had been scuppered by whatever had gone amiss in the tavern — the stupid bitch could have held them longer than two seconds, you'd have thought — and there was nothing to do but shift like blazes. It was growing dusk, but not near dark enough for concealment, and she was running for dear life along the bank eastwards. I pounded down the slope, yelling to her, at my wits' end over where we were going to run to. Could we hide — no, my God, the dogs! We couldn't outstrip them along the bank — where then? The same thoughts must have been in Cassy's mind, for as I closed on her, and heard the din of shouting rise a hundred yards behind me, she suddenly checked, and with a despairing cry leaped down the bank to the water's edge.
'No! No!' I bawled. 'Not on the ice — we'll drown for certain!' But she never heeded. There was a narrow strip of brown water between her and the nearest floe, and she cleared it like a hunter, slipping and falling, but scrambling up again and clambering over the hummocks beyond. Oh, Christ, thinks I, she's mad, but then I looked behind, and there they were, running down from the tavern, with the dogs yelping in the background. I took a race down the bank and jumped, my feet flew from under me on the ice, and I came down with a sickening crash. I staggered up, plunging over the mass of frozen cakes locked like a great raft ahead of me, and saw Cassy steadying herself for a leap on to a level floe beyond. She made it, and I tumbled down the hummocks and leaped after her. Somehow I kept my footing, and slithered and slipped across the floe, which must have been thirty yards from side to side.
Beyond it there were great rough cakes bucking about in the current, but so close together that we were able to scramble across them. Once my leg went in, and I just avoided plunging headlong; Cassy was twenty yards ahead, and I remember roaring to her to wait for me — God knows why, but one does these things. And then behind me came the crack of a shot, and glancing over my shoulder I saw that our pursuers were leaving the bank and taking the ice in our wake.
God! It was a nightmare. If I'd had a moment to think I'd have given up the ghost, but fear sent me skipping and stumbling over the pack, babbling prayers and curses, sprawling on the ice, cutting my hands and knees to shreds, and staggering up to follow her dark figure over the floes. All round the ice was grinding and groaning fearfully; it surged beneath our feet, cracking and tilting, and then I saw her stumble and kneel clinging to a floe; she was sobbing and shrieking, and two more shots came banging behind and whistled above us in the dusk.
As I overtook her she managed to regain her feet, glaring wildly back beyond me. Her dress was in shreds, her hands were dark with blood, her hair was trailing loose like a witch's. But she went reeling on, jumping another channel and staggering across the rugged floe beyond. I set myself for the jump, slipped, and fell full length into the icy water.
It was so bitter that I screamed, and she turned back and came slithering on all fours to the edge. I grabbed her hand, and somehow I managed to scramble out. The yelping of the dogs was sounding closer, a gun banged, a frightful pain tore through my buttock, and I pitched forward on to the ice. Cassy screamed, a man's voice sounded in a distant roar of triumph, and I felt blood coursing warm down my leg.
'My God, are you hurt?' she cried, and for some idiot reason I bad a vision of a tombstone bearing the legend: 'Here lies Harry Flashman, late 11th Hussars, shot in the arse while crossing the Ohio River'. The pain was sickening, but I managed to lurch to my feet, clutching my backside, and Cassy seized my hand, dragging me on.
'Not far! Not far!' she was crying, and through a mist of pain I could see the lights on the Ohio bank, not far away on our right. If only we could make the shore, we might hide, or stagger into Portsmouth itself and get assistance, but then my wound betrayed me, my leg wouldn't answer, and I sank down on the ice.
We weren't fifty yards from the shore, with fairly level ice ahead, but the feeling had gone from my limb. I looked round; Buck and his fellows were floundering across the ice a bare hundred yards away. Cassy's voice was crying:
'Up! Up! Only a little farther! Oh, try, try!'
'Rot you!' cries I. 'I'm shot! I can't!'
