Flash For Freedom!

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Now he was talking most excellent sense; I twisted round from my prone position to cry agreement, and gave my backside a nasty twinge.

  “Indeed, sir,” says I. “The sooner I can reach England—”

  “I wasn't thinking of quite so far as that; not just yet awhile. I know you're all on fire to get home, which is why you say you slipped away in New Orleans in the first place. Pity you allowed yourself to be. . . uh. . . distracted along the way. However, since you did, and have broken federal laws in the process, it puts a different complexion on things. For me, you could go home now, but it's not that simple. The way I see it, my government—my country—needs you; they still want you down in New Orleans to give evidence against the crew of—the Balliol College, wasn't it? Your testimony, as I understand it, can put those gentlemen where they belong—”

  “But, Mr Lincoln, there is evidence enough against them without me,” I cried, all a-sweat again.

  “Well, perhaps there may be, but a little more won't hurt, if it makes certain of them. After all, that was why you sailed with them, why you risked your hide as an agent, wasn't it?” He was smiling down at me. “To bring them to book, to strike another blow against the slave trade?”

  “Oh, of course, to be sure, but. . . well. . . er. . .”

  “You're perhaps reluctant to go back to New Orleans because you feel it may be unsafe for you, after. . . recent events?.”

  “Exactly! You're absolutely right, sir. . .”

  “Have no fear of that,” says he. “No one is going to connect the eminently respectable Lieutenant Comber, R.N., with all those goings on far away up the river. That was the work of some scoundrel called Arnold FitzPrescott or Prescott FitzArnold or someone. And if anyone did connect them, I can assure you there would be no lack of influence working on your behalf to keep you out of trouble—there are enough sympathetic ears in high places in the federal government to see to that at need. Provided, of course, that you are doing your duty by that same government—and, incidentally, by your own.”

  By George, this was desperate; I had to talk him out of it somehow, without raising more suspicions of me than he had already.

  “Even so, Mr Lincoln, I'm sure it would be best if I could proceed home directly. The case against the Balliol College can surely be proved without my help.”

  “Well, I daresay, but that's not the point any longer. This is quite a delicate situation, you know. See here: I've stood up for you tonight—and for that girl—helped you both to break my country's laws, and broken 'em myself, in a just, fine cause which I believe to be in my country's true interest. And if it ever got out—which I pray to the Lord it won't—there is enough antislavery sentiment in our federal government to ensure that it would all be winked at, and no more said. But they're not going to wink if I, a Congressman, help a witness in an important case to avoid his duty. That's why I'm bound to send you back to Orleans. Believe me, you have nothing to fear there—you can say your piece in the witness box, and then go home as fast as my distant influence and that of grateful friends will send you.”

  Aye, and wait till the Balliol College scoundrels denounce me as Flashman, their fellow-slaver, posing as a dead man, thinks I; we'll see how much influence is exerted on my behalf then. I made a last effort.

  “Mr Lincoln,” says I, “believe me that nothing would give me more satisfaction than to accede to your request—”

  “Capital,” says he, “because that's what you're going to do.” He regarded me quizzically. “Why you should be reluctant beats me—I begin to wonder if there's an outraged husband waiting for you in Orleans, or something of that order. If so, tell him to go to blazes—I daresay you've done that before.”

  There was one I could cheerfully have consigned to blazes, as I lay there going hot and cold, chewing my nether lip. I have damnable luck, truly—how many poor devils have had to try and wriggle clear in arguments with folk like Lincoln and Bismarck? He had me with my short hairs fast in the mangle, and I daren't protest any longer. What the devil was I to say, with those dark caverns of eyes smiling down at me?

  “I doubt if it's anything as simple as an outraged husband, though,” says he. “However, you don't choose to tell me, and I don't choose to press you. I owe you that much, on behalf of Randolph and the girl Cassy—in return you owe it to me to go to Orleans.” He stood beside the bed, that odd quirk to his mouth, watching me. “Come, Mr Comber, it isn't very much, after all—and it's in the cause dear to your heart, remember.”

