What happened in the next five minutes I barely remember; I know that we were hit again, and for a time you could hardly see across the deck for acrid powder smoke. I crouched beside the rail, palpitating, until the clearing party came dragging their mass of wreckage and I had to jump away as they bundled it overside. Our guns had stopped firing, and presently I was aware the Yankee wasn't firing either, so I chanced a look.
Somehow, after that brief holocaust, a semblance of order bad been restored. The gun crews were standing by their pieces, Sullivan was by the mizzen, volleying commands to the topmen, and Spring was at the wheel, The Yankee sloop was astern, limping, with her foresail all askew, but the brig was ploughing along like thunder; in our injured condition even I could see she would be with us in no time at all, And then, no doubt, she would batter us to pieces—or take us, with slaves aboard, and that would be prison, and possibly the gallows. I felt the bile coming up in my throat.
And then I heard Spring's voice, raised in a bellow of anger.
“You'll do as you're d-d well told, mister. Now, get those yellows up on deck, with their shackles on! Lively, d-n you, d'ye hear?”
Sullivan, his hat gone, seemed to be protesting, but Spring silenced him with another bellow, and presently the hands were driving up the yellow girls, fastening leg irons about their ankles and herding them together by the mizzen mast. Spring and Sullivan were by the wheel, the latter pointing to the brig, which was overhauling us fast.
“We'll have her shooting us up in five minutes!” he was shouting. “We can't run, skipper; we can't fight! We're crippled, d-nit!”
“We can fight, mister!” Spring's scar was flaming. “We've settled the sloop, haven't we? What's that but a measly brig? D'ye want me to strike to her?”
“Look at her!” cries Sullivan. “She's got thirty guns if she's got one!” I always knew he was a sensible chap.
“I'll fight her, though,” says the idiot Spring. “I haven't made this cruise to be towed into New Orleans by that pack of longshore loafers! But we'll make that nigger rubbish safe first—and if we fight and fail there won't be a black hide aboard to show against US. Now—get the chain into 'em!”
Sullivan looked as though he would burst. “It won't do! They're too d-d close—they'll see 'm drop, won't they?”
“What if they do? No niggers, no felony—they can make what they like of the ship, with the d-d equipment law, but they can't lay a hand on you or me! Now, I'm telling you, mister get that chain rove through!”
I made nothing of this, until four of the hands came running aft, dragging a massive chain, which they laid by the starboard rail. Then they herded the wenches over, and began to pass the chain between their legs, above the shackles, so that it linked them all together. They made the chain fast with rope to the end slaves in the line, then forced the girls to lie flat with their feet up, and by main force lifted the chain until it lay along the rail.
“Steady, there!” bawls Spring. “Now—hold it, so, till I give the word.”
I don't bilk at much: I watched them blowing sepoys from the ends of guns at Cawnpore with a keen interest, and I ate my dinner at Peking an hour after the massacre, but I confess that Spring's method of disposing of incriminating evidence made me gulp. The wenches screamed and writhed in terror; once that chain was pushed over they would be hurtled across the rail by its weight, and in the sea they would sink like stones, And then, if the Balliol College was taken—well, what slaves do you mean, captain? I'd heard of it being done,[30] and I remembered Sullivan's story of the Dago who set his ship on fire. But for all Spring's confidence, I couldn't believe it would wash; the Yankee brig must have half a dozen glasses trained on us; they could swear to murder done and seen to be done, and then it was the gallows for certain.
Funk-stricken though I was, I could think at least. Spring obviously hoped he could fight the Yankee off, and save his liberty and his slaves at the same time; he'd only push 'em over in the last extremity. I was sure Sullivan was right; we couldn't hope to fight the brig. Somehow that madman had to be stopped, or he'd have all our heads in the noose.
If there's one thing that will make my limbs work in a crisis, it is the thought of self-preservation. I'd no notion of what I intended, but I found myself, unheeded in the excitement, walking across to the chest of arms that had been broken out by the main mast. Two of the hands were loading and priming pistols and passing them out; I took a couple, one a double-barrelled piece, and thrust them into my belt. Then, seeing all eyes were fixed either on the pursuing brig or the line of squealing unfortunates shackled by the rail, I dropped down the main hatch on to the slave deck.
