Chapter 21

We’ve come to the parting of the trails, J.B.’s and mine – and high time, too, if you ask me. He was to take the high road to the gallows and immortal fame, and I the low road to … well, I’ll come to that in a moment. First I should tell you briefly, and at second hand, what happened to him in the little time that was left to him, and the momentous effect it had on America and, I dare say, on the world.

My last memory of him is in that paymaster’s office, propped up on his mattress, battered but bright-eyed, not two pounds of his stringy old carcase hanging straight, but laying down the law in his best accustomed style, God help him … and I suppose I must say God bless him, too, for form’s sake. Of all the men of wrath who have disturbed my chequered course, he’s about the only one towards whom I feel no ill will, old pest and all that he was. He was decent enough to me, and if he led me through hell and high water … well, you might as well blame the lightning or the whirlwind.

I wasn’t there to see his departure from the Ferry next day, but he came near to being lynched. There was a great crowd full of drink and fury when they put him on the train to Charles Town; he and Stevens had to be carried through the throng baying for their blood in panic as well as rage, for the wildest rumours were flying – that the raid had been only the prelude to a general invasion, that the slaves were on the brink of rebellion, that a great conspiracy was brewing in the North – it was even reported that a family in a village just a few miles from the Ferry had been massacred, but when Lee went galloping to the scene he found everyone safe in bed, and the slaves tranquil.

The fact was that not a single slave had joined in the raid, other than those taken by Stevens from Washington’s farm and places nearby, and most of them had slipped off home as soon as they could, or been passive altogether. But the mischief was done: a great thrill of fear ran through the South, Virginia was preparing for war, some places were under martial law, Dixie suspected (quite mistakenly) that it was sitting on a black powder-keg ready to explode, and the storm that broke in the newspapers only added to the hysteria. One of Lee’s first acts had been to send Jeb Stuart to the Kennedy Farm, where they found all J.B.’s papers and correspondence, with the names of his Northern supporters, which the brilliant old conspirator had left behind in a carpet bag, and once the Democrats and pro-slavery journals got hold of the names, the fat was in the fire. The “Black Republicans”, the Secret Six, and even moderate abolitionists, became the villains of the day, plotting to wreak havoc in the South, and among those who came in for special vilification, and serve him right, was William H. Seward, the cigar-chewing blighter who’d blackmailed me into the business in New York; he was “the arch agitator who is responsible for this insurrection”, and for all I know this may have cost him the Presidency.

It did no good for him and other Northerners, including Lincoln, to condemn the raid; all the South could hear was the growing peal of admiration for Brown the champion of liberty, which came even from those who deplored what Brown the raider had done. You can see the South’s point of view: he was a murderous old brigand who was out to overthrow them. And you can see the North’s: he was a fearless crusader who wanted only to set black men free. Both views were true, and one can’t blame the Southerners for believing that he represented the North in its true colours, or the North for believing, as one speaker put it, that whether his acts had been right or wrong, J.B. himself was right. The truth was that he’d fuelled the passions of the wildest elements on both sides, and convinced even sensible and moderate people that the only answer was disunion or war.61

His trial, which began only a week after the raid, fulfilled Messervy’s glummest fears. Here was the poor old hero, so weak and wounded that he had to be toted into court on a cot, submitting to his fate with Christian patience – in fact, he wasn’t as poorly as he looked, and could walk when he had to. And he put on the performance of his life, telling them he’d never asked for quarter, and if they wanted his blood they could have it there and then, without the mockery of a trial. As to his defence, he was “utterly unable to attend to it. My memory don’t serve me; my health is insufficient, although improving. I am ready for my fate.”

I’ll bet there wasn’t a dry eye from Cape Cod to Cincinnati.

