Flash For Freedom!

11

Her name was Cassy, and I believe that without her I must have gone mad on that first night on the slave cart. The darkness, the close animal stench of the enclosed space in which we were cooped up, and most of all the horror of what lay ahead, reduced me to a croaking wreck. And while I lay shuddering and moaning to myself, she stroked my head and talked in a soft, sibilant voice-hardly a trace of nigger, more New Orleans Frenchy, like Annette's — telling me to be easy, and rest, and not to waste my breath on foolish raving. All very well, but foolish raving is a capital way of releasing one's feelings. However, she talked on, and in the end it must have soothed me, because when I opened my eyes the cart was stopped, and a little sunlight was filtering through cracks in the board roof, giving a dim illumination to the interior.

The first thing I did was to crawl about the place-it wasn't above four feet high — examining it, but it was as tight as a drum, and the doors appeared to be padlocked. I couldn't see a hope of escape. I was chained by the legs — the woman had managed to untie the cord at my wrists — and even if I had succeeded in breaking out, what could I have done against two armed men? They would doubtless be making for Alabama by back roads and trails, far from any hope of assistance, and even if, by some miracle, I got out and gave them the slip, they would easily run me down, hobbled as I was.

The horror of it overcame me again, and I just lay there and wept. There was no hope, and the woman's voice suddenly came to confirm my fears.

"It won't seem so bad after a while," she said. "Nothing ever does."

I turned to look at her, and for a moment a crazy thought struck me-that she, too, was white, and the victim of some fearful plot like my own. For she was no more like a nigger than I was, at first glance. You have seen her head on old Egyptian carvings, both chin and forehead sloping sharply away from a thin curved nose and wide heavy lips, with great almond-shaped devil's eyes which can look strong and terrible in that delicate face. She was unusually tall, but everything about her was fine and fragile, from the high cheekbones and thin black hair bound tight behind her head to the slender ankles locked in slave fetters; even her colour was delicate, like very pale honey, and I realised she was the lightest kind of nigger, what they call a musteefino.³⁷ She reminded me of a Siamese cat, graceful and sinuous and probably far stronger than she looked.

Mind you, my thoughts weren't running in their usual direction; I was too powerfully occupied with my predicament for that, and I fell to groaning and cursing again. I must have babbled something about escape, because she suddenly said:

"Why do you waste your breath? Don't you know better by now — there's no escape. Not now, or ever."

"My God!" I cried. "There must be. You don't know what they're going to do to me. I'm to be enslaved on a plantation — for life!"

"Is that so strange?" said she, bitterly. "You're lucky you haven't been there before. What were you — a house slave?"

"I'm not a bloody slave!" I shouted. "I'm a white man."

She stared at me through the dimness. "Oh, come now. We stop saying that when we're ten years old."

"It's true, I tell you! I'm an Englishman! Can't you tell?"

She moved across the cart, peering at my face, frowning. Then:

"Give me your hand," she says.

I let her look at my nails; she dropped my hand and sat back, staring at me with those great amber-flecked eyes. "Then what are you doing here, in God's name?"

You may be sure I told her — at length, but leaving out the juicy parts: Mandeville suspected me unjustly, I told her. She sat like a graven image until it was done, and then all she said was:

"Well, now one of you knows what it feels like." She went back to her corner. "Now you know what a filthy race you belong to."

"But, dear Christ!" I exclaimed. "I must get out of it, I must —"

"How?" Her lips writhed in a sneer. "Do you know how many times I've run? Three times! And each time they caught me, and dragged me back. Escape! Bah! You talk like a fool."

"But … but … last night … in the dark … you said something about waiting and hoping …"

"That was to comfort you. I thought you were … one of us." She gave a bitter little laugh. "Well, you are, now, and I tell you there isn't any hope. Where can you run to, in this vile country? This land of freedom! With slave-catchers everywhere, and dogs, and whipping-houses, and laws that say I'm no better than a beast in a sty!" Her eyes were blazing with a hatred that was scaring. "You try and run! See what good it does you!"

"But slave-catchers can't touch me! If only I can get out of this cursed wagon! Look," I went on, desperately, "there must be a chance-when they open the doors, to feed us —"

"How little you know of slavery!" she mocked me. "They won't open the doors — not till they get me to Forster's place, and you to wherever you're going. Feed us! — that's how they feed us, like dogs in a kennel!" And she pointed to a hatch in the door, which I hadn't noticed. "For the rest, you foul your sty — why shouldn't you? You're just a beast! Did you know that was what the Romans called us — talking beasts? Oh, yes, I learned a lot about slavery, in the fine house I was brought up in. Brought up so that I could be made the chattel of any filthy ruffian, any beggar or ignorant scum of the levees — just so he was white!" She sat glaring at me, then her shoulders drooped. "What use to talk? You don't know what it means. But you will. You will."

Well, you may guess how this raised my spirits. The very fierceness of the woman, her bitter certainty, knocked what little fight I had out of me. I sat dejected, and she silent, until after a while I heard Little and his companion talking outside, and presently the hatch was raised, and a tin dish was shoved in, and a bottle of water. I was at the hatch in a flash, shouting to them, pleading and offering money, which set them into roars of laughter.

"Say, hear that now! Ain't that bully? What about you, Cass — ain't you got a thousand dollars to spare for ifn we let you go? No? Well, ain't that a shame, though? No, my lord, I'm sorry, but truth is me an' George here, we don't need the money anyways. An' I ain't too sure we'd trust your note o' hand, either. Haw-haw!"

And the cruel brute slammed down the hatch and went off, chuckling.

Through all this Cass never said a word, and when we had tried to eat the filthy muck they had given us, and rinsed our throats from the bottle, she went back to her corner and sat there, her bead against the boards, staring into vacancy. Presently the cart started up, and for the rest of the day we jolted slowly over what must have been a damned bad road, while the atmosphere in the cart grew so hot and stifling that I was sure we must suffocate before long. Once or twice I bawled out to Little, pleading with him, but all I got was oaths and obscene jokes, so I gave up, and all the time Cassy sat silent, only occasionally turning to stare at me, but making no reply to my croaks and questions. I cursed her for a black slut, but she didn't seem to hear.

