"Flashman, Harry - Flashman and the Angel of the Lord" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flashman Harry)
"And why would I not? It fits ye better than all that moon-shine about bankin' an' Trinity, I'll say that for it! What's your name, my son?"
There was no earthly reason why I shouldn't tell him - so I shook my head. Least said.
"An' why didn't ye ask direction from the first policeman ye saw?" I still said nothing, and he nodded, no longer smiling. I rose again to go, for the sooner I was out of this, the better, but he stayed me with a hand on my sleeve. "Ye'll tell me no more? Well, now, just bide a minute while I think about . . . no, don't go! Ye want the fare to Washington, don't ye?"
I waited, while he cogitated, chin in hand, eyes bright as a bird's.
"Tell ye whut I think. Ye're an officer, an' a bit of a gentleman - I know the look. An' ye're a runner - now, now, don't be addin' to your sins by denyin' it, for I had a parish in Leix in the Great Trouble, an' I know that look, too - aye, twice as long in the leg as ye would be if I put a fut-rule on ye! An', man dear, ye're a desperate liar .. . but who's not, will ye tell me? But ye're civil, at least - an' ye're Army, an' didn't me own father an' two uncles an' that other good Irishman Arthur Wellesley follow the flag across Spain togither - they did!" He paused, and sighed. "Now, ye're a Protestant, so I can't penance ye for tellin' lies. But since I'm dreadful afflicted wid the rheumatics, and can't abide diggin' at all, at all . . . well, if ye can sink your gentle-manly pride an' finish them two rows for me, why, t'will be for the good o' your soul an' my body. An' there'll be ten dollars to take ye to Washington - nine an' a half in loan, to be repaid at your convenience, an' fifty cents for your labour. Well . . . what say ye, my son?"
Well, I needed that ten dollars . . . but who'd have thought, when Campbell pinned my Cross on me, that seven months later I'd be digging a bog-trotter's garden in Mary-land? Father Rafferty watched me as I turned the last sods, observing dryly that it was plain to see I was English from the way I handled a spade. Then he gave me a mug of beer, and counted ten dollars carefully into my palm.
"I'll walk ye to the station," says he. "No one'll look twice at ye when ye're keepin' step wid the Church. An' I can see ye don't get on the wrong train, or lose your money, or go astray anyways, ye know?"
He put me on the right train, sure enough, but the rest of his statement proved as wrong as could be. Someone did look at us, but I didn't notice at the time, possibly because I was busy parrying Rafferty's artful questions about the Army and India - at least I could satisfy him I was telling the truth about those.
"Ask at the Washington station where the British minister's to be found," he advised me, "an' if they don't know, make your way to Willard's Hotel on Fourteenth Street, an' they'll set ye right. It's the great place, an' if they turn up their noses at your togs, jist give 'em your Hyde Park swagger, eh?
"But mind how, ye go, now!" cries he, as I mounted the step to the coach. "T'will be dark by the time ye get in, an' 'tis a desperate place for garotters an' scallywags an' the like! We wouldn't want ye waylaid a second time, would we?"
Gratitude ain't my long suit, as you know, but he'd seen me right, and he was a cheery wee soul; looking down at the smiling pixie face under the round hat, I couldn't help liking the little murphy, and wondering why he'd been at such pains on my behalf. It's a priest's business, of course, to succour the distressed sinner, but I knew there was more in it than that. He was a lonely old man, far from home, and he was Irish, and had guessed I was on the run, and I was Army, like his father and uncles. And he had taken to me, as folk do, even when they know I'm not straight.
"I wish ye'd tell me your name, though!" says he, when I thanked him. I said I'd send him my card when I repaid the ten dollars.
"That ye will!" cries he heartily. "In the meantime, (hough - your Christian name, eh?"
"Harry."
"I believe ye - ye look like a Harry. God knows ye didn't look like - what was't? - Grattan? Grattan the banker from the Rathfarnham - the impidence of it!" He laughed, and looked wistful. "Aye, me - sometimes I could wish I'd been a rascal meself."