The trial was a formality, or a farce, if you like. Much was made of the speed with which it took place, but if they’d given him until 1870 it would have made no difference, for there could be no question of his guilt, or the penalty. His lawyers would have had him plead insanity (half his ancestors were barmy, you know), but the old fox wouldn’t hear of it – and d’ye know, if I’d been called to testify on the point, I’d have had to back him up. I know that in these pages I’ve frequently called him mad, and lunatic, and suggested his rightful place was in a padded cell, but that’s just Flashy talking; we all say such things without meaning that the object of our censure is seriously deranged. No, he wasn’t mad; read his letters, his speeches, the things he said to reporters, and take the word of one who knew him well. A fanatic, yes; a man driven by one burning idea, certainly; a fool in some things, perhaps, but never a madman.

It wasn’t a long trial, but seems to have had some interesting features; one of the prosecutors was too drunk to plead, they say, and t’other was the father of one of the men who’d murdered Bill Thompson on the bridge (which I’d have thought made for a nice conflict of interest, but I’m no lawyer). None of that, or the legal wrangling about jurisdiction and delays, was of the least importance. Only one thing mattered, and that was the bearing of the accused – that’s what the world remembers, “the brave old border soldier”, calm, dignified and unflinching, rising gamely to speak with a chap supporting him either side, lying patiently on his cot as sentence of death was passed, closing his eyes in unconcern and pulling the blankets up beneath his chin. Even the most hard-bitten pro-slavers couldn’t but admire “the conscientiousness, the honour, and the supreme bravery of the man”. You may imagine what the good ladies of Concord and Boston thought, and the fervour with which they wept and prayed for him.

They made the mistake of giving him a month’s grace before he was topped, which meant that all America could picture the gallant lonely old martyr in his cell, worn with struggle but wonderfully cheerful, waiting with quiet courage for the end. It gave the wiser heads time for second thoughts; some suggested that he should be jailed, or put in an asylum, for they knew the revulsion with which his execution would be greeted, not only in America but the world; they knew that his martyrdom would only harden the resolve of the North to carry on his campaign, and the determination of the South to resist. On the other hand, there were those who hoped that his death would hasten the rupture between North and South which they regarded as inevitable.

Messervy’s notion of a rescue occurred to others, by the way; there was a plot, but when J.B. heard of it he wanted no part of it.62 He wanted to die, I’m sure of that, because like the wiser heads he could see clearly what it would lead to. The last note he wrote, on the morning of his execution, put it plain:

I John Brown am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land: will never be purged away; but with Blood. I had as I now think; vainly flattered myself that without very much bloodshed; it might be done.

They hanged him outside Charles Town, Virginia, on December the second before a great host of troops, among whom were John Wilkes Booth, who murdered Lincoln six years later, and Stonewall Jackson. He didn’t kiss a little black child on his way to the gallows, as the sentimentalists like to believe, but as he rode on his coffin across the meadow he looked around and said: “This is a beautiful country. I never had the pleasure of seeing it before.” When they asked if he wanted a signal before they dropped him, he said it didn’t matter, but he didn’t want to be kept waiting. His admirers, of course, treasure such details, but what struck me peculiar when I read about it, and made me think, yes, that’s my old J.B., was that he was hanged in his carpet slippers.

They rang the bells for him in the North, and there was talk of statues and memorials, and such an outpouring of eulogy and grief and noble sentiment as would have done credit to Joan of Arc and Lord Nelson together; I doubt if any man in the history of the United States was more deeply or sincerely mourned – and I ain’t forgetting friend Abraham, either. He was even more detested in Dixie than J.B., and he was just a politician, while J.B. was a fighting man and a rebel, a combination which no American can resist. Even in the South they respected him for his courage; I remember the verdict, delivered to me during the Civil War, of a grizzled Alabama veteran, crimson with booze and chewing on his Wheeling tobey:a “Ole Ossawatomie? Well, now, suh, Ah reckon he lived like a skunk – an’ died like a lion.”

I’m not arguing. You know my views on bravery, and by now you should know ’em on J.B. He was a bit of a crook, and a lot of a humbug, and he put me through the mangle, and there’s a case to be made for saying he was the most evil influence ever let loose in North America. Three-quarters of a million is a powerful lot of dead men, to say nothing of wounded and crippled and bereaved. You may say their great war would have happened anyway, but he’s bound to bear some of the blame. Maybe he would have thought it a price worth paying for the destruction of slavery – but I say slavery would have ended anyway, without the war and without him.

