George Fraser - Flashman and the Angel of the Lord

‘Ask at the Washington station where the British minister’s to be found,’ he advised me, ‘an’ if they don’t know, make your way to Willard’s Hotel on Fourteenth Street, an’ they’ll set ye right. It’s the great place, an’ if they turn up their noses at your togs, jist give ’em your Hyde Park swagger, eh?

‘But mind how ye go, now!’ cries he, as I mounted the step to the coach. ‘T’will be dark by the time ye get in, an’ ’tis a desperate place for garotters an’ scallywags an’ the like! We wouldn’t want ye waylaid a second time, would we?’

Gratitude ain’t my long suit, as you know, but he’d seen me right, and he was a cheery wee soul; looking down at the smiling pixie face under the round hat, I couldn’t help liking the little murphy, and wondering why he’d been at such pains on my behalf. It’s a priest’s business, of course, to succour the distressed sinner, but I knew there was more in it than that. He was a lonely old man, far from home, and he was Irish, and had guessed I was on the run, and I was Army, like his father and uncles. And he had taken to me, as folk do, even when they know I’m not straight.

‘I wish ye’d tell me your name, though!’ says he, when I thanked him. I said I’d send him my card when I repaid the ten dollars.

‘That ye will!’ cries he heartily. ‘In the meantime, though – your Christian name, eh?’

‘Harry.’

‘I believe ye – ye look like a Harry. God knows ye didn’t look like – what was’t? – Grattan? Grattan the banker from the Rathfarnham – the impidence of it!’ He laughed, and looked wistful. ‘Aye, me – sometimes I could wish I’d been a rascal meself.’

‘It’s never too late,’ says I, and he spluttered in delight.

‘Git away wid ye, spalpeen!’ cries he, and stood waving as the train pulled out, a little black figure vanishing into the hissing steam.

I reckon Father Rafferty was one of those good fools who are put into the world to grease the axles for people like me. They charm so easy, if you play ’em right, and the bigger a scoundrel you are the more they’ll put themselves out for you, no doubt in the hope that if you do reform, they’ll get that much more treasure in heaven for it. You may be astonished to know that I did repay the loan, later on, but in no spirit of gratitude or obligation, or because I’d quite liked the little ass. No, I paid because I could easily afford it, and there’s one rule, as a practising pagan, that I don’t break if I can help it – never offend the local tribal gods; it ain’t lucky.

It was dark when we pulled into Washington, and the conductor had never heard of the British ministry; oh, sure, he knew Willard’s Hotel, but plainly wondered what business this rumpled traveller without a hat could have at such a select establishment. He was starting to give me reluctant directions when a chap who’d alighted from the train directly behind me said if it was Willard’s I wanted, why, he was going that way himself. He was a sober-looking young fellow, neatly dressed, so I thanked him and we went out of the crowded station into a dark and dirty Washington evening.

‘It’s close enough to walk if you don’t mind the rain,’ says my companion, and since it seemed only prudent to save my cash, I agreed, and we set off. It wasn’t too damp, but Washington didn’t seem to have improved much in ten years; they were still building the place, and making heavy weather of it, for the street we followed was ankle-deep in mud, and so poor was the lighting that you couldn’t see where you were putting your feet. We jostled along the sidewalk, blundering into people, and presently my guide pulled up with a mild oath, glanced about him, and said we’d be quicker taking a side-street. It didn’t look much better than an alley, but he led the way confidently, so I ploughed on behind, thinking no evil – and suddenly he lengthened his stride, wheeled round to face me, and whistled sharply.

I’m too old a hand to stand with my mouth open. I turned to flee for the main street, cursing myself for having been so easily duped, and after Rafferty’s warning about footpads too – and stopped dead in my tracks. Two dark figures were blocking my way, and before I had time to turn again to rush on my single ambusher, the larger one stepped forward, but when he raised his hands it wasn’t to strike; he held them palms towards me in a restraining gesture, and his voice when he spoke was quiet, even friendly.

