Flash For Freedom!

names are for my chiefs in London, and no one else. And if you think — whoever you are — that you can get them out of me —'

'My dear Mr Comber.' He held up a hand. 'I'm not interested. My concern with the slave trade lies in quite another direction — the same direction, I believe, as your own. That is why you are here. That is why my agents have traced you, even into the house of ill fame where you took refuge.' Well, thinks I, I hope they didn't trace too close, or they must have got an eyeful. 'Thus we knew of the passage home its proprietress arranged for you — I take it she is an English anti-slavery agent … but there, the less said, the better. Thus we were able to intercept you tonight.'

'You know a lot,' says I. 'Now, look here; I've heard everything but what I want to know. Who are you, and what d'you want with me?'

He looked at me steadily. 'You have heard, I am sure, of the underground railroad.'

Six months earlier I wouldn't have known what he meant, but when you've been in the company of slavers, as I had been, you recognise the phrase. Spring had mentioned it; I'd heard it spoken about, low-voiced, in Susie's brothel.

'It's a secret society for stealing slaves, and helping them to escape, isn't it? To Canada.'

'It is an organisation for saving souls!' snaps he, and once again he didn't look half amiable. 'It is an army that fights the most horrible tyranny of our time — the blasphemous iniquity of black slavery! It is an army without colours, or ranks, or pay — an army of dedicated men and women who labour secretly to release their black brethren from bondage and give them liberty. Yes, we steal slaves! Yes, we run them to free soil. Yes, we die for doing it — like them we are hunted with dogs, and tortured and hanged and shot if we are caught by the brutes who own and trade in human flesh. But we do it gladly, because we are marching in Christ's army, sir, and we will not lay down our weapons until the last shackle is broken, the last branding iron smashed, the last raw-hide whip burned, and the last slave free!'³³

I gathered he was an abolitionist. By gad, he was in a fine sweat about it, too, but now he sat back and spoke in a normal voice.

'Forgive me. As though I need to say such things to you. Why, you take a thousand risks for our one, you put your life in the hazard in the nethermost hell of this foul traffic. Oh, we know all about you, Mr Comber — as you yourself said in a certain Washington office, 'Walls have ears.' The underground railroad has ears, certainly, and it heard your name in Washington, and the heroic work you did in bringing the Balliol College and that scoundrel Spring to book. Which reminds me of a privilege I had promised myself tonight, but have overlooked.' He got to his feet. 'Mr Comber, may I have the honour to shake your hand?'

And blow me, he seized my fist and pumped it hard enough to start water out of me. I didn't mind, but the thought occurred to me, here I was again being congratulated on my dauntless devotion, when all the time it had been frantic poltroonery. But it had done the trick, which just goes to show: we also serve who only turn and run.

'Thank you, sir, thank you,' says he. 'You have made me a happy man. Now, may I tell you how you may make me happier still?'

I wasn't sure about this, but I sat down again and listened. I couldn't decide whether this little blighter was going to turn out well for me or not.

'As you know, we of the underground railroad rescue slaves wherever we can — from plantations, markets, pens, wherever they may be — and send them north secretly to the free states beyond the Ohio river and the Mason — Dixon line. Alone, they could never hope to make the journey, so we send with them our agents, who pose as slave-owners and slave-dealers, and convoy the unfortunates to safety. It is perilous work, as I have said, and our roll of martyrs grows longer every day. This is a savage country, sir, and while there are many in government who love and assist our work, government itself cannot condone or protect us, because we break the law — man's law, not God's. We are criminals, sir, in the eyes of our country, but we are proud of our crimes.'

He was almost away again, but checked himself.

'Now, all slaves are important to us, however lowly, but some are more important than others. Such a one is George Randolph. Have you heard of him? No, well you shall. You have heard of Nat Turner, the slave who led a great rebellion in Virginia, and was barbarously executed by his tormentors? Well, Randolph is such another — but a greater man, better educated, more intelligent, with a greater vision. Twice he has tried to organise insurrection, twice he has failed; three times he has escaped; twice he has been recaptured. He is a fugitive at this moment — but we have him safe, and God willing they shall never take him again.'

