George Fraser - Flashman and the Angel of the Lord

They led me through a gate and up a path to a great front door. The big fellow knocked a signal, and we were in a dim hall with a couple of hard-looking citizens, one of ’em a black with shoulders like a prize-fighter. ‘Here he is,’ says my big escort, and a moment later I was blinking in the brightness of a well-furnished drawing-room, only half-believing the sight of the bird-like figure crying welcome from a great chair by the fireplace. He was thinner than I remembered, and terribly frail, but there was no mistaking the bald dome of head and the glinting spectacles beneath brows like white hedgerows. He had a rug over his knees, and from his wasted look I guessed he was crippled now, but he was fairly whimpering in rapture, stretching out his arms towards me.

‘It is he! My prayers are answered! God has sent you back to us! Oh, my boy, my brave boy, come to my arms – let me embrace you!’ He was absolutely weeping for joy, which ain’t usually how I’m greeted, but I deemed it best to submit; it was like being clutched by a weak skeleton smelling of camphor. ‘Oh, my boy!’ sobs he. ‘ Ave, Spartacus ! Oh, stand there a moment that I may look on you! Oh, Moody, do you remember that night – that blessed night when we set George Randolph on the golden road to freedom? And here he is again, that Mr Standfast who led him through the Valley of the Shadow to the Enchanted Ground!’

With one or two stops at Vanity Fair, if he’d only known, but now he broke down altogether, blubbering, while my big guardian, Moody, sucked his teeth, and the black, who’d come into the room with him, glowered at me as though it were my fault that the old fool was having hysterics. He calmed down in a moment, mopping himself and repeating over and over that God had sent me, which I didn’t like the sound of – I mean to say, what had he sent me for ? It might be that Crixus, having heard of my arrival, God knew how, was merely intent on a glad reunion and prose over good old slave-stealing times, but I doubted it, knowing him. He might have one foot in the grave and t’other hopping on the brink, but the grey eyes behind his glasses were as fierce as ever, and if his frame was feeble, his spirit plainly wasn’t.

‘God has sent you!’ cries he again. ‘In the very hour! For I see His hand in this!’ He turned to Moody. ‘How did you find him?’

‘Cormack telegraphed when he boarded the train at the Baltimore depot. Wilkerson and I were waiting when the train came in. He didn’t give any trouble.’

‘Why should he?’ cries Crixus, and beamed at me. ‘He knows he has no truer, more devoted friends on earth than we, who owe him so much! But sit down, sit down, Mr Comber – Joe, a glass of wine for our friend … no, stay, it was brandy, was it not? I remember, you see!’ he chuckled. ‘Brandy for heroes, as the good doctor said! And for ourselves, Joe! Gentlemen, I give you a toast: “George Randolph, on free soil! And his deliverer!”’

It was plain he didn’t know the truth of how dear George and I had parted company, and I was not about to enlighten him. I looked manly as he and Moody and Black Joe raised their glasses, wondering what the deuce was coming next, and decided to get my oar in first. I didn’t need to pitch him a tale, much less the truth; you see, to him, Comber was the British Admiralty’s beau sabreur in the war against the slave trade; that was how he’d thought of me ten years ago, as a man of intrigue and mystery, and he’d not expect explanation from me now. So, once I’d responded with a toady toast of my own (‘The Underground Railroad, and its illustrious station master!’, which almost had him piping his modest eye again), I put it to him plain, with that earnest courtesy which I knew Comber himself would have used, if he hadn’t been feeding the fish off Guinea since ’48.

‘My dear sir,’ says I, ‘I can find no words to express the joy it gives me to see you again – why, as Mr Moody said just now, it is like old times, though how you knew I was in Baltimore I cannot think –’

‘Come, come, Mr Comber!’ cries he. ‘Surely you haven’t forgotten? “An ear to every wall, and an eye at every window”, you know. Not a word passes, not a line is written, from the Congress to the taproom, that the Railroad does not hear and see.’ He looked solemn. ‘It needs not me to tell you that you have enemies – but they may be closer than you think! Two days ago the police, here and in Baltimore, had word of your presence – aye, and of those brave deeds which our vicious and unjust laws call crimes!’ His voice rose in shrill anger, while I thought, well, thank’ee Spring. ‘We have watched every road and depot since – and thank God, here you are!’

‘And you’re right, sir!’ cries I heartily. ‘He has sent me to you indeed, for I need your help – I must reach the British ministry tonight at all costs –’

He jerked up a hand to check me, and even then I couldn’t help noticing how thin and wasted it was; I’ll swear I could see the lamplight through it.

‘Not a word! Say no more, sir! Whatever message you wish to send shall reach your minister, never fear – but what it is, I have no wish to know, nor what brings you to our country again, for I know your lips must be sealed. I can be sure,’ says he, looking holy, ‘that you are engaged on that noble work dear to your heart and mine – the great crusade against slavery to which we have dedicated our lives! In this our countries are at one – for make no mistake, sir, we in America are purging the poison from our nation’s veins at last, the battle is fully joined against those traitors within our gates, those traffickers in human flesh, those betrayers of our glorious Constitution, those gentlemen of Dixie –’ he spat out the word as if it had been vinegar ‘– who build their blood-smeared fortunes with the shackle and the lash –’

At this point he ran short of air, and sank back in his chair, panting, while Moody helped him to brandy and Joe gave me another glower, as though I’d set the senile idiot off. He’d always been liable to cut loose like a Kilkenny electioneer whenever slavery was mentioned, and here he was, doddering towards the knackers’ yard, still at it. I waited until he’d recovered, thanked him warmly, and said I’d be obliged if Moody could convoy me to the ministry without delay. At this Crixus blinked, looking uncertain.

‘Must you go … in person? Can he not take a note … papers?’ He gave a feeble little wave, forcing a smile. ‘Can you not stay … there is so much to say … so much that I would tell you –’

‘And I long to hear it, sir!’ cries I. ‘But I must see the minister tonight.’

He didn’t like it, and hesitated, glancing at Moody and Joe, and in that moment I felt the first cold touch of dread – the old bastard was up to something, but didn’t know how to spring it; while all sense and logic told me that he could have no business with me, at such short notice, my coward’s nose was scenting mischief breast-high – well, by God, he’d flung me into the soup once, and he wasn’t doing it again. I rose, ready to go, and he gave a whimper.

‘Mr Comber, sir, a moment! Half an hour will make no difference, surely? Spare me that time, sir – nay, I insist, you must! You shall not regret it, I assure you! Indeed, if I know you,’ and he gave me a smile whose radiance chilled my blood, ‘you will bless the chance that brought you here!’

I doubted that, but I couldn’t well refuse. He had that implacable light in his eye, smile or no, and Moody and Joe seemed to be standing just an inch taller than a moment since. I gave in with good grace and sat down again, and Joe filled my glass.

Crixus studied a moment, as though unsure how to begin, and then said he supposed I knew how things stood in America at present. I said I didn’t, since my work had taken me east, not west, and I’d lost sight of colonial affairs, so to speak. He frowned, as though I’d no business to be messing with foreign parts, and I thought to impress him by adding that I’d been in Russia and India.