Flashman - Flashman and the Angel of the Lord Part 14

"Don' bet on it! They's three or four a-settin' on the stairs this minnit, drinkin' theyselves wicked, an' castin' eyes at the rooms wheah them other s.h.e.m.a.l.es is!" She swayed across to the window. "It be dark in an hour or two. You bes' slide out then, git yo'self to one o' they off'cers, or someone'll listen to yuh -"

"Slide out - through that? Christ, woman, every militia-man in America's out there! They'd tear me to pieces! No, no, I must hide - under the bed, or . . . somewhere! In the cupboard - the closet, you stupid s.l.u.t! Oh, G.o.d, too small ... look, could you throw some of your clothes over me, if I lay down? They'd never think ... why not, confound you? Dammit, you could hide half Harper's Ferry under that b.l.o.o.d.y tent you're wearing! Help me, you brainless sow!"

"Is that so? You wuz glad 'nuff to git under it!" snorts she. "My, ain't you the bedtime hero, though? You some kin o' Popplewell's, Ah reckon!"

"And these infernal Yankee pothouses don't have chimneys, even -"

"They got attics!" snaps she, pointing aloft - and there, praise be, was a trap in the ceiling. "If yo' so downright timid -" But I was already on the table, throwing back the trap, and sure enough it opened into a great musty loft which must have extended over the whole building, dim and cluttered with rubbish, just the bolt-hole for a deserving poltroon. "G.o.d bless you! Back in a jiff !" cries I, and I'll swear I heard her giggle as I heaved up, lowered the trap, and took stock, treading softly. From the small windows in either gable and the low skylights in the sloping roof I had a capital view all round: north to the armoury, south to Galt's saloon a d the Shenandoah bridge, and west to the Bolivar Heights overlooking the town, with the orange ball of the sun sinking in a dirty autumn sky; those distant buildings towards the Shenandoah sh.o.r.e must be the rifle works - was Kagi still there? Closer at hand the a.r.s.enal building seemed to be deserted; no sign of Hazlett.

The front of the town was crawling with men keeping up a desultory fire on the armoury, and, weighing up, I could see only one line of retreat for J.B. - through the armoury proper and along the railroad between Bolivar Heights and the Potomac. But even as I looked I saw movement in that direction: the figures of militia, a good hundred of them, skirmishing in to close on the armoury from the rear. So now he was ringed in on all sides; his revolution was dead, and he and his juvenile fanatics with it.

They went piecemeal, did J.B.'s pet lambs, and I saw most of 'em go - already there'd been Newby, Watson, and Stevens, and now, even as I prepared to tiptoe back to the trap, Bill Thompson. There was a commotion behind the hotel, and hastening to the skylight on that side I saw a noisy crowd milling at the mouth of the Potomac bridge tunnel. They were hustling Thompson on to the trestle, and then they stood off from him, levelling their pistols. For a second he was stock-still, hands by his sides, and then they were blasting at him point-blank, and he toppled over out of sight. The whole mob surged forward, shouting curses, and his body must have landed on the bank below, for they kept emptying their pieces downwards, and I found I was jerking with the shots, for it might have been me.

I watched, sick and shuddering, until a fresh burst of firing came from the Shenandoah side, and from the other sky-light, which was broken, I saw distant figures surging round the rifle works, and heard guns popping like toys in the distance. With the setting sun in my eyes I couldn't make out much, but a few moments later there was a great haw-hawing and laughter as a group of roughnecks and some militia came hurrying down towards Galt's saloon, shouting that that was another couple o' the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds settled, one white, one n.i.g.g.e.r, an' 'twould ha' been three, for there had been another n.i.g.g.e.r they'd been goin' to lynch, but that cussed sawbones wouldn't allow it, d.a.m.n him, spoilin' sport thataway - say, but if you boys wantin' some target practice, that abolitionist skunk's still a-layin' there! Sure, got him in the shallows, tryin' to swim for it . . . too much hot It ad in him for swimmin', though, haw-haw!

So that was Kagi gone, J.B.'s right arm, who'd sat under that signpost by Chambersburg; twiddling a flower between his fingers. He was the best of 'em, the Switzer - consoling, ain't it, that it's always the good 'uns who stop the shot, while fellows like me slip out from under? Which reminded me that I'd some fair slipping to do yet, if I was to come out intact. It was beginning to grow dark; lights were twinkling in the town, and down below the crowds around the Wager H louse and Galt's were kindling torches; by the sound of it they were drunker than ever, and bursting with mischief. Rain was pattering on the roof, and I debated whether to wait in that gloomy loft until full dark, and then try to scramble down from one of the windows . . . no, if I didn't break my neck, there'd still be those boozy ruffians between me and safety. Better to return to the room, where Mrs Popplewell was probably still undisturbed, and lie up in comfort until morning, or even longer if need be. If danger threatened I could always take refuge in the loft again.

