Flash For Freedom!

6

By and large I'm partial to Americans. They make a great affectation of disliking the English and asserting their equality with us, but I've discovered that underneath they dearly love a lord, and if you're civil and cool and don't play it with too high a hand you can impose on them quite easily. I'm not a lord, of course, but I've got the airs when I want 'em, and know how to use them in moderation. That's the secret, a nice blending of the plain, polite gentleman with just a hint of Norman blood, and they'll eat out of your hand and boast to their friends in Philadelphia that they know a man who's on terms with Queen Victoria and yet, by gosh, is as nice a fellow as they've ever struck,

When they came aboard the Balliot College, raging angry and full of zeal, I bided my time while they herded us all forward, and didn't say a word until the young lieutenant commanding them had ordered us all under hatches. They were pushing us to the companion, and being none to gentle about it, when I stepped smartly out of the line and said to him, very rapidly and civilly, that I wanted to see his commander on a most urgent matter.

He stared down his Yankee nose at me and snaps: "Goddam your impudence. You'll do your talking in New Orleans — much good may it do you. Now, git below!"

I gave him a cool stare, "Believe me, sir," says I, in my best Cherrypicker voice, "I am in most solemn earnest. Please — do nothing untoward." I tilted my head slightly towards the Balliol College hands who were being pushed below. "These people must not know," I said quietly, "but I am a British naval officer. I must see your commander without delay."

He stared at me, but he was sharp. He waited till our last man was down the companion, and then demanded an explanation. I told him I was Lieutenant Comber, Royal Navy, on special service from the Board of Admiralty — which, I assured him, I could prove with ease. That settled it, and when one of his men had collected my traps from below, I was hustled off under guard, the Yankee officer still eyeing me suspiciously. But he had other things to think about — there was Spring, shot through the back and unconscious, being taken down on a stretcher; Mrs Spring was under guard in the cabin; there were three corpses on our deck, including Sullivan's; Looney was below with the other prisoners, raving in a voice you could have heard in Aldershot; there was blood and wreckage on the deck, and a dozen weeping nigger girls huddled by the rail, I made the most of them, drawing the lieutenant's attention to them and saying:

"Take care of those poor people. They must suffer no more than they have done. Miserable souls, they have come through hell today."

I left him not knowing what to think, and allowed myself to be conducted aboard the U.S.S. Cormorant by my Leatherneck escort. And there it was plain sailing all the way, as I knew it must be. Captain Abraham Fairbrother, a very spry young gentleman, didn't believe a word I said, at first, but once I had slit open my belt and laid Comber's papers before his bulging eyes he hadn't a leg to stand on. It was all so impressively official, and my own bearing and manner, although I say it myself, were so overwhelming, that the poor soul took it all in like a hungry fish. Why shouldn't he? I would have done.

Of course I had to tell him a tremendous tale, but that sort of thing has never presented me with difficulty, and barring the fact that I wasn't Comber, the whole thing was gospel true, which always makes lying easier. He shook his fair young head in amazement, and vowed that it beat everything he had ever heard; he was full of venom against slavers, I discovered, and so naturally he was all admiration for me, and shook my hand as though it was a pump handle.

"I feel it an honour to welcome you aboard, sir," says he. "I had no notion that such a thing … that such people as yourself, sir, were engaged in this work. By George, it's wonderful! My congratulations, sir!" And believe it or not, he actually saluted.

Well, I fancy I can carry off this sort of situation pretty well, you know. Modest and manly, that's Flashy when the compliments are flying, with a touch of a frown to show that my mind is really on serious matters. Which it was, because I knew I hadn't got farther than the first fence so far, and would have to tread delicately. But Captain Fairbrother was all eager assistance: what could he do to serve me? I confess I may have given him the impression that the entire slave trade could expect its coup de grace when once I'd laid my report before the British and American governments, and he was itching to help oil the wheels,

Have you noticed, once you have succeeded in convincing a man of something incredible, he believes it with an enthusiasm that he wouldn't dream of showing for an obvious, simple fact? It had been like that with Looney; now it was so with Fairbrother. He simply was all over me; I just had to sit back and let him arrange matters. First, I must be delivered to Washington with all speed; the bigwigs would be in a positive lather to see me — I doubted that, myself, but didn't say so. Nothing would do but he must carry me to Baltimore in his own brig, while the sioop could take the Balliol College into New Orleans with a prize crew — there, observes Mr Fairbrother darkly, the miscreants would meet with condign punishment for slavery, piracy, and attempted murder. Of course, I would give evidence eventually, but that could wait until Washington had been thrown into transports by my advent there.

