed and diving for the window before the last word had left his lips, and had the sash half up before I remembered it was a cool twenty-foot drop to the ground. I turned like a cornered rat just as he came for me, swinging his horse-whip and bawling with rage; I ducked the cut and slipped past him to the door, stumbing on the threshold. I glanced back in panic, but he was heading straight on for the bed, yelling:

  "Filthy strumpet!" and raising his whip again, but Annette, who had sprung up into a kneeling position, just snapped:

  "Don't you dare touch me! Drop that whip!"

  And he did. He fell back before that tiny, naked figure, mouthing, and then he turned and hurled himself at me, with a face of apoplexy. I was afoot again by this time, dragging up my breeches and baring for the landing, and then a man's figure loomed up at the head of the stair. I heard Mandeville shout: "Stop him!" and although I tried to dodge the upraised riding crop I wasn't quick enough. Something smashed against my forehead, knocking me backwards; the white ceiling spun dizzily above me, and then I was falling into nothing.

  I can't have been unconscious more than a few minutes, but when I came to my own leather belt was round my wrists, blood was caking one of my eye-lids, and there was an unholy pain in my brow. I was lying at the foot of the staircase, and a man was hestriding me, one of his booted feet planted on my ankle. There was a tremendous hubbub of voices, with Mandeville yelling blue murder and others trying to quieten him. I turned my head; two or three men were holding him back, and when he saw me conscious be waved his arms and shouted:

  "You slimy bastard! You stinkin' hound! I'll have your heart's blood for this! I'll crucify you! Let me at him, boys, an' I'll tear his dirty innards out!"

  They struggled with him, and one of them sings out:

  "Get that feller outa here, Luke — quick now! afore he gits done a mischief! Damn ye, Mandevile, won't ye hold still!"

  "I'll murder him! I'll butcher him 'sif he was a hog! Oh, turn me loose, boys! He's dishonoured me! He's bin an' tried to ravish my wife, my dear Annie, pore defenceless little critter! You got to let me at him!"

  The man above me chuckled, leaned down and grabbed me by the waistband, and with surprising strength dragged me across the hall and threw me bodily through a doorway. Then he stepped into the room, shut the door, and growled:

  "Now you just lie there easy, friend, or it'll be the worse fer you."

  He had a whip in one hand, and I guessed he was the fellow who had hit me. He was a tall, rangy chap, with a heavy moustache and bright grey eyes which surveyed me sardonically as he went on:

  "Layin' still oughtn't to be no hardship fer you; I reckon you're a right smart hand at layin'. Mandeville seems to think so, anyways." And he nodded to the door, beyond which we could hear Mandeville still roaring.

  I was getting my wits back, and they told me that this fellow wasn't unfriendly.

  "For heaven's sake, sir!" I cried. "Cut me loose! I can explain, I promise you! Mandevile is mistaken, believe —"

  "Well, now, I reckon he is. Leastways, 'bout his little lady gittin' ravished. I seen her, an' a less ravished-lookin' female I never clapped eyes on. Say, ain't she a sight when she's nekkid, though; mighty trim little tail." He laughed, and leaned down towards me. "Tell me, friend — what she like in the hay? I often fancied —"

  "Cut me free! I assure you I can explain —"

  "Well, can ye now? I would doubt that, I really would." He laughed again. "An' if I was Mandeville, I wouldn't listen. I'd cut your goddamned throat here an' now, yessir. Hold on, though; sound like he's comin' to do it his own self."

  I struggled on to my knees as the tumult in the hall increased; it sounded as though Mandeville's friends were still having to restrain him by main force. I knelt there, quaking, and pleading with Luke to cut me free, but he shook me off, and when I persisted he kicked me flat on my back.

  "Didn't I tell ye to lay still? Any more out o' you an' I'll take this hide to ye." He laughed again, and I suddenly realised that his good humour was not at all friendly, as I'd supposed. He was just enjoying himself.

