Flashman and the Angel of the Lord. George Fraser MacDonald
he impatiently. ‘By Africa he meant the South – the land of darkness and savage oppression. For now he knew that the time was come to realise his dream – that vision of which I spoke!’ He was spraying slightly, and I could see that the great news was coming at last. ‘The invasion of Virginia – that, sir, was his plan, and the hour is nigh for its fulfilment, after years of maturing and preparation. He purposes an armed raid to seize a federal arsenal, and with the captured munitions and supplies, to equip the slaves who will cast off their bonds and rush to join his standard! They will withdraw into the mountain fastnesses, and there wage guerrilla war against their former masters – oh, he has studied the ancient wars, sir, and Lord Wellington’s campaign in Spain! Formerly it was his design to found an independent black republic, but now his vision has soared beyond, for can it be doubted that once his army is in the hills, every slave in the South will rise up in arms? There will be such a rebellion as was never seen, and whatever its outcome, the greater battle will be joined! Free men everywhere will rally to the standard that John Brown has raised, and slavery will be whelmed forever in the irresistible tide of liberty!’
He was almost falling out of his chair with enthusiasm, and Moody had to settle him while Joe refilled his glass and helped him take a refreshing swig; neither of them said anything, but Crixus was staring at me with the eager expectancy of a drawing-room tenor who has just finished butchering ‘The Flowers on Mother’s Grave’, and awaits applause. Plainly this fellow Brown was a raving loose screw, and I knew Crixus was no better, but it behoved me to respond as Comber would have responded, and then take my leave for the British ministry. So …
‘Hallelujah!’ says I. ‘What a splendid stroke! Why, it will give these … these slavers the rightabout altogether! A capital notion, and will be well received … er, everywhere, I’ll be bound! I suppose it’s a well-kept secret at the moment, what? Just so, that’s prudent – I’ll not breathe a word, of course. Well, it’s getting late, so –’
‘It is no secret, Mr Comber,’ says he solemnly. ‘The where and when John Brown has yet to determine, but the intent is known, if not to the public at large, certainly to all who labour secretly for liberty – aye, even in Congress it is known, thanks to the treachery of Captain Brown’s most trusted lieutenant. You stare, Mr Comber? Well you may, for the traitor was a countryman of your own, a rascal named Forbes, enlisted for his military experience, gained in Italy with Garibaldi. He it was who babbled the secret, abusing Brown’s name because, he claimed, his pay was in arrears! Fortunately, those Senators in whom he confided were no friends to slavery, so no great harm was done, and Brown at least became aware what a viper he had nourished in his bosom.19 Nor has he himself sought to conceal his design. Since leaving Kansas he has been about the North, preaching, exhorting, raising the funds necessary for his great enterprise, purchasing arms, rifles and revolvers and pikes –’
‘Pikes, did you say?’
‘Indeed, to arm the slaves when the hour strikes! Wherever he has gone, men have fallen under his spell, seeing in him another Cromwell, another Washington, destined to bring his country liberty! Everywhere he rallies support. Alas,’ he shook his head, glooming, ‘more have promised than performed; his treasury is low, his army stout of heart but few in number, and even those devoted leaders of opinion who wholeheartedly approve his end, shrink timidly at the mention of his means. Oh, blind! Do they think pious words can prevail against the shackle and the lash and the guns of the Border Ruffians? The dam’ fools!’ cries he, in unwonted passion. ‘Oh, they are sincere – Parker and Gerrit Smith, Sanborn and Higginson, members of the Secret Six who are heart and soul in the cause, yet fearful of the storm that John Brown’s scheme would unloose! The North is with him in sympathy, Mr Comber, aye, many even in the halls of Congress, but when his hand goes to his pistol butt, they quake like women, dreading lest he destroys the Union – as if that mattered, so it is made whole again when slavery is dead –’
‘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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