But that’s no business of mine. I came through Harper’s Ferry and the war that followed, so he did me no lasting damage, though he scared the innards out of me, and took a year out of my life. I can tolerate him, at my time of life, and when I hear the grandlings singing the old song, I can look back, if not with pride, at least with a curious satisfaction, as the young faces pass by in memory … Kagi, Stevens, Oliver, Watson, Leeman, Cook, Taylor, Ed Coppoc, the Thompsons, dear old Dangerous Newby, and all the other ghosts, white and black, whose features have faded … and last of all, the grizzled old Ironside with his eagle face and burning eyes.

No doubt my satisfaction is because I’m still here, and they’re all long gone, one way or another. Watson died of his wounds; Coppoc and Green, who’d survived the engine-house fight, were hanged two weeks after J.B., as was Cook, who got himself captured in Maryland, the duffer; Stevens survived the four bullets they took out of him, but was hanged in the spring of ’60, with Hazlett, who’d escaped from the Ferry but was caught later; the black who was with him in the arsenal got clear away, and so did the fellows whom J.B. sent back with the wagon to collect arms, and the men who’d been left behind at the farm – Meriam, who’d brought the six hundred dollars, and Tidd, and another of the young men, and Owen Brown. All those who escaped served in the Civil War (two of ’em died in it), except Owen, who lived to a ripe old age.

Like your humble obedient. As I say, I take no pride in my part in Harper’s Ferry, and was a damned unwilling actor, but … well, I was one of John Brown’s pet lambs, after all, and dine out on it regular, and am redeemed (very slightly) in the eyes of such as Miss Prentice and others of the elect, who figure that an old man, however deplorable, must have some good in him if he stood at Armageddon and battled for the poor downtrodden darkies. They don’t know about Joe, of course.

Which brings me back at last to the point where the trails parted, and I went my separate way from Harper’s Ferry, rejoicing, en route to Baltimore and home.

I spent the day resting in the office which Messervy had made my quarters. He was out and prowling about most of the time, like a good little civil servant, and when we dined together in the evening he told me what he’d seen and heard. I could see he was depressed and agitated, for he frowned at least twice, and stroked his moustache both sides; what was disturbing him was that Stuart (as I told you a moment ago) had found all J.B.’s letters at the Kennedy Farm, and the Wager House was agog with rage and alarm at the proof they appeared to contain of diabolical Yankee designs.

“That stupid oaf Wise –” this was the Virginia Governor “– has been reading them aloud to the drunken rabble over yonder, and you may guess the effect. By this time tomorrow half the South will have heard of them, and be convinced that a Northern army is on the march, with the Republican Party in the van, intent on rousing the slaves to butcher their masters and burn every plantation ’tween here and Texas. What immutable law,” he went on, “decrees that the obtuser the politician, the higher he will rise? I suppose it takes a peculiar combination of the imbecile, the toady, and the braggart to run for office in the first place. Can’t Wise see the harm he’s doing … or can he, I wonder?”

I looked intelligent, and he explained that Wise was a former secessionist who might be out to make mischief. “He’s put them in a rare frenzy, I can tell you. Packs of drunken ruffians are out nigger-hunting this minute, and at least two fools have been arrested who claim to be John Brown raiders. Harper’s Ferry will be lucky if it’s still standing in the morning. I’ve put you on an earlier train, by the way – no sense lingering in this madhouse.”

So it was about midnight that I wrapped a scarf round my chin, pulled my hat down, and made the short walk to the station with Messervy at my arm and the beefy birds striding ahead. As we passed the engine-house, shuttered and silent, with the Marine sentries on guard, I wondered about Joe, and Messervy must have read my thought, for he remarked: “They buried him down on the river a couple of hours ago. Lord love me, is that ass Wise still at his folly? I believe he won’t rest until he has the whole State in an uproar!”

