swamp, a few miles from the Rebel state, when the thought first crossed my mind that I might have a purpose other than what had been stated, to be merely a friend for the road. Burton gave my question a halfhearted reply.
“I imagine there’s a tavern and an inn at Marion, where we can stay and browse among the people, get a tolerable supper, and then get pleasantly drunk together. In the morning, or the next day, we can go on to Florence.”
I must have still had a quizzical look on my face, for Burton then said, “Are you getting impatient, Charlie? Are you becoming anxious to see the nest of rebellion that is about to bring so much grief to your country?” In fact, I
There wasn’t much to see of Marion. My memory is of a muddy street and a collection of crude buildings along it, but Burton found it satisfactory. As he predicted, we did find an inn, taking a pair of rooms upstairs facing the street, and that evening we had a surprisingly good supper. It took Burton no time at all to become acquainted with other travelers and with the town’s natives: he was extremely gregarious, but again I noticed his way of telling them nothing about himself, of asking questions and becoming alert whenever the volatile issues of slavery and secession arose. He had also begun speaking in a much more Americanized English. Completely gone was his British accent, and when I remarked on it later, he said, “That’s just my way. Wherever I go, I make an attempt to learn the language.” We shared a laugh, but then he said, “Don’t be surprised if I change even more as we go along. I like to experiment with words, and these crackers, as they are called down here, do have a language of their own.”
It was at that moment when I had the first vague thought that would change things between us. I suddenly wondered if he was slipping into some kind of disguise. After a while this led to a far more unsettling thought, that I might somehow be an unwitting part of it. Years later, in biographies by his widow, Isabel, by his niece Georgiana Stisted, and by a man named Thomas Wright, there were references to the nature of his intelligence work in India. He alludes to this in his own early books: how he would pass among the people as one of them, having fluently learned their language in a few weeks or even days, darkened his skin, made himself up to look the part, and ply his secret service work. And already in print, of course, was his account of the epic journey, in the flawless disguise of an Arab, to Mecca and Medina. Richard could be anyone, and this fact led to a disturbing new thought. Could he now be spying on my country—was that what this journey was? Had he been sent here to assess the likelihood of civil war, when it might come, and how England could exploit it? Such a mission made chilling sense. On the surface, relations between England and the United States had been warm enough since our last war had ended in 1814, but it was common knowledge that many in the British government still seethed with anger and wished us ill. Lord Palmerston, for one, had never forgiven us for that last defeat, when he had been secretary of war. Now that he was prime minister, was he plotting, after all these years, to get his revenge, and was Burton the advance scout for his ambitions?
I felt a great anger come over me at such a thought, and I decided to confront Richard and have it out. I was ready to declare our brief friendship finished if he had undertaken such a deception, and to catch the next steamer north out of Wilmington. But when the moment came, I wavered. As we sat over dinner, I tried and failed to formulate the question, which could result in a grave insult and ruin a friendship that might in fact be innocent. Burton had said or done nothing specific to justify my suspicion: only what he always did, as he said himself. By the end of the evening I had decided to say nothing. But I remained uneasy and several times I caught him watching me, as if he had read my thoughts and suddenly knew what I suspected.
There was one incident worth noting in the tavern that night. It almost seems superfluous but its importance came to bear much later. We were sitting with a small group of new acquaintances near the bar when a large, boisterous man named Jedro Fink joined our group. He was clearly a Yankee hater, already well fortified with ale, and the more he drank, the more he seemed to take offense at whatever I said. It was my accent: no one could ever mistake me for anything but a Northerner. Once in the general babble, the phrase “Yankee dogs” floated over my head, and when I looked, his bleary eyes were fixed on mine.
Richard had also consumed a vast amount of ale but his eyes were clear. I gave him an apologetic look and began seeking an out. At the first lull in the conversation I said, “I think I’ll retire, gentlemen,” but our Yankee hater said, “What’s your hurry, mate, are we not good enough for Yanks to drink with?”
I felt two sharp stabs, anger and fear. I had never been in any kind of fight, and what frightened me most was not the prospect of being hurt but the spectacle of being beaten in front of the crowd. Still, I could not let this pass. I said, “That’s an offensive thing to say, sir,” and I steeled myself for whatever might come. But in the same moment Richard said, “I think I’ll join you, Charlie. It is getting late.”
The fellow across the table smirked as we pushed back our chairs.
Richard leaned forward. “You have something else to say,
The man scoffed again and Burton said, “Be careful, sir.”
Fink made as if to laugh. “Maybe you’re the one who should be careful. In case you don’t know it, we have harsh ways of settling things here when insults arise.”
Burton smiled warily out of his deeply scarred cheeks. “No one’s been insulted…yet. We can all still go to bed and be on our way in the morning.”
“That’s true enough.” Fink pushed himself back, slightly but ominously, from the table. “Unless we choose not to.”
The smile faded from Burton’s face. “That would be unfortunate, but it would be