I tiptoed to the trap . . . and stopped short when I saw a c.h.i.n.k of light showing. Of course, with dusk coming she'd lit the lamp. I stooped to raise the trap - and almost fell' over in terror, for someone was talking in the room below, and it wasn't Black Beauty, unless her voice had broken in my absence. I crouched quivering like an aspen, as a harsh ba.s.s growl came to my ears: ". . . never see a n.i.g.g.e.r yet that didn't lie truth out o' Dixie! You had him in here, ye black b.i.t.c.h! Hid him up, didn't ye - yeah, yore abolitionist friend! Where'd he go, hey?"

"Don' you call me liar!" It was Mrs Popplewell, no docile darkie she. "Ah's a 'spectable woman, an' no white trash goin' to bust in on me an' gimme his lip! You git out o' heah, all on yuh, leave me be! Ah don't know nothin' 'bout no abolitionist -"

"White trash? Strike me dumb, ye hear that? I've a mind to haul you out an' lash you good -"

"You hold your noise!" It was the captain who'd inter-ceded for Thompson. "See here, my girl - there was a man here. We know it. You told the waiter here it was your husband - what's his name, Popplewell? That right?"

"That's it - Popplewell!" The waiter, babbling. "But he got on the train went out at dawn - and she brung up break-fuss for two this mornin', like he was still here . . . least, I think that's what she said -"

"There, now! You hear him, girl -"

"He's mistook!" Mrs Popplewell was standing firm. "Said no sech thing! An' no man's been in heah! Whut kin' o' female d'ye think Ah am?"

"A lyin' nigra wh.o.r.e, that's what!" bawls the ruffian voice. "If you was alone, what you need two breakfasts for?"

"Ah is a large lady," retorts she with dignity, "an' Ah eats hearty."

"Leave that, 'tis by the way!" says the captain impatiently. "Now, see here, girl - how d'ye explain this?" And there followed a breathless pause.

What the devil could "this" be? Something d.a.m.ning, obviously - but you'd think a man in my plight could have restrained his curiosity, wouldn't you? After all, it didn't matter to me whether he was presenting his card or baring his b.u.t.tocks . . . so before you could have said: "Don't, you damfool!" I had my eye to the gap at the edge of the trap, goggling down into the room.

I could see only a portion of it, filled mostly by Mrs Popplewell in the height of fashion, holding her brolly like a club, and two ugly scoundrels with beer-bellies and beards crowding her either side. Of the captain I could see only an outstretched hand - and on it lay my Tranter pistol, which I'd forgotten in my haste.

"Well?" says he. "What o' this?"

"Ma husban' left it, fo' ma purtection!" cries she gamely.

"Did he now? Favours an English firearm, does he? You, waiter - didn't you say the abolitionist who bespoke forty-five breakfasts53 spoke with a foreign accent - British, perhaps?"

I didn't stay for the answer. If I'd been a man of iron nerve, no doubt I'd have raised the trap, bade them a cheery good-evening, and descended nonchalantly to explain myself to the captain, who was plainly a man of intelligence and sound judgment. And he might have believed me. Again, his raffish companions might have shot me on sight. We cannot tell, for what I absolutely did was to start to my feet in sudden alarm, hit my head a shattering crash on a sloping joist, lose my balance, and step heavily on the trap, which must have been rotten at the hinges, for it gave way with a rending of timber, and down I went into the room like Lucifer descending, the table bursting beneath my weight, Mrs Popplewell screaming, and her interrogators exclaiming in shocked surprise.

The only one who spoke to the point was the waiter, who cried "By cracky, that's him!", and call me hasty if you will, it seemed prudent to remove rather than offer explanations. I was afoot and would have been through the open door in an instant if one of the ruffians hadn't barred the way. I sank my knee in his essentials, blundered into Mrs Popplewell, saw the other thug start towards me and the captain beside him levelling the Tranter, and knew in a split second that there was only one thing for it. Casting gallantry aside, I seized her amidships, swung her off her feet with a herculean effort, and hurled her at them - and I'm here to tell you that a tenth of a ton of well-nourished negress, point-blank and well driven, is a d.a.m.ned effective missile. They went down all three with a shock that rattled the hotel, and I was out and bounding down the pa.s.sage to the back stairs, missing my footing and going a.r.s.e over tip to land with a sickening jar beside the kitchen door. The outer door stood open, I heaved myself up and went through it bull-at-a-gate into a torch-lit twilight which seemed to be full of drunken, shouting rascals who stared in astonishment as I raced through them, heedless of direction; behind me a voice cried: "Stop him! Halt, or I fire!" It was the captain - no slouch in pursuit, he - and then came the crack as he let fly with the Tranter. I plunged on, dodging between trees, cannoning into bodies, knocking over a stand of piled rifles, with angry yells and pounding feet behind me, and no notion of where my terrified flight was taking me.