Towards sunset, the cart stopped, and immediately Cassy seemed to come to life. She peered through a crack in the side of the wagon, and then crawled over to me, motioning me to talk in whispers.

"Listen," she said. "You want to escape?"

I couldn't believe my ears. "Escape? I —"

"Quiet, in heaven's name! Now, listen. If I can show you how to escape — will you make me a promise?"

"Anything! My God, anything!"

The great almond eyes stared into mine. "Don't protest too easily — I mean what I say. Will you swear, by all that you believe to be holy, that if I help you escape, you will never desert me — that you will help me, in my turn, to gain my freedom?"

I'd have sworn a good deal more than that. With hope surging through me, I whispered. "I swear — I promise! I'll do anything. No, I'll never desert you, I swear it!"

She stared at me a moment longer, and then glanced towards, the door.

"Soon now they will bring our food. When they do, you will be making love to me — do you understand?"

I couldn't follow this, but I nodded, feverish with excitement. In a whisper she went on:

"When they see us, whatever they say, defy them. Do you understand me? Taunt them, swear at them — anything! Then leave the rest to me. Whatever I do or say, do nothing further."

"What are you going to do? What can I —"

"Quiet!" She started up. "They're coming, I think. Now — over there, where they'll see us."

And as footsteps came round to the back of the cart she sprawled into the middle of the floor, dragging up her dress, and pulling me down on top of her. Trembling, and for once not for the usual reasons, I clung to the pliant body, crushing my mouth down on hers and plunging like mad — gad, as I look back, what a waste of good effort it was, in the circumstances. I heard the hatch flung open, and in that moment Cassy writhed and began to sob in simulated ecstasy, clawing at me and squealing. There was an oath and commotion at the hatch, and then a cry of:

"Tom! Tom! Come quick! That damned Texian feller, he's screwin' the wench!"

More commotion, and then Little's voice:

"What you think you're doin', blast ye? Get offa her, this minute! Get off, d'ye hear, or I'll fill yore ass with buckshot!"

I bawled an obscenity at him, and then there was a rattling at the lock, the door was flung wide, to the gathering dusk, and Little glared in, his piece levelled at me. I decided I had defied him sufficiently, and rolled away; Cassy scrambled up into a reclining position.

"Damn you!" bawls Little. "Don't you never get enough?"

I stayed mum, while he cursed at me, his pal staring pop-eyed over his shoulder. And then Cass, shrugging her shoulders petulantly and moving to display her fine long legs, remarked:

"Why can't you let us be? What's the harm in it?"

Little's piggy little eyes went over her; he licked his lips, still keeping his gun pointed at me.

"Harm in it?" His voice was thick. "You ol' Forster's wench, ain't you? Think you can rattle with everyone you please? Not while I'm around, my gel. You dirty nigger tail, you!"

She shrugged again, pouting, and spoke in a voice very unlike her own.

"Ifn massa say. Cassy don' mind none, anyways. This feller ain't bait for a gel like me — I used to real men."

Little's eyes opened wide. "Is that a fact?" His loose bearded mouth opened in a grin. "Well, think o' that, now. I didn't know you was thataway inclined, Cass — fancy yellow gel like you, with all them lady airs." He was thinking as he talked, and there was no doubting what those thoughts were. "Well, now — you just come out o' that cart this minute, d'ye hear? You —" this was to me— "keep yourself mighty still, lessn you want a bellyfull o' lead. Come on, my gel, git your ass outa that wagon — smart!"

Cassy slid herself to the tail of the cart, while they watched her closely, and dropped lightly to the ground. I stayed where I was, my heart hammering. Little motioned with his gun, and the other fellow slammed and locked the door, leaving me in darkness. But I could hear their voices, plain enough.

"Now, then, Cass," says Little. "You step roun' there, lively now. So — now, you jus' shuck down, d'ye hear?" There was a pause, and then Cassy's new voice:

"Massa gwine ter be nice to Cassy? — Cassy a good gel, please massa ever so much."

"By God, an' so ye will! Look at that, George — here, you hol' the gun! An' make yourself scarce. By gosh, I'm goin' to 'tend to this li'l beauty right here an' now! What you waitin' for, George — you get outa here!"

"Don' I get none o' her, then? Don' I even get to watch?"

"Watch? Why, how you talk! Think I'm a hog, or a nigger, that I'd do my screwin' with you watchin'? Get outa here, quick! You'll get your piece when I'm done. Here, gimme back that gun — reckon I'll keep it by, case her ladyship gits up to anythin'. But you won't, honey, will you?"

I heard George's reluctant footsteps retreating, and then silence; I strained my ears, but could hear nothing through the wagon side. A minute passed, and then there was a sudden sharp gasp, and a thin whining sound half-way between a sigh and a wail, and the sound of it made the hairs rise on my neck. A moment later, and Cassy's voice in sudden alarm:

"Mas' George, Mas' George! Come quick! Suthin' happen to Mas' Tom — he hurt himself! Come quick!"

"What's that?" George's voice sounded from a little way off, and I heard his feet running. "What you say — what happened, Tom? You all right, Tom? What —"

The gunshot crashed out with startling suddenness, near the back of the wagon; there was a scream and a choking groan, and then nothing, until I heard the padlock rattle, the door was flung back, and there was Cassy. Even in the dusk I could see she was naked; she still had the musket in her hand.

"Quickly!" she cried. "Come out! They're both done for!"

I was out, fetters and all, in a twinkling. George lay spreadeagled at my feet, the top half of his face a bloody mash — she had given him the buckshot at point-blank range. I looked round and saw Little, crouched on his knees by the camp-fire, his head down; even as I started toward's him he rolled over, with a little bubbling sob, and I saw the knife hilt sticking out of the crimson soaking mess that stained his shirt. He twitched for a moment, bubbling, and then was still.