  I didn't dare move after that, but lay shaking with dread, and then after what seemed an age the door opened and the others came in. Mandeville was in the lead, panting and dishevelled, but he seemed to have himself in hand for the moment. Not that that was any consolation; I hope I never see eyes glaring at me like that again.

  "You!" says he, and it was like the growl of a beast. "I going to kill you! D'ye hear that now? Kill you for the sneakin' scum you are. Yes sir, I goin' to watch you die for what you done!" There was froth at the corner of his mouth; he was appalling. "But before I do, you goin' to tell these here gennehuen somethin' — you goin' to confess to 'em that you tried to rape my wife! That so, isn't it! You snuck up there, an' you tuk her unawares, an' try to ravish her." He paused, livid. "Now, then — you tell 'em it was so."

  Terrified, I stared at the man, but I couldn't have spoken for the life of me, and suddenly he lost control and flung himself at me, kicking and clawing. The others hauled him back, and Luke says:

  "It don't signify a damn thing, John! Hold him off, you fellows! You think you're goin' to get the truth out of him? Anyways, we know he tried to rape your good lady — don't we boys? We're all satisfied, I reckon."

  He knew it was a lie, and so did they, but they chorused assent, and eventually it pacified Mandeville, at least to the point where his only interest lay in disposing of me.

  "I ought to burn you alive!" he snarled. "I ought to nail you to a tree an' have the niggers geld you. In fact, that's just what I'll do! I'll —"

  "Hold on there, fohn," says Luke. "This is jus' wild talk. You can't murder him thataway —"

  "Why cain't I? After what he done?"

  "Because word'd git out — an' it don't do to murder a man, even if he is a rapin', stinkin' skunk —"

  "I'm not!" I cried. "I swear I'm not!"

  "You shet up," says Luke. "Fact is, John Mandeville, while I don't deny he's got killin' comin' to him, I don't see how you can do it lessn you fight him, on the square."

  "Fight him!" shouts Mandeville. "Damned if I do. He ain't deservin' anythin' but execution!"

  "Well, now, ain't I a-tellin' you it cain't be done? Even ifn you hang him, or cut his throat, or shoot him — how you gonna be sure word ain't gonna git out?"

  "Who's to tell, Luke Johnson? They's on'y us here —"

  "An' niggers, with mighty long ears. No, sir, unless you fight him, which you ain't willin' to do, and cain't say as I blame you, for he don't deserve the consideration — well, then we got to study out some way of givin' him what's comin' to him."

  They argued on, and I listened in horror as they discussed means of slaughtering me — for that was what they meant to do, not a doubt. God, the value men place on a rogered woman. I
tried to intervene, pleading to be heard, but Mandeville smashed me in the face, and Luke stuck a gag in my mouth, and then they went on with their dreadful discussion. It was terrible, but all I could do was listen, until one of them motioned the others away, and they fell to talking in lowered voices, and all I could catch was snatches and words like "Alabama" and "Tombigbee river", and "very place for him", and "no, I reckon there ain't no risk — who's to know? ", and then they laughed, and presently Mandevile came over to me.

  "Well, Mr Arnold," says he, smiling like a hyena, "I got good news for you. Yes sir, mighty good. We ain't goin' to kill you — how you like that? No, sir, we value you a mite too high for that, I reckon. You're a sneakin' varmint that took advantage of a man's hospitality to try and steal his honour — we got suthin' better for you than jus' killin'. You like to hear about it?"

  I wanted to stop my ears, but I couldn't. Mandeville smirked and went on.

  "One of my friends here, he got a prime idea. His cousin a planter over to Alabama — quite a ways from here. Now my friend goin' over that way, takin' a runaway back to another place, and he ready to 'blige me by takin' you a stage farther, to his cousin's plantation. Nobody see you leave here, nobody see you git there. An' when you do, you know what goin' to happen to you?" Suddenly he spat in my face. "You goin' to be stripped an' put in the cane-fields, 'long with the niggers! You pretty dark now — I seen mustees as light as you — an' by the time you laboured in the sun a spell, you brown up pretty good I reckon. An' there you'll be, Slave Arnold, see? You won't be dead, but you'll wish you were! Ain't nobody ever goin' to see you, on account it a lonely place, an' no one ever go there — ifn they do, why you just a crazy mustee! Nobody know you here, nobody ever ask for you. An' you never escape-on account no nigger ever run from that plantation — swamps an' dogs always git 'em. So you safe there for life, see? You think you'll enjoy that life, Slave Arnold?" He stood up and kicked me savagely. "Now, ain't that a whole heap better'n jus' killin' you, quick an' easy?"