Well, it wouldn't have made much odds if I had taken care; all ways led to disaster and death, and mine took me into the open ground between the Wager House and the armoury gates, where I slipped in a puddle and went head-long in the mud. At least in scrambling up I was able to take my bearings, and d.a.m.ned discouraging they were, for every gun in Harper's Ferry seemed to be slinging lead at me - from the railroad tracks to my right, from the town to my left, and from the Wager House at my back. Shots were slapping into the mud around me, militiamen were rushing towards me from the hotel, and the only place that wasn't stiff with ill-wishers, and seemed to offer the ghost of a chance, was the armoury itself. I floundered out of the mire and went bald-headed for the gates.

It was just my confounded luck that my flight took place at the precise moment when those militia whom I'd seen skirmishing towards the rear of the armoury a few minutes earlier, launched their attack through the sheds at the remnants of J.B.'s little force. Even as I was leaving the hotel at speed, they were storming up among the workshops, and J.B. and his boys, a.s.sailed from behind, were downing eight of them before being forced to retire into the engine-house just inside the armoury gateway. What with my panic and the uproar around me, I knew nothing of this until I sped screaming through the gates and met the militia coming the other way; ahead of me the avenue between the sheds was alive with roaring ruffians charging towards me in the failing light, orange flames leaping from their muzzles - even as I slithered to a terrified halt, shots were whipping past, and as I turned to fly something like a whiplash seared across my neck, and I knew I'd been hit, oh Jesus, this was death, and I pitched forward in agony, sobbing: "G.o.d d.a.m.n you, Spring, d.a.m.n you to h.e.l.l!", clutching at my wound, the warm blood running between my fingers, my ears deafened by the h.e.l.lish din of rifle fire and battle-cry, torchlight blinding me, and I knew this was the end .. .

"Joshua!" A harsh voice was shouting, close by. "Joshua!" I struggled up on one elbow - and not ten yards before me were the great twin doors of the engine-house, with J.B. himself standing between them, his Sharps smoking in his hands, his scarecrow coat flapping round his lean shanks, his battered hat jammed down on his brows. The door in the left-hand arch was shut, but that on the right was wide, and there was Joe, his face contorted with rage, a Colt in either fist, pumping shots at the advancing militia, and Taylor the Canadian kneeling, his Sharps at his shoulder, and Oliver was waving his rifle: "Come on, Josh - we'll cover you!"

By G.o.d, Flashy, you ain't dead yet, I thought, and then I was on my feet, bellowing with fear, staggering towards them. All four were firing now, and from the tail of my eye I saw the militia's advance waver, but they were shooting back, d.a.m.n them, slugs were buzzing about me, something plucked at the skirt of my coat - missed, you duffer!, but the next one didn't, a hammer blow struck my thigh, numbing my leg, and I went down like a shot rabbit, sprawling in t he mud within a few feet of cover and roaring, if I remember rightly, for Jesus to save me. Which was optimism run mad, I admit - but I was dying, remember.

G.o.d knows how I crawled the few yards to the engine-house doorway, heaving along on two hands and one knee, plastered with filth, my precious blood leaking in two places, howling my head off - and Taylor was darting forward, hoisting me up and dragging me on. Then everything seemed to be happening terribly slowly, but crystal clear, as is often the case when you're helpless in deadly danger: Taylor's grip loosed, and something warm and wet struck me in the face, and as I fell back he was standing over me, but where his head should have been was a hideous crimson mess, and I cried out in horror, pawing at his blood and brains that had spattered over me. Someone heaved me to my feet; it was J.B., and I remember the earthy cattle smell of his coat as my face pressed against it, Joe's pistol exploding almost in my ear, his shout of "G.o.ddam slavin' b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!", Oliver firing round the door-post while rifle b.a.l.l.s smacked into the timber and brickwork, and the choking reek of powder smoke in my mouth and eyes.

As I clung weeping to J.B. I heard Oliver sing out: "I see him, Paw!", and I can still see the eager grin on the pale, handsome face under the wideawake hat, but as he whipped the Sharps to his shoulder he suddenly staggered, with an odd barking little cough, looking down at the b.l.o.o.d.y stain spreading on his shirt. He dropped the Sharps and sat down heavily against the door, raising his head in surprise and exclaiming: "Oh, Paw, look!", and that is the last thing I remember before . . . well, I could say something poetic about blackness enfolding me like a shroud, or a dark mist engulfing my senses, but the plain fact is that I fainted from pure funk.

Wounds, believe it or not, can be quite handy, if you know how to make use of them. I speak with authority, having taken over twenty in my time, from my broken thigh at Piper's Fort to the self-inflicted graze which enabled me to collapse artistically during the Boxer Rising (I was seventy-eight at the time, an age at which you can get away with a lot). In between, I've been shot in the back, the breast, the arm, the leg, and the a.r.s.e, been blown up now and then, flogged, scalped (by my own son, if you please), racked, and roasted, had my shoulder opened by a c.h.i.n.k hatchet, my cheek by a German schlager, and my abdomen by a Turkish knitting needle (at least, I believe she was Turkish), and still carry a scorch-mark on my elbow from the hot metal of the cannon from which I was dam' near blown at Gwalior. Not bad going for a thoroughbred coward and decamper, and those are only the ones I remember - there's a small-calibre hole in my left palm, and blessed if I know how I came by that. Senility creeping on, I suppose.

