“Pray be seated, Mr Comber. And before you assail me with angry protests—which you're perfectly entitled to do, I confess—allow me to extend my most sincere and heartfelt apologies for the rather. . . er. . . cavalier manner of my invitation. Now, won't you be seated, sir, please? No one intends you the least harm—quite the contrary, I assure you. Sit down, sir, do.”
“Who the blazes are you?” I demanded. He was obviously friendly, and a kindly-looking little fellow in his old-fashioned neckercher and breeches, with bright grey eyes that peered eagerly at me. “And what's the meaning of this?” Now that I was half-past fear I was prepared to be angry.
“There, now, that's exactly what I mean to tell you, if you'll only be seated,” says he soothingly. “That's better. A glass of port?—no, perhaps brandy would be better. Settling for the nerves, eh?—though I don't think yours are nerves that need much settling, young man, from all I've heard.”
Well, I'll always take brandy when it's kindly offered, so I fastened on the glass and gulped a mouthful down. And as he Went back to his desk I took stock of the richly-furnished room, with its fine carpet and dark panelling, and found myself reassured, if bewildered.
“Now, then,” says he, “that feels better, eh? Well, Mr Comber, I owe you an explanation as well as an apology, so you shall have it.” He was American, but well-educated, and when you took a closer view of him you saw that he wasn't quite such an old Cheeryble as he looked. “Let me begin by astonishing you. I have been waiting to make your acquaintance this past few days. Indeed, if you hadn't left tonight to board the Anglesey Queen—there, there, sir, all shall be made plain presently—I was preparing to come and call on you. Oh, yes, I much wanted to meet you. We have kept a very close eye on you indeed, sir, since you arrived in Washington, although I confess we lost you for a moment when you gave the good Captain Fairbrother the slip.” He chuckled. “Very neat, that. Of course, we quite understood. Quite understood. Didn't we?”
This was bewildering, but I had my nerve back. “Did you? If you understand so much, you won't mind enlightening me. Who or what are you—are you American government?”
He smiled. “No—not exactly. Although we have great influence, and many highly-placed friends, in that same government—that government which, I'm afraid, has been rather embarrassing you lately with insistent questions. Naturally—you're in possession of what I believe one senior official called dangerous information, and Washington wants it. But you want to take it straight home to England—perfectly right, sir. So you gave them the slip, and behold you tonight preparing to set sail secretly for Liverpool.”
He hadn't quite got hold of the wrong end of the stick, you see, but very nearly. His only mistake lay in believing that I was Comber, and in deducing the wrong reason for my attempted flight from New Orleans. A flight which, rot him, he was putting in severe jeopardy.
“Then would you kindly tell me,” says I, “why you have hauled me here at gun-point, instead of letting me catch my ship? In heaven's name, sir, I must get aboard her—”
“You would never have got aboard her,” says he. “The Navy Department want you, Mr Comber, as a witness against those slaver friends of yours, and the U.S. Government, I know, wish to question you further about—those certain names you have in your head. Slave-trade names, I believe.” And suddenly he wasn't a genial little buffer any more; his mouth was like a rat-trap. “Believe me, Mr Comber, the levee is well-watched; they know which way you'll try to go.”
“And by what right would they try to stop me?” says I, brazening. By George, if they ever found out I wasn't Comber, they'd have right enough. Maybe they had found out—but if they had my onmiscient little friend evidently hadn't.
“Oh, no right at all,” says he. “But governments can generally arrange diplomatic reasons for delaying departures. I suppose they might hold on to you for a few weeks—until your ambassador pressed them into letting you go home. By then, Washington would hope, you might have let slip those names they want to know about.”
I saw I must play Comber's part for all I was worth, so I smiled grimly. “They have no hope of that; those names are for my chiefs in London, and no one else. And if you think—whoever you are—that you can get them out of me—”
“My dear Mr Comber.” He held up a hand. “I'm not interested. My concern with the slave trade lies in quite another direction—the same direction, I believe, as your own. That is why you are here. That is why my agents have traced you, even into the house of ill fame where you took refuge.” Well, thinks I, I hope they didn't trace too close, or they must have got an eyeful. “Thus we knew of the passage home its proprietress arranged for you—I take it she is an English anti-slavery agent. . . but there, the less said, the better. Thus we were able to intercept you tonight.”