Cassy was at the wagon, holding weakly to the door, her head hanging. I hopped over to her, grabbed her round the waist and swung her off her feet.

"Oh, you wonderful nigger!" I shouted, spinning her round. "You little black beauty, you! Bravo! Two at one stroke, by George! Well done indeed!" And I kissed her gleefully.

"Set me down!" she gasped. "In God's name, set me down!"

So I put her down, and she shuddered and sank to the ground, all of a heap. For a moment I thought she'd fainted, but she was a prime girl, that one. With her teeth chattering she grabbed up her dress, pulling it down over her head, which seemed a pity, for she cut a truly splendid figure in the firelight. I patted her on the shoulder, telling her what a brave wench she was.

"Oh, God!" says she, with her eyes tight shut. "Oh, horrible! I didn't know … what it was like … when I drew the knife from his belt and …" She put her face in her hands and sobbed.

"Serve him right," says I. "You've done him a power of good. And the other one, too — couldn't have done better myself, by jove, no, I couldn't! You're a damned good-plucked 'un, young Cassy, and you may tell 'em that Tom Arnold said so!"

But she sat there, shivering, so I wasted no more time but searched Tom's pockets for the keys to our fetters, and soon had us both loose. Then I went through their pockets, but apart from fifteen dollars there was nothing worth a curse. I stripped George's body, because it struck me that he was about my size, and his togs might come in handy. Then I looked to their guns — one musket, two pistols, with powder and ball — saw that the wagon horse was all to rights, and all the time my heart was singing inside me. I was free again, thanks to that splendid nigger wench. By gum, I admired that girl, and still do — she'd have made a rare mate for my old Sergeant Hudson — and while I heated up some coffee and vittles left by the late unlamented, I told her what I thought of her.

She was crouched by the fire, staring straight ahead of her, but now she seemed to shake herself out of her trance, for she threw back that lovely Egyptian head and looked at me. "You remember your promise?" says she, and I assured her I did — assured her twenty times over. I can see her now, those wonderful almond eyes watching me while I prattled on, praising her resource and courage-it was a strange meal that, a runaway slave girl and I, sitting round a camp fire in Mississippi, with two dead bodies lying by. And before it was done she had thrown off her fit of the shakes — after all, when you're new to it, killing is almost as disturbing as nearly being killed — and was telling me what we must do next. My admiration increased — why, she had thought it out all beforehand, in the wagon, down to the last detail.

It had been my remark about slave-catchers not touching a white man that had set her thinking, and shown her how she could make a successful run this time, with me to help her.

"We must travel as master and slave," says she. "That way no one will give us a second thought — but we must go quickly. It may be a week before Mandeville discovers that this wagon never reached Forster's place, and that these two men" — she gave a little shudder — "are missing. It might even be longer, but we dare not count on it — we dare not! Long before then we must be out of the state, on our way north."

"In that?" says I, nodding to the cart, and she shook her head.

"It can take us no farther than the river; we must go faster than it will carry us. We must go by steamboat."

"Hold on, though — that costs money, and these two hadn't but fifteen dollars between them. We can't get a passage on that."

"Then we'll steal money!" says she, fiercely. "We have pistols — you are a strong man! We can take what we need!"

But I wasn't having that — not that I'm scrupulous, but I'm no hand as a foot-pad. It's too risky by half, and so I told her.

"Risk!" she blazed. "You talk of risk, after what I have done this night? Don't you see-we have two murders on our hands — isn't that a risk? Do you know what will happen if we're caught — you will be hanged, and I'll be burned alive! And you talk of robbery as a risk!"

"Holding someone up will only increase the danger," says I, "for then we would be hunted, whereas if we go our way quietly there'll be no hue and cry until these two are found — if they ever are."

"Whoever we robbed could go the way these went," says she. "Then there would be no added danger." By God, she was a coldblooded one, that. When I protested, she lost her temper:

"Why should we be squeamish over white lives? D'you think I care if every one of these filthy slave-driving swine is torn to pieces tomorrow? And why should you shrink from it, after what they would have done to you? Are they your people, these?"

I tried to convince her it wasn't principle, but pure lack of nerve, and we argued on, she waxing passionate — she hated with a lust for revenge that frightened me. But I wouldn't have it, and eventually she gave up, and sat staring into the fire, her hands clenched on her knees. At last she says, very quietly:

"Well, money we must have, however we come by it. And if you will not steal for it — well, there is only one other way. It does not add greatly to the risk, but … but I would do almost anything to avoid it."

Possibly I'm a natural-born pimp, for I jumped to the conclusion that she was thinking of whoring her way upriver, with me as her protector, but it was something far grander than that.

"We must go to Memphis," says she. "It is a town on the river, not more than fifty miles from here, so far as I can judge. That would be for the day after tomorrow — perhaps another day. That in itself is no great risk, for we have to go to the river anyway, and if God is kind to us none of Mandeville's friends, or people of Forster's, who would know me, will cross our path. And when we are there … we can find the money. Oh, yes, we can find the money!"

And to my astonishment she began to weep — not sobbing, but just great tears rolling down her cheeks. She dashed them away, and then fumbled inside her dress, and after a moment she produced a paper, soiled but very carefully-folded, which she passed to me. Wondering, I opened it, and saw that it was a bill of sale, dated February 1843, for one Cassy, a negro girl, the property of one Angel de Marmalade (I swear that was the name) of New Orleans, now duly sold and delivered to Fitzroy Howard, of San Antonio de Bexar. There was another scrap of paper with it which fluttered down — she made a grab, but not in time to prevent me seeing the words scrawled on it in a coarse, lumpy hand:

"Wensh Cassy. Ten lashys. Wun dollar," and a signature that was illegible.

She drew away, and spoke with her head turned from me.

