Flash For Freedom! fp-3

by George MacDonald Fraser

  And the cruel brute slammed down the hatch and went off, chuckling.

  Through all this Cass never said a word, and when we had tried to eat the filthy muck they had given us, and rinsed our throats from the bottle, she went back to her corner and sat there, her bead against the boards, staring into vacancy. Presently the cart started up, and for the rest of the day we jolted slowly over what must have been a damned bad road, while the atmosphere in the cart grew so hot and stifling that I was sure we must suffocate before long. Once or twice I bawled out to Little, pleading with him, but all I got was oaths and obscene jokes, so I gave up, and all the time Cassy sat silent, only occasionally turning to stare at me, but making no reply to my croaks and questions. I cursed her for a black slut, but she didn't seem to hear.

  Towards sunset, the cart stopped, and immediately Cassy seemed to come to life. She peered through a crack in the side of the wagon, and then crawled over to me, motioning me to talk in whispers.

  "Listen," she said. "You want to escape?"

  I couldn't believe my ears. "Escape? I —"

  "Quiet, in heaven's name! Now, listen. If I can show you how to escape — will you make me a promise?"

  "Anything! My God, anything!"

  The great almond eyes stared into mine. "Don't protest too easily — I mean what I say. Will you swear, by all that you believe to be holy, that if I help you escape, you will never desert me — that you will help me, in my turn, to gain my freedom?"

  I'd have sworn a good deal more than that. With hope surging through me, I whispered. "I swear — I promise! I'll do anything. No, I'll never desert you, I swear it!"

  She stared at me a moment longer, and then glanced towards, the door.

  "Soon now they will bring our food. When they do, you will be making love to me — do you understand?"

  I couldn't follow this, but I nodded, feverish with excitement. In a whisper she went on:

  "When they see us, whatever they say, defy them. Do you understand me? Taunt them, swear at them — anything! Then leave the rest to me. Whatever I do or say, do nothing further."

  "What are you going to do? What can I —"

  "Quiet!" She started up. "They're coming, I think. Now — over there, where they'll see us."

  And as footsteps came round to the back of the cart she sprawled into the middle of the floor, dragging up her dress, and pulling me down on top of her. Trembling, and for once not for the usual reasons, I clung to the pliant body, crushing my mouth down on hers and plunging like mad — gad, as I look back, what a waste of good effort it was, in the circumstances. I heard the hatch flung open, and in that moment Cassy writhed and began to sob in simulated ecstasy, clawing at me and squealing. There was an oath and commotion at the hatch, and then a cry of:

  "Tom! Tom! Come quick! That damned Texian feller, he's screwin' the wench!"

  More commotion, and then Little's voice:

  "What you think you're doin', blast ye? Get offa her, this minute! Get off, d'ye hear, or I'll fill yore ass with buckshot!"

  I bawled an obscenity at him, and then there was a rattling at the lock, the door was flung wide, to the gathering dusk, and Little glared in, his piece levelled at me. I decided I had defied him sufficiently, and rolled away; Cassy scrambled up into a reclining position.

  "Damn you!" bawls Little. "Don't you never get enough?"

  I stayed mum, while he cursed at me, his pal staring pop-eyed over his shoulder. And then Cass, shrugging her shoulders petulantly and moving to display her fine long legs, remarked:

  "Why can't you let us be? What's the harm in it?"

  Little's piggy little eyes went over her; he licked his lips, still keeping his gun pointed at me.

  "Harm in it?" His voice was thick. "You ol' Forster's wench, ain't you? Think you can rattle with everyone you please? Not while I'm around, my gel. You dirty nigger tail, you!"

  She shrugged again, pouting, and spoke in a voice very unlike her own.

  "Ifn massa say. Cassy don' mind none, anyways. This feller ain't bait for a gel like me — I used to real men."

  Little's eyes opened wide. "Is that a fact?" His loose bearded mouth opened in a grin. "Well, think o' that, now. I didn't know you was thataway inclined, Cass — fancy yellow gel like you, with all them lady airs." He was thinking as he talked, and there was no doubting what those thoughts were. "Well, now — you just come out o' that cart this minute, d'ye hear? You —" this was to me— "keep yourself mighty still, lessn you want a bellyfull o' lead. Come on, my gel, git your ass outa that wagon — smart!"