The point is that I've made capital out of my dishonour-able scars by adhering to one golden rule - Flashy's Sufferance, I call it: always convey, but never say, that your injury is a sight worse than it really is. It's elementary, really. In convalescence this ensures sympathy, if you play it properly -- the barely perceptible wince, the sharp little intake of breath, the faint smile followed by the quick shake of the head, and never a word of complaint from the dear brave boy - but far more importantly, in the heat of battle it enables you to feign mortal hurt and shirk any further part in the action.

Not that I was faking when I keeled over maiden-like in the engine-house - I was convinced that the Great Peeler had His hand on my collar at last, and only when I came to and recalled that the pandemonium around me was not h.e.l.l after all, did I discover that my wounds, while painful, were not fatal, or even serious. My shirt and coat were sticky with blood, but frenzied inspection a.s.sured me that this came not from my jugular but from a nasty nick near the shoulder, and my other hurt was quite a curiosity: the slug must have been almost spent, for it was only half-embedded in my leg some way above the knee, like a currant on a cake. I pawed at it, weeping tears of grat.i.tude that it hadn't struck home a few inches nor'-east, and the beastly thing fell out, leaving an ugly hole oozing gore. I subsided, whimpering with anguish and relief, clutching the affected parts and lying petrified as I took in the appalling scene.

For the interior of that engine-house looked and sounded like the Inferno gone wild: the building reverberated to the incessant din of rifle fire, gla.s.s was shattering, timber splintering, men were screaming and cursing, and all in half-darkness, for there wasn't a light in the place bar the flashes from the guns, and only torch-glare outside. As I cowered down by the wall, half-choked by smoke and panic, I could just make out the shapes of bodies on the straw at my feet, and beyond them shadowy figures which crouched in the half-open doorway, shooting out, while answering shots crashed into the walls and the long low fire-carts which seemed to fill most of the great brick-built shed: one slug hit a fire-bell with an ear-splitting clang, setting it swinging and pealing. All I could do was lie there, trying to staunch my neck wound with my sleeve, praying that I'd not be hit again - G.o.d, of all the cruel strokes of fate, after all my scheming and evasion and taking cover, at the eleventh hour I'd leapt from the fire back into the frying-pan, and now there was nowhere to run, even if I'd been able to.

Only a yard away Jerry Anderson was hacking at the bricks to make a loophole; fragments rained down on me, and when I sang out he dropped down beside me, eyes wild in a blood-streaked face.

"My G.o.d, Josh!" cries he. "Are ye done for?"

"Brandy!" croaks I, and he thrust his flask at me. I clutched it, and as he jumped back to his loophole I set my teeth and spilled half the contents on my neck, squawling to wake the dead at the burning agony of it. I clapped the mouth of the flask to my leg wound, writhing and whimpering, and had just enough strength to pour the rest down my throat. I was half-fainting with pain, and I must have swooned again, for the next thing I knew there was a blinding glare before my eyes, the shooting had ceased altogether, and there were voices talking close by. I raised my head and saw that the glare came from a storm-lantern in the doorway, where J.B. seemed to be holding a parley with a couple of civilians, while Joe covered them with his six-guns. The light !ell on the faces of the bodies near my feet, and I shrank back horrified as I saw that they were Watson and Oliver, both apparently dead, and beyond them the shattered corpse of Taylor sprawled on the blood-sodden straw. To my right, on the back wall behind the engines, young Ed Coppoc and Emperor Green, the black, had their rifles at the ready through loopholes in the brick, and Jerry Anderson was at his post on the side wall, straddling Oliver's body. Dauphin Thompson, the pretty youth who looked like a girl, stood by the nearer engine, a rifle in his hands - my G.o.d, was this all that was left? Six sound men, three corpses, and Flashy playing possum . . . Now one of the civilians was speaking, a tall brisk chap with a trim moustache and goatee - my captain from the Wager House. By George, he got about, though, didn't he?

". . . you can only make it worse!" cries he, pointing to the bodies. "Sakes alive, man, isn't that enough? You're surrounded by hundreds of militia, and Colonel Lee's marines! They're under orders from the President of the United States to demand your unconditional surrender, nothing less!" He gestured about him. "Look at this - the end is certain, and resistance can mean only more bloodshed -"

"They know my terms!" rasps J.B. His face was dreadful in the lamp-glare, haggard with hunger and lack of sleep, but his voice was strong. "When all my men, living and dead, have been delivered to me here, with their arms and ammunition - and our horse and harness -"

"Your horse?" cries the other in disbelief. "G.o.d help us!"