"That was my second bill of sale. I was fourteen. I stole it from Howard, when he was drunk and I ran from him. They caught me, but he was dead by then, and when they auctioned me with his other … goods, they didn't bother to look for the old bill. I kept it — to remember. Just to remember, so that when I was free, and far away, I should never forget what it was to be a slave! No one ever found it! — they never found it!" Her voice was rising, and she swung her head round to stare at me, her eyes brimming. "I never thought it might serve to win my freedom! But it will!"

"How, in heaven's name?"

"You'll carry it to Memphis — you'll be Mr Fitzroy Howard! No one knows him this far north — he died in Texas four years ago — four years he's been screaming in Hell! And you'll sell me in Memphis — oh, I'll fetch a fine price, you'll see! A thousand, two thousand dollars — maybe three, for a choice mustee wench, fancy-bred, only nineteen, and schooled in a New Orleans brothel! Oh, they'll buy all right!"

Well, this seemed first-rate business to me, and I said so.

"Three thousand dollars — why, woman, what were you ever thinking of highway robbery for? Half that sum will see us rolling upriver in style-but wait though! If you're sold — how'll you get away?"

"1 can run. Oh, believe me, I can run! The moment you have the money, you'll buy passages on a boat north — we'll have decided which one beforehand. Leave it to me to run at the right time — we'll meet at the levee or somewhere and go aboard together. You'll be what they call a nigger-stealer then, and I a runaway slave-but they won't catch us. What, Mr and Mrs Whatever-we-choose-to-call-ourselves, first-class passengers to Louisville? Oh, no, we'll be safe enough — if you keep our bargain."

Well, it had crossed my mind, of course, in the last two seconds, from the moment she'd reminded me of the nasty stigma of nigger-stealing, that it would be a sight safer to catch a different boat, all on my own, with the three thousand dollars, and leave Miss Cassy to fend for herself. But she was as quick as I was.

"If I didn't get out of Memphis," says she, slowly and intently, leaning forward to look into my face, "I'd give myself up — and tell them how we had run together, and you had killed two men back in Mississippi, and where the bodies were, and all about you. You wouldn't get far, Mr — what is your name, anyway?"

"Er, Flash — , er, Brown, I mean. But, look here, my dear girl, I promised not to desert you — remember? D'you think I'm the kind to break his word? I must say —"

"I don't know," says she, slowly. "I only tell you what will happen if you do. It may cost me my life, but it will certainly cost you yours, Mr Flash-er-Brown."

"I wouldn't dream of leaving you," says I, seriously. "Not for a moment. But, I say, Cassy — this is a top-hole plan! Why didn't you tell me before-it's absolutely splendid!"

She gazed at me, and took a deep breath, and then turned to gaze into the fire.

"You would think so, I suppose. Perhaps it seems a little thing to you — to be placed on a block, and auctioned like a beast to the highest bidder. To be pawed over and fumbled by dirty hands — stripped even, and gloated over!" The tears were starting again, but her voice never shook. "How could you even begin to imagine it? The hideous shame — the humiliation!" She swung round on me again — a habit of hers which I confess made me damned jumpy.

"Do you know what I was, until I was thirteen? I was a little Creole girl, in a fine house in Baton Rouge, with my papa and two brothers and two sisters, all older than I. Their mother was dead — she was white-and my mother, who was a slave mustee, was mother to them as well. We were the happiest family in the world — I loved them, and they loved me, or so I thought, until my father died. And then they sold us — my loving brothers sold me, their sister, and my mother, who had been more than a mother to them. They sold us! My mother to a planter — me to a bawd in New Orleans!"

She was shaking with passion. Something seemed called for, so I says:

"Pretty steep work, that. Bad business."

"I was a whore — at thirteen! I ran away, back to my family — and they gave me up! They put me in a cellar until my owner came, and took me back to New Orleans. You saw that other paper, with the bill of sale. Do you know what it is? It is a receipt from a whipping-house-where slaves are sent to be corrected! I was only thirteen, so they were lenient with me — only ten lashes! Can you understand what that did to me? Can you? For they make a spectacle of it — oh, yes! I was tied up naked, and whipped before an audience of men! Can you even begin to dream what it is like — the unbelievable, frightful shame of it? But how could I make you understand!" She was beating her fist on my knee by now, crying into my face. "You are a man — what would it do to you, to be stripped and bound and flogged before a pack of leering, laughing women?"

"Oh, well," says I, "I don't really know —"

"They cheered me! Do you hear that — cheered me, because I Wouldn't cry, and one of them gave me a dollar! I ran back, blind with tears, with that receipt in my hand, and the she-devil who kept that brothel said: 'Keep it to remind you of what disobedience brings'. And I kept it, with the other. So that I shall never forget!"

She buried her head on my knee, weeping, and I was at a loss for once. I could think of one good way of comforting us both, but I doubted if she'd take kindly to it. So I patted her head and said:

"Well, it's a hard life, Cassy, there's no denying. But cheer up — there's a good time coming, you know. We'll be away to Memphis in the morning, raffle you off, collect the cash, and then, hey! for the steamboat! Why, we can have a deuced good time of it, I daresay, for I'm bound for the east coast, you know, and we can travel together. Why, we can —"

"Do you swear it?" She had lifted her head and was gazing up at me, her face wasted with crying. God, she was a queer one, one minute all cold steel and killing two men, and then getting the jumps over 'em — and from that she was plotting calmly, and suddenly raging with passion, and now imploring me with the wistful eyes of a child. By George, she was a handsome piece — but it wasn't the time or place, I knew. She was too much in a taking — I'll wager she had talked more that night than she'd done for years. But women have always loved to confide in me; I think it's my bluff, honest, manly countenance-and my whiskers, of course.

"You do promise?" she begged rue. "You will help me, and never desert me? Never, until I'm free?"