I still didn't know what I was going to do; I remember thinking, as I stood there in an agony of uncertainty, this is what comes of dabbling in politics and playing vingt-et-un with spinsters. I had some frenzied notion of making my way aft through the main bulkhead door, which was open now that the slave-deck was in a wholesome condition, finding Mrs Spring in the main cabin, and appealing to her; I knew it was a lunatic thought, but I found myself scampering through anyway, pulling up by the after companion, swithering this way and that, cursing feebly to myself and racking my brains over what to do next.
Spring's bellowing almost directly overhead had me jumping in alarm; squinting up the companion I could just see his head and shoulders, facing away from me, as he stood at the wheel. He was roaring to the gun crews, urging them to their stations, and by the sound of his voice he was having his work cut out. Like Sullivan, they were ready to strike, and then I heard the mate's voice, shouting at Spring, and suddenly cut off by the crack of a pistol shot.
“Take that, d-n you!” shouts Spring. “Stand away from him, you there! Get to those tackles, or by G-d you'll get the next round!” His hand came into view, holding a smoking pistol, and thinks I, if he's daft enough to turn a gun on Sullivan there's no stopping him except by the same way.
That was it, of course, as I'd known all along. Here was I, armed, and there was the back of his head not fifteen feet away. And, by G-d, if ever a man needed a bullet in the skull it was J. C. Spring, Fellow of Oriel. But I daren't do it—oh, it wasn't that I shrank from the dirty deed for Christian reasons; I'd killed before, and anyone who stands between me and safety gets whatever I can give him, no holds barred. But only if it's safe-and this wasn't. Suppose I missed? Something told me that Spring wouldn't. Suppose the crew raised objections? Well, if they didn't the Yankee Navy would—they'd be just the kind of idiots to consider it murder. One way and another, I couldn't risk it, and I stood there sweating in panic, torn between my terrors.
Suddenly there was a patter of feet from the main bulkhead, and here came the idiot Looney, trying to buckle on a cutlass as big as himself. And to my amazement he was grinning foolishly to himself as he hurried towards the companion.
“What the blazes are you doing?” cries I.
“I'm goin' to kill them b-ds!” cries he. “Them's is firin' on us!”
“You numskull!” And then suddenly a great light dawned, and I saw the safe way out. “You don't want to kill them! It's the captain that's doing this! That d—l Spring, up there!”
I pointed to the companion way, down which our skipper's dulcet voice could be clearly heard. “He's your man, Looney! He's the man to kill!”
He stood gaping at me. “Whaffor?” says he, bewildered.
“He's just killed Mr Sullivan!” I hissed at him. “He's gone mad! He's killed Sullivan, your friend!” And some guardian angel prompted my next words. “He's going to kill you next! I heard him say so! 'I'm going to settle that b-d Looney'; that's what he said!”
The loose idiot face just stared for a moment, while I shook his arm; from far astern came the boom of a gun, and from overhead there was a crash of breaking timber and shouts and running feet.
“It's him they're trying to kill! Not you! Not me! He's the Devil, remember! He just killed Sullivan! He'll kill you—and all of us”
Suddenly his face ch
anged; I'll swear a light of understanding came into his eyes, and to my consternation he began to weep. He stared at me, choking:
“'E killed Mr Sullivan? 'E done that?”
By gum, I know a cue when I hear one. “Shot him like a dog, Looney. In the back.”
He gave a little whimper of rage. “'E shouldn't 'ave! Why 'e done that?”
“Because he's the Devil—you know that!” I've done some fearful convincing in my time, but this topped everything. “That's why the Yankees are shooting at us! You've got to kill him, Looney, or we're all done for! If you don't, he'll kill you! He hates You—remember how he flogged you, for nothing! You've got to kill him, Looney—quickly!”