“You know a lot,” says I. “Now, look here; I've heard everything but what I want to know. Who are you, and what d'you want with me?”
He looked at me steadily. “You have heard, I am sure, of the underground railroad.”
Six months earlier I wouldn't have known what he meant, but when you've been in the company of slavers, as I had been, you recognise the phrase. Spring had mentioned it; I'd heard it spoken about, low-voiced, in Susie's brothel.
“It's a secret society for stealing slaves, and helping them to escape, isn't it? To Canada.”
“It is an organisation for saving souls!” snaps he, and once again he didn't look half amiable. “It is an army that fights the most horrible tyranny of our time—the blasphemous iniquity of black slavery! It is an army without colours, or ranks, or pay—an army of dedicated men and women who labour secretly to release their black brethren from bondage and give them liberty. Yes, we steal slaves! Yes, we run them to free soil. Yes, we die for doing it—like them we are hunted with dogs, and tortured and hanged and shot if we are caught by the brutes who own and trade in human flesh. But we do it gladly, because we are marching in Christ's army, sir, and we will not lay down our weapons until the last shackle is broken, the last branding iron smashed, the last raw-hide whip burned, and the last slave free!”[33]
I gathered he was an abolitionist. By gad, he was in a fine sweat about it, too, but now he sat back and spoke in a normal voice.
“Forgive me. As though I need to say such things to you. Why, you take a thousand risks for our one, you put your life in the hazard in the nethermost hell of this foul traffic. Oh, we know all about you, Mr Comber—as you yourself said in a certain Washington office, 'Walls have ears.' The underground railroad has ears, certainly, and it heard your name in Washington, and the heroic work you did in bringing the Balliol College and that scoundrel Spring to book. Which reminds me of a privilege I had promised myself tonight, but have overlooked.” He got to his feet. “Mr Comber, may I have the honour to shake your hand?”
And blow me, he seized my fist and pumped it hard enough to start water out of me. I didn't mind, but the thought occurred to me, here I was again being congratulated on my dauntless devotion, when all the time it had been frantic poltroonery. But it had done the trick, which just goes to show: we also serve who only turn and run.
“Thank you, sir, thank you,” says he. “You have made me a happy man. Now, may I tell you how you may make me happier still?”
I wasn't sure about this, but I sat down again and listened. I couldn't decide whether this little blighter was going to turn out well for me or not.
“As you know, we of the underground railroad rescue slaves wherever we can—from plantations, markets, pens, wherever they may be—and send them north secretly to the free states beyond the Ohio river and the Mason—Dixon line. Alone, they could never hope to make the journey, so we send with them our agents, who pose as slave-owners and slave-dealers, and convoy the unfortunates to safety. It is perilous work, as I have said, and our roll of martyrs grows longer every day. This is a savage country, sir, and while there are many in government who love and assist our work, government itself cannot condone or protec
t us, because we break the law—man's law, not God's. We are criminals, sir, in the eyes of our country, but we are proud of our crimes.”
He was almost away again, but checked himself.
“Now, all slaves are important to us, however lowly, but some are more important than others. Such a one is George Randolph. Have you heard of him? No, well you shall. You have heard of Nat Turner, the slave who led a great rebellion in Virginia, and was barbarously executed by his tormentors? Well, Randolph is such another—but a greater man, better educated, more intelligent, with a greater vision. Twice he has tried to organise insurrection, twice he has failed; three times he has escaped; twice he has been recaptured. He is a fugitive at this moment—but we have him safe, and God willing they shall never take him again.”
Comber would have applauded, so I said, “Oh, bravo!” and looked pleased.