  Cassy slid herself to the tail of the cart, while they watched her closely, and dropped lightly to the ground. I stayed where I was, my heart hammering. Little motioned with his gun, and the other fellow slammed and locked the door, leaving me in darkness. But I could hear their voices, plain enough.

  "Now, then, Cass," says Little. "You step roun' there, lively now. So — now, you jus' shuck down, d'ye hear?" There was a pause, and then Cassy's new voice:

  "Massa gwine ter be nice to Cassy? — Cassy a good gel, please massa ever so much."

  "By God, an' so ye will! Look at that, George — here, you hol' the gun! An' make yourself scarce. By gosh, I'm goin' to 'tend to this li'l beauty right here an' now! What you waitin' for, George — you get outa here!"

  "Don' I get none o' her, then? Don' I even get to watch?"

  "Watch? Why, how you talk! Think I'm a hog, or a nigger, that I'd do my screwin' with you watchin'? Get outa here, quick! You'll get your piece when I'm done. Here, gimme back that gun — reckon I'll keep it by, case her ladyship gits up to anythin'. But you won't, honey, will you?"

  I heard George's reluctant footsteps retreating, and then silence; I strained my ears, but could hear nothing through the wagon side. A minute passed, and then there was a sudden sharp gasp, and a thin whining sound half-way between a sigh and a wail, and the sound of it made the hairs rise on my neck. A moment later, and Cassy's voice in sudden alarm:

  "Mas' George, Mas' George! Come quick! Suthin' happen to Mas' Tom — he hurt himself! Come quick!"

  "What's that?" George's voice sounded from a little way off, and I heard his feet running. "What you say — what happened, Tom? You all right, Tom? What —"

  The gunshot crashed out with startling suddenness, near the back of the wagon; there was a scream and a choking groan, and then nothing, until I heard the padlock rattle, the door was flung back, and there was Cassy. Even in the dusk I could see she was naked; she still had the musket in her hand.

  "Quickly!" she cried. "Come out! They're both done for!"

  I was out, fetters and all, in a twinkling. George lay spreadeagled at my feet, the top half of his face a bloody mash — she had given him the buckshot at point-blank range. I looked round and saw Little, crouched on his knees by the camp-fire, his head down; even as I started toward's him he rolled over, with a little bubbling sob, and I saw the knife hilt sticking out of the crimson soaking mess that stained his shirt. He twitched for a moment, bubbling, and then was still.

  Cassy was at the wagon, holding weakly to the door, her head hanging. I hopped over to her, grabbed her round the waist and swung her off her feet.

  "Oh, you wonderful nigger!" I shouted, spinning her round. "You little black beauty, you! Bravo! Two at one stroke, by George! Well done indeed!" And I kissed her gleefully.

  "Set me down!" she gasped. "In God's name, set me down!"

  So I put her down, and she shuddered and sank to the ground, all of a heap. For a moment I thought she'd fainted, but she was a prime girl, that one. With her teeth chattering she grabbed up her dress, pulling it down over her head, which seemed a pity, for she cut a truly splendid figure in the firelight. I patted her on the shoulder, telling her what a brave wench she was.

  "Oh, God!" says she, with her eyes tight shut. "Oh, horrible! I didn't know … what it was like … when I drew the knife from his belt and …" She put her face in her hands and sobbed.

  "Serve him right,"
says I. "You've done him a power of good. And the other one, too — couldn't have done better myself, by jove, no, I couldn't! You're a damned good-plucked 'un, young Cassy, and you may tell 'em that Tom Arnold said so!"

  But she sat there, shivering, so I wasted no more time but searched Tom's pockets for the keys to our fetters, and soon had us both loose. Then I went through their pockets, but apart from fifteen dollars there was nothing worth a curse. I stripped George's body, because it struck me that he was about my size, and his togs might come in handy. Then I looked to their guns — one musket, two pistols, with powder and ball — saw that the wagon horse was all to rights, and all the time my heart was singing inside me. I was free again, thanks to that splendid nigger wench. By gum, I admired that girl, and still do — she'd have made a rare mate for my old Sergeant Hudson — and while I heated up some coffee and vittles left by the late unlamented, I told her what I thought of her.