It was like Mafeking Night between the armoury gates and the station, the Wager House was blazing light at every window and shaking to the uproar within, there were groups of staggering merrymakers everywhere, militiamen and roughnecks, some discharging their pieces in the air, others forming raucous glee-clubs, and in two places thronging round tub-thumpers on makeshift platforms who were working themselves and their listeners into a riotous frenzy; their themes seemed to be the necessity of lynching John Brown, closing ranks against the murderous Yankees, and putting every black in the State under lock and key – or lynching them, too, if they felt like it. Our escort shouldered a way through the torch-lit confusion of milling figures and flushed, yelling faces, to the comparative quiet of the station where the train stood – it had been there half an hour, and Messervy had timed our walk to arrive just as the bell was beginning to clang and the whistle was adding its plaintive wail to the general din.

He didn’t shake hands, simply murmured, “Good-bye”, with a tap on the arm, and I climbed aboard into the quiet, dim-lit corridor with only a brief glance at the tall figure raising his cane to his hat-brim in nonchalant salute before he turned away. The darkie porter showed me into my cabin – and all of a sudden I was dizzy with tiredness and an overwhelming sense of relief as I sank on to the cot, the train jolted and clanked into motion, and a moment later was booming and rumbling over the trestles of the Potomac bridge across which I’d come running, rifle in hand and heart in mouth, only forty-eight hours before. Now it was behind me, the nightmare which I could hardly believe had ever happened – the rush of action in the dark, the shouted commands, the bearded faces hurrying by, the crack of shots, and the inferno of the engine-house … and here I was, safe and sound bar the two smarting wounds in my neck and knee, rattling over the ties out of that awful world, and back to life again.

I couldn’t be bothered to undress – I’d no nightshirt, or a blessed stitch except what I was wearing, anyway. Have to do something about that … no time to shop in Baltimore, even if I’d been fool enough to venture into the town … borrow some duds when I got aboard the packet, perhaps … the devil with it, sufficient unto the day … I was content to lie, exhausted, wondering idly if the porter could forage me a bottle of something sensible.

Pat on the thought there was a soft knock on the door, and his beaming black face appeared.

“Yo’ podden, suh,” says he. “De party in de nex’ cabin axes if you kin’ly like to partake o’ some refreshment, ’fore you settles to rest.” He chuckled, with a knowing look. “Says if yo’ sociably inclined, be honnered to make yo’ acquaintance over a little glass or two.”

I’d seen that look before, in French hotels, and while it was unexpected here it was by no means unwelcome – I wasn’t as exhausted as all that. Of course, I might be misreading his expression, and find myself closeted with some boring old buffer who couldn’t sleep … and Messervy had told me to stay close … but what the blazes, it was only next door, and the darkie was positively leering.

“That’s most civil of the … gentleman?” says I, and he tittered behind his hand in a way that settled my doubts and brought me off the cot, smoothing my hair and glancing in the glass. He effaced himself, and I slipped out and knuckled the timber adjoining. No reply, so I turned the handle and found myself in an empty but well-lit cabin … ah, it was one with an alcove bunk, with the curtains drawn. Eureka, thinks I, twitching the curtains aside, and …

“Well, hello yo’self, handsome,” says Mrs Popplewell.

I stood rooted in astonishment, partly from the shock of seeing her, of all people, when I’d expected some railroad rattler, partly because she was reclining languidly on one elbow like that Continental tart in the painting – you know the one, bare buff except for a ribbon round her neck, and a nigger maid in the background. Mrs Popplewell wasn’t wearing even a ribbon; she lay there all black and glossy in the lamplight, smiling a welcome and extending a plump hand, and if I hadn’t been so dumfounded I dare say I’d have pressed it to my lips on the spot, if you know what I mean.

“Seen you comin’ to the train,” says she, in answer to my incoherent inquiry. “Couldn’t hardly b’lieve ma eyes! Why, Ah made sure you was gone, in that awful fightin’ las’ night, an’ this mornin’! Nevuh see such doin’s – shootin’ an’ killin’!” She seized my nerveless hand and dragged me into a sitting position beside her. “Well, don’ jes’ gape like a fish out o’ water! Tell me whut happen, an’ wheah you bin, and how you come to be heah … unless …” She grinned hugely and transferred her hand from my wrist to my britches “… unless you can think o’ suthin’ better to do fust … oh, my, Ah should think you can!”