  There was nothing else for it, and I tried to keep the despair out of my voice as I agreed.

  “So that's settled,” says he cheerily. “You can go south again, but by a safe eastern route. I'll speak to Judge Payne, and see that a hint reaches Governor Bebb. We'll arrange for a U.S. marshal to accompany you. You'll be safe that way, and you won't run the risk of straying again.” He was positively benign, the long villain; I could have sworn he was enjoying himself. “The trouble with you jolly tars is you don't seem to find your way on land any too well.”

  He talked a little more, and then picked up his hat, shook hands, and went over to the door.

  “Good luck in New Orleans, Mr Comber—or whatever your name is. In the unlikely event that we ever meet again, try and find out for me what club-hauling is, won't you?” He pulled on his gloves. “And God bless you for what you did for that girl.”

  It was some consolation to think that I'd fooled Mr Lincoln some of the time, at least; he believed I had a spark of decency, apparently. So I thought it best to respond with a few modest and manly phrases about saving an innocent soul from bondage, but he interrupted me with his hand on the door.

  “Keep it for the recording angel,” says he. “I've a feeling you're going to need it.”

  And then he was gone, and I was not to see him again until that fateful night fifteen years later when, as President of the United States, he bribed and coerced me into ruining my military reputation (which mattered something) and risking my neck (which mattered a great deal) in order to save his Union from disaster (which didn't matter at all—not to me, anyway). But that's another tale, for another day.

  That night in Portsmouth he left me in a fine frustrated fury. After all my struggling and running and ingenuity, I was going to be shipped back to New Orleans—and inevitably a prison cell, or worse. I couldn't even run any more, what with my behind laid open, and there would be a marshal to see that I got safe into the clutches of the American Navy, too. By George, I was angry; I could have broken Lincoln's long neck for him. You'd have thought, after all I'd done for his precious abolitionist cause—albeit against my will and better judgment—that he'd have had the decency to let me go my ways, and given me a pound or two out of the poor box to boot. But politicians are all the same; there's no trusting them whatever, not only because they're knaves, but because they're even more inconsistent than women. Selfish brutes, too.

  At least, though, I was still alive, and fairly full of sin and impudence, when I might easily have been dead or chained on an Alabama plantation, or rotting at the bottom of the Mississippi or the Ohio. For the future, although it looked pretty horrid, I would just have to wait and see, and take my chance—if it came.

  I was allowed up next day, and sat in state on the edge of a chair, with my wounded cheek over the edge, and various people came to see me—abolitionists, of course, who wanted to shake the hero's hand, and in the case of the older ladies of the community, to kiss his weathered brow. They came secretly, because like all towns thereabouts Portsmouth was split between pro-slavers and abolitionists, and my whereabouts was known only to a safe few. They brought me gingerbread and good wishes, and one of them said I was a saint; normally I'd have basked in it, as I'd done on other occasions, but the thought of Orleans took the fun out of it.

  One of my visitors I even assailed with a thrown boot; he was a small boy, I suspect a child of the house, who came in when I was alone and asked: “Is it right you got shot up the ass, mister?
Say, can I see?” I missed him, unfortunately.

  Another glum thing was that Cassy left that evening. She isn't one of my prime favourites, looking back—too strong-willed and high strung—but I hate to lose a good mistress just when I'm getting the taste of her. However, they said it wasn't safe for her to remain so near the Ohio, and an underground railroad man was to take her to Canada. We didn't even have the chance of a lusty farewell, for when she came to say good-bye the ugly Mrs Payne was on hand to see fair play, with Cassy looking uncommonly demure and rather uncomfortable in a drab brown gown and poke bonnet. I gathered she hadn't realised that I'd done my level best to desert her on the far bank of the Ohio, for she thanked me very prettily for all my help, while Mrs Payne stood with her hands in her muff, nodding severe approval.