Washington, I could see, was going to present problems; they wouldn't be as easy to satisfy as Captain Fairbrother, who was your genuine Northern nigger-lover and violently prejudiced in my favour. He was one of these direct, virtuous souls, bursting with decency, whose very thought was written plainly on his fresh, handsome face. Arnold would have loved him — and young Chard could have used a few of him at Rorke's Drift, too. Brainless as a bat, of course, and just the man for my present needs.

I impressed on him the need for not letting any of the Balliol College crew know what I truly was, and hinted at dangerous secret work yet to come which might be prejudiced if my identity leaked out. (That was no lie, either.) He agreed solemnly to this, but thought it would be an excellent plan to take some of the freed slaves to Washington, just for effect; "tangible evidence, sir, of your noble and heroic endeavours in the great crusade against this vile traffic", I didn't object, and so about six yellows and Lady Caroline Lamb were herded aboard and bedded down somewhere in the bowels of the brig. Fairbrother wondered about Mrs Spring, whose presence on the College shocked and amazed him; they had caught her hurling Spring's log, papers, and accounts out of the cabin window, whereby much valuable evidence had been lost (that's all you know, I thought). Still, she was a woman… .

"Take her to New Orleans, is my advice," says I. "There are not two more diabolical creatures afloat than she and her fiend of a husband. How is he, by the way?"

"In a coma," says Fairbrother. "One of his own pirates shot him through the back, sir — what creatures they are, to be sure! He will live, I dare say — which is no great matter, since the New Orleans hangman will, if the fellow survives, have the duty of breaking his neck for him."

Oh, the holy satisfaction of the godly — when it comes to delight in cruelty I'm just a child compared to them. His next remark didn't surprise me, either.

"But I am inconsiderate, Mr Comber — here have I been keeping you in talk over these matters, when your most urgent desire has surely bçen for a moment's privacy in which you might deliver up thanks to a merciful Heavenly Father for your delivery from all the dangers and tribulations you have undergone. Your pardon, sir."

My urgent need was in fact for an enormous brandy and a square meal, but I answered him with my wistful smile.

"I need hardly tell you, sir, that in my heart I have rendered that thanks already, not only for myself but for those poor souls whom your splendid action had liberated. Indeed," says I, looking sadly reflective, "there is hardly a moment in these past few months that I have not spent in prayer."

He gripped my hand again, looking moist, and then, thank God, he remembered at last that I had a belly, and gave orders for food and a glass of spirits while he went off, excusing himself, to splice the binnacle or clew up the heads, I shouldn't wonder.

Well, thinks I, so far so good, but we mustn't go too far. The sooner I could slip out of sight, the better, for while the Balliol College crew were alive and kicking there was always the risk that I would be given away. I didn't want to get the length of the British Embassy in Washington, for someone there might just know me, or worse still, they might know Comber. But for the moment, with the brig heading east by north, and the Balliol College making north under guard to Orleans, it was all sunshine for Harry — provided I didn't trip myself up. I was meant to be Navy, and Fairbrother and his officers were Navy also, so I must watch my tongue.

As it turned out, by playing the reserved Briton and steering the conversation as often as possible to India, about which they were curious, I passed the thing off very well. I had to talk some slavery, of course, and there was a nasty moment when I was almost drawn into a description of our encounter with the British sloop off Dahomey, but I managed to wriggle clear. It would have been easier, I think, with Englishmen, for Yankee bluebacks are deuced serious fellows, more concerned with their d––d ratlines and bobstays than with interesting topics like drink, women and cash. But I was very pious and priggish that voyage, and they seemed to respect me for it.

