“Oh, come,” says someone, “that is a little hard. It is not their fault.”
“It was not my fault when I caught the chicken pox,” says Lincoln, “but I can assure you that while I was infected I was a most unconscionable nuisance-although I believe my family loved me as dearly as ever.”
“Come, that's better,” laughs the other. “You may call the nigras a nuisance provided you love them, too—that will satisfy even the sternest abolitionist.”
“Yes, I believe it would,” says Lincoln. “And like so many satisfactory political statements, it would not be true. I try to love my fellow man, with varying success, the poor slaves among the rest. But the truth is I neither like nor dislike them more than any other creatures. Now your stern abolitionist, because he detests slavery, feels he must love its victims, and so he insists on detecting in them qualities deserving unusual love. But in fact those qualities are not to be found in them, any more than in other people. Your extreme anti-slaver mistakes compassion for love, and this leads him into a kind of nigra-worship which, on a rational examination, is by no means justified.”
“Surely the victim of a misfortune as grievous as slavery does deserve special consideration, though.”
“Indeed,” says Lincoln, “special consideration, special compassion, by all means, just such as I received when I had the chicken pox. But having the chicken pox did not make me a worthier or better person, as some people seem to suppose is the case with victims of slavery. I tell you, sir, to listen to some of our friends, I could believe that every plantation and barracoon from Florida to the river is peopled by the disciples of Jesus. Reason tells me this is false; the slave being God's creature and a human soul, is no better than the rest of us. But if I said as much to Cassius Clay[32] he would try to prove me wrong at the point of his bowie knife.”
“You have worked too long on your anti-slavery bill,” laughs Charterfield. “You are suffering from a surfeit.”
“Why, sir, that is probably so,” says Lincoln. “I wish I had ten dollars for every time I have fought a client's case, never doubting its justice and rightness, pursuing it to a successful verdict with all my powers—and finished the trial feeling heartily sick with that same worthy client. I would not confess it outside this room, but you may believe me, gentlemen, there are moments, God forgive me, when I become just a little tired of nigras.”
“Your conscience is troubling you,” says someone.
“By thunder, there is no lack of people determined to make my conscience trouble me,” says Lincoln. “As though I can't tend to my own conscience, they must forever be running pins into it. There was a gentleman the other day, a worthy man, too, and I was ill-advised enough to say to him much what I've said tonight: that nigras, while deserving our uttermost compassion and assistance, were nevertheless, a nuisance. I said they were the rock on which our nation had been splitting for years, and that they could well assume the proportions of a national catastrophe—through no fault of their own, of course. I believe I concluded by wishing the whole parcel of them back in Africa. He was shocked: 'Strange talk, this', says he, 'from the sponsor of a bill against slavery'. 'I'd sponsor a bill to improve bad drains', says I. 'They're a confounded nuisance, too.' A thoughtless remark, no doubt, and a faulty analogy, but I paid for it. 'Good God,' cries he, 'you'll not compare human souls with bad drains, surely.' 'Not invariably,' says I, but I got no further, because he stalked off in a rage, having misunderstood me completely.”
“You can hardly blame him,” says the other, smiling.
“No,” says Lincoln. “He was a man of principle and conscience. His only fault lay in his inability to perceive that I have both commodities also, but I didn't buy mine ready-made from Cincinnati, and I don't permit either to blind me to reality, I hope. And that reality is that the slave question is much too serious a matter for emotion, yet I very much fear that emotion will override reason in its settlement. In the meantime, I pray to God I am wrong, and continue to fight it in my own way, which I believe to be as worthy as polemical journalism and the underground railroad.”
After that the talk turned to the great California gold strike that I had first heard of at Roatan, and which was obsessing everyone. The first rumours had spoken of fabulous wealth for the taking; then word had spread that the first reports had been greatly exaggerated, and now it was being said that the first reports had been true enough, and it was the rumours of disappointment that were false. Thousands were already heading west, braving the seas round Cape Horn or the perils of starvation, weather and Indian savages on the overland trails. Most of the men at that dinner agreed that there was obviously gold in quantity along the Pacific streams, but doubted if many of the enthusiastic seekers would find quite as much as they expected.