I was thrusting a pistol at him as though it had been red hot, and suddenly he grabbed it out of my hand, just as our own stem-chasers thundered overhead in reply. His face contorted with rage—wonderful, beatific sight—and he plunged past me to the ladder.
“'E killed Mr Sullivan! The b-d! I'll do for 'im!”
It was splendid. Thank God he was an idiot, and hated Spring like poison. I reckon it had taken me all of sixty seconds to turn him to murder, which was a considerable feat of persuasion; now all I had to do was make sure he didn't flinch from the act.
“Up you go, Looney! Good lad! It's him or you! Quick, man quick!” I thrust at his backside as he swung on to the ladder, “Jam it into his back and give him both barrels! He killed Sullivan! He's the Devil! Sick 'im, boy!”
I probably could have spared my breath; the thought of Sullivan—the only person Looney cared for—dead at Spring's hand, had probably completed the turning of that idiot brain. He fairly flung himself up the ladder, scrambled half-way through the hatch, mouthing hideous oaths; he thrust out the pistol, and with an incoherent scream let fly with both barrels together.
Before the echo of the shots had died I was tearing down to the main bulkhead, and up the main hatch. As my head came clear I looked aft; Spring was writhing on the deck beside the wheel, his hat gone, his hands beating at the planks. Looney was struggling in the grip of one of the hands, yelling that he'd killed the Devil. Sullivan was sprawled face down in the scuppers, and the after rail was a milling scene of men running every which way, while another shot from the brig's bow-chasers came whistling overhead to tear through the mainsail. She was close up now, and turning to port to show her starboard guns, like grinning teeth; there was a yell of alarm from the men aft, and then hands were hauling at the flag lanyard; with Spring gone, everyone knew what had to be done.
I was not backward, either. I strode over to the men at the rail who were still gripping the chain, and in my parade ground voice ordered them to bring it inboard, smartly. They obeyed without a second's pause, and when I ordered them to free the slaves' ankle-irons they did that, too, falling over each other in their hurry. I lent a hand myself, patting the yellow sluts on the shoulder and assuring them that all was well now, and that I would see they came to no harm. I trusted this would go a little way to ensuring that I came to no harm myself, and as the Yankee brig ran up on our port beam I began to rehearse in my mind the scheme I had formed for getting old Flash safely out from under this time.
6
By and large I'm partial to Americans. They make a great affectation of disliking the English and asserting their equality with us, but I've discovered that underneath they dearly love a lord, and if you're civil and cool and don't play it with too high a hand you can impose on them quite easily. I'm not a lord, of course, but I've got the airs when I want 'em, and know how to use them in moderation. That's the secret, a nice blending of the plain, polite gentleman with just a hint of Norman blood, and they'll eat out of your hand and boast to their friends in Philadelphia that they know a man who's on terms with Queen Victoria and yet, by gosh, is as nice a fellow as they've ever struck.
When they came aboard the Balliot College, raging angry and full of zeal, I bided my time while they herded us all forward, and didn't say a word until the young lieutenant commanding them had ordered us all under hatches. They were pushing us to the companion, and being none to gentle about it, when I stepped smartly out of the line and said to him, very rapidly and civilly, that I wanted to see his commander on a most urgent matter.
He stared down his Yankee nose at me and snaps: “Goddam your impudence. You'll do your talking in New Orleans—much good may it do you. Now, git below!”
I gave him a cool stare, “Believe me, sir,” says I, in my best Cherrypicker voice, “I am in most solemn earnest. Please—do nothing untoward.” I tilted my head slightly towards the Balliol College hands who were being pushed below. “These people must not know,” I said quietly, “but I am a British naval officer. I must see your commander without delay.”