However, there was a human side, I discovered, even to the worthy Bible-thumping Fairbrother. I had made a great thing, the second day, of visiting the freed slaves and giving them some fatherly comfort — husbandly comfort would have been more like it, but with those sharp Yankee eyes on me I daren't even squeeze a rump. Lady Caroline Lamb was there, eyeing me soulfully, but I patted her head sternly and told her to be a good girl. What she made of this I can only guess, but that evening, when I was settling down in the berth I had been allotted aft, I was startled by a rapping on my door. It was Fairbrother, in some consternation.

"Mr Comber," says he, "there's one of those black women in my berth!"

"Indeed?" says I, looking suitably startled.

"My G-d, Mr Comber!" cries he. "She's in there, now — and she's stark naked!"

I pondered this; it occurred to me that Lady Caroline Lamb, following her Balliol College training, had made her way aft and got into Fairbrother's cabin — which lay in the same place as my berth had done on the slaver. And being the kind of gently-reared fool that he was, Fairbrother was in a fine stew. He'd probably never seen a female form in his life.

"What shall I do?" says he. "What can she want? I spoke to her — she's the big, very black one — but she has hardly any English, and she just stays there! She's kneeling beside my cot, sir!"

"Have you tried praying with her?" says I.

He goggled at me. "Pray? Why, I … I don't know. She looks as though …" He broke off, going beetroot red. "My G- d! Do you suppose that slaver captain has been… using her as … as a woman?"

Humanity never ceases to amaze me. Here was this fine lad, old enough to vote, in command of a hundred men and a fighting ship which he could handle like a young Nelson, brave as a bull, I don't doubt — and quivering like a virgin's fan because a buxom tart had invaded his cabin. It's this New England upbringing, of course; even a young manhood spent in naval service hadn't obliterated the effect of all those sermons.

"Do you suppose she has been … degraded?" says he, in a hushed voice.

"I fear it is more than likely, Captain Fairbrother," says I. "There is no depth unplumbed by their depravity. This unfortunate young woman may well have been trained to concubinage."

He shuddered. "Monstrous … terrible. But what am I to do?"

"I find it difficult to know what to advise," says I. "The situation is … unique in my experience. Perhaps you should tell her to go back to the quarters she has been allotted."

"Yes, yes, of course, I must do that." He hesitated, pulling at his lip. "It is frightful to think of these ignorant young creatures being … misled … in that way."

"We must do what we can for them," says I.

"Indeed, indeed." He cleared his throat nervously. "I must apologise, Mr Comber, for disturbing you … I was startled, I confess … totally unexpected thing … yes. However, I shall do as you advise. My apologies again, sir. Thank you … er, and good night."

He fairly fled into his cabin, that good pious lad, and I listened in vain thereafter for the sound of his door re-opening. Not that I expected it. Next day he avoided my eye, and went red whenever the slaves were mentioned. He probably still does, but I'll wager his conscience has never been quite strong enough to make him regret his lost innocence.

We made capital speed to Baltimore, which is just another port at the far end of the uninviting Chesapeake Bay, and from there, after Fairbrother had reported to his commodore, and the importance of my presence had been duly emphasised, we were taken by train to Washington, about forty miles off. I was getting fairly apprehensive by now, and looking sharp for a chance to make myself scarce — although what I would do then, in a strange country without any means of support, I couldn't imagine. I knew the longer I kept up my imposture, the more chance there was of being detected, but what could I do? Fairbrother, who had wangled leave from his commander to be my personal convoy to the capital, stuck like a leech; he was looking for a share of the glory, of course. So I just had to sit back and see what came — at worst, I decided, I could make a bolt for it, but in the meantime I would carry the thing through with a wide eye and a bold bluff front.