"-then, and only then, I shall retire into Maryland, taking the prisoners with me," continues J.B. calmly. "There I shall release them at a safe distance, and enter into negotiations with the government -"

"You'll not take us into Maryland!" It was old Washing-ton, coming round the back of the engines, and I saw there were half a dozen of the hostages lurking at the far side of the shed.54 He strode past where I was lying, up to the group in the doorway. "No threat shall compel me from this spot, I'll tell you that!"

They stood eye to eye, the old soldier planted like a rock, J.B. with his head thrown back, rifle in hand, Frederick's sword trailing at his hip. The goatee'd captain stepped between them, hands raised, forcing himself to speak quiet but firm.

"It won't do, Captain Brown. Can't you see, sir, Colonel Lee cannot yield to those terms - the United States cannot!" He took a deep breath. "Your position . . . oh, come, sir, in the name of sense - what do you hope for?"

J.B. turned on him, eyes flashing. "For honourable dealing, according to the usages of war! Would you have me surrender to the creatures who shot down my men like dogs - under a white flag? My own son, sir, dying there of wounds inflicted by those drunken cowards?"

"That was the militia! Colonel Lee is a gallant gentleman and stone-cold sober!" retorts the captain. "Oh, I am sorry for your son . . . but, my G.o.d, when men take up arms in treason against their country, they can expect to be shot like dogs! What of the poor souls you've killed this day?" He broke off with a helpless shrug. "Oh, where's the sense of it? I beg of you, sir - see reason, and give up while you can. Colonel Lee will show you every consideration, and in the meantime," he gestured at the bodies, "at least let Doctor Taylor see to your wounded."

J.B. considered a moment, and then nodded to the other civilian, a stout little greybeard with a black bag who signed to Jerry to bring the lantern, and knelt down by Watson, fumbling for his pulse. Even through half-closed eyes in that light I could tell it was the Stars and Stripes for Watson, no error: his face was like wax, and he didn't seem to be breathing. The little sawbones evidently agreed, for he pursed his lips and moved on to Oliver, whose eyes blinked open in the light. He stirred,- and gave a little whispered sob.

"Paw . . . shoot me ... oh, Paw, please, it's awful sore! Let me . . . die . . . please, Paw!"

J.B.'s voiced croaked out of the shadows in an awful parody of rea.s.surance: "Oh, you'll get over it, Noll -", interrupted by a stifled scream from Oliver as the belly-butcher probed at his chest. You mayn't credit it, but I believe I heard the loving paterfamilias mutter something about "dying like a man". Say that to me, you old sod, thinks I, and I'll spit in your eye.

I was reviving, you see, under the spur of self-preservation, and while I was weak as a rat with fear and shock, and hurting like sin, I was by no means hors de combat: the feeling had returned to my leg, and the gash in my neck seemed to have stopped bleeding. But the outlook was uncertain, you'll agree. If this parley (one of many in that extraordinary day, in which one side tended the other's wounded between the hostilities) ended with J.B.'s throwing in his hand, all would be well: once he'd been disarmed I could show my true colours and refer them to Messervy. If he wouldn't surrender, I could only keep mum - declaring myself a U.S. agent in the hope that the captain could protect me would be madness: why, the crazy old b.a.s.t.a.r.d would probably shoot me on the spot. Then there was the vexed question of where the devil I'd been all day . . . and Joe was lurking in the background . . . On the whole, the closer I appeared to be to death's door, and unable to answer embarra.s.sing questions, the better. So when the poultice-walloper shook his head over Oliver, and glanced towards me, lying there all blood-spattered and pathetic, I was ready with a feeble gesture to keep him at a distance - the last thing I wanted was the little b.u.g.g.e.r poking at me and exclaiming: "Why, this fellow's barely scratched! A spoonful of jalop and he'll be fitter than I am!"

I needn't have fretted. Possibly he was fed up peering at abolitionists, for having glanced, he shrugged, and said he'd call again in the morning. (Those were his very words, as though we were in Tooting with the mumps; you may find them in the history books.) Meanwhile the goatee'd captain had been moving heaven and earth to make J.B. see reason, with as much success as you'd expect. "I knew what we might be called on to undergo when I set my hand to this work," says the stubborn old ragam.u.f.fin. "I have weighed the responsibility, and shall not shrink from it."

"And your prisoners?" cries the captain. "If this madness continues, and they pay for it with their lives, you'll take responsibility for that too, will you?"

"I shall take every care of them," replies J.B. "They are in G.o.d's hands. So are we all."

The captain could have burst at the sanctimonious smugness of it, but he mastered himself, and stood up tall.

"You are a vain and selfish man," says he. "G.o.d forgive you." Then anger got the better of him. "You'll die! To no purpose - you know that?"