She gave an inarticulate cry, and then by God, she seized my arms, stooped into me, and somehow managed to half-drag, halfcarry me across the ice. There must have been amazing strength in the slim body, for I'm a great hulking fellow, and she was near exhaustion. But she got me along, until we fell in a heap close to the bank, and then we slithered and floundered through the icefilled shallows, and dragged ourselves up the muddy slope of the Ohio bank.39
'Free soil' sobs Cassy. 'Free soil!' And a bullet smacked into the bank between us to remind her that we were still a long way from safety. That shot must have done something to my muscular control, for I managed to hobble up the bank, with Cassy hauling at me, and then we stumbled forward towards the lights of Portsmouth. It was only half a mile away, but try running half a mile with a bullet hole in your rump. With Cassy's arm round me I could just stagger; we plunged ahead through the gloaming, and there were figures on the road ahead, people staring at us and calling out. Just before we reached them, we passed a tree, and my eye caught the lettering on a great yellow bill that had been stuck there. It read something about 'Great Meeting Tonight, All Welcome', and in large letters the names 'Lincoln' and 'Smith'. I was gasping, all in, but I remembered that the little tabby man on the steamboat had been Smith, and he had said Lincoln was speaking in Portsmouth. And I had sense enough to realise that wherever Lincoln was there would be enemies of slavery and friends to all fugitives like us. Two hours ago I'd been wanting to avoid him like the pox, but now it was life or death, and there was something else stirring in my head. I don't know why it was, but I remembered that big man, and his great hard knuckles and dark smiling eyes, and I thought, by God, get to Lincoln! Get to him; we'll be safe with him. They won't dare touch us if he's there. And as Cassy and I stumbled along the road, and I heard voices calling out in concern: 'Who are they? What is it? Great snakes, he's bleeding — look, he's been shot,' I managed to find the breath to cry out:
'Mr Lincoln — where can I find Mr Lincoln?'
'Great snakes, man!' A face was peering into mine. 'Who are you? What's —'
'Slave-catchers!' cries Cassy. 'Behind us — with guns and dogs.'
'What's that, girl? Slave-catchers! My stars, get them up — here, Harry, lend a hand! John, you run to your uncle's — quick flow! Tell him slave-catchers come over the river — hurry, boy, there's no time to lose!'
I could have cried out in relief, but as I turned my head I saw in the distance figures clambering the bank, and heard the yelp of those accursed dogs.
'Get me to Lincoln, for God's sake!' I shouted. 'Where is he — what house?'
'Lincoln? You mean Mr Abraham Lincoln? Why, he's up to Judge Payne's, ain't he, Harry? C'mon, then, mister, it ain't that far, ifn you can manage along. Harry, help the lady, there. This way, then — best foot forward!'
Somehow I managed to raise a run, and by blessed chance the house proved to be not more than a few furlongs away. I was aware of a hubbub behind us, and gathered that Buck and his friends had run into various Ohio citizens who were disputing their progress, but only verbally, for as we turned into a wide gateway, and our helpers assisted us up a long pathway to a fine white house, I heard the barking again, and what I thought was Buck's voice raised in angry defiance.
We stumbled up the steps, and someone knocked and beat on the panels, and a scared-looking nigger put his head round the door, but I blundered ahead, pushing him back, with a man helping Cassy beside me. We were in a big, well-lit hall, and I remember the carpet was deep red, and there was a fine mural painted on the wall above the stairs. People were hurrying out of the rooms; two or three gentlemen, and a lady who gave a little shriek at the sight of us.
'Good God!' cries one of the men. 'What is the meaning — ? who are you — ?'
'Lincoln!' I shouted, and as my leg gave way I sat down heavily. 'Where's Lincoln? I want him. I've been shot in the backside — slave-catchers! Lincoln!'
At this there was a great hubbub, and women swooning by the sound of it, and I hobbled to the newell post of the stair and hung on — I couldn't sit down, you understand. Cassy, with a man supporting her, tottered past me and sank into a chair, while the nicely-dressed ladies and gentlemen gaped at us in consternation, two horrid, bleeding scarecrows leaving a muddy trail across that excellent carpet. A stout man in a white beard was confronting me, shouting:
'How dare you, sir? Who are you, and what — ?'
'Lincoln,' says I, pretty hoarse. 'Where's Lincoln?'
'Here I am,' says a voice. 'What do you want with me?'
And there he was, at my shoulder, frowning in astonishment.
'I'm Fitzhoward,' says I. 'You remember —'