Washington is an odd place. You could see the Jonathans had designed it with an eye to the future, when they envisaged it as the finest city in the world, and even then, in '48, there were signs of building on every hand, with scaffolding about even in the middle of the city, and the outer roads all churned mud with the autumn rain, but fringed with fine houses half-completed. I got got to know it well in the Civil War time, but I never liked it — sticky as Calcutta or Madras in summer, and yet its people dressed as though they'd been in New York or London. I could always smell fever in the air there, and why George Washington ever chose the site beats me. But that's your rich colonial Englishman all over — never thinks twice about other people's convenience.

But sticky or not, the officials who lived there were d––d sharp men, as I discovered. Fairbrother delivered me at the Department of the Navy, where a white-whiskered admiral heard my tale and d––d his stars at every turn; then he handed me on to a section much like our Board of Trade, where several hardfaced civilians took up the running and I went through the thing again. They didn't seem to know what to make of me at all, at first, or what precisely they ought to do; finally, one of them, a fat little fellow called Moultrie, asked me exactly what could I contribute to the anti-slave trade campaign apart from giving evidence against the crew of the Balliol College? In other words, what was so remarkable about me that Washington was being troubled with me at all? Where was the important report that had been talked about by Captain Fairbrother?

Since it didn't exist, I had to invent it. I explained that I had gathered an immense amount of detail not only about the slavetraders, but about those in Britain and America who were behind them, supplying them with funds and ships, and organising their abominable activities under the cover of legitimate commerce. All this, I explained, I had committed to paper as opportunity arose, with such documents as I had been able to obtain, and I had earmarked useful witnesses along the way. I had consigned one report to a reliable agent at Whydah, and another to a second agent at Roatan — no, I dare not disclose their names except to my own chiefs in London. A third report I would certainly write out as soon as I could — a rueful smile here, and a reminder that life for me had been fairly busy of late.

"Yes, yes, sir," says he, "this is excellent, and very well, in its way. Your prudence about the disposal of your earlier reports is commendable. But from what you say you are obviously in possession of infonnation which must be of the first importance to the United States Government — information which Her Majesty's ministers would obviously communicate to us. You have names, you say, of Americans who are behind the slave trade — who, at least, are involved in it at a safe remove from slaving operations. Now, sir, here we have the root of the thing — these are the men we must bring to book. Who are those men?"

I took a deep breath, and tried to look like a man in mental struggle, while he and his two fellow-inquisitors waited, and the secretary sat with his pen poised.

"Mr Moultrie," says I, "I can't tell you. Please, sir — let me explain." I solemnly checked his outburst. "I have many names — both in my mind and in my reports. I don't know much about American public affairs, sir, but even I recognise some of them as — well, not insignificant names. Now if I were to name them to you — now — what would they be but names? The mass of evidence that would — that will — lead to their proven involvement in the traffic in black souls, is already on its way to England, as I trust. Obviously it will be communicated to you, and these people can be proceeded against. But if I were to name names now, sir" — I stabbed a finger on the table — "you could do nothing; you would have to wait on the evidence which has been assembled. And while I trust your discretion perfectly, gentlemen — it would be an impertinence to do otherwise — we all know how a word once spoken takes wings. Premature disclosure, and consequent warning, might enable some of these birds to escape the net. And believe me, gentlemen …" I gritted my teeth and forced moisture into my eyes "… believe me, I have not gone through the hell of those Dahomey raids, and watched the torture of those poor black creatures on the Middle Passage — I have not risked death and worse — in order to see those butchers escape!"

Well, it wasn't a bad performance, and it took them pretty well aback. Moultrie looked d––d solemn, and his pals wore the alarmed expression of men in the presence of a portent they didn't understand. Then Moultrie says:

"Yes … I see. You are in no doubt, sir … of the consequence

that is, the importance, of some of those implicated? Do you suggest that … when all is known … their would be a, er, a political scandal, perhaps?"

I gave my mirthless laugh. "I may indicate that best, sir, by assuring you that among the Britons whom I know to be involved in the traffic — and whose complicity can be proved, sir — are two peers of the realm and one whose name was, until lately, to be found among Her Majesty's Ministers. And I believe, sir, that the American names include men of comparable stature. The profits of the slave trade, sir, are immense enough to tempt the highest. Judge whether a scandal may be expected."

