George Fraser - Flashman and the Angel of the Lord

‘But hold on – a moment, sir, if you please!’ I tried to calm him before he did himself a mischief. ‘You say they know in Congress – in the government? And he goes about, er, preaching and so forth … well, how does he escape arrest, I mean to say?’

‘Arrest John Brown?’ He gave a bitter cackle. ‘Why, then, sir, we should have a storm indeed! The North would not abide it, Mr Comber! He is our hero! And he goes silently, without fanfare, appearing only in those public places where his enemies would not dare raise their voices, let alone their hands! Oh, Missouri has set a bounty of $3,000 on his head, and that pusillanimous wretch who calls himself our President, and whose cowardice has rent the Democratic Party in twain, has sunk so low as to offer $250 – why not thirty, in silver, false Buchanan? – for his apprehension! But who in the North would try to claim such rewards?’

That’s America for you: a maniac at large, threatening to stir up war and slave rebellion, and nothing done about it. Not that I gave a damn; what with brandy and sitting down I was feeling easier than I’d done all day, and was becoming most infernally bored with Captain Brown and his madcap plans for setting the darkies against their owners (with pikes, I ask you!), and anxious to be gone. So I shook my head in wonder, expressed admiration for Brown and his splendid activities, didn’t doubt that he’d win a brilliant triumph, and hinted that I’d like to get to the British ministry this year, if possible. D’ye know, Crixus didn’t seem even to hear me? He was sitting back in his chair, brooding on me with an intense stare which I found rather unnerving. Suddenly he asked me if I’d had food lately, and it came as a shock to realise that my last meal had been in Baltimore that morning … my God, it had been turmoil since then, with no time to think of eating. I was famished, but said I could wait until I reached the ministry; he wouldn’t hear of it, reproaching himself for his thoughtlessness, bidding Joe rustle up sandwiches and drumsticks, waving me back to my chair, while Moody filled my glass and set a restraining hand on my shoulder, with a warning nod to me to humour the old buffoon.

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