She was right, you know. The babble of questions that rose to my lips became a muted howl as she fondled with one hand and hauled me down with the other; I seized hold, marvelling at my luck, and fairly wallowed, partaking of refreshment as the porter had advised, and I must say de party in de nex’ cabin was sociably inclined to the point of delirium. It was a wonder the train didn’t jump the tracks, and only when she had subsided, moaning, and I had got my breath back, did we resume the conversation, with mutual expressions of bewilderment before all was explained.

Explained on my side, that is, for she brushed aside my demands to know how she had fared with Sinn and the ruffians who had been interrogating her. I’d have thought that my sudden descent from the skylight and my precipitate departure thereafter would have compromised her altogether, but apparently not; she had been able to satisfy Sinn of her innocence, she said, and ten dollars apiece from her purse had been enough for the others.

“They ain’t used to black ladies with money – tuk the starch right out o’ them,” she chuckled. “But that don’ matter – Ah’s heah, ain’t Ah? But how’d you git out o’ that scrape – why, honey, Ah nevuh thought to see you ’live again! Now you jes’ tell Hannah, ’cos she’s dyin’ to heah – say, but lemme kiss you fust, you deah big lovin’-machine! Theah, now, you jes’ play gentle while you tell me … but don’ talk too long, will yuh, ’cos we got a deal o’ pleasurin’ to do ’fore we gits to Baltimo’ …”

So I spun her, at greater length, the yarn I’d told her on first acquaintance – that I was in the employ of the U.S. Government, and had enlisted in J.B.’s band as a spy, even to the length of taking part in their raid. All of which was true enough, as was my explanation of why I’d taken refuge with her until such time as it was safe for me to reveal myself to someone in authority.

“You saw what it was like, all the confusion and shooting, with those drunk madmen who’d have killed me on sight … it was only after I got away from your room – and I say, I’m awfully sorry I had to mishandle you so roughly –”

“You mishandle me any ole way you like, dahlin’,” she purred, toying lazily in a most distracting fashion. “Go on, honey … tell me mo’ … but keep right on mishandlin’ …”

“Well, I managed to get away, and by great good luck the Marines had arrived, and I was able to make myself known to Colonel Lee –”

“That the fine soldier with the moustache Ah saw this aft’noon? Came to the hotel, with Gov’ner Wise, an’ the other people? Say, there was one real fine man theah, big an’ han’some, kinda like you, but not neah as lovesome. Made me all shivery, tho’, jes’ to look at him … my, but Ah jes’ love men with black beards’n whiskers! Like you best with jes’ yo’ whiskers, tho’ … gives me somep’n to bite at!” And she nibbled my chin.

“Yes … well, when I’d spoken to Lee, of course, everything was all right. You know what happened after that … the Marines caught Brown and the others, and that was the end of it. And now, I’m on my way to Baltimore, as you see, to report to my superiors.”

“You sure are one lucky man,” says she, stroking my whiskers. “An’ Ah’m one lucky gal. Why, when Ah saw you comin’ to the train, with that tall gen’leman – say, he’s a right pretty feller, too. He a friend o’ yours?”

“What? Who? Oh, that fellow … no, don’t know who he is – one of the Governor’s people, I think.” Why, I don’t know, I felt the less I said about Messervy the better. “The handsome man you saw with Colonel Lee, by the way, was probably Lieutenant Stuart. Fancied him, did you? D’ye know what, Hannah, I’ve a notion you fancy all men, don’t you?”

“You bet, dahlin’,” says she, pushing her tongue into my mouth. “That’s mah weakness. But Ah jes’ fancy ’em one at a time … now, hold on theah … you mus’ be dry aftuh all that talkin’.” She slipped from my grasp and got out to fill two glasses at the buffet. I put mine down at a gulp, while she sipped hers standing. Then she put down her glass, and vibrated her gleaming bulk in the lamplight, looking down at me and hefting her huge poonts in her hands, smiling wickedly at my reaction.