He was regarding me round-eyed. "Mr Comber," says he, "your knowledge makes you a very dangerous young man."

"And therefore," says I, smiling keenly, "you would say — a very endangered young man? I am used to risk, sir. It is my trade." I was almost believing it myself by now, so I wasn't surprised that they took it in. So much so, that being Yankees, and no fools, they made me go through my whole yarn again — from the Channel to Whydah, Gezo's village, our escape, the voyage west, Roatan, and all the rest — in the hope of my slipping out some information unawares, But since I didn't have any they were wasting their time. Finally they conferred while I cooled my heels, and announced that they would discuss matters with the British Ambassador, and in the meantime I would hold myself ready to go to New Orleans to testify against the Balliol College.

I didn't fancy this, at all, but again there was nothing to be done at the moment. So I bowed, and later that day I was hailed to the Ambassador's house-a very decent old stick, and a pleasant change from those yapping Jonathan voices. I was a shade wary in case he, or any of his people, might by a chance in a thousand be acquainted with the real Comber, but all was well. I told my story for a fourth time, and that evening, when he bade me to dinner with him, I went through it yet again for the entertainment of his guests. And I'll swear I didn't put a foot wrong — but there was one man at that table with as keen a nose for a faker as I have myself. How or when he saw through me I shall never understand, but he did, and gave me one of the many nasty moments in my life.

There were about a dozen at the dinner, and I didn't even notice him until the ladies had withdrawn, and Charterfield, our host, had invited me to regale the gentlemen with my adventures on the Slave Coast. But he seemed to take an even closer interest in my story than the others. He was an unusually tall man, with the ugliest face you ever saw, deep dark eye sockets and a chin like a coffin, and a black cow's lick of hair smeared across his forehead. When he spoke it was with the slow, deliberate drawl of the American back-countryman, which was explained by the fact that he was new to the capital; in fact, he was a very junior Congressman, invited at the last moment because he had some antislavery bill in preparation, and so would be interested in meeting me. His name will be familiar to you: Mr Lincoln.³¹

Let me say at once that in spite of all the trouble he caused me at various times, and the slight differences which may be detectable in our characters, I liked Abe Lincoln from the moment I first noticed him, leaning back in his chair with that hidden smile at the back of his eyes, gently cracking his knuckles. Just why I liked him I can't say; I suppose in his way he had the makings of as big a scoundrel as I am myself, but his appetites were different, and his talents infinitely greater. I can't think of him as a good man, yet as history measures these things I suppose he did great good. Not that that excites my admiration unduly, nor do I put my liking down to the fact that he had a sardonic humour akin to my own. I think I liked him because, for some reason which God alone knows, he liked me. And not many men who knew me as well as he did, have done that.

I remember only a few of his observations round that table. Once, when I was describing our fight with the Amazons, one of the company exclaimed:

"You mean to say the women fight and torture and slay on behalf of their menfolk? There can be no other country in the world where this happens."

And Lincoln, very droll, inquires of him: "Have you attended many political tea parties in Washington lately, sir?"

They all laughed, and the fellow replied that even in Washington society he hadn't seen anything quite to match what I had described.

"Be patient, sir," says Lincoln. "We're a young country, after all. Doubtless in time we will achieve a civilisation comparable with that of Day-homey."

I spoke about Spring, and Charterfield expressed amazement and disgust that a man of such obvious parts should be so great a vfflain.

"Well, now," says Lincoln, "why not? Some of the greatest villains in history have been educated men. Without that education they might have been honest citizens. A few years at college won't make a bad man virtuous; it will merely put the polish on his wickedness."

"Oh, come, now," says Charterfield, "that may be true, but you must admit that virtue more often goes hand in hand with learning than with ignorance. You know very well that a nation's criminal class is invariably composed of those who lack the benefits of education."

"And being uneducated, they get caught," says Lincoln. "Your learned rascal usually goes undetected."

"Why, at this rate, you will equate learning with evildoing," cries someone. "What must your view be of our leading justices and politicians? Are they not virtuous men?"