  She was crouched by the fire, staring straight ahead of her, but now she seemed to shake herself out of her trance, for she threw back that lovely Egyptian head and looked at me. "You remember your promise?" says she, and I assured her I did — assured her twenty times over. I can see her now, those wonderful almond eyes watching me while I prattled on, praising her resource and courage-it was a strange meal that, a runaway slave girl and I, sitting round a camp fire in Mississippi, with two dead bodies lying by. And before it was done she had thrown off her fit of the shakes — after all, when you're new to it, killing is almost as disturbing as nearly being killed — and was telling me what we must do next. My admiration increased — why, she had thought it out all beforehand, in the wagon, down to the last detail.

  It had been my remark about slave-catchers not touching a white man that had set her thinking, and shown her how she could make a successful run this time, with me to help her.

  "We must travel as master and slave," says she. "That way no one will give us a second thought — but we must go quickly. It may be a week before Mandeville discovers that this wagon never reached Forster's place, and that these two men" — she gave a little shudder — "are missing. It might even be longer, but we dare not count on it — we dare not! Long before then we must be out of the state, on our way north."

  "In that?" says I, nodding to the cart, and she shook her head.

  "It can take us no farther than the river; we must go faster than it will carry us. We must go by steamboat."

  "Hold on, though — that costs money, and these two hadn't but fifteen dollars between them. We can't get a passage on that."

  "Then we'll steal money!" says she, fiercely. "We have pistols — you are a strong man! We can take what we need!"

  But I wasn't having that — not that I'm scrupulous, but I'm no hand as a foot-pad. It's too risky by half, and so I told her.

  "Risk!" she blazed. "You talk of risk, after what I have done this night? Don't you see-we have two murders on our hands — isn't that a risk? Do you know what will happen if we're caught — you will be hanged, and I'll be burned alive! And you talk of robbery as a risk!"

  "Holding someone up will only increase the danger," says I, "for then we would be hunted, whereas if we go our way quietly there'll be no hue and cry until these two are found — if they ever are."

  "Whoever we robbed could go the way these went," says she. "Then there would be no added danger." By God, she was a coldblooded one, that. When I protested, she lost her temper:

  "Why should we be squeamish over white lives? D'you think I care if every one of these filthy slave-driving swine is torn to pieces tomorrow? And why should you shrink from it, after what they would have done to you? Are they your people, these?"

  I tried to convince her it wasn't principle, but pure lack of nerve, and we argued on, she waxing passionate — she hated with a lust for revenge that frightened me. But I wouldn't have it, and eventually she gave up, and sat staring into the fire, her hands clenched on her knees. At last she says, very quietly:

  "Well, money we must have, however we come by it. And if you will not steal for it — well, there is only one other way. It does not add greatly to the risk, but … but I would do almost anything to avoid it."

  Possibly I'm a natural-born pimp, for I jumped to the conclusion that she was thinking of whoring her way upriver, with me as her protector, but it was something far grander than that.

  "We must go to Memphis," says she. "It is a town on the river, not more than fifty miles from here, so far as I can judge. That would be for the day after tomorrow — perhaps another day. That in itself is no great risk, for we have to go to the river anyway, and if God is kind to us none of Mandeville's friends, or people of Forster's, who would know me, will cross our path. And when we are there … we can find the money. Oh, yes, we can find the money!"

  And to my astonishment she began to weep — not sobbing, but just great tears rolling down her cheeks. She dashed them away, and then fumbled inside her dress, and after a moment she produced a paper, soiled but very carefully-folded, which she passed to me. Wondering, I opened it, and saw that it was a bill of sale, dated February 1843, for one Cassy, a negro girl, the property of one Angel de Marmalade (I swear that was the name) of New Orleans, now duly sold and delivered to Fitzroy Howard, of San Antonio de Bexar. There was another scrap of paper with it which fluttered down — she made a grab, but not in time to prevent me seeing the words scrawled on it in a coarse, lumpy hand:

  "Wensh Cassy. Ten lashys. Wun dollar," and a signature that was illegible.

  She drew away, and spoke with her head turned from me.