  I couldn't believe my ears; I must be dreaming the whole ghastly thing. I writhed and tried to spit the gag out — tried to beg for mercy with my eyes, but it was useless. They laughed at my struggles, and then they tied my feet and threw me into a cupboard. Before they shut the door, Luke leaned over me with his friendly grin, and said softly:

  "Reckon you'll count it a pretty dear ride you had, friend. Was she good? I hope for your sake she was, 'cos she's the last white woman you'll ever see, you dirty Texian bastard!"

  I couldn't believe what I'd heard — I still find it incredible. That white men — civiised white men, could doom another white man to be dragged away to some vile plantation, herded with niggers, flogged to work like a beast — it couldn't be true, surely? All I'd done was rattle Mandeville's wife — well, if I ever caught a man doing the like to Elspeth, I'd want to kill him, probably, and I could understand Mandeville wanting to as well — but how could he doom me to the living hell of black slavery? It must be their ghastly idea of a joke — it couldn't be true, it just could not be!

  But it was. How long I lay in that cupboard I don't know, but it was dark when the door opened and I was dragged out. They had brought my coat, and it was wrapped over my head, and then I felt the horror of fetters being clapped on my ankles. I tried to scream through my gag, and struggled, but they carried me away bodily, muttering and laughing, and presently I was flung on to the hard surface of a Cart. I heard Luke say, "Take good care o' that valuable merchandise, Tom Little," and laughter, and then we were jolting away in the darkness.

  I twisted in my bonds, half-crazed with the abomination of it, and then the jacket was pulled away, and in the dimness of the cart a woman's voice said:

  "Lie still. There's no use struggling. Believe me, I tried struggling — once. It's no good. You must wait — wait and hope."

  She pulled out the gag, but my mouth was too parched to speak. She laid her hand on my head, stroking it, and in the dark her voice kept whispering:

  "Rest, don't struggle. Wait and hope. Lie still. Wait and hope."

  11

  Her name was Cassy, and I believe that without her I must have gone mad on that first night on the slave cart. The darkness, the close animal stench of the enclosed space in which we were cooped up, and most of all the horror of what lay ahead, reduced me to a croaking wreck. And while I lay shuddering and moaning to myself, she stroked my head and talked in a soft, sibilant voice-hardly a trace of nigger, more New Orleans Frenchy, like Annette's — telling me to be easy, and rest, and not to waste my breath on foolish raving. All very well, but foolish raving is a capital way of releasing one's feelings. However, she talked on, and in the end it must have soothed me, because when I opened my eyes the cart was stopped, and a little sunlight was filtering through cracks in the board roof, giving a dim illumination to the interior.

  The first thing I did was to crawl about the place-it wasn't above four feet high — examining it, but it was as tight as a drum, and the doors appeared to be padlocked. I couldn't see a hope of escape. I was chained by the legs — the woman had managed to untie the cord at my wrists — and even if I had succeeded in breaking out, what could I have done against two armed men? They would doubtless be making for Alabama by back roads and trails, far from any hope of assistance, and even if, by some miracle, I got out and gave them the slip, they would easily run me down, hobbled as I was.

  The horror of it overcame me again, and I just lay there and wept. There was no hope, and the woman's voice suddenly came to confirm my fears.

  "It won't seem so bad after a while," she said. "Nothing ever does."

