“Take her to New Orleans, is my advice,” says I. “There are not two more diabolical creatures afloat than she and her fiend of a husband. How is he, by the way?”
“In a coma,” says Fairbrother. “One of his own pirates shot him through the back, sir—what creatures they are, to be sure! He will live, I dare say—which is no great matter, since the New Orleans hangman will, if the fellow survives, have the duty of breaking his neck for him.”
Oh, the holy satisfaction of the godly—when it comes to delight in cruelty I'm just a child compared to them. His next remark didn't surprise me, either.
“But I am inconsiderate, Mr Comber—here have I been keeping you in talk over these matters, when your most urgent desire has surely been for a moment's privacy in which you might deliver up thanks to a merciful Heavenly Father for your delivery from all the dangers and tribulations you have undergone. Your pardon, sir.”
My urgent need was in fact for an enormous brandy and a square meal, but I answered him with my wistful smile.
“I need hardly tell you, sir, that in my heart I have rendered that thanks already, not only for myself but for those poor souls whom your splendid action had liberated. Indeed,” says I, looking sadly reflective, “there is hardly a moment in these past few months that I have not spent in prayer.”
He gripped my hand again, looking moist, and then, thank God, he remembered at last that I had a belly, and gave orders for food and a glass of spirits while he went off, excusing himself, to splice the binnacle or clew up the heads, I shouldn't wonder.
Well, thinks I, so far so good, but we mustn't go too far. The sooner I could slip out of sight, the better, for while the Balliol College crew were alive and kicking there was always the risk that I would be given away. I didn't want to get the length of the British Embassy in Washington, for someone there might just know me, or worse still, they might know Comber. But for the moment, with the brig heading east by north, and the Balliol College making north under guard to Orleans, it was all sunshine for Harry—provided I didn't trip myself up. I was meant to be Navy, and Fairbrother and his officers were Navy also, so I must watch my tongue.
As it turned out, by playing the reserved Briton and steering the conversation as often as possible to India, about which they were curious, I passed the thing off very well. I had to talk some slavery, of course, and there was a nasty moment when I was almost drawn into a description of our encounter with the British sloop off Dahomey, but I managed to wriggle clear. It would have been easier, I think, with Englishmen, for Yankee bluebacks are deuced serious fellows, more concerned with their d-d ratlines and bobstays than with interesting topics like drink, women and cash. But I was very pious and priggish that voyage, and they seemed to respect me for it.
However, there was a human side, I discovered, even to the worthy Bible-thumping Fairbrother. I had made a great thing, the second day, of visiting the freed slaves and giving them some fatherly comfort—husbandly comfort would have been more like it, but with those sharp Yankee eyes on me I daren't even squeeze a rump. Lady Caroline Lamb was there, eyeing me soulfully, but I patted her head sternly and told her to be a good girl. What she made of this I can only guess, but that evening, when I was settling down in the berth I had been allotted aft, I was startled by a rapping on my door. It was Fairbrother, in some consternation.
“Mr Comber,” says he, “there's one of those black women in my berth!”
“Indeed?” says I, looking suitably startled.
“My G-d, Mr Comber!” cries he. “She's in there, now—and she's stark naked!”
I pondered this; it occurred to me that Lady Caroline Lamb, following her Balliol College training, had made her way aft and got into Fairbrother's cabin—which lay in the same place as my berth had done on the slaver. And being the kind of gently-reared fool that he was, Fairbrother was in a fine stew. He'd probably never seen a female form in his life.
“What shall I do?” says he. “What can she want? I spoke to her—she's the big, very black one—but she has hardly any English, and she just stays there! She's kneeling beside my cot, sir!”
“Have you tried praying with her?” says I.
He goggled at me. “Pray? Why, I. . . I don't know. She looks as though. . .” He broke off, going beetroot red. “My G- d! Do you suppose that slaver captain has been. . . using her as. . . as a woman?”