He stared at me, but he was sharp. He waited till our last man was down the companion, and then demanded an explanation. I told him I was Lieutenant Comber, Royal Navy, on special service from the Board of Admiralty—which, I assured him, I could prove with ease. That settled it, and when one of his men had collected my traps from below, I was hustled off under guard, the Yankee officer still eyeing me suspiciously. But he had other things to think about—there was Spring, shot through the back and unconscious, being taken down on a stretcher; Mrs Spring was under guard in the cabin; there were three corpses on our deck, including Sullivan's; Looney was below with the other prisoners, raving in a voice you could have heard in Aldershot; there was blood and wreckage on the deck, and a dozen weeping nigger girls huddled by the rail, I made the most of them, drawing the lieutenant's attention to them and saying:
“Take care of those poor people. They must suffer no more than they have done. Miserable souls, they have come through hell today.”
I left him not knowing what to think, and allowed myself to be conducted aboard the U.S.S. Cormorant by my Leatherneck escort. And there it was plain sailing all the way, as I knew it must be. Captain Abraham Fairbrother, a very spry young gentleman, didn't believe a word I said, at first, but once I had slit open my belt and laid Comber's papers before his bulging eyes he hadn't a leg to stand on. It was all so impressively official, and my own bearing and manner, although I say it myself, were so overwhelming, that the poor soul took it all in like a hungry fish. Why shouldn't he? I would have done.
Of course I had to tell him a tremendous tale, but that sort of thing has never presented me with difficulty, and barring the fact that I wasn't Comber, the whole thing was gospel true, which always makes lying easier. He shook his fair young head in amazement, and vowed that it beat everything he had ever heard; he was full of venom against slavers, I discovered, and so naturally he was all admiration for me, and shook my hand as though it was a pump handle.
“I feel it an honour to welcome you aboard, sir,” says he. “I had no notion that such a thing. . . that such people as yourself, sir, were engaged in this work. By George, it's wonderful! My congratulations, sir!” And believe it or not, he actually saluted.
Well, I fancy I can carry off this sort of situation pretty well, you know. Modest and manly, that's Flashy when the compliments are flying, with a touch of a frown to show that my mind is really on serious matters. Which it was, because I knew I hadn't got farther than the first fence so far, and would have to tread delicately. But Captain Fairbrother was all eager assistance: what could he do to serve me? I confess I may have given him the impression that the entire slave trade could expect its coup de grace when once I'd laid my report before the British and American governments, and he was itching to help oil the wheels.
Have you noticed, once you have succeeded in convincing a man of something incredible, he believes it with an enthusiasm that he wouldn't dream of showing for an obvious, simple fact? It had been like that with Looney; now it was so with Fairbrother. He simply was all over me; I just had to sit back and let him arrange matters. First, I must be delivered to Washington with all speed; the bigwigs would be in a positive lather to see me—I doubted that, myself, but didn't say so. Nothing would do but
he must carry me to Baltimore in his own brig, while the sioop could take the Balliol College into New Orleans with a prize crew—there, observes Mr Fairbrother darkly, the miscreants would meet with condign punishment for slavery, piracy, and attempted murder. Of course, I would give evidence eventually, but that could wait until Washington had been thrown into transports by my advent there.
Washington, I could see, was going to present problems; they wouldn't be as easy to satisfy as Captain Fairbrother, who was your genuine Northern nigger-lover and violently prejudiced in my favour. He was one of these direct, virtuous souls, bursting with decency, whose very thought was written plainly on his fresh, handsome face. Arnold would have loved him—and young Chard could have used a few of him at Rorke's Drift, too. Brainless as a bat, of course, and just the man for my present needs.
I impressed on him the need for not letting any of the Balliol College crew know what I truly was, and hinted at dangerous secret work yet to come which might be prejudiced if my identity leaked out. (That was no lie, either.) He agreed solemnly to this, but thought it would be an excellent plan to take some of the freed slaves to Washington, just for effect; “tangible evidence, sir, of your noble and heroic endeavours in the great crusade against this vile traffic”, I didn't object, and so about six yellows and Lady Caroline Lamb were herded aboard and bedded down somewhere in the bowels of the brig. Fairbrother wondered about Mrs Spring, whose presence on the College shocked and amazed him; they had caught her hurling Spring's log, papers, and accounts out of the cabin window, whereby much valuable evidence had been lost (that's all you know, I thought). Still, she was a woman. . .
Flash For Freedom! Page 13