  I turned to look at her, and for a moment a crazy thought struck me-that she, too, was white, and the victim of some fearful plot like my own. For she was no more like a nigger than I was, at first glance. You have seen her head on old Egyptian carvings, both chin and forehead sloping sharply away from a thin curved nose and wide heavy lips, with great almond-shaped devil's eyes which can look strong and terrible in that delicate face. She was unusually tall, but everything about her was fine and fragile, from the high cheekbones and thin black hair bound tight behind her head to the slender ankles locked in slave fetters; even her colour was delicate, like very pale honey, and I realised she was the lightest kind of nigger, what they call a musteefino.37 She reminded me of a Siamese cat, graceful and sinuous and probably far stronger than she looked.

  Mind you, my thoughts weren't running in their usual direction; I was too powerfully occupied with my predicament for that, and I fell to groaning and cursing again. I must have babbled something about escape, because she suddenly said:

  "Why do you waste your breath? Don't you know better by now — there's no escape. Not now, or ever."

  "My God!" I cried. "There must be. You don't know what they're going to do to me. I'm to be enslaved on a plantation — for life!"

  "Is that so strange?" said she, bitterly. "You're lucky you haven't been there before. What were you — a house slave?"

  "I'm not a bloody slave!" I shouted. "I'm a white man."

  She stared at me through the dimness. "Oh, come now. We stop saying that when we're ten years old."

  "It's true, I tell you! I'm an Englishman! Can't you tell?"

  She moved across the cart, peering at my face, frowning. Then:

  "Give me your hand," she says.

  I let her look at my nails; she dropped my hand and sat back, staring at me with those great amber-flecked eyes. "Then what are you doing here, in God's name?"

  You may be sure I told her — at length, but leaving out the juicy parts: Mandeville suspected me unjustly, I told her. She sat like a graven image until it was done, and then all she said was:

  "Well, now one of you knows what it feels like." She went back to her corner. "Now you know what a filthy race you belong to."

  "But, dear Christ!" I exclaimed. "I must get out of it, I must —"

  "How?" Her lips writhed in a sneer. "Do you know how many times I've run?
Three times! And each time they caught me, and dragged me back. Escape! Bah! You talk like a fool."

  "But … but … last night … in the dark … you said something about waiting and hoping …"

  "That was to comfort you. I thought you were … one of us." She gave a bitter little laugh. "Well, you are, now, and I tell you there isn't any hope. Where can you run to, in this vile country? This land of freedom! With slave-catchers everywhere, and dogs, and whipping-houses, and laws that say I'm no better than a beast in a sty!" Her eyes were blazing with a hatred that was scaring. "You try and run! See what good it does you!"

  "But slave-catchers can't touch me! If only I can get out of this cursed wagon! Look," I went on, desperately, "there must be a chance-when they open the doors, to feed us —"

  "How little you know of slavery!" she mocked me. "They won't open the doors — not till they get me to Forster's place, and you to wherever you're going. Feed us! — that's how they feed us, like dogs in a kennel!" And she pointed to a hatch in the door, which I hadn't noticed. "For the rest, you foul your sty — why shouldn't you? You're just a beast! Did you know that was what the Romans called us — talking beasts? Oh, yes, I learned a lot about slavery, in the fine house I was brought up in. Brought up so that I could be made the chattel of any filthy ruffian, any beggar or ignorant scum of the levees — just so he was white!" She sat glaring at me, then her shoulders drooped. "What use to talk? You don't know what it means. But you will. You will."

  Well, you may guess how this raised my spirits. The very fierceness of the woman, her bitter certainty, knocked what little fight I had out of me. I sat dejected, and she silent, until after a while I heard Little and his companion talking outside, and presently the hatch was raised, and a tin dish was shoved in, and a bottle of water. I was at the hatch in a flash, shouting to them, pleading and offering money, which set them into roars of laughter.

  "Say, hear that now! Ain't that bully? What about you, Cass — ain't you got a thousand dollars to spare for ifn we let you go? No? Well, ain't that a shame, though? No, my lord, I'm sorry, but truth is me an' George here, we don't need the money anyways. An' I ain't too sure we'd trust your note o' hand, either. Haw-haw!"