"Oh, to some purpose, I believe," says J.B., and laid a hand on his shoulder, as though talking to a child. "Be of good cheer, Captain Sinn. We shall this day light such a candle by G.o.d's grace in Virginia as shall never be put out."55 This was too much for old Washington, who went purple. "You dare - you dare to use those words!" He spluttered. "Why . . . why, it's a blasphemy! You're a pagan, sir, a brazen forehead -"

"Go behind the engines, colonel," says J.B. "There is no more to be said." The old soldier stood fuming for a moment, then turned on his heel and strode off to the far side, where the other hostages were peeping over the engines, looking scared.

"Come along, doctor," says the captain. "We have done what we could." He hesitated in the doorway, and turned to J.B. "For the last time, Mr Brown will you not reconsider?"

J.B. stood silent, staring at the ground, and Sinn and the doctor went out into the darkness.

I'd listened in growing consternation, for there was no doubt what was coming, thanks to the blind stubborn folly (aye, and vanity) of that pig-headed yokel - the besiegers would storm the engine-house, their first ranks would be cut down by the defenders' fire, and when the drunken rabble finally burst in by sheer weight of numbers they'd butcher every last one of us in a fury of spite and vengeance. I'd not have a dog's chance of surrender, or to proclaim myself .. . to them I'd be just another Kansas murderer, to go the way of Thompson and Stevens and Watson - unless in the meantime I could make myself known to old Washington, and take shelter among the hostages when the final charge came home; the Marines would have orders to look out for them and see them safe. But how to put Washington wise, without betraying myself to J.B.... ? and even as the thought formed, here came our gallant commander, brushing aside something that Jerry Anderson was saying, ordering him back to his post, and moving purposefully in my direction. He pa.s.sed his sons' bodies without a glance and loomed above me, and my innards turned over at the sight of that ravaged headstone of a face with its burning eyes; the tangled hair sprouting from under the old hat was dirty white, like his scrub of beard, and when he spoke it was like gravel under a door.

"Can you hear me, Joshua? Are you badly hurt? What became of you?"

I had my answer ready, a red herring that should distract him if anything could, delivered with a weary flicker of the eyelids and a tremulous whisper, to let him see I was at my last gasp.

"Kagi ..." I muttered. "Kagi ..."

"What of Kagi?" cries he, stooping over me.

"He's . . . dead, captain," says I, very faint. "Shot . . . at the river .. .

"And the others? Leary? Copeland?" Those were the two blacks.

"Dead . . . I think ..." I gave a muted gasp of agony by way of business. "And . . . they killed Thompson, too .. murdered . . . used his body . . . target practice ..."

He made a dreadful noise; it was his teeth grating. "So they did with Leeman. The fool ran for the river, and was taken. They put a pistol to his head and ..." He knelt down by me, and there were tears on the leathery cheeks. "Did you speak with Kagi?"

I ventured a weak shake of the head. "No . . . I tried to . . . no use . . . too many of 'em . . . ah, my leg!" I gave just a touch of feeble thrash, eyes tight shut in anguish.

"Joshua!" The callous ruffian actually gripped me by the shoulder. "What happened? Why did you run from the hotel?"

That was the question, of course, and I'd been cudgelling my wits for an answer - and in a heaven-sent flash it came to me, the perfect excuse that might also be my salvation, if only I played it properly; the one thing that might turn this selfish lunatic from his fatal resolve.

"Kagi ..." I whispered. "Went to . . . bring Kagi .. . ah, too late!"

"What's that you say?" He was frowning in bewilderment. "You wanted to fetch Kagi? To me, you mean? But why?" Playing for time, while I chose my words, I gave a shivering moan and bit my lip (fighting the agony, you know) and could have cheered when he went on in a puzzled tone: "Joe told me you had deserted . . . I would not believe it! Why, then? Joshua - do you hear me? Speak, man!"

I decided it was time to rally a little, so I forced a brave, wry smile, and when he asked if I was in great pain, I half-raised a palsied hand and let him grip it in his h.o.r.n.y fist.

"Not . . . too bad . . . thank'ee," says I. "Loss o' blood . and my leg . . . but I'll be . . . at my post . . . presently ... never fear." Gad, I was game. "Got a gun . . . have you?" I'd no least intention of joining the defence, but it showed the right spirit, and whatever happened I wanted a piece handy. He drew a Colt from his belt and laid it by me, asking again about Kagi, but I was taking my time.

"Ah ... thank'ee, skipper . . . that's fine. Want to .. . go out .. fighting, you know." Talk about the last act of Hamlet. "If 1 must ..." I opened my eyes wide in gallant appeal. "Must we, captain?"

"What d'ye mean, Joshua?" says he, frowning, and I clenched my teeth as in sudden pain, breathed a silent prayer, and let him have it.