“Ah reckon you ’bout ready now,” says she, and, once again, she was right, absolutely.

“Well, now,” says she afterwards, “that was whut Ah calls … pleasure!” She shivered, sitting astride, and stretched luxuriously, her arms above her head. Then she sighed, regretfully, and removed her massive weight from my creaking thighs, climbing out and donning her peignoir. “Ah’m real sorry ’tis over … Shouldn’t ha’ done it, not once let ’lone twice. But Ah got to tell you, dahlin’, you are the screwin’est man Ah ever did see! That’s my ’scuse.” She sighed again. “Anyway, that was pleasure … an’ now – business.” She sat down carefully on the chair across the cabin, and asked mildly: “What happened to Joe Simmons?”

I gave a start that almost brought the cot loose from its moorings, but I couldn’t speak for shock, and she went on:

“You know Joe, now … he was with you when you came to the hotel, first time I saw you. Mr La Force’s man, who brought you up to Noo Yawk, and then to Concord, and so on after.” She fluttered her fingers, and even in my stunned bewilderment I realised that the broad Dixie-nigra voice had modulated into soft Southern tones. “We know he was in that engine-house … but he never came out with the others. What happened to him?”

“We?” It was all I could say.

“Sure … the Kuklos.” The plump pug face beamed in a smile. “Didn’t Atropos tell you we’d be watchin’ you an’ Joe all the way? Sure he did … oh, we lost you in Noo Yawk for a spell, when the police took those three fellows who were shadowin’ you and Miz Mandeville. Mr La Force was real grieved ’bout her … thought she was true to him, never suspected she was operatin’ for the gov’ment … till you an’ she showed up in company with Messervy. You see, we have a man watchin’ him, permanent. Those three men of Hermes’s, in Noo Yawk, they weren’t the only ones we got up there.”

I found I was shaking in every limb as I lay there stark on the cot; instinctively I jerked the sheets over myself, and her big lips twitched in a smile.

“Don’t do that, sweethea’t … I jus’ love lookin’ at you. My, but you are the finest! Now, then … tell me ’bout Joe.”

“I … I don’t know what you mean! If he was in the engine-house … well, he must have been killed or captured –”

If he was in there? You know he was … you were in there your own self. We saw you come out, this mornin’, with Messervy.”

“You … you saw –”

“Not me. One of my boys. I have two of them, they’re at the Ferry right now, watchin’ the engine-house, waitin’ to see what happened to Joe.” She was regarding me almost amiably, shaking her head. “But you’re all confused, so I’d better tell you. I’m Medusa  … you know Mr La Force likes to give us those ole names. I’ve been in these parts all summer, havin’ you watched, at the farm an’ so forth. Oh, Joe didn’t know ’bout that … didn’t know ’bout me, even, bein’ a lot lower down in the Kuklos than I am. All he had to do was watch you, see you did as Mr La Force desired. You know, the raid.” She smiled approvingly. “You did that right well, too … didn’t you? Leastways, it happened … which was what we wanted. Mr La Force’ll be right pleased with you. Maybe give you the ten thousand dollars you asked for … if you feel like collectin’. Do you?”

She was watching me closely now, as I sat palpitating, too shaken to think, let alone speak. I felt as though I’d been struck by a thunderbolt … it was incredible, too much to take in.

“We didn’t mind you workin’ for the gov’ment … or pretendin’ to work for them, whichever it was. As things were, you didn’t have a choice, did you? What did they want you to do, anyway? Stop Brown makin’ the raid … or help him to make it? Mr La Force couldn’t make up his mind ’bout that … My belief is … oh, well, it don’t matter what I believe. The raid went in; that’s what matters.”

She rose from the chair, took my glass, and refilled it.