“You are the cynic, Abraham,” says one. “What will the Tennessee wiseacres say of the New Eldorado?”
When the laugh died down, Lincoln shook his head. “If they are real Tennessee wiseacres, Senator, they won't 'say nuthin'.' But what they'll do—if they're real wiseacres—is buy themselves up every nail, every barrel-stave, every axe-handle, and every shovel they can lay hold on, put 'em all in a cart with as many barrels of molasses as may be convenient, haul 'em all up to Independence or the Kanzas, and sell them to the fortunate emigrants at ten times their value. That's how to make gold out of a gold strike.”
“Well, you can handle a team, surely?” cries the merry Senator. “Why not make your fortune out of axe-handles?”
“Well, sir, I'll tell you,” says Lincoln, and everyone listened, grinning. “I've just put the return on axe-handles at one thousand per centum. But I'm a politician, and sometime lawyer. Axehandles aren't my style; my stock-in-trade is spoken words. You may believe me, words can be obtained wholesale a powerful sight cheaper'n axe-handles—and if you take 'em to the right market, you'll get a far richer return for 'em than a thousand per cen turn. If you doubt me—ask President Polk.”
They guffawed uproariously at this, and presently we went to join the ladies for the usual ghastly entertainment which, I discovered, differed not one whit from our English variety. There was singing, and reading from the poetic works of Sir Walter Scott, and during this Lincoln drew me aside into a window alcove, very pleasant, and began asking me various questions about my African voyage. He listened very attentively to my replies, and then suddenly said:
“I tell you what—you can enlighten me. A phrase puzzled me the other day—in an English novel, as a matter of fact. You're a naval man—what does it mean: to club-haul a ship?”
For a moments my innards froze, but I don't believe I showed it. This was the kind of thing I had dreaded: a question on nautical knowledge which I, the supposed naval man, couldn't have answered in a thousand years.
“Why,” says I, “let's see now—club-hauling. Well, to tell you the truth, Mr Lincoln, it's difficult to explain to a landsman, don't ye know? It involves. . . well, quite complicated manoeuvres, you see. . .”
“Yes,” says he, “I thought it might. But in general terms, now what happens?”
I laughed, pleasantly perplexed. “If I had you aboard I could easily tell you. Or if we had a ship model, you know. . .”
He nodded, smiling at me. “Surely. It's of no consequence. I just have an interest in the sea, Mr Comber, and must be indulging it at the expense of every sailor who is unlucky enough to—lay alongside me, as you'd call it.” He laughed. “That's another thing, now, I recall. Forgive my curiosity, but what, precisely, is long-splicing?”
I knew then he was after me, in spite of the pleasant, almost sleepy expression in the dark eyes. His canny yokel style didn't fool me. I gave him back some of his own banter, while my heart began to hammer with alarm.
“It's akin to splicing the mainbrace, Mr Lincoln,” says I, “and is a term which anyone who is truly interested in the sea would have found out from a nautical almanac long ago.”
He gave a little snorting laugh. “Forgive me. Of course I wasn
't really interested—just testing a little theory of mine.”
“What theory is that, sir?” asks I, my knees shaking.
“Oh—just that you, Mr Comber—if that is your name—might not be quite so naval as you appear. No, don't alarm yourself. It's no business of mine at all. Blame my legal training, which has turned a harmless enough fellow into a confounded busybody. I've spent too long in court-rooms perhaps, seeking after truth and seldom finding it. Maybe I'm of an unusually suspicious nature, Mr Comber, but I confess I am downright interested when I meet an English Navy man who doesn't smother his food with salt, who doesn't, out of instinct, tap his bread on the table before he bites it, and who doesn't even hesitate before jumping up like a jack-rabbit when his Queen's health is proposed. Just a fraction of a moment's pause would seem more natural in a gentleman who is accustomed to drinking that particular toast sitting down.” He grinned with his head on one side. “But all these things are trivial; they amount to nothing—until the ill-mannered busybody also finds out that this same English Navy man doesn't know what club-hauling and long-splicing are, either. Even then, I could still be entirely mistaken. I frequently am.”