"Why I went for Kagi," I began, gasped, and went on: "I knew .. you'd fight to a finish. You're like me," I explained, with a ghastly grin. "No surrender, what? Aye ... but the last thing Kagi said to me . . . at the farm .. . he said: 'At all costs, Josh, you must . . . see the captain safe. He must live, even if . . . we die. He has . . . the voice ... and it must not be silenced'." I paused, almost at the end of my tether, but determined. "Well ... when I saw ... this morning, that if we waited . . . for the slaves, you know . . . we'd be cut off . . . killed, most likely . . . I knew I must bring Kagi to . . . to talk to you . . . make you see that your life was . . . well, too precious to lose." Another pathetic smile. "I knew you wouldn't . . . listen to me. I knew you'd heed Kagi, though . . . you always did . . . made me quite jealous sometimes . . . ne'er mind ..." I stopped for another useful wince, and any fool could have seen I was gathering my strength for one last n.o.ble effort. I gripped his hand. "Listen to Kagi now ... won't you? Surrender .. . for his sake!" Inspired, I drivelled on. "And for the sake of ... of all those poor black souls . . . crying for deliverance ... don't fail them now! Live . . . that the voice may not be silenced! Oh, surrender, now . . . call back that captain ... and Kagi won't have died in vain ..."

I sank back, eyes closing, in an exhaustion that wasn't entirely bogus, for I'd given it all I knew. Fine fevered stuff, in my best heroic style - a deathbed variation on the theme I'd used when I talked Wheeler into running up the white !lag at Cawnpore two years earlier. Aye, but Wheeler was a level-headed soldier, not an ignorant fanatic, and when I opened my eyes again my heart sank, for the bright eyes were as hard as ever, and his mouth was turned down in a stubborn scowl. He withdrew his hand from mine.

"You too, Joshua," says he. "First Anderson, now you. He hears Captain Sinn talk of treason, so his conscience smites him now; he'll not fire again on his country's flag; he says." Good for you, Jerry; sanity at last. "And Kagi, you tell me . . . and now you." He gave a deep sigh, and went on in a weary voice. "Cannot you see, we are all dead men? If we surrender, we hang, and where is my voice then? And if we surrender, we shall have betrayed our cause - and that I'll not do!"

G.o.d, he was dense. "Captain!" I croaked, and in my desperation I forgot I was dying and came up on one elbow to whine at him in earnest. "Don't you see, if we surrender, there's bound to be a trial! You'll be able to speak out then - to tell America, tell the whole world, what . . . what we came here for! The cause, dammit, and the darkies, and everything For G.o.d's sake," I yammered, "everyone will hear you, and . . . and be inspired to carry on, but if you die here, why, they'll never know! Don't you understand?"

D'ye know, I doubt if he did, for before I'd done bleating he had turned his glance aside in that brooding, distant way I knew so well; he hadn't even noticed how suddenly I'd come to life. I could have wept, for I wanted to shout in his face: "Listen, you pudding-headed dotard, I'm showing you the finest soap-box your b.l.o.o.d.y cause could have! You'll speak your piece, and then you'll swing, and good riddance, but they'll have heard you from h.e.l.l to Honolulu! (And they did; that's the irony of it.) And I'll be out of here, alive and safe, you selfish hound!" But it would have done no good; I knew that, from the grim dull set of the lined puritan face; he'd fixed what he called his mind, and that was that. He stood up, moving stiffly, and brushed the straw from his ragged britches.

"I have stated my terms," says he, "and I believe them to be honourable. If they will not accept them, for the sake of the prisoners ..." He paused, frowning, and I wondered did he still have some wild hope that he could bluff his way out - or even that the slaves would rise to his rescue? He was daft enough.

He stood there a moment, a gaunt tattered figure silhouetted by the lamp that still burned near the doorway,56 the outline of his stark profile like that of some great bird of prey, and looked slowly around the engine-house half in shadow, the light glinting on the metal of the long fire-carts. Maybe he was reviewing what was left of his pet lambs - Joe on guard at the half-open door, Ed Coppoc at the side loophole, the cherubic Dauphin Thompson at the rear wall, Emperor Green stretched half-asleep on the straw, his lips moving in an inaudible mutter, Jerry Anderson dozing with his back to an engine, mouth open and fair hair tousled. Beyond the engines I could hear the hostages stirring on the straw: that, and the occasional uneasy gasp and groan from Oliver, were the only sounds in the big gloomy shed. From the dark outside came the distant sound of singing and laugh-ter from the Wager House and Galt's, and the dull incessant murmur of the surrounding troops.

"No, I'll not go back on my word." It was J.B., calm and quiet now, as though he were talking to himself. "I came to this place of a purpose, to set free the slaves, and until that is done I'll not lay down my arms. I came in no vindictive spirit, seeking no man's blood, but only to liberate those held cruelly in bondage. To that end we have fought, a handful of us against a great mult.i.tude. To surrender now would be to deny our cause, and to abandon those we fought for. We have kept the faith with them, and with our fallen comrades, and I'll not break it at the last."

He raised his head and looked about him again, eyes bright and far away, and just the glimmer of a smile on the old face. "It doesn't end here," says he. "It begins."