Well, you know what my promises are; still I gave it, and I believe I meant it at the time. She took my hand, and kissed it, which disturbed me oddly, and then she says, looking me in the eyes:

"Strange, that you should be an Englishman. I remember, years ago, on the Pierrepoint Plantation, the slaves used to talk of the underground railroad — the freedom road, they called it — and how those who could travel it in safety might win at last to Canada, and then they could never be made slaves again. There was one old man, a very old slave, who had a book that he had gotten from somewhere, and I used to read to them from it — it was called Nore's Epitome of Navigation, all about the sea, and ships, and none of us could understand it, but it was the only book we had, and so they loved to hear me read from it." She tried to smile, with her eyes full of tears, and her voice was trembling. "On the outside there was a picture of a ship, with a Union Jack at its mast, and the old man used to point to it and say: 'Dat's de flag o' liberty, chillun; dat de ol' flag'. And I used to remember what I had once beard someone say — I can't recall where or when, but I never forgot the words." She paused a moment, and then said in a whisper almost: "'Whoever stands on British soil, shall be forever free'. It's true, isn't it?"

"Oh, absolutely," says I. "We're the chaps, all right. Don't hold with slavery at all, don't you know."

And, strange as it may seem, sitting there with her looking at me as though I were the Second Coming, well — I felt quite proud, you know. Not that I care a damn, but — well, it's nice, when you're far away and don't expect it, to hear the old place well spoken of.

"God bless you," says she, and she let go my hand, and I thought of making a grab at her, for the third time, but changed my mind. And we went to sleep on opposite sides of the fire, after I'd stoked it up and shoved Little's body into the bushes; deuce of a weight to move he was, too.

* * *

It took us two full days to Memphis, and the closer we got the more uneasy I became about the scheme we had undertaken. The chief risk was that we would be recognised by somebody, and if looking back I can say that it was only a chance in a thousand — well, that's still an uncomfy chance if your neck depends on it.

I was in high enough spirits when we set off from our camping place at dawn, for the glow of being free again hadn't worn off. It was with positive zest that I hauled the corpses of Little and George well into the thickets, and dumped them in a swampy pool full of reeds and frogs; then I tidied up the tracks as well as I could, and we set off. Cassy sat in the back of the cart, out of sight, while I drove, and we rolled along through the woods over the rutted road — it was more like a farm-track, really — until I Came to a fork running north-west, which was the direction we Wanted to go.

We followed it until noon without seeing a soul, which I now know was pretty lucky, but soon after we had cooked up a fry and moved on we came to a small village, and here something hap pened which damped my spirits a good deal, for it showed me what a small place even the American backwoods can be, and how difficult it is to pass through without every Tom, Dick and Harry taking an interest in you.

The village was dozing in the afternoon, with only a nigger or two kicking about, a dog nosing in a rubbish tip, and a baby wailing on a porch, but just the other side of town there was the inevitable yokel whittling on a stump, with his straw hat over his eyes and his bare feet stuck in the dust. I decided it was safe to make an inquiry, and pulled up.

"Hollo," says I, cheerily.

"Hollo, y'self," says he.

"Am I on the road to Memphis, friend?" says I.

He thought about this, chewing and polishing up one of those cracker-barrel witticisms which are Mississippi's gift to civiisation. At last he said:

"Well, if y'don't know for sartain, you're a damfool to be headin' along it, ain't you?"

"I would be, if I wasn't sure of direction from a smart man like you," says I.

He cocked an eye at me. "How come you're so sure?"

It's like talking before salt with the Arabs, or doing business with a Turk; you must go through the ritual.

"Because it's a hot day."

"That makes you sure?"

"Makes me sure you're thirsty, which makes me sure you'll take a suck at the jug I've got under my seat — and then you'll tell me the road to Memphis." I threw the jug at him, and he snapped it up like a trout taking a fly.

"Guess I might sample it, at that," says he, and sampled about a pint. "Jay-zus! That's drinkin' liquor. Ye-ah — I reckon you might be on the Memphis road, sure enough. Should git there, too, provided you don't fall in Coldwater Creek or git elected guy-nor or die afore you arrive." He threw the jug back, and I was about to whip up when he says:

"You f'm Nawth? You don't talk like ol' Miss, nor Arkinsaw, neether."

"No, I'm from Texas."

"You don't say? Long ways off, the Texies. Young Jim Noble, be went down there, 'bout two years back. Ever run across Jim?"

"I reckon not."

"No." He considered me, the sharp, sleepy little eyes peeping out under the frayed straw brim. "Would that be Tom Little's wagon your drivin'? Seems I know that broken spoke — an' the horse."

For a moment my blood ran cold, and I stopped my hand from going to the pistol in the back of my belt.

"Well, it was Tom Little's wagon," says I. "Still would be, if be hadn't loaned it me yesterday. When I take it back, it will be his again, I guess." If I'd stayed in that country, and learned to whittle with a Barlow knife, and chew tobacco, I'd have made president.

"That a fact," says he. "First time I heerd o' Tom lendin' anything."

"Well, I'm his cousin," says I. "So he didn't mind lending it to me." And I whipped up and made off.

"Good for him," calls the yokel after me. "He might ha' told you the road to Memphis, while he was about it."

By George, it rattled me, I can tell you. When we were out of sight I conferred with Cassy, and she agreed we must press on as hard as we could go. With every loafer in the county weighing us up, the sooner we were clear the better. So we pushed on, and might have made it next day if I hadn't had to rest the horsespavined old bitch she was. We had to sleep another night out, and the following morning we left the cart beside a melon patch, telling a nigger to mind it for us, and walked the last mile into Memphis town.

It was a fair-sized place, even in those days, for half the cotton in the world seemed to find its way there, but to my jaundiced eye it appeared to be made entirely out of mud. It had rained from first light, and by the time we had walked through the churned-up streets, and been splashed by wagons and by damfools who didn't look where they were going, we were in a sorry state. But the crowded bustle of the place, and the foul weather, made me feel happier, because both lessened the chance of anyone recognising us.