"It's never too late," says I, and he spluttered in delight. "Git away wid ye, spalpeen!" cries he, and stood waving as the train pulled out, a little black figure vanishing into the hissing steam.
I reckon Father Rafferty was one of those good fools who are put into the world to grease the axles for people like me. They charm so easy, if you play 'em right, and the bigger a scoundrel you are the more they'll put themselves out for you, no doubt in the hope that if you do reform, they'll get that much more treasure in heaven for it. You may be astonished to know that I did repay the loan, later on, but in no spirit of gratitude or obligation, or because I'd quite liked the little ass. No, I paid because I could easily afford it, and there's one rule, as a practising pagan, that I don't break if I can help it - never offend the local tribal gods; it ain't lucky.
It was dark when we pulled into Washington, and the conductor had never heard of the British ministry; oh, sure, he knew Willard's Hotel, but plainly wondered what business this rumpled traveller without a hat could have at such a select establishment. He was starting to give me reluctant directions when a chap who'd alighted from the train directly behind me said if it was Willard's I wanted, why, he was going that way himself. He was a sober-looking young fellow, neatly dressed, so I thanked him and we went out of the crowded station into a dark and dirty Washington evening.
"It's close enough to walk if you don't mind the rain," says my companion, and since it seemed only prudent to save my cash, I agreed, and we set off. It wasn't too damp, but Washington didn't seem to have improved much in ten years; they were still building the place, and making heavy weather of it, for the street we followed was ankle-deep in mud, and so poor was the lighting that you couldn't see where you were putting your feet. We jostled along the sidewalk, blundering into people, and presently my guide pulled up with a mild oath, glanced about him, and said we'd be quicker taking a side-street. It didn't look much better than an alley, but he led the way confidently, so I ploughed on behind, thinking no evil - and suddenly he lengthened his stride, wheeled round to face me, and whistled sharply.
I'm too old a hand to stand with my mouth open. I turned to flee for the main street, cursing myself for having been so easily duped, and after Rafferty's warning about footpads too - and stopped dead in my tracks. Two dark figures were blocking my way, and before I had time to turn again to rush on my single ambusher, the larger one stepped forward, but when he raised his hands it wasn't to strike; he held them palms towards me in a restraining gesture, and his voice when he spoke was quiet, even friendly.
"Good evening, Mr Comber. Welcome back, sir - why, you mayn't believe it, but this is just like old times!"
For a split second I was paralysed in mind and body, and then came the icy stab of terror as I thought: police! . . . Spring's letters, my description, the alarm going out for Comber - but then why had the young man not clapped his hand on my shoulder at the station . . . ?
"Guess you don't remember me," says the big shadow. "It's been a whiles - N'awlins, ten years ago, in back of Willinck's place. You thought I was Navy, then. I took you to Crixus, remember?"
It was so incredible that it took me a moment to recall who "Crixus" was - the Underground Railroad boss whose identity I never knew because he hid it under the name of some Roman slave who'd been a famous rebel. Crixus was the little steely-eyed bugger who'd dragooned me into running that uppity nigger Randolph up the river, and dam' near got me shot - but it wasn't possible that he could know of my presence now, within a day of my landing .. .
"I don't understand! You're quite mistaken, sir - I know of nobody called . . . Cricket, did you say?" I was babbling with shock, and he absolutely laughed.
"Say, I wish I could think as quick as you do! Ten years ago, Billy," says he to his companion, "when we jumped this fellow, he started talkin' Dutch! Now, come along, Mr Comber -'cos I'd know you anywhere, an' we're wastin' time and safety." His voice hardened, and he took my arm. "We mean you no harm - like I once told you, you're the last man I'd want to hurt!"
Sometimes you feel you're living your life over again. It was so now, and for an uncanny moment I was back in the alley behind Susie's brothel, with the three figures materialising out of the darkness ... "Hold it right there, mister! You're covered, front and rear!" I knew now it was no use bluffing or running; for good or ill, they had me.