They left us alone all night, and you may well wonder why. There were more than a thousand men ringed about that dingy building by the armoury gates, besieging half a dozen; very well, most of 'em were green militia and drunken louts, but there were near a hundred of America's crack regiment, too, the vaunted Leathernecks from the Halls of Montezuma - why the devil didn't they walk in on our pathetic rabble then and there? I've heard it asked since (at a safe distance) by the usual valiant know-alls, and the answer is because my old chief Robert Lee knew his business, that's why, and wasn't about to waste lives, and risk the hostages, by brawling in the dark when he could wait until daylight - and until the spirits of those in the engine-house were that much lower, and possibly open to reason.

So he waited, canny, imperturbable Lee, and if that long cold night did nothing to weaken the resolve of the idiot-inchief of our ridiculous garrison, it played havoc with the yellow belly of the chief-of-staff, cowering in his corner in despair. I'm not at my best wounded and in the dark, with corpses at my feet, and not even a ray of hope visible - for I'd quite given up the notion of making myself known to old Washington: I doubted if he'd believe me, he never came within whispering distance anyway, and I didn't dare try to attract his attention, what with J.B. prowling about armed to the teeth, and Joe turning every now and then to view my rec.u.mbent form with scowling suspicion.

I'd half-expected him to be at my throat over my desertion at the Wager House, but of course he wasn't. There was nothing he could say or do, however much-he mistrusted me; we were both sailing under false colours with J.B., and he couldn't expose me without exposing himself. But I can't pretend to know what was pa.s.sing in that strange black mind. I knew that from having been a loyal agent of the Kuklos, and devoted to Atropos, he'd apparently found his Road to Damascus in the months at Kennedy Farm, and become a worshipper of J.B. and a fervent enemy of slavery - or at least so he said, and the glimpse I'd had of him during the retreat to the engine-house bore him out, for he'd been fighting like a Ghazi, blasting away and d.a.m.ning the militia. Well, I've known stranger changes of heart, and I'd seen enough of J.B. to know the kind of spell he could cast; Joe might be educated, but he had all the black's deep-seated hatred of the white race, and I guess J.B. had given him a different slant on his slave condition. Again, he may simply have been as mad as a hatter; many people are, you know.

He was certainly in the grip of some kind of brainstorm on that last night in the engine-house. Violent action does that to some folk; faced with death, they lose all sense of habit and ingrained conduct, and their primitive nature, hidden under years of custom and training, comes raging out - why, even I, in extremity, have been moved to belligerence against chaps bigger than I am, and run risks that I go weak to think of afterwards. Mind you, in my case the madness don't last above a split second.

Not with Joe; his derangement was permanent, and it took the oddest form - a growing anger against J.B. If that astonishes you (and it did me) I can only ill.u.s.trate it by telling you what I heard pa.s.sing between them in the long watches of that awful night.

I never slept, you see, what with distress of mind and body, and there was nothing to do but lie and quake in the dark - for the lamp burned out after an hour, leaving us in pitch black, so no one moved about much: Old Washington came round to talk with J.B. at one time, but I couldn't hear what they were saying: it wasn't a quarrel though, for their voices never rose. I heard Jerry Anderson and Emperor Green croaking that they'd never understood that what they were doing was treason (a fine time to realise the error of their ways, you may think); Jerry shut up after a while, but the n.i.g.g.e.r crawled under one of the engines and sobbed his soul out, calling himself a pore blind fool, and railing against .I. B. and Dougla.s.s who had brought him to this mis'able end, an' he hadn't wanted to do hurt to n.o.body, or free any n.i.g.g.e.rs, 'cos he was jes' a plain pore n.i.g.g.e.r hisself, an' oh Lawd ha' mussy on an unhappy sinner.

His cries made a doleful chorus with the groans and pleas of young Oliver, who was delirious most of the time, but would wake now and then with a scream, and his agony was terrible to hear. When he fell silent, J.B. called his name a couple of times, and then I heard him say, "I guess he's dead."

It was after this that Joe pitched in his two penn'orth; I may have dozed, for I was suddenly aware that he was nearby, whispering angrily, and J.B. was snapping back at him: indeed, the first words I heard were J.B. growling to him to keep his place and mind who he was talking to.

"Min' ma place! An' whut place is that, hey?" That was when I realised we had a new Joe on our hands: he'd never have dreamed of taking that tone with J.B. at the farm. "Ah'll tell yuh, John Brown - it's right heah, waitin' to git kilt, when Ah should ha' bin in the hills this minute! That's wheah ma place should ha' been!"

"You forget yourself, Joseph!" J.B. sounded more shocked than angry. "Get to your post, my boy, and no more of this!"

"Ah ain't forgettin' nothin'! You the one that's forgettin' - how we was goin' to free the n.i.g.g.e.rs and make an army in the hills! Wheah is they - all them slaves you was goin' to free, that was goin' to come in to us? You nevah looked near 'em - you didn't try to rouse 'em! All you roused wuz hostages - an' that dam' toy sword you wearin'! Call this a rebellion? - gittin' ou'selves caged in heah like dam' runaways in a bottom, gittin' shot down -"