“You look like you need this, dahlin’ … go on, drink it down! An’ don’t look like you saw a ghost – all’s well … except for Joe. We have to know what happened to him, in that engine-house. He was quite a pet of Mr La Force’s, you know … he’ll be real grieved if anythin’ bad’s happened to Joe.” She swayed ponderously back to her seat. “So there’s two questions to answer: what happened to Joe … and why didn’t he cut loose an’ run at the hotel, when you did? When I watched the two of you, from my window, comin’ to the hotel yes’day mornin’, I thought: clever fellers, they’ve done their work, an’ now the raid’s happened, they’re gettin’ away from Brown. You did – an’ you know what?” She chuckled, the great body shaking with mirth. “When you came in my door, I thought, how does he know to run to me? He can’t know who I am, that I’m Medusa, he can’t know I’m Kuklos … and then pretty soon I saw that you didn’t, it was just chance brought you to me. An’, dahlin’,” she broke into laughter, “I never miss such a chance! Oh, that was some mornin’s sport we had together! I was so melted, I thought to tell you who I was … but then, I’d seen Joe go back to Brown – I couldn’t understand that. I suspicioned somethin’ was wrong, somewhere … so I kept quiet. Showed you the way out to the loft, tho’, didn’t I, when it looked like –”

It don’t usually take me long to act, when I’m cornered, but I’d been so shaken that only in the last minute had I summoned my wits sufficiently to move. One ghastly fact had imprinted itself on my mind: she had men watching the engine-house, they’d have seen the Marines bring out Joe’s body under cover of darkness and bury it by the river – they’d dig it up for certain, and find two bullets in his back … and who’d put them there, then? From all that I’d seen of the Kuklos (especially in the last ten minutes) they were experts; they’d know, or soon find out, that the attackers hadn’t fired a single shot … they’d report to Atropos that his pet nigger had been shot and buried clandestine by the government, for whom I might or might not have been acting … by God, he’d want to get to the bottom of it … and he’d not ask as gently as this damned Medusa-Popplewell …

All this in a flash through my mind, to one lightning conclusion – instant flight. And she was only one woman … I came off the bed in a bound – and stopped dead before the Derringer in her great black hand.

“Oh, dahlin’,” says she, “that was foolish. What you got to be fractious for? H’m?” She shook her head, no longer smiling. “Now, then … I’ve asked, an’ I’m waitin’. Why did Joe go back to Brown … and what happened to him afterwards?”

Well, I could answer the first question, at least. “He went back to Brown because he was betraying you. It’s the truth! He … he went over to Brown’s side … I don’t know why, but he … well, Brown convinced him, at the farm, that the raid would lead to a slave rebellion … and that it would succeed, and they’d all win their freedom! Joe believed him, I tell you! He changed sides! He told me so! I swear to God, it’s true!”

She didn’t move a muscle; the plump black features were without expression. The Derringer stayed trained on my midriff.

“An’ what happened in the engine-house?”

“I don’t know! I … I never saw him, after the attack … I don’t know, I tell you! Maybe he was killed, or captured –”

“You didn’t like him, did you? Fact is, you couldn’t ’bide him. So Mr La Force figured … he thought it was real amusin’. Figured you an’ Joe were rivals for the favours of Miz Mandeville. Were you?” When I didn’t reply, she shrugged. “It don’t matter. She ain’t around any more. Mr La Force can’t abide traitors.”

“Well, Joe was a traitor! I swear he was!”

“I don’t disbelieve you, dahlin’. I wouldn’t trust a nigger an inch myself.” She sat there, black and placid, as she said it. “Did you kill Joe?”

“No, for God’s sake! Why should I?”

“Maybe ’cos you hated him. Maybe for the U.S. Gov’ment. Maybe even ’cos you’re tellin’ true when you say Joe went over to Brown, an’ you killed him out o’ loyalty to Mr La Force an’ that five thousand dollars he promised you. Honey, I don’t mind!” She leaned forward, smiling almost wistfully – but the Derringer was steady as a rock. “What’s one black buck more or less? If you killed him, fine! It don’t matter to Hannah.”

“I didn’t! I swear to God –”

“Dearest, you don’t need to – not to me! It’s what you swear to Mr La Force that signifies … an’ whether he believes you. An’ I truly do doubt whether he’ll believe Joe betrayed him. You know Joe’n he were boys together? Playmates? Why, he loved that Joe like a brother …’bout the only thing he ever loved, I guess. An’ if Joe’s dead … an’ my boys’ll find it out, if he is … I don’t know what Mr La Force’ll do.” She shook her head sadly. “But if he suspicions that you killed him – an’ I do, so I guess he might … well, I jus’ hope you can prove you didn’t.”