Now all that remained to be done was for me to sell a runaway slave and arrange for us to get out of town without any holes in our hides. Easy enough, you may think, for a chap of Flashy's capabilities, and I'll admit your confidence wouldn't be misplaced. But I wonder how many young chaps nowadays, in this civilised twentieth century, would know how to go about it, if they were planked down, near penniless and with their boots letting in, on a foreign soil, and asked to dispose of a fine-strung mustee woman whose depression and nervousness were growing steadily as the crisis approached? It takes thought, I tell you, and a strong grip on one's own gorge to keep it from leaping out.

The first thing was to find when the next sale was, and here we were lucky, for there was one in the market that very afternoon, which meant we could do our business and, God willing, be out by nightfall. Next I must inquire about steamboats, so leaving Cassy under the shelter of a shop porch, I pioshed down to the levee to make inquiries. It was pouring fit to frighten Noah by now, with a howling wind as well, and by the time I tacked up to the steamboat office I was plastered with gumbo to the thighs and sodden from there up. To add to my difficulties, the ancient at the office window, wearing a dirty old pilot cap and a vacant expression, was both stone deaf and three parts senile; when I bawled my inquiries to him above the noise of the storm he responded with a hand to his ear and a bewildered grin.

"Is there a boat to Louisville tonight?" I roared.

"Hey?"

"Boat to Louisville?"

"Cain't hear you, mister. Speak up, cain't ye?"

I dragged my collar closer and dashed the rain out of my eyes.

"Boat to Louisville — tonight?" I yelled.

"Boat to where?"

"Oh, for pity's sake! LOUIS! —" I gathered all my lung power "— VILLE! Is there a boat tonight?"

At last he beamed and nodded.

"Shore 'nough, mister. The new Missouri. Leaves at ten."

I thanked him forcibly and ploughed back up town. Now all that must be done was render myself and Cassy as respectable as possible and go to work with our hands on our hearts. The first part we managed, roughly, in the back room of a cheap apartment house which I hired for the day; my good coat, which had been thrown over my head when I left Greystones — a prodigious stroke of luck that, for it had Spring's precious papers sewn in the lining — was sadly soiled, but we made the best of it, and rehearsed the final details of our plan. I was in a sweat about how Cassy would slip away from her new owner, but this she brushed aside; what made her grit her teeth to stop them chattering was the thought of mounting the slave block and being sold, which seemed strange to me, since it had happened to her before, and didn't involve any pain or danger at all.

She was to run late that evening, make her way back to the apartment house, knock at my window, which was on the ground floor, and be admitted. I would have clothes for her by then, and we'd make our way to the levee and go aboard the Missouri as Mr and Mrs James B. Montague, of Baton Rouge, travelling north. In the dark it should be simple enough.

"If I do not come — wait," says she. "I will come in the end. If I don't come by tomorrow, I'll be dead, and you will be able to go where you will. But until then I hold you to your word — your pledged promise, remember?"

"I remember, I remember!" says I, jittering. "But suppose you can't run — suppose he chains you up, or something. What then?"

"He won't," says she, cahnly. "Be assured, I can run. There is nothing hard about running — any slave can do it. But to stay free — that is the impossible part, unless you have a refuge, a protector. I have you."

Well, I've been called a few things in my time, but these were new. If she'd known me better she'd have thought different, no doubt, but she was desperate, and I was her only hope-a hellish pickle for a girl to be in, you'll agree. I strove to calm my fluttering bowels, and presently we set out for the slave market.

If you've never seen a slave auction, I can tell you it's no different from an ordinary cattle sale. The market was a great low shed, with sawdust on the floor, a block at one end for the slaves and auctioneer, and the rest of the space taken up with the buyers and spectators — wealthy traders on seats at the front, very much at ease, casual buyers behind, and more than half the whole crew just spectators, loafers, bumarees and sightseers, spitting and gossiping and haw-hawing. The place was noisy and stank like the deuce, with clouds of baccy smoke and esprit de corps hanging under the beams.

I'd been scared stiff that when I entered Cassy for sale there would be all sorts of questions, cross-examination, and the like, which I wouldn't be able to answer convincingly, but I had been fretting unduly. I believe if you entered a Swedish albino at a Memphis sale and swore he was a nigger, they'd stick him on the block, no questions asked. That auctioneer would have sold his own grandfather, and probably had. He was a small, furious, redbearded man with a slouch hat, a big cigar, and a quart bottle of forty-rod in his coat pocket which he sucked at in between accusing his assistants of swindling him and bawling to everyone to give him some sellin' room.

When I entered Cassy he hardly glanced at her bill of sale, but spat neatly between my feet and asked me aggressively if I was an underground railroad agent who'd thought better of convoying a nigger to Canada and decided to sell her off for private gain.

The crowd round him all haw-hawed immensely at this, and said he was a prime case, which relieved my momentary horror at his question, and the auctioneer said he didn't give a damn, anyhow, and where the hell was Eli Bowles's nigger's papers, because he hadn't got them, and they'd drive a man out of his mind in this country, what with their finickin' regulations, and would they get the hell out of his way so he could start the sale? No, he wouldn't put up Jackson's buck Perseus, because he was rotten with pox, and everyone knew it; Jackson had better put him out to stud over in Arkansas, where nobody noticed such things. No, he wouldn't take notes of hand from any but dealers he knew — he'd enough tarnation paper as it was, and his clerk just used it to confuse him and line his own pockets, and he knew all about it, and one of these days wouldn't he make that clerk's ass warm for him. And, strike him dumb, but his bottle was half empty and he hadn't even started the sale yet — would they git out from under his feet or did they want to be still biddin' their bollix off at two in the morning?

And more of the same, all of which was mighty reassuring. I left Cassy to be herded off with the other niggers, and got a place by the wall to watch the sale, which the little auctioneer conducted as if he was a ring-master, pattering away incessantly, and keeping up his style of irascible confusion all the time. The crowd loved it, and he was good, too, taking an occasional swill at his bottle and firing his comments at the lots while the bids came in.