"Oh, virtuous enough," says Lincoln. "But what they would be like if they had been educated is another matter."

When I had finished my tale, and had heard much congratulation and expressions of flattering astonishment, it was Lincoln who remarked that it must have been a taxing business to act my part among the slavers for so long. Had I not found it a great burden? I said it had been, but fortunately I was a good dissembler.

"You must be," says he. "And I speak as a politician, who knows how difficult it is to fool people."

"Well," says I, "my own experience is that you can fool some people all the time — and all the people some times. But I concede that it's difficult to fool all the people all the time."

"That is so," says he, and that great grin lit up his ugly face. "Yes, sir, Mr Comber, that is indeed so."

I also carried away from that table an impression of Mr Lincoln's views on slaves and slavery which must seem strange in the twentieth century since it varies somewhat from popular belief. I recall, for example, that at one point he described the negroes as "the most confounded nuisance on this continent, not excepting the Democrats".

"Oh, come," says someone, "that is a little hard. It is not their fault."

"It was not my fault when I caught the chicken pox," says Lincoln, "but I can assure you that while I was infected I was a most unconscionable nuisance-although I believe my family loved me as dearly as ever."

"Come, that's better," laughs the other. "You may call the nigras a nuisance provided you love them, too — that will satisfy even the sternest abolitionist."

"Yes, I believe it would," says Lincoln. "And like so many satisfactory political statements, it would not be true. I try to love my fellow man, with varying success, the poor slaves among the rest. But the truth is I neither like nor dislike them more than any other creatures. Now your stern abolitionist, because he detests slavery, feels he must love its victims, and so he insists on detecting in them qualities deserving unusual love. But in fact those qualities are not to be found in them, any more than in other people. Your extreme anti-slaver mistakes compassion for love, and this leads him into a kind of nigra-worship which, on a rational examination, is by no means justified."

"Surely the victim of a misfortune as grievous as slavery does deserve special consideration, though."

"Indeed," says Lincoln, "special consideration, special compassion, by all means, just such as I received when I had the chicken pox. But having the chicken pox did not make me a worthier or better person, as some people seem to suppose is the case with victims of slavery. I tell you, sir, to listen to some of our friends, I could believe that every plantation and barracoon from Florida to the river is peopled by the disciples of Jesus. Reason tells me this is false; the slave being God's creature and a human soul, is no better than the rest of us. But if I said as much to Cassius Clay³² he would try to prove me wrong at the point of his bowie knife."

"You have worked too long on your anti-slavery bill," laughs Charterfield. "You are suffering from a surfeit."

"Why, sir, that is probably so," says Lincoln. "I wish I had ten dollars for every time I have fought a client's case, never doubting its justice and rightness, pursuing it to a successful verdict with all my powers — and finished the trial feeling heartily sick with that same worthy client. I would not confess it outside this room, but you may believe me, gentlemen, there are moments, God forgive me, when I become just a little tired of nigras."

"Your conscience is troubling you," says someone.

"By thunder, there is no lack of people determined to make my conscience trouble me," says Lincoln. "As though I can't tend to my own conscience, they must forever be running pins into it. There was a gentleman the other day, a worthy man, too, and I was ill-advised enough to say to him much what I've said tonight: that nigras, while deserving our uttermost compassion and assistance, were nevertheless, a nuisance. I said they were the rock on which our nation had been splitting for years, and that they could well assume the proportions of a national catastrophe — through no fault of their own, of course. I believe I concluded by wishing the whole parcel of them back in Africa. He was shocked: 'Strange talk, this', says he, 'from the sponsor of a bill against slavery'. 'I'd sponsor a bill to improve bad drains', says I. 'They're a confounded nuisance, too.' A thoughtless remark, no doubt, and a faulty analogy, but I paid for it. 'Good God,' cries he, 'you'll not compare human souls with bad drains, surely.' 'Not invariably,' says I, but I got no further, because he stalked off in a rage, having misunderstood me completely."

"You can hardly blame him," says the other, smiling.