  “Cassiopeia is quite recovered from her ordeal,” says she, “and looks forward with the liveliest anticipation to reaching Canada. There our friends will see to it that she is provided with shelter and such employment as fits her station. I have no doubt that she will prove a credit to all of us her benefactors, and especially to you, Mr Comber.”

  Cassy's face was like a mask, but I saw her eyes glint in the shadow of the bonnet.

  “Oh, I don't doubt it,” says I. “Cassiopeia is a very biddable child, are you not, my dear?” I patted her hand. “There, there—just be a good girl, and mind what Mrs Payne and her kind friends tell you. Say your prayers each night, and remember your. . . er. . . station.”

  “There,” says Mrs Payne. “I think you may kiss your deliverer's hand, child.”

  I wouldn't have been surprised if Cassy had burst out laughing, or in a fit of rage, but she did something that horrified Mrs Payne more than either could have done. She bent down and gave me a long, fierce kiss on the mouth, while her chaperone squawked and squeaked, and eventually bustled her away.

  “Such liberties!” cries she. “These simple creatures! My child, this will never—”

  “Good-bye,” says Cassy, and that was the last I ever saw of her—or of the two thousand dollars we had had between us. I've never been able to recall for the life of me where it was stowed when we got off the steamboat at Fisher's Landing, but I know I didn't have it on my person, which was careless of me. Ah, well, I've no doubt she put it to good use-and it had been paid for her anyway.

  However, money was the least of my concerns just then. Unless there was some unexpected turn of events in the next few weeks I could see the American republic would be paying my board and lodging for some time to come. I had nightmares about it, in which I was in a place like the Old Bailey, but with great stained-glass windows, and a hanging judge in scarlet on the bench, and Spring and his mates all chained up, leering, in the dock, and a voice droning out, “Call Beauchamp Comber, R.N.” And I saw myself creeping into the witness box, goaded on by Lincoln and a U.S. marshal, and Spring bawling out: “That's not Comber—Comber's dead! That's the notorious Flashy, monstrum horrendum, come to impose on your worships like the bloody liar he is!” And then consternation, and I was dragged to the dock and chained to the others, and the judge said it would be twice as bad for me as for them, and upon conviction I would be shot in the other buttock and then hanged. At which there was great cheering, and I pleaded with them that I had been led astray and that it all came of playing vingt-et-un with D'Israeli, and they said that made it worse still, and then the faces and voices faded, and I would find myself awake, boiling with sweat and my wound aching like be-damned.

  In the end, it wasn't quite like that, as you shall see. Have you noticed that things are never quite as bad or good as you expect them to be-at least, not in the way that you expect? So it was now, when my rump had healed enough for me to travel, and Judge Payne brought along the marshal, and with much handclasping and cheek-kissing and hallelujahs I was despatched on my way to continue God's work, as Payne put it.

  I won't bother you with the journey, which was by coach and rail through Columbus, Pittsburgh and Baltimore, and then by packet down to Orleans. Sufficient to say that the marshal, a decent enough fellow called Cottrell, watched over me like a mother over a chick, very friendly, very careful, and that no official notice of our passage seemed to be taken, until we came to New Orleans.

  There I was delivered into the care of Captain Bailey, U.S.N., a very bluff gentleman who shook me cordially by the hand, and said they were glad to see me, hey, and a fine commotion there had been when Captain Fairbrother had lost me, by thunder, yes, but here I was, safe and sound, so all was well that ended well.

  “Mind you, Mr Comber, in these days I don't ask too many questions,” says he. “I'm a sailor; like you, I do my duty. The past few months are a closed account to me, sir—one hears all about outlandish things like underground railroads and what not, but that's nothing to the point. What I know is that facing me now is a brother officer in the service of a friendly power, who is going to give evidence on behalf of the U.S. Navy against slave-runners. Capital work.” And he rubbed his hands. “More than that—not my concern, sir. Not my concern at all. If anyone has been working for the underground railroad—which is an illegal organisation, of course—well, that's not our province, is it? That's for Washington, or state governments, to worry about.” He grew confidential. “You see, Mr Comber, we're a strangely divided country here-some for slave-holding, others against. Now the government recognises it, officially, as you know, but a lot of very important people-some in the government itself—are against it. We have the strange position where federal government people, who may detest slavery, nevertheless are bound to enforce the law against things like underground railroading. So, often as not, a great many people frequently have to follow the example of your good Lord Nelson, and turn a blind eye to a great many things. Such as what you've been doing between your. . . er. . . departure from Captain Fairbrother and this moment, sir.” He frowned at me. “Do I make myself clear, sir?”