“Sir,” says I, tiying to sound furious, with my legs on the point of giving way, “I fail to understand you. I am a British officer and, I hope, a gentleman. . .”
“Oh, I don't doubt it,” says he, “but even that isn't conclusive proof that you're a rascal. You see, Mr Comber, I can't be sure. I just suspect that you're a humbug—but I couldn't for the life of me prove it.” He scratched his ear, grinning like a gargoyle. “And anyway, it's just none of my business. I guess the truth is I'm a bit of a humbug myself, and feel a kind of duty to other humbugs. Anyway, I'm certainly not fool enough to pass on my ridiculous observations and suspicions to anyone else, I just thought you might be interested to hear about the salt, and the bread, and so forth,” said this amazing fellow. “Shall we go and listen to them laying it off about the Last Minstrel?”
It was touch and go at this point whether I launched myself head first through the open window or not; for a moment it seemed that the wiser course might well be headlong flight. But then I steadied. I cannot impress too strongly on young fellows that the whole secret of the noble art of survival, for a single man, lies in knowing exactly when to make your break for safety. I considered this now, with Lincoln smiling down at me sardonically, and decided it was better to brazen things through than to bolt. He knew I was an impostor, but he could hardly prove it, and for some whimsical reason of his own he seemed to regard the whole thing as a joke. So I gave him my blandest smile, and said: “I confess, sir, that I have no idea what you're talking about. Let us by all means rejoin the company.”
I think it puzzled him, but he said nothing more, and we turned back into the room. I kept a bold front, but I was appalled at being discovered, and the rest of that evening passed in a confused panic for me. I recall that I was dragooned into singing the bass part in a group song—I believe it was “Tis of a sailor bold, but lately come ashore”, which no doubt caused Mr Lincoln some ironic amusement—but beyond that I can remember little except that eventually we all took our leave, and Fairbrother carried me off to quarters at the Navy Department, where I spent a sleepless night wondering how I could get out of this latest fix.
They would send me back to New Orleans, assuming that the prying bumpkin Lincoln kept his suspicions to himself—which seemed likely—and it was imperative that I should take french leave before there was any risk of my confronting the Balliol College crew at their trial. Washington was no place to try to decamp, so that left Baltimore or New Orleans. I favoured the former, but as it turned out there was no opportunity, for when the Navy Department finally finished with me on the following morning, I was sent back with Fairbrother to his brig, and he took me straight aboard. We sailed within a few hours, so there was nothing to do but resign myself to sitting out the voyage, and make plans for escaping when we reached Louisiana. What I would do when I slipped away, I didn't know; if my own mother wit couldn't get me back to England hale and sound, I wasn't the man I thought I was. When you've come safe through an Afghan rising and a German revolution, with all manner of cut-throats on your tail, you regard evasion from the United States as a pretty smooth course, even if they set the traps after you for slave-running and impersonation, as Fairbrother and his superiors eventually would do. I fancied I could manage passably well, if I minded my step—oh, the optimism of youth. If I'd known what lay along the path to England, home and beauty, I'd have surrendered then and there, told Fairbrother the whole truth, and taken my chance in a slavery trial any day. Thank God I've never had the gift of second sight.
7
The closer we got to New Orleans, the worse my prospects of successful desertion looked, and by the time we dropped anchor at the big bend in the Mississippi River off Customs House levee, I was well in the dumps. Having nothing to unload, you see, except me, the brig stood well out in midstream, so my notion of slipping down a gangplank to the quay was quite out of court. We hove to at night, with the whole splendid panorama of lights twinkling on either bank, the glow of Algiers to port and the French Quarter to starboard, but it was lost on me. Fairbrother was to take me ashore personally in the morning, so my only hope must be to give him the slip when we landed.