"See this here old wench of Masterson's, who died last week. Masterson died, that is, not her. Not a day over forty, an' a prime cook. Well, y'only had to look at the belly Masterson had on him; that's testimony enough, I reckon. Yes sir, it was her fine cookin' that kilt him — now then, what say? Eight hurinert to start — nine, for the best vittles-slinger 'tween Evansville an' the Gulf." Or again: "This buck of Tomkins, he sired more saplin's than Methuselah — that's why they call him George, after George Washington, the father of his country. Why, 'thout this boy, the nigger pop'lation'd be only half what it is — we wouldn't hardly be havin' this sale today, but for this randy little hero. There was talk of a syndicate to send him back to Afriky to keep the numbers up — now then, who'll say a thousand?"

But there was someone there who knew more about raising prices than even he did, and that was Cassy. When she took the block, after a whispered conference with the auctioneer, he went on about how she spoke French, and could embroider and 'tend to growing children or be a lady's maid or governess and play the piano and paint — but it was all sham. He knew what she would be sold for, and the mob kept chorusing "Shuck her down! Let's get a look at her!" while she stood, very demure, with her hands folded in front of her and her head bowed. She was pale, and I could see the strain in her face, but she knew what to do, and presently when the auctioneer spoke to her she took off her shoes and then let down her hair, very carefully, so that it hung down her back almost to her waist.

That wasn't what they wanted, of course; they yelled and stamped and whistled, but the auctioneer got the bidding up to seventeen hundred before he nodded to her, and without a change of expression she shrugged her shoulders out of the dress, let it slip down, and stepped out as bare as a babe. By gad, I was proud of her as she stood there like a pale golden statue, in the dim light under the beams, with the mob goggling and roaring approval; the price ran up to twenty-five hundred dollars in less than a minute.

At that there were only two bidders left, a fancy-weskitted young dandy in a stove-pipe hat with his mouth open, and a grey-bearded planter in the front row with a red face and big panama hat, who had a little nigger boy behind his seat to fan him. I reckon Cassy got another thousand dollars out of those two, all on her own. She put one hand on her hip — twenty-seven hundred; then she put her hands behind her head — three thousand; she stirred her rump at the dandy — thirty-two hundred, and the planter shook his head, his face sweating. She looked straight down at him, grave-faced, and winked, the crowd yelled and cheered, and the dirty old goat slapped his thigh and bid thirtyfour. The dandy swore and looked sulky, but that was the bottom of his poke, evidently, for he turned away, and Cassy was knocked down to the other, amidst whoops and cries of obscene advice to him; he'd better send his wife away to visit her folks in Nashville for a spell, they shouted, and when she came back she could give him a decent burial, for he'd have killed himself by then, haw-haw.

"Wish I'd a wench like that every day," says the little auctioneer, at paying-out time — you never saw such a heap of gold coin on one dirty deal table. "I'd make my fortune. Say, if you'd given me time to advertise proper, we'd ha' had four, mebbe five thousand. Where d'you git her, Mr — eh — Howard?"

"As you said, she was a lady's maid — at my academy for gentlewomen," says I gravely, and the crowd in his office roared and clapped me on the back and offered me swigs from their bottles; I was a card, they said.

I had no opportunity to see what happened to Cassy after she came down from the block; her buyer was obviously a local man, so presumably she wouldn't be taken far. For the hundredth time I found myself wondering how she was going to make her escapes and what I would do if she didn't come before steamboat time. I daren't leave without her, for fear she'd split. I would just have to wait, jumping at every shadow, no doubt. But in the meantime I had plenty to occupy myself with, and I set off for town, weil weighted down with my new-found wealth.

It was the deuce of a lot of cash to be carrying — or so I thought. I didn't know America well then, or I'd have realised that they don't think twice about carrying and dealing in sums that in England would be represented by a banker's draft. Odd, in such a wild country, but they like to have their cash about 'em, and don't mind killing in its defence.

The first thing I now did was to repair to the best tailor in town and buy myself some decent gear, and from there I made for a dressmakers, to do the like for Cassy. I've never numbered meanness with cash among my many faults, and I do like my women to have the very finest clothes to take off, and all the little vanities to go with 'em. There had been just north of three thousand dollars left when the auctioneer had taken his commission — a man could do worse than be a slave-knocker, it occurred to me-and I made a fine hole in them with my purchases; I spent probably twice on Cassy what I'd spent on myself, and didn't grudge it; the Creole woman who ran the shop was in a tremendous twitter, showing every gown she had, and the deuce of it was I could see Cassy looking peachy in every one.

In any event, I had two trunks full of gear which I ordered to be delivered to the levee, labelled to go aboard the Missouri that evening, and took only enough clothing away with me for us to look respectable when we went aboard. While I was doing my buying, I had the dressmaker send a nigger to buy the tickets — God, the tiny things that change one's life; if I'd gone in person, all would have been different. But there — he brought them back, and I stuffed them into the pocket of my new coat, and that was that.

The business of sitting back like a sultan, buying all the silks and satins in sight and gallantly chaffing Madame Threadneedle, had put me in excellent fettle, but as the afternoon wore away I began to feel less bobbish. My worries about Cassy's escape returned, and brandy didn't drive them away; I couldn't bring myself to eat anything, and finally I went back to my mean little room and busied myself removing Spring's papers from my old coat and stitching them into the waist-band of one of my new pairs of pants. After that I sat and chewed my nails, while seven o'clock went by, and then eight, and outside the rain pattered down in the dark, and I envisaged Cassy being overtaken in some dirty alley and hauled off to a cell, or being shot climbing a fence, or pulled down by hounds — give me leisure in my fearful moments and my imaginings can outrun Dante's any day.