I sat like a rabbit before a snake, while she regarded me with pity and concern. Then she smiled again, and reached out to stroke my cheek with her free hand.

“Oh, dahlin’, don’t look so down! I tell you, it don’t matter to me! You can kill every nigger in creation if you’ve a mind to, far as I’m concerned. You know why?” Her eyes narrowed, and her voice was trembling. “’Cos you pleasured me like I never been pleasured before … I didn’t know there was pleasurin’ like that, an’ believe me, boy, I made a study! I come over faint, jus’ thinkin’ ’bout you.” She shivered and grimaced. “An’ now I got to go back to Popplewell. Oh, sure, there is a Popplewell, randy little runt – all I tol’ you ’bout him an’ my other husbands is true, ’cept I married him two years ago, not two days, an’ ’twasn’t him, but one o’ my white boys, left me at the Wager House.” She gave one of her gross chuckles. “Think they’d take a nigger woman there, be her husband never so rich? No – but they’d take the Devil hisself, if the Kuklos is payin’ the bill.”

She stood up, and to my amazement slipped the Derringer into the bosom of her robe. Then she stooped over me, took my face in her hands, looking soulful, and kissed me with sudden passion, her tongue and lips working feverishly at my mouth and cheeks and eyes and back to my mouth again, before she broke moistly away, breathing hard.

“Oh, Ah got sech a kindness fo’ you, Mr Beauchamp Comber, or Mr Tom A’nold, or whatevah yo’ name is! Ah don’ know, an’ Ah don’ care! An’ Ah got sech a mis’ry when Ah think whut Mr La Force’ll do …” She shuddered enormously, with a little whimpering sigh – and I thought, now’s your time, lad, and thrust my whiskers between her boobies, going brrr! She let out an ecstatic wail, the Derringer clattered to the floor, and I sank clutching fingers into her buttocks and munched away for dear life, for I could see only one way out of this fearful dilemma, to play on her feminine frailty in the only way I know how, but even as I grappled, roaring lustful endearments, she heaved away from me, eyes rolling, and thrust out a mighty hand to hold me at arm’s length.

“Oh, dahlin’! Oh, goddamussy!” she gasped, and in her agitation it came out in broad Dixie. “Oh, honey, don’ think Ah ain’t cravin’ you, ’cos Ah is, sumpn cruel! But we ain’t got the time, dammit!” She stamped, rattling the cabin, and her eyes were wild. “They’s on’y one stop ’tween heah an’ Baltimo’, an’ it comin’ up real soon – oh, lordy, dere’s de whistle! Don’ stand theah!” she panted, seizing my wrist. “You gotta git off, ’cos mah boys at the Ferry’ll telegraph ahead when they fin’ out whutevah’s happened to Joe, an’ the Kuklos’ll be a-waitin’ at Baltimo’ … an’ Ah cain’t let ’em take yuh, Ah jes’ cain’t, ’cos, oh, mah dearie, if anythin’ wuz to happen to yuh, Ah b’lieve Ah’d die!”

She surged to the door and wrenched it open, and damned if she wasn’t snivelling great tears over her shiny black cheeks.

“So git outa heah, now, will yuh … oh, gi’ me one las’ kiss, do! Now, git yore ass offa this train … an’ take care, ye heah?”

[Here the tenth packet of the Flashman Papers ends, at what one must assume is the conclusion of the author’s memoir of John Brown and the Harper’s Ferry episode. What followed will no doubt appear in a later instalment of Sir Harry’s recollections; all that can be said with certainty is that he did not catch the Baltimore packet to Liverpool, since we know from evidence in the eighth packet of the Papers, already published, that six months after his emotional parting from Mrs Popplewell, he was in Hong Kong, without having visited England in the meantime.]


a A particularly pungent cigar.