"No," says Lincoln. "He was a man of principle and conscience. His only fault lay in his inability to perceive that I have both commodities also, but I didn't buy mine ready-made from Cincinnati, and I don't permit either to blind me to reality, I hope. And that reality is that the slave question is much too serious a matter for emotion, yet I very much fear that emotion will override reason in its settlement. In the meantime, I pray to God I am wrong, and continue to fight it in my own way, which I believe to be as worthy as polemical journalism and the underground railroad."

After that the talk turned to the great California gold strike that I had first heard of at Roatan, and which was obsessing everyone. The first rumours had spoken of fabulous wealth for the taking; then word had spread that the first reports had been greatly exaggerated, and now it was being said that the first reports had been true enough, and it was the rumours of disappointment that were false. Thousands were already heading west, braving the seas round Cape Horn or the perils of starvation, weather and Indian savages on the overland trails. Most of the men at that dinner agreed that there was obviously gold in quantity along the Pacific streams, but doubted if many of the enthusiastic seekers would find quite as much as they expected.

"You are the cynic, Abraham," says one. "What will the Tennessee wiseacres say of the New Eldorado?"

When the laugh died down, Lincoln shook his head. "If they are real Tennessee wiseacres, Senator, they won't 'say nuthin'.' But what they'll do — if they're real wiseacres — is buy themselves up every nail, every barrel-stave, every axe-handle, and every shovel they can lay hold on, put 'em all in a cart with as many barrels of molasses as may be convenient, haul 'em all up to Independence or the Kanzas, and sell them to the fortunate emigrants at ten times their value. That's how to make gold out of a gold strike."

"Well, you can handle a team, surely?" cries the merry Senator. "Why not make your fortune out of axe-handles?"

"Well, sir, I'll tell you," says Lincoln, and everyone listened, grinning. "I've just put the return on axe-handles at one thousand per centum. But I'm a politician, and sometime lawyer. Axehandles aren't my style; my stock-in-trade is spoken words. You may believe me, words can be obtained wholesale a powerful sight cheaper'n axe-handles — and if you take 'em to the right market, you'll get a far richer return for 'em than a thousand per cen turn. If you doubt me — ask President Polk."

They guffawed uproariously at this, and presently we went to join the ladies for the usual ghastly entertainment which, I discovered, differed not one whit from our English variety. There was singing, and reading from the poetic works of Sir Walter Scott, and during this Lincoln drew me aside into a window alcove, very pleasant, and began asking me various questions about my African voyage. He listened very attentively to my replies, and then suddenly said:

"I tell you what — you can enlighten me. A phrase puzzled me the other day — in an English novel, as a matter of fact. You're a naval man — what does it mean: to club-haul a ship?"

For a moments my innards froze, but I don't believe I showed it. This was the kind of thing I had dreaded: a question on nautical knowledge which I, the supposed naval man, couldn't have answered in a thousand years.

"Why," says I, "let's see now — club-hauling. Well, to tell you the truth, Mr Lincoln, it's difficult to explain to a landsman, don't ye know? It involves … well, quite complicated manoeuvres, you see …"

"Yes," says he, "I thought it might. But in general terms, now what happens?"

I laughed, pleasantly perplexed. "If I had you aboard I could easily tell you. Or if we had a ship model, you know …"

He nodded, smiling at me. "Surely. It's of no consequence. I just have an interest in the sea, Mr Comber, and must be indulging it at the expense of every sailor who is unlucky enough to — lay alongside me, as you'd call it." He laughed. "That's another thing, now, I recall. Forgive my curiosity, but what, precisely, is long-splicing?"

I knew then he was after me, in spite of the pleasant, almost sleepy expression in the dark eyes. His canny yokel style didn't fool me. I gave him back some of his own banter, while my heart began to hammer with alarm.

"It's akin to splicing the mainbrace, Mr Lincoln," says I, "and is a term which anyone who is truly interested in the sea would have found out from a nautical almanac long ago."

He gave a little snorting laugh. "Forgive me. Of course I wasn't really interested — just testing a little theory of mine."

"What theory is that, sir?" asks I, my knees shaking.