Humanity never ceases to amaze me. Here was this fine lad, old enough to vote, in command of a hundred men and a fighting ship which he could handle like a young Nelson, brave as a bull, I don't doubt—and quivering like a virgin's fan because a buxom tart had invaded his cabin. It's this New England upbringing, of course; even a young manhood spent in naval service hadn't obliterated the effect of all those sermons.
“Do you suppose she has been. . . degraded?” says he, in a hushed voice.
“I fear it is more than likely, Captain Fairbrother,” says I. “There is no depth unplumbed by their depravity. This unfortunate young woman may well have been trained to concubinage.”
He shuddered. “Monstrous. . . terrible. But what am I to do?”
“I find it difficult to know what to advise,” says I. “The situation is. . . unique in my experience. Perhaps you should tell her to go back to the quarters she has been allotted.”
“Yes, yes, of course, I must do that.” He hesitated, pulling at his lip. “It is frightful to think of these ignorant young creatures being. . . misled. . . in that way.”
“We must do what we can for them,” says I.
“Indeed, indeed.” He cleared his throat nervously. “I must apologise, Mr Comber, for disturbing you. . . I was startled, I confess. . . totally unexpected thing. . . yes. However, I shall do as you advise. My apologies again, sir. Thank you. . . er, and good night.”
He fairly fled into his cabin, that good pious lad, and I listened in vain thereafter for the sound of his door re-opening. Not that I expected it. Next day he avoided my eye, and went red whenever the slaves were mentioned. He probably still does, but I'll wager his conscience has never been quite strong enough to make him regret his lost innocence.
We made capital speed to Baltimore, which is just another port at the far end of the uninviting Chesapeake Bay, and from there, after Fairbrother had reported to his commodore, and the importance of my presence had been duly emphasised, we were taken by train to Washington, about forty miles off. I was getting fairly apprehensive by now, and looking sharp for a chance to make myself scarce—although what I would do then, in a strange country without any means of support, I couldn't imagine. I knew the longer I kept up my imposture, the more chance there was of being detected, but what could I do? Fairbrother, who had wangled leave from his commander to be my personal convoy to the capital, stuck like a leech; he was looking for a share of the glory, of course. So I just had to sit back and see what came—at worst, I decided, I could make a bolt for it, but in the meantime I would carry the thing through with a wide eye and a bold bluff front.
Washington is an odd place. You could see the Jonathans had designed it with an eye to the future, when they envisaged it as the finest city in the world, and even then, in '48, there were signs of building on every hand, with scaffolding about even in the middle of the city, and the outer roads all churned mud with the autumn rain, but fringed with fine houses half-completed. I got got to know it well in the Civil War time, but I never liked it—sticky as Calcutta or Madras in summer, and yet its people dressed as though they'd been in New York or London. I could always smell fever in the air there, and why George Washington ever chose the site beats me. But that's your rich colonial Englishman all over—never thinks twice about other people's convenience.
But sticky or not, the officials who lived there were d-d sharp men, as I discovered. Fairbrother delivered me at the Department of the Navy, where a white-whiskered admiral heard my tale and d-d his stars at every turn; then he handed me on to a section much like our Board of Trade, where several hardfaced civilians
took up the running and I went through the thing again. They didn't seem to know what to make of me at all, at first, or what precisely they ought to do; finally, one of them, a fat little fellow called Moultrie, asked me exactly what could I contribute to the anti-slave trade campaign apart from giving evidence against the crew of the Balliol College? In other words, what was so remarkable about me that Washington was being troubled with me at all? Where was the important report that had been talked about by Captain Fairbrother?
Since it didn't exist, I had to invent it. I explained that I had gathered an immense amount of detail not only about the slavetraders, but about those in Britain and America who were behind them, supplying them with funds and ships, and organising their abominable activities under the cover of legitimate commerce. All this, I explained, I had committed to paper as opportunity arose, with such documents as I had been able to obtain, and I had earmarked useful witnesses along the way. I had consigned one report to a reliable agent at Whydah, and another to a second agent at Roatan—no, I dare not disclose their names except to my own chiefs in London. A third report I would certainly write out as soon as I could—a rueful smile here, and a reminder that life for me had been fairly busy of late.