‘Good evening, Mr Comber. Welcome back, sir – why, you mayn’t believe it, but this is just like old times!’

For a split second I was paralysed in mind and body, and then came the icy stab of terror as I thought: police! … Spring’s letters, my description, the alarm going out for Comber – but then why had the young man not clapped his hand on my shoulder at the station …?

‘Guess you don’t remember me,’ says the big shadow. ‘It’s been a whiles – N’awlins, ten years ago, in back of Willinck’s place. You thought I was Navy, then. I took you to Crixus, remember?’

It was so incredible that it took me a moment to recall who ‘Crixus’ was – the Underground Railroad boss whose identity I never knew because he hid it under the name of some Roman slave who’d been a famous rebel. Crixus was the little steely-eyed bugger who’d dragooned me into running that uppity nigger Randolph up the river, and dam’ near got me shot – but it wasn’t possible that he could know of my presence now, within a day of my landing …

‘He’s waitin’ to see you,’ says the big fellow, ‘an’ the sooner we get you off the streets, the better. We’ve got a closed cab –’

‘I don’t understand! You’re quite mistaken, sir – I know of nobody called … Cricket, did you say?’ I was babbling with shock, and he absolutely laughed.

‘Say, I wish I could think as quick as you do! Ten years ago, Billy,’ says he to his companion, ‘when we jumped this fellow, he started talkin’ Dutch ! Now, come along, Mr Comber – ’cos I’d know you anywhere, an’ we’re wastin’ time and safety.’ His voice hardened, and he took my arm. ‘We mean you no harm – like I once told you, you’re the last man I’d want to hurt!’

Sometimes you feel you’re living your life over again. It was so now, and for an uncanny moment I was back in the alley behind Susie’s brothel, with the three figures materialising out of the darkness … ‘Hold it right there, mister! You’re covered, front and rear!’ I knew now it was no use bluffing or running; for good or ill, they had me.

‘It wasn’t Dutch, it was German,’ says I. ‘Very well, I’m the man you call Comber, and I’ll be happy to take your cab – but not to Mr Crixus! Not until I’ve been to the British ministry!’

‘No, sir!’ snaps he. ‘We got our orders. An’ believe me, you’ll be a sight safer with us than in the British ministry, not if your whole Queen’s Navy was guarding it! So come on, mister!’

God knew what that meant, but it settled it. Whatever Crixus wanted – and I still couldn’t take in that he’d got word of me (dammit, he should have been in Orleans, anyway) or that these fellows were real – he’d been a friend, after his fashion, and was evidently still well disposed. And with the three pressing about me, and my arm in a strong hand, I had no choice.

‘Very good,’ says I. ‘But you don’t put a sack over my head this time!’

He laughed, and said I was a card, and then they were bustling me out of the alley and into a closed growler – mighty practised, with one in front, one gripping me, the third behind. The big man shouted to the driver, and we were lurching along, back towards the station, as near as I could judge, and then we swung right across a broad quagmire of a street, and through the left-hand window I caught a glimpse in the distance of what I recognised as the Capitol without its dome – they still hadn’t got its bloody lid on, would you believe it, in 1859? – and knew we must be crossing the Avenue, going south. The big man saw me looking, and whipped down the blinds, and we bowled along in the stuffy darkness in silence, while I strove to calm my quivering nerves and think out what it all meant. How they’d found me, I couldn’t fathom, and it mattered less than what lay ahead … what the devil could Crixus want with me? A horrid thought – did he know I’d left Randolph to his fate on that steamboat? Well, I’d thought the bastard was dead, and he’d turned up later in Canada, anyway, so I’d heard, so it wasn’t likely to be that. He couldn’t want me to run niggers again, surely? No, it defied all explanation, so I sat fretting in the cab with the big man at my side and his two mates opposite, for what must have been a good half-hour, and then the cab stopped and we descended on what looked like a suburban street, with big detached houses in gloomy gardens either side, and underfoot nothing but Washington macadam: two feet of gumbo.