I was standing staring at the candle guttering on its stand, feeling the gnawing certainty that she'd come adrift, when a scratching at the window had me leaping out of my skin. I whipped up the sash, and she slipped in over the sill, but my momentary delight was quickly snuffed when I saw the state she was in. She was plastered from head to foot with mud, her dress was reduced to a torn, sodden rag, her eyes were wild, and she was panting like a spent dog.

"They're after me!" she sobbed, slithering down against the wall; there was blood oozing through the mud from a cut on her foot. "They spotted me slipping out of the pen, and like a fool I ran for it! Oh, oh! I should have waited! They'll rouse the section … find us … oh, quick, let us go now — at once, before they come!"

She might, as she said, be an experienced runner, but she wasn't up to Flashy's touch. "Steady, and listen," says I. "Keep your voice low. How far behind are they?"

She sobbed for breath. "I … don't know. They lost me, when I … doubled back. Oh, dear God! But they know I've run … they'll scour the town … take me again …" She lay back against the wall, exhausted.

"How long since you last heard 'em?"

"Oh, oh … five minutes … I don't know. But they have … dogs … track us here …"

"Not on a night like this, they won't, and certainly not through a town." My mind was racing, but I was thinking well. Should I bolt and leave her? No, she'd talk for certain. Could we make the boat? Yes, if I could put her in order.

"Up," says I, and hauled her to her feet. She sagged against me, weeping, and I had to hold her up. "Now, listen, Cassy. We have time; they don't know where you are, and every hunt in Rutland couldn't nose you out here. We can't run until you're clean and dressed — we'd never get aboard the boat. Haste won't serve — when Mr and Mrs Montague step out on to that street to go to the levee, they'll go nice and sedate." As I talked I was already sponging at her with the wet cloths I had ready. "Now, rest easy while I get you shipshape."

"I can't run any longer!" she sobbed. "I can't!" She tossed her head from side to side, crying with fatigue. "I just want to lie down and die!"

I went on towelling her, cleansing away the filth, whispering urgently all the while. We would make it, I told her, the boat was waiting, we were rotten with money, if we kept calm and went ahead without flinching we were bound to win free, I had bought her a wardrobe that would take Canada by storm — yes, Canada, I told her, the freedom road — an hour from now we would be steaming upriver, safe as sleep. I was trying to convince myself as much as her, as I sponged and dried away frantically, with one ear cocked for sounds of approaching pursuit.

It was tremendous work, because even when I had got her clean she just lay there, quite played out in mind and body, moaning softly to herself. I was almost in despair as I tried to haul clothes on to her; she just lay back in the chair, her golden body heaving — gad, she was a picture, but I'd no time to enjoy it. I struggled away, coaxing, pleading, swearing — "come on, come on, you can't give up, Cassy, not a staunch girl like you, you stupid black bitch," and finally I shook her and hissed in her ear: "All you have to do is stand up and walk, confound it! Walk! We can't fail now — and you'll never have to call anyone 'massa' again!"

That was what did it, I think, for she opened her eyes and made a feeble effort to help. I egged her on, and we got her into the long coat, and adjusted the broad-brimmed bonnet and veil, and I jammed the shoes on her feet, and gloved her, and stuck the gamp in her hand — and when she managed to stand, leaning against the table, she looked as much like the outward picture of a lady as made no odds. No one would know there wasn't a stitch on her underneath.

I had to half-lead, half-drag her out of the back way, and there Was a feverish ten minutes while a nigger boy went and found a trap for us, and we waited crouched on the boardwalk against the wall, with the rain slashing down. But there was no sign of her pursuers; they must have lost her utterly, and presently we were rolling down to the levee through the mud and bustle of the Memphis waterfront, and there in the glare of the wharf lamps was the good ship Missouri, with her twin whistles blasting the warning of departure. I lorded it with the purser at the gangplank, explaining that I would take Madame directly to our state-room, as she was much fatigued, and he yes-sirred me all over the place, and roared up boys to escort us; everyone was too occupied with crying good-bye and stand clear and all aboard to notice that I was holding up the graceful veiled lady on my arm by main strength.

When I laid her on the bed she was either in a swoon or asleep from exhaustion and fright; I was so tuckered myself that I just collapsed in a chair and didn't stir until the whistles shrieked again and the wheel began to pound and I knew we'd done it. Then I began to siop the brandy down — lord, I needed it. The last-minute scare and hurry had been the final straw; the glass was chattering against my teeth, but it was as much exultation as nervous reaction, I think.

Cassy didn't stir for three hours, and then she could hardly believe where she was; not until I had ordered up a meal and a bottle of bubbly did she understand properly that we had got away, and then she broke down and cried, swaying from side to side while I comforted her and told her what a damned fine spunky wench she was. I got some drink into her, and forced her to eat, and at last she calmed, and when I saw her hand go up, shaking, and push her hair back, I knew she was in command of herself again. When they can think of their appearance, they're over the worst.

Sure enough, she went to the mirror, pulling the coat round herself, and then she turned to me and said:

"I don't believe it. But we are here." She put her face in her hands. "God bless you — oh, God bless you! Without you, I'd be — back yonder."

"Tut-tut," says I, champing away, "not a bit of it. Without you, we'd be in queer street, instead of jingling with cash. Have some more champagne."

She didn't answer for a moment. Then she says, in a very low voice. "You kept your word. No white man ever did that to me before. No white man ever helped me before."

"Ah, well," says I, "you haven't met the right chaps, that's all." She was overlooking, of course, that I hadn't any choice in the matter, but I wasn't complaining. She was grateful, which was first-rate, and must be promptly taken advantage of. I walked over to her, and she stood looking at me gravely, with the tears brimming up in her eyes. No time like the present, thinks I, so I smiled at her and set the glass to her lips, and slipped my free hand beneath her coat; her breast was as firm as a melon, and at my touch she gave a little whimper and closed her eyes, the tears squeezing out on to her cheeks. She was trembling and crying again, and when I pushed away the coat and carried her over to the bed she was sobbing aloud as she clasped her arms round my neck.