“Yes, yes, sir,” says he, “this is excellent, and very well, in its way. Your prudence about the disposal of your earlier reports is commendable. But from what you say you are obviously in possession of infonnation which must be of the first importance to the United States Government—information which Her Majesty's ministers would obviously communicate to us. You have names, you say, of Americans who are behind the slave trade—who, at least, are involved in it at a safe remove from slaving operations. Now, sir, here we have the root of the thing—these are the men we must bring to book. Who are those men?”
I took a deep breath, and tried to look like a man in mental struggle, while he and his two fellow-inquisitors waited, and the secretary sat with his pen poised.
“Mr Moultrie,” says I, “I can't tell you. Please, sir—let me explain.” I solemnly checked his outburst. “I have many names—both in my mind and in my reports. I don't know much about American public affairs, sir, but even I recognise some of them as—well, not insignificant names. Now if I were to name them to you—now—what would they be but names? The mass of evidence that would—that will—lead to their proven involvement in the traffic in black souls, is already on its way to England, as I trust. Obviously it will be communicated to you, and these people can be proceeded against. But if I were to name names now, sir”—I stabbed a finger on the table—“you could do nothing; you would have to wait on the evidence which has been assembled. And while I trust your discretion perfectly, gentlemen—it would be an impertinence to do otherwise—we all know how a word once spoken takes wings. Premature disclosure, and consequent warning, might enable some of these birds to escape the net. And believe me, gentlemen. . .” I gritted my teeth and forced moisture into my eyes “. . . believe me, I have not gone through the hell of those Dahomey raids, and watched the torture of those poor black creatures on the Middle Passage—I have not risked death and worse—in order to see those butchers escape!”
Well, it wasn't a bad performance, and it took them pretty well aback. Moultrie looked d-d solemn, and his pals wore the alarmed expression of men in the presence of a portent they didn't understand. Then Moultrie says:
“Yes. . . I see. You are in no doubt, sir. . . of the consequence that is, the importance, of some of those implicated? Do you suggest that. . . when all is known. . . their would be a, er, a political scandal, perhaps?”
I gave my mirthless laugh. “I may indicate that best, sir, by assuring you that among the Britons whom I know to be involved in the traffic—and whose complicity can be proved, sir—are two peers of the realm and one whose name was, until lately, to be found among Her Majesty's Ministers. And I believe, sir, that the American names include men of comparable stature. The profits of the slave trade, sir, are immense enough to tempt the highest. Judge whether a scandal may be expected.”
He was regarding me round-eyed. “Mr Comber,” says he, “your knowledge makes you a very dangerous young man.”
“And therefore,” says I, smiling keenly, “you would say—a very endangered young man? I am used to risk, sir. It is my trade.” I was almost believing it myself by now, so I wasn't surprised that they took it in. So much so, that being Yankees, and no fools, they made me go through my whole yarn again—from the Channel to Whydah, Gezo's village, our escape, the voyage west, Roatan, and all the rest—in the hope of my slipping out some information unawares, But since I didn't have any they were wasting their time. Finally they conferred while I cooled my heels, and announced that they would discuss matters with the British Ambassador, and in the meantime I would hold myself ready to go to New Orleans to testify against the Balliol College.
I didn't fancy this, at all, but again there was nothing to be done at the moment. So I bowed, and later that day I was hailed to the Ambassador's house-a very decent old stick, and a pleasant change from those yapping Jonathan voices. I was a shade wary in case he, or any of his people, might by a chance in a thousand be acquainted with the real Comber, but all was well. I told my story for a fourth time, and that evening, when he bade me to dinner with him, I went through it yet again for the entertainment of his guests. And I'll swear I didn't put a foot wrong—but there was one man at that table with as keen a nose for a faker as I have myself. How or when he saw through me I shall never understand, but he did, and gave me one of the many nasty moments in my life.