"Oh — just that you, Mr Comber — if that is your name — might not be quite so naval as you appear. No, don't alarm yourself. It's no business of mine at all. Blame my legal training, which has turned a harmless enough fellow into a confounded busybody. I've spent too long in court-rooms perhaps, seeking after truth and seldom finding it. Maybe I'm of an unusually suspicious nature, Mr Comber, but I confess I am downright interested when I meet an English Navy man who doesn't smother his food with salt, who doesn't, out of instinct, tap his bread on the table before he bites it, and who doesn't even hesitate before jumping up like a jack-rabbit when his Queen's health is proposed. Just a fraction of a moment's pause would seem more natural in a gentleman who is accustomed to drinking that particular toast sitting down." He grinned with his head on one side. "But all these things are trivial; they amount to nothing — until the ill-mannered busybody also finds out that this same English Navy man doesn't know what club-hauling and long-splicing are, either. Even then, I could still be entirely mistaken. I frequently am."

"Sir," says I, tiying to sound furious, with my legs on the point of giving way, "I fail to understand you. I am a British officer and, I hope, a gentleman …"

"Oh, I don't doubt it," says he, "but even that isn't conclusive proof that you're a rascal. You see, Mr Comber, I can't be sure. I just suspect that you're a humbug — but I couldn't for the life of me prove it." He scratched his ear, grinning like a gargoyle. "And anyway, it's just none of my business. I guess the truth is I'm a bit of a humbug myself, and feel a kind of duty to other humbugs. Anyway, I'm certainly not fool enough to pass on my ridiculous observations and suspicions to anyone else, I just thought you might be interested to hear about the salt, and the bread, and so forth," said this amazing fellow. "Shall we go and listen to them laying it off about the Last Minstrel?"

It was touch and go at this point whether I launched myself head first through the open window or not; for a moment it seemed that the wiser course might well be headlong flight. But then I steadied. I cannot impress too strongly on young fellows that the whole secret of the noble art of survival, for a single man, lies in knowing exactly when to make your break for safety. I considered this now, with Lincoln smiling down at me sardonically, and decided it was better to brazen things through than to bolt. He knew I was an impostor, but he could hardly prove it, and for some whimsical reason of his own he seemed to regard the whole thing as a joke. So I gave him my blandest smile, and said: "I confess, sir, that I have no idea what you're talking about. Let us by all means rejoin the company."

I think it puzzled him, but he said nothing more, and we turned back into the room. I kept a bold front, but I was appalled at being discovered, and the rest of that evening passed in a confused panic for me. I recall that I was dragooned into singing the bass part in a group song — I believe it was "Tis of a sailor bold, but lately come ashore", which no doubt caused Mr Lincoln some ironic amusement — but beyond that I can remember little except that eventually we all took our leave, and Fairbrother carried me off to quarters at the Navy Department, where I spent a sleepless night wondering how I could get out of this latest fix.

They would send me back to New Orleans, assuming that the prying bumpkin Lincoln kept his suspicions to himself — which seemed likely — and it was imperative that I should take french leave before there was any risk of my confronting the Balliol College crew at their trial. Washington was no place to try to decamp, so that left Baltimore or New Orleans. I favoured the former, but as it turned out there was no opportunity, for when the Navy Department finally finished with me on the following morning, I was sent back with Fairbrother to his brig, and he took me straight aboard. We sailed within a few hours, so there was nothing to do but resign myself to sitting out the voyage, and make plans for escaping when we reached Louisiana. What I would do when I slipped away, I didn't know; if my own mother wit couldn't get me back to England hale and sound, I wasn't the man I thought I was. When you've come safe through an Afghan rising and a German revolution, with all manner of cut-throats on your tail, you regard evasion from the United States as a pretty smooth course, even if they set the traps after you for slave-running and impersonation, as Fairbrother and his superiors eventually would do. I fancied I could manage passably well, if I minded my step — oh, the optimism of youth. If I'd known what lay along the path to England, home and beauty, I'd have surrendered then and there, told Fairbrother the whole truth, and taken my chance in a slavery trial any day. Thank God I've never had the gift of second sight.