  "That was my second bill of sale. I was fourteen. I stole it from Howard, when he was drunk and I ran from him. They caught me, but he was dead by then, and when they auctioned me with his other … goods, they didn't bother to look for the old bill. I kept it — to remember. Just to remember, so that when I was free, and far away, I should never forget what it was to be a slave! No one ever found it! — they never found it!" Her voice was rising, and she swung her head round to stare at me, her eyes brimming. "I never thought it might serve to win my freedom! But it will!"

  "How, in heaven's name?"

  "You'll carry it to Memphis — you'll be Mr Fitzroy Howard! No one knows him this far north — he died in Texas four years ago — four years he's been screaming in Hell! And you'll sell me in Memphis — oh, I'll fetch a fine price, you'll see! A thousand, two thousand dollars — maybe three, for a choice mustee wench, fancy-bred, only nineteen, and schooled in a New Orleans brothel! Oh, they'll buy all right!"

  Well, this seemed first-rate business to me, and I said so.

  "Three thousand dollars — why, woman, what were you ever thinking of highway robbery for? Half that sum will see us rolling upriver in style-but wait though! If you're sold — how'll you get away?"

  "1 can run. Oh, believe me, I can run! The moment you have the money, you'll buy passages on a boat north — we'll have decided which one beforehand. Leave it to me to run at the right time — we'll meet at the levee or somewhere and go aboard together. You'll be what they call a nigger-stealer then, and I a runaway slave-but they won't catch us. What, Mr and Mrs Whatever-we-choose-to-call-ourselves, first-class passengers to Louisville? Oh, no, we'll be safe enough — if you keep our bargain."

  Well, it had crossed my mind, of course, in the last two seconds, from the moment she'd reminded me of the nasty stigma of nigger-stealing, that it would be a sight safer to catch a different boat, all on my own, with the three thousand dollars, and leave Miss Cassy to fend for herself. But she was as quick as I was.

  "If I didn't get out of Memphis," says she, slowly and intently, leaning forward to look into my face, "I'd give myself up — and tell them how we had run together, and you had killed two men back in Mississippi, and where the bodies were, and all about you. You wouldn't get far, Mr — what is your name, anyway?"

  "Er, Flash — , er, Brown, I mean. But, look here, my dear girl, I promised not to desert you — remember? D'you think I'm the kind
to break his word? I must say —"

  "I don't know," says she, slowly. "I only tell you what will happen if you do. It may cost me my life, but it will certainly cost you yours, Mr Flash-er-Brown."

  "I wouldn't dream of leaving you," says I, seriously. "Not for a moment. But, I say, Cassy — this is a top-hole plan! Why didn't you tell me before-it's absolutely splendid!"

  She gazed at me, and took a deep breath, and then turned to gaze into the fire.

  "You would think so, I suppose. Perhaps it seems a little thing to you — to be placed on a block, and auctioned like a beast to the highest bidder. To be pawed over and fumbled by dirty hands — stripped even, and gloated over!" The tears were starting again, but her voice never shook. "How could you even begin to imagine it? The hideous shame — the humiliation!" She swung round on me again — a habit of hers which I confess made me damned jumpy.

  "Do you know what I was, until I was thirteen? I was a little Creole girl, in a fine house in Baton Rouge, with my papa and two brothers and two sisters, all older than I. Their mother was dead — she was white-and my mother, who was a slave mustee, was mother to them as well. We were the happiest family in the world — I loved them, and they loved me, or so I thought, until my father died. And then they sold us — my loving brothers sold me, their sister, and my mother, who had been more than a mother to them. They sold us! My mother to a planter — me to a bawd in New Orleans!"

  She was shaking with passion. Something seemed called for, so I says:

  "Pretty steep work, that. Bad business."

  "I was a whore — at thirteen! I ran away, back to my family — and they gave me up! They put me in a cellar until my owner came, and took me back to New Orleans. You saw that other paper, with the bill of sale. Do you know what it is? It is a receipt from a whipping-house-where slaves are sent to be corrected! I was only thirteen, so they were lenient with me — only ten lashes! Can you understand what that did to me? Can you? For they make a spectacle of it — oh, yes! I was tied up naked, and whipped before an audience of men! Can you even begin to dream what it is like — the unbelievable, frightful shame of it? But how could I make you understand!" She was beating her fist on my knee by now, crying into my face. "You are a man — what would it do to you, to be stripped and bound and flogged before a pack of leering, laughing women?"