There were about a dozen at the dinner, and I didn't even notice him until the ladies had withdrawn, and Charterfield, our host, had invited me to regale the gentlemen with my adventures on the Slave Coast. But he seemed to take an even closer interest in my story than the others. He was an unusually tall man, with the ugliest face you ever saw, deep dark eye sockets and a chin like a coffin, and a black cow's lick of hair smeared across his forehead. When he spoke it was with the slow, deliberate drawl of the American back-countryman, which was explained by the fact that he was new to the capital; in fact, he was a very junior Congressman, invited at the last moment because he had some antislavery bill in preparation, and so would be interested in meeting me. His name will be familiar to you: Mr Lincoln.[31]
Let me say at once that in spite of all the trouble he caused me at various times, and the slight differences which may be detectable in our characters, I liked Abe Lincoln from the moment I first noticed him, leaning back in his chair with that hidden smile at the back of his eyes, gently cracking his knuckles. Just why I liked him I can't say; I suppose in his way he had the makings of as big a scoundrel as I am myself, but his appetites were different, and his talents infinitely greater. I can't think of him as a good man, yet as history measures these things I suppose he did great good. Not that that excites my admiration unduly, nor do I put my liking down to the fact that he had a sardonic humour akin to my own. I think I liked him because, for some reason which God alone knows, he liked me. And not many men who knew me as well as he did, have done that.
I remember only a few of his observations round that table. Once, when I was describing our fight with the Amazons, one of the company exclaimed:
“You mean to say the women fight and torture and slay on behalf of their menfolk? There can be no other country in the world where this happens.”
And Lincoln, very droll, inquires of him: “Have you attended many political tea parties in Washington lately, sir?”
They all laughed, and the fellow replied that even in Washington society he hadn't seen anything quite to match what I had described.
“Be patient, sir,” says Lincoln. “We're a young country, after all. Doubtless in time we will achieve a civilisation comparable with that of Day-homey.”
I spoke about Spring, and Charterfield expressed amazement and disgust that a man of such obvious parts should be so great a vfflain.
“Well, now,” says Linco
ln, “why not? Some of the greatest villains in history have been educated men. Without that education they might have been honest citizens. A few years at college won't make a bad man virtuous; it will merely put the polish on his wickedness.”
“Oh, come, now,” says Charterfield, “that may be true, but you must admit that virtue more often goes hand in hand with learning than with ignorance. You know very well that a nation's criminal class is invariably composed of those who lack the benefits of education.”
“And being uneducated, they get caught,” says Lincoln. “Your learned rascal usually goes undetected.”
“Why, at this rate, you will equate learning with evildoing,” cries someone. “What must your view be of our leading justices and politicians? Are they not virtuous men?”
“Oh, virtuous enough,” says Lincoln. “But what they would be like if they had been educated is another matter.”
When I had finished my tale, and had heard much congratulation and expressions of flattering astonishment, it was Lincoln who remarked that it must have been a taxing business to act my part among the slavers for so long. Had I not found it a great burden? I said it had been, but fortunately I was a good dissembler.
“You must be,” says he. “And I speak as a politician, who knows how difficult it is to fool people.”
“Well,” says I, “my own experience is that you can fool some people all the time—and all the people some times. But I concede that it's difficult to fool all the people all the time.”
“That is so,” says he, and that great grin lit up his ugly face. “Yes, sir, Mr Comber, that is indeed so.”
I also carried away from that table an impression of Mr Lincoln's views on slaves and slavery which must seem strange in the twentieth century since it varies somewhat from popular belief. I recall, for example, that at one point he described the negroes as “the most confounded nuisance on this continent, not excepting the Democrats”.
Flash For Freedom! Page 14