  “I think so, sir,” says I.

  “Ye-es,” says he. Then suddenly: “Look here, Comber, between these four walls, I heard from circles in Washington that you've been slave-stealing. Well, fine. I approve of that; so does half the government. But it couldn't approve officially—my God, no! Officially, it should arrest you and heaven knows what besides. But we can't, even if we wanted to. We need your evidence in this case, you're a damned important agent, by all Washington accounts, and we can't, for the love of mercy, have an international incident with the British.” He shook his head. “I could wish you had let well alone, young man—and yet, by God, from what I hear from the friends of a certain Northern Congressman, you did a capital piece of work, sir!” He beamed at me, winking. “So—there it is. Washington is concerned at all costs to keep your name and. . . er. . . recent activities quiet. You just make your statement in court, put on your hat, and take the first packet out from this port. You take me?”

  If only it could be that simple, thinks I. But I made one last effort to wriggle free.

  “Is my evidence so necessary, sir?” says I. “Surely these Balliol College people can be convicted. . .”

  “Convicted?” says he. “'Why, we're a long way short of that at the moment. You know the procedure, sir—when a slave-trading ship is captured, she must first of all be adjudged to be a slaver. You know how it is in your own mixed commission courts at Surinam and Havana and so forth—they hear evidence and pronounce themselves satisfied that she was carrying slaves. You must have seen it a score of times. And then—when the ship has been confiscated and condemned—then her master and crew may be charged with slave-trading, and on conviction, they can be hanged—although they seldom are. Jail terms sometimes, fines, etc. But with us it's not quite the same, as you'll see.”

  I was hanging on every word, hoping and praying that he would point out some loophole to me.

  “Here, in New Orleans, a court of adjudication will pronounce on the Balliol College, and according to that, her master and crew may be charged with slave-trading, and possibly—since Spring f
ought against ships of the U.S. Navy—with piracy. But none of these charges can even be brought, sir, unless the court of adjudication finds that the Balliol College was indeed a slaver. So far, then, we follow the same course as the mixed courts at Havana and elsewhere. But here, sir, there are much more powerful interests involved—this is New Orleans, remember, a long way from Washington, and New Orleans holds no grudge against slave-traders like Spring. To secure the confiscation and condemnation of the Balliol College as a slave ship, the case must be proved to the hilt and beyond. Now do you see why your evidence is vital?” He tapped his desk. “This is not just a criminal—a legal case, Mr Comber. It's a political one, sir. See here,” he grew confidential again. “This man Spring. No ordinary blackbirder, that. Why, when he was brought in by Fairbrother's people-what happened? The fellow was wounded—I tell you, sir, there was a bail bond posted faster than you could sneeze, a surgeon in attendance, more lawyers running about than you'd think existed. Why, sir? Because there's money, and power, and political influence behind this damned trade-that's why! There's his ship—how many hundreds of thousands of dollars investment d'you think she represents—and not just dollars, either, but pounds sterling and pesos and francs? They couldn't find any papers on her, because that damned wife of Spring's heaved them all overside—so what happens now, but Spring's counsel enter papers to show she's registered in Vera Cruz, Mexico, of all places, and her owner is some bloody Dago with a name as long as your leg—Mendoza y Cascara, or something. Mexico, Lord save us! If there's one place we don't need complications with, it's Mexico—and they know it. But they can prove she's Mexican-owned—for all she's Baltimore built, with an English skipper.”