“Bravo indeed,” says he, and then looked solemn. “But all is not done. Randolph must be taken in safety to Canada—what a blow that will be in our cause! Why, sir, think of what such a man can do, when he is on free soil. He can talk, he can write, he can go abroad, not only in Canada but in England, in our own free states—I tell you, sir, the burning words of such a man, Striking the ears of the civilised world, will do more to rekindle the fire against slavery than all our white journalists and orators can accomplish. The world will see a man like themselves, and yet greater—a man fit for a chair in our finest universities, or to sit in the highest councils of a nation—but a black man, sir, with the whip-marks on his back and the shackle-scars on his legs! They will understand, as they have never understood, what slavery is! They will feel the whip and shackles on their own bodies, and they will cry out: 'This infamy shall not be!'”
Well, it seemed to call for something, so I said:
“Capital. First-rate. This news will be welcomed with joy in England, I'm sure, and as soon as I am home again you may rely. . .”
“But Mr Comber,” says he, “this is still to be achieved. George Randolph is not in Canada yet—he is still here, a hunted runaway. The journey to freedom lies ahead of him.”
“But is that difficult? For your splendid organisation? I mean, you have shown me, tonight, how far-reaching it is. Why, you know as much about me as I do myself—almost. Your agents. . .”
“Oh, we have many agents; our intelligence system is extensive. We have an eye at every window in this land, sir, and an ear at every door information is no difficulty. But most of our spies are black; most are still slaves. Collecting intelligence is one thing, but running slaves to Canada is quite another. Here we need white agents, dedicated, resolute, and bold, and these are pitifully few. Many are willing, but only a handful are able. And even then, they have become too well known. Of the gallant young men who ran our last three convoys one is dead, one in jail, and the third in Canada, unable to return because he would certainly be arrested. I have not one that I can send with Randolph, sir, not one that I could trust. For with a cargo of such importance, I cannot risk sending any but the hardiest, the bravest, the least suspected. Do you see my plight, sir? Every day that Randolph hides in New Orleans his danger grows—the enemy has spies also. I must get him out, and quickly. Can you understand?”
I understood all right, but ass that I was, I didn't see what it had to do with me. I suggested sending him by sea.
“Impossible. The risk is too great. Ironically, his safest route is the one that would appear most dangerous—up the Mississippi to the free states. One slave in a coffle may pass unnoticed my one fearful problem is the white agent to go with him. I tell you, Mr Comber, I was at my wits' end—and then, in answer to my prayers, I had word of you from Washington, and that you would be coming to Orleans.”
I absolutely said: “Christ!” but he was in full spate.
“I saw then that God had sent you. Not only are you a man dedicated to fighting the abomination of slavery, but you are one who scorns danger, who has come unscathed through perils ten times greater than this, who has the experience, the intelligence—nay, the brilliance—and the cold courage such an enterprise requires. And, above all this, you are not known!” He smacked his fist on the table excitedly. “If I had all the world to choose from, I should have asked for such a man as you. You, who I had never heard of ten days ago. Mr Comber, will you do this for me—and strike yet another, greater blow above all those you have surely struck already?”
Well, of all the appalling nonsense I had ever heard, this beat everything, even Bismarck. By George, they were two of a kind—the same fanatic gleam in the eye, the same fierce determination to thrust a hapless fellow-human into the stew, head first, to further their own lunatic schemes. But Bismarck had had a pistol to my head; this idiot hadn't. I was on the point of telling him straight what I thought of his revolting suggestion, laughing right in his eager little face, and I suddenly checked—I was Comber. How would he have refused—my God, he probably wouldn't, the reckless fool. I had to go very canny.
“Well, sir? Well—is this not such a crusade as your heart desires?”
There was a fine, short answer to that, but I daren't give it. “Sir,” says I, “tlth is a startling proposal. Oh, you honour me, indeed you do. But sir, my duty is to my country—I must return at once—”
He laughed exultantly. “But of course, and you shall! You may do this thing and be in England faster than if you wait here to catch a packet home. Listen, sir—you would go upriver by steamboat, as a slave-trader, with a coffle for—Kentucky, let us say. But you sail straight on to Cincinnati—why, you will be there in six days, pass Randolph to our agent there, and continue to Pittsburgh. You may be in New York in a week or a little more from now, sir, and a sailing there will have you home far more speedily than a boat from Orleans—if you could even get one here. Remember, the Navy are watching for you.”