"It wasn't Dutch, it was German," says I. "Very well, I'm the man you call Comber, and I'll be happy to take your cab - but not to Mr Crixus! Not until I've been to the British ministry!"
"No, sir!" snaps he. "We got our orders. An' believe me, you'll be a sight safer with us than in the British ministry, not if your whole Queen's Navy was guarding it! So come on, mister!"
God knew what that meant, but it settled it. Whatever Crixus wanted - and I still couldn't take in that he'd got word of me (dammit, he should have been in Orleans, anyway) or that these fellows were real - he'd been a friend, after his fashion, and was evidently still well disposed. And with the three pressing about me, and my arm in a strong hand, I had no choice.
"Very good," says I. "But you don't put a sack over my head this time!"
He laughed, and said I was a card, and then they were hustling me out of the alley and into a closed growler - mighty practised, with one in front, one gripping me, the third behind. The big man shouted to the driver, and we were lurching along, back towards the station, as near as I could judge, and then we swung right across a broad quagmire of a street, and through the left-hand window I caught .a glimpse in the distance of what I recognised as the Capitol without its dome - they still hadn't got its bloody lid on, would you believe it, in 1859? - and knew we must be crossing the Avenue, going south. The big man saw me looking, and whipped down the blinds, and we bowled along in the stuffy darkness in silence, while I strove to calm my quivering nerves and think out what it all meant. How they'd found me, I couldn't fathom, and it mattered less than what lay ahead ... what the devil could Crixus want with me? A horrid thought - did he know I'd left Randolph to his fate on that steamboat? Well, I'd thought the bastard was dead, and he'd turned up later in Canada, anyway, so I'd heard, so it wasn't likely to be that. He couldn't want me to run niggers again, surely? No, it defied all explanation, so I sat fretting in the cab- with the big man at my side and his two mates opposite, for what must have been a good half-hour, and then the cab stopped and we descended on what looked like a suburban street, with big detached houses in gloomy gardens either side, and underfoot nothing but Washington macadam: two feet of gumbo.
They led me through a gate and up a path to a great front door. The big fellow knocked a signal, and we were in a dim hall with a couple of hard-looking citizens, one of 'em a black with shoulders like a prize-fighter. "Here he is," says my big escort, and a moment later I was blinking in the brightness of a well-furnished drawing-room, only half-believing the sight of the bird-like figure crying welcome from a great chair by the fireplace. He was thinner than I remembered, and terribly frail, but there was no mistaking the bald dome of head and the glinting spectacles beneath brows like white hedgerows. He had a rug over his knees, and from his wasted look I guessed he was crippled now, but he was fairly whimpering in rapture, stretching out his arms towards me.
"It is he! My prayers are answered! God has sent you back to us! Oh, my boy, my brave boy, come to my arms - let me embrace you!" He was absolutely weeping for joy, which ain't usually how I'm greeted, but I deemed it best to submit; it was like being clutched by a weak skeleton smelling of camphor. "Oh, my boy!" sobs he. "Ave, Spartacus! Oh, stand there a moment that I may look on you! Oh, Moody, do you remember that night - that blessed night when we set George Randolph on the golden road to freedom? And here he is again, that Mr Standfast who led him through the Valley of the Shadow to the -Enchanted Ground!"
With one or two stops at Vanity Fair, if he'd only known, but now he broke down altogether, blubbering, while my big guardian, Moody, sucked his teeth, and the black, who'd come into the room with him, glowered at me as though it were my fault that the old fool was having hysterics. He calmed down in a moment, mopping himself and repeating over and over that God had sent me, which I didn't like the sound of - I mean to say, what had he sent me for? It might he that Crixus, having heard of my arrival, God knew how, was merely intent on a glad reunion and prose over good old slave-stealing times, but I doubted it, knowing him. He might have one foot in the grave and t'other hopping on the brink, but the grey eyes behind his glasses were as fierce as ever, and if his frame was feeble, his spirit plainly wasn't.