I already had a good idea of what my first moves would be when I had won free, so I set about my preparations. First I went through the clothes which I hadn't worn since I first boarded the Balliol College, and which had been bundled up in my valise. There was a superb coat by Gregg of Bond Street, in fine plum broadcloth, now foully creased, but I borrowed an iron from the steward, waved away his offers of help, and working secretly in my cabin, soon put it to rights and sponged out the stains it had taken. I had two good pairs of trousers, excellent boots from Todd, a smart grey embroidered waistcoat, several shirts which were beyond redemption, and a fine neckercher of black China silk. That was my wardrobe; the coat and neckercher at least could be counted on for what I had in mind.
My other valuables consisted of a ruby pin and an old-fashioned gold and silver chain with seals which had belonged to my grandfather Paget. They could pawn for a tidy sum, but I hoped this would be unnecessary, as I had a more immediate use for them. For the rest, I had eleven gold sovereigns, which would tide me over the beginning at least.
Having completed my inventory, I packed everything carefully in my valise, and next morning when Fairbrother took me ashore I stood forth in the dothes he had lent me; since I should be staying ashore when he had presented me to the proper authorities it was natural that my valise should go with me in the boat.
We were rowed to the Algiers side by four bluejackets, Fairbrother sweating in full fig, and as we neared the bank my spirits rose. The levee and wharves were positively teeming with people, there was a forest of shipping along the bank, with small craft scudding about everywhere, hall-naked negroes toiling at the derricks as cargo was swung ashore, folk bustling about every which way on the jettys, nigger children playing and squealing among the piles, ship's officers and cargo bosses bawling above the hubbub—a tremendous confusion of thousands of busy people, which was just what I wanted.
At need I had been prepared to bolt for it, but I didn't have to. While I was handed ashore at the levee, and one of the men swung up my valise, Fairbrother stopped a moment to give orders to the coxswain. I picked up my baggage, took three steps, and in that moment I was lost in the throng, jostling my way quickly along the wharf. I didn't even hear a shout from the boat; in two minutes I was striding along through the heaps of cargo and cotton bales, and when I glanced back there wasn't a glimpse of Fairbrother and his men to be seen. They would be gaping around, no doubt, swearing at my carelessness at having got lost, and would start a hunt for me, but it would be an hour or so before they began to suspicion that my disappearance wasn't accidental. Then the fun would begin in earnest.
Now, I had considered carefully the possibility
of trying to board an outgoing ship immediately, and had dismissed the notion. When Fairbrother and his navy friends eventually decided I had slipped my cable, there would be a tremendous hue and cry, and the first places they would look for me would be on departing ships. I couldn't be sure of finding a vessel that would be out and away before that happened; anyway, I hadn't much passage money. So I had determined to lie low in New Orleans until I could see what was best to be done, and then carefully pick my best passage home, perhaps from another port altogether.
So now, when I had put a quarter of a mile between myself and the spot where the boat touched, I halted on the levee, waited till I spotted a likely-looking craft among the hundreds that were putting in and out along the bank, and asked its rower to carry me over to the north shore. He was a big, grinning nigger with brass rings in his ears who chattered unceasingly in a queer mixture of French and English, and in no time at all he set me down on the levee from which you walked up to the Vieux Carré, the old French Quarter which is the very heart of New Orleans. I paid him in English shillings, which didn't bother him at all; provided it's gold or silver, the Orleanais don't care whose head is on it.
There is no city quite like New Orleans (“Awlins” as its inhabitants called it then; outsiders called it “Nawlins”). I loved it at first sight, and I believe that setting aside London, which is my home, and Calcutta, which has a magic that I cannot hope to explain, I still think more kindly of it than of any other place on earth. It was busy and gay and bawdy and full of music and drink and pleasure; nowhere else did eyes sparkle so bright, voices sound so happy, colours look so vivid, food taste so rich, or the very air throb with so much excitement. In the unlikely event that there is a heaven for scoundrels like me, it will be built on the model of the Vieux Carré, with its smiling women, brilliant clothes, and atmosphere of easy indulgence. The architecture is also very fine, spires and gracious buildings and what not, with plenty of shade and places to lounge and sit about while you watch the ivory girls sauntering by in their gorgeous dresses. Indeed, it was sometimes not unlike a kind of tropical Paris, but without those bloody Frogs. New Orleans, of course, is where they civilised the French.
Flash For Freedom! Page 15
