Some of them went through many editions and lots of revision, but Grandfather always wanted the first British editions. When there were reprints with textual changes, he collected both. We have all those books, with notations in Mr. Burton’s own hand. Grandfather also kept a thirty-year correspondence. The letters referred to the texts, to Mr. Burton’s problems with his publishers, and to his joys and frustrations in writing his books. From 1861 onward, Grandfather had a standing order, with a request that Mr. Burton himself send two copies of each new work as it came off the press, or as soon thereafter as possible. This he did for more than twenty-five years.”
“Can you tell me how he met Mr. Burton and what they did in May of 1860?”
There was another long breath. “They went to Charleston.”
“Yes, but would you share the story of that trip with us?”
There was another long silence. Again came the bumping: more clicks. Again Koko’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“I expect, based on earlier sessions, that this story of their trip south will emerge in a stronger, less hesitant voice than what we have just heard. I should note that we have done this identical experiment several times, and it’s always the same, almost to the word. Comparisons can be made with the tapes numbered seven, twelve, and thirteen.
“In all these sessions, Jo displays adult knowledge that may taint the proceeding for a skeptic. Charlie seems to tell her things—such as Burton’s carnal interlude with the inn girl named Marion—that a grandfather of that era would hardly relate to this nine-year-old child. Burton swears at one point and Charlie reports it, another place where he’d surely censor himself if he were talking to a child. When I asked her about it—find tape ten—she confessed that she had read those passages in her grandfather’s journal of the trip. So what we’re probably getting is a mix of what he told her and what he wrote. His own journal was unfortunately lost in the plunder of their library after Charlie’s death.”
More bumps. More clicks.
“I’m back,” Koko said in full voice. “Are you comfortable now?”
“Yes. Thank you for the water.”
“Can you tell us about Charlie now?”
“What he told me, you mean? Or what’s in his journal?”
“Whatever feels right to you. Can you tell me in his own words? As you read it? As he told it to you?”
“Maybe.”
When the voice began again, almost a minute later, it was the old man’s voice.
“It started on a warm day in May 1860.1 was thirty-three years old. The world was a brighter, more exciting place then. I was young and there were so many things yet to do…”
I closed my eyes and Koko let me listen.
“I was thirty-three,” the voice said. “I was six years younger than Burton when we met. This is how it happened…”
Burton And Charlie
CHAPTER 19
Burton had come to Washington to see John B. Floyd, Buchanan’s secretary of war. This much we know. What went on in that room no one will ever know.
I had admired Burton from afar but I never trusted Floyd. Yes, I worked for him but I had always considered him a rogue. In the daily job my opinion didn’t matter much, for I did my job diligently and our paths seldom crossed. My work required little contact with the secretary, and I functioned well and was reasonably well satisfied. But I was not at all surprised when history put Floyd in a traitorous light—a man who used his position to transfer tons of arms and materiel to the South, then fled to join the Confederacy when the war finally began. In the department I kept my distance.
Even so, I could not possibly stay away when I learned of Burton’s appointment with Floyd that morning. I must have looked exactly like what I was, a nervous young man waiting in the hall with his hat in his lap. Then the door opened and Burton stepped out, and all that unease disappeared. I walked up boldly and said hello. I told him I had followed his adventures and had ordered his books and read them all. This cheered him enormously. As I later learned, he was particularly open to an admirer after the cutting disappointment of Speke and his own relative eclipse in England. Of all the strange and unexpected things, my sudden appearance flattered him and brightened his day.
To me Richard was the salt of the earth. We liked each other immediately.
He put his hand on my shoulder. Like an old confidant, he drew me to him and I stood tall and felt myself a man among men.
“Say, Charles—”
“Oh, please! All my friends call me Charlie. I’d be honored if you would too.”
“The honor is mine. Is there a grog shop nearby? I’ll buy you a glass of ale.”
“There’s a good water hole just up the street, and a free lunch comes with the brew. But I’ll do the buying, sir—you are a guest in my country.”
“We’ll fight that out at the bar.”