Comber would have applauded, so I said, 'Oh, bravo!' and looked pleased.

'Bravo indeed,' says he, and then looked solemn. 'But all is not done. Randolph must be taken in safety to Canada — what a blow that will be in our cause! Why, sir, think of what such a man can do, when he is on free soil. He can talk, he can write, he can go abroad, not only in Canada but in England, in our own free states — I tell you, sir, the burning words of such a man, Striking the ears of the civilised world, will do more to rekindle the fire against slavery than all our white journalists and orators can accomplish. The world will see a man like themselves, and yet greater — a man fit for a chair in our finest universities, or to sit in the highest councils of a nation — but a black man, sir, with the whip-marks on his back and the shackle-scars on his legs! They will understand, as they have never understood, what slavery is! They will feel the whip and shackles on their own bodies, and they will cry out: 'This infamy shall not be!''

Well, it seemed to call for something, so I said:

'Capital. First-rate. This news will be welcomed with joy in England, I'm sure, and as soon as I am home again you may rely …'

'But Mr Comber,' says he, 'this is still to be achieved. George Randolph is not in Canada yet — he is still here, a hunted runaway. The journey to freedom lies ahead of him.'

'But is that difficult? For your splendid organisation? I mean, you have shown me, tonight, how far-reaching it is. Why, you know as much about me as I do myself — almost. Your agents …'

'Oh, we have many agents; our intelligence system is extensive. We have an eye at every window in this land, sir, and an ear at every door information is no difficulty. But most of our spies are black; most are still slaves. Collecting intelligence is one thing, but running slaves to Canada is quite another. Here we need white agents, dedicated, resolute, and bold, and these are pitifully few. Many are willing, but only a handful are able. And even then, they have become too well known. Of the gallant young men who ran our last three convoys one is dead, one in jail, and the third in Canada, unable to return because he would certainly be arrested. I have not one that I can send with Randolph, sir, not one that I could trust. For with a cargo of such importance, I cannot risk sending any but the hardiest, the bravest, the least suspected. Do you see my plight, sir? Every day that Randolph hides in New Orleans his danger grows — the enemy has spies also. I must get him out, and quickly. Can you understand?'

I understood all right, but ass that I was, I didn't see what it had to do with me. I suggested sending him by sea.

'Impossible. The risk is too great. Ironically, his safest route is the one that would appear most dangerous — up the Mississippi to the free states. One slave in a coffle may pass unnoticed my one fearful problem is the white agent to go with him. I tell you, Mr Comber, I was at my wits' end — and then, in answer to my prayers, I had word of you from Washington, and that you would be coming to Orleans.'

I absolutely said: 'Christ!' but he was in full spate.

'I saw then that God had sent you. Not only are you a man dedicated to fighting the abomination of slavery, but you are one who scorns danger, who has come unscathed through perils ten times greater than this, who has the experience, the intelligence — nay, the brilliance — and the cold courage such an enterprise requires. And, above all this, you are not known!' He smacked his fist on the table excitedly. 'If I had all the world to choose from, I should have asked for such a man as you. You, who I had never heard of ten days ago. Mr Comber, will you do this for me — and strike yet another, greater blow above all those you have surely struck already?'

Well, of all the appalling nonsense I had ever heard, this beat everything, even Bismarck. By George, they were two of a kind — the same fanatic gleam in the eye, the same fierce determination to thrust a hapless fellow- human into the stew, head first, to further their own lunatic schemes. But Bismarck had had a pistol to my head; this idiot hadn't. I was on the point of telling him straight what I thought of his revolting suggestion, laughing right in his eager little face, and I suddenly checked — I was Comber. How would he have refused — my God, he probably wouldn't, the reckless fool. I had to go very canny.

'Well, sir? Well — is this not such a crusade as your heart desires?'