“But, sir,” I protested, cudgelling fearfully for excuses, “Con sider the danger, not to me, but to my own mission—the information I hold, if I went astray, would be lost to my own government, and yours—”
“I have thought of it,” cries he. Of course, he would, rot his measly little soul. “You may commit it to paper here, sir, this very night, under seal, and I swear upon my honour it shall go straight to London. No one in Washington, no one at all, shall see it. You have my word. But, Mr Comber,” he went on earnestly, “there is no risk of that. You will come through without the slightest danger—no slave-catcher will give you a second glance. They know us, sir, but not you. And you will be serving the cause dear to your heart; I implore you, sir, say you will aid us in this.”
Well, I knew the cause dear to my heart, if he didn't. “Sir,” says I. “I am sorry. Believe me, I would aid you if I could, but my duty must come above my personal inclination.”
“But you will be doing that duty, don't you see? Better than if you refuse—for if you do, why then, I could only apologise for bringing you here, and—send you back to the Navy Department. I should be reluctant—it would delay you still further, for they would keep you here for the trial of Spring and his pirates. But that would plainly be my only course.”
So there it was. Blackmail, the pious little scoundrel. Oh, he was twinkling solemnly; he thought, you see, that all I had to fear from being delivered back to the clutches of the Navy and the U.S. Government was delay and more inconvenient questioning. He didn't know that if I appeared at the Balliol College trial my true identity must appear, and it would be into the dock for Flashy with the rest of the crew. Then it would be prison—my God, they might even hang us. Against that, the risk—which he said was no risk—of running a fugitive nigger to Ohio. He had me, the little serpent, but he didn't know how he had me, and he mustn't find out.
Well, if I refused him, I was done for, that was sure. So presumably, I must accept. I tried to think straight, tried to reason, tried to see a way out, but couldn't. My innards quailed at what he had proposed, but it was only a risk against a certainty. And he didn't think the risk was much at all—not
that I put any faith in that. What could I do, though? I've been trapped so often, between two loathsome choices, and it's in my coward's nature to choose what seems the less dangerous. That was all I could do now, at this moment, and see what turned up. Yes, that was it: I must accept, and be ready to fly at the first hint of danger. If I must take this lout Randolph north, well, there it was. If things went adrift, I'd slide out somehow. I'd deny him, if I had to. But if all went well—and the chances were they would—why, I'd be half way home, with Spring and the U.S. Navy and the rest far astern. Looking back, I can only say it seemed the lesser of two evils. Well, I've been wrong before.
When you have to bow the knee, do it with grace.
“Very well, sir,” says I, looking solemn, “I must accept. I must combine duty—” and I forced myself to look him in the eye “—with the desire of my heart, which is to assist you and your worthy cause.”
Comber couldn't have said it better, and the little monster was all over me. He wrung my hand, and called me a saviour, and then he got business-like again. He called in another chap, a long-faced zealot, this one, and introduced me “—our own names,” he added to me, “I think it wiser not to divulge to you, Mr Comber. I choose to be known as Mr Crixus, which you will no doubt consider appropriate, ha-ha.”[34]
And then it was all joy and good fellowship and be damned, they were so delighted, and my mind was in a turmoil, but I couldn't for the life of me see a way clear. Crixus bustled about, calling in two other chaps who I suspected were the men who had brought me, and told them the glad news, and they shook hands, too, and blessed me, full of solemn delight. Yes, they said, all was ready, and the sooner things were started the better. Crixus nodded eagerly, rubbing his hands, and then beamed at me:
“And now I promise myself another little pleasure. I told you, Mr Comber, that George Randolph was in hiding. He is—in this house, and it shall now be my privilege to present to each other two of the greatest champions of our cause. Come, gentlemen.”
Flash For Freedom! Page 17