"God has sent you!" cries he again. "In the very hour! lor (see His hand in this!" He turned to Moody. "How did you find him?"
"Cormack telegraphed when he boarded the train at the Baltimore depot. Wilkerson and I were waiting when the train came in. He didn't give any trouble."
"Why should he?" cries Crixus, and beamed at me. "He knows he has no truer, more devoted friends on earth than we, who owe him so much! But sit down, sit down, Mr Comber - Joe, a glass of wine for our friend . . . no, stay, it was brandy, was it not? I remember, you see!" he chuckled. "Brandy for heroes, as the good doctor said! And for our-selves, Joe! Gentlemen, I give you a toast: `George Randolph, on free soil! And his deliverer!'"
It was plain he didn't know the truth of how dear George hind I had parted company, and I was not about to enlighten him. I looked manly as he and Moody and Black Joe raised their glasses, wondering what the deuce was coming next, and decided to get my oar in first. I didn't need to pitch him a tale, much less the truth; you see, to him, Comber was the British Admiralty's beau sabreur in the war against the slave trade; that was how he'd thought of me ten years ago, as a man of intrigue and mystery, and he'd not expect explanation from me now. So, once I'd responded with a toady toast of my own ("The Underground Railroad, and its illustrious station master!", which almost had him piping his modest eye again), I put it to him plain, with that earnest courtesy which I knew Comber himself would have used, if he hadn't been feeding the fish off Guinea since '48.
"My dear sir," says I, "I can find no words to express the joy it gives me to see you again - why, as Mr Moody said just now, it is like old times, though how you knew I was in Baltimore I cannot think -"
"Come, come, Mr Comber!" cries he. "Surely you haven't forgotten? `An ear to every wall, and an eye at every window', you know. Not a word passes, not a line is written, from the Congress to the taproom, that the Railroad does not hear and see." He looked solemn. "It needs not me to tell you that you have enemies - but they may be closer than you think! Two days ago the police, here and in Baltimore, had word of your presence - aye, and of those brave deeds which our vicious and unjust laws call crimes!" His voice rose in shrill anger, while I thought, well, thank'ee Spring. "We have watched every road and depot since - and thank God, here you are!"
"And you're right, sir!" cries I heartily. "He has sent me to you indeed, for I need your help - I must reach the British ministry tonight at all costs -"
He jerked up a hand to check me, and even then I couldn't help noticing how thin and wasted it was; I'll swear I could see the lamplight through it.
"Not a word! Say no more, sir! Whatever message you wish to send shall reach your minister, never fear - but what it is, I have no wish to know, nor what brings you to our country again, for I know your lips must be sealed. I can be sure," says he, looking holy, "that you are engaged on that noble work dear to your heart and mine - the great crusade against slavery to which we have dedicated our lives! In this our countries are at one - for make no mistake, sir, we in America are purging the poison from our nation's veins at last, the battle is fully joined against those traitors within our gates, those traffickers in human flesh, those betrayers of our glorious Constitution, those gentlemen of Dixie -" he spat out the word as if it had been vinegar "- who build their, blood-smeared fortunes with the shackle and the lash -"
At this point he ran short of air, and sank back in his chair, panting, while Moody helped him to brandy and Joe gave me another glower, as though I'd set the senile idiot oil. He'd always been liable to cut loose like a Kilkenny electioneer whenever slavery was mentioned, and here he was, doddering towards the knackers' yard, still at it. I waited until he'd recovered, thanked him warmly, and said I'd be obliged if Moody could convoy me to the ministry without delay. At this Crixus blinked, looking uncertain.
"Must you go . . . in person? Can he not take a note .. . papers?" He gave a feeble little wave, forcing a smile. "Can you not stay . . . there is so much to say . . . so much that f would tell you -"
"And I long to hear it, sir!" cries I. "But I must see the minister tonight."
He didn't like it, and hesitated, glancing at Moody and Joe, and in that moment I felt the first cold touch of dread
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