had he sent me for? It might be 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! For I 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 ourselves, 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 and 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 off. 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 I 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 – the old bastard was up to something, but didn’t know how to spring it; while all sense and logic told me that he could have no business with me, at such short notice, my coward’s nose was scenting mischief breast-high – well, by God, he’d flung me into the soup once, and he wasn’t doing it again. I rose, ready to go, and he gave a whimper.
‘Mr Comber, sir, a moment! Half an hour will make no difference, surely? Spare me that time, sir – nay, I insist, you must! You shall not regret it, I assure you! Indeed, if I know you,’ and he gave me a smile whose radiance chilled my blood, ‘you will bless the chance that brought you here!’
I doubted that, but I couldn’t well refuse. He had that implacable light in his eye, smile or no, and Moody and Joe seemed to be standing just an inch taller than a moment since. I gave in with good grace and sat down again, and Joe filled my glass.
Crixus studied a moment, as though unsure how to begin, and then said he supposed I knew how things stood in America at present. I said I didn’t, since my work had taken me east, not west, and I’d lost sight of colonial affairs, so to speak. He frowned, as though I’d no business to be messing with foreign parts, and I thought to impress him by adding that I’d been in Russia and India.
‘Russia?’ wonders he, as though it were the Isle of Wight. ‘Ah, to be sure, that unhappy country, which forges its own chains.’ I tried to look as though I’d been freeing serfs right and left. ‘But … India? There is no slavery question there, surely?’
I said, no, but there had been a recent disturbance of which he might have heard, and I must go where my chiefs sent me. He didn’t seem to think much of India, or my irresponsible chiefs, and returned to matters of importance.
‘Then you may not know that the storm is gathering over our beloved country, and soon must break. Yes, sir,’ cries he, getting into his stride, ‘the night is almost past, but the dawn will come in a tempest that will scour the land to its roots, cleansing it of the foulness that disfigures it, so that it may emerge into the golden sunlight of universal freedom! It will be a time of sore trial, of blood and lamentation, but when the crisis is past, Mr Comber, victory will be ours, for slavery will be dead!’ Now he was at full gallop, eyes bright with zeal. ‘Yes, sir, the sands of pleading and persuasion are running out; the time has come to unsheathe the sword! What has patience earned us? Our enemies harden their hearts and mock our entreaties; they stamp their foot with even grosser cruelty upon the helpless bodies of our black brethren!’ I stole a look at our black brother Joe, to see how he was taking this; he was listening, rapt, and I’d not have stamped on him for a pension. ‘But the nation is waking at last – oh, its leaders shuffle and compromise and placate the butchers, but among the people, sir, the belief is growing that it is time to arm, that the cancer can be cut out only by the sword! America is a powder-keg, sir, and it needs but a spark to fire the train!’
He paused for breath, and since the real Comber would have raised a cheer, I resisted the temptation to cry ‘Hear! hear!’ and ventured a fervent ‘Amen!’ Crixus nodded, dabbing his lips with a handkerchief, and sat forward, laying his skinny hand on mine.
‘Yet still the people hesitate, for it is a fearful prospect, Mr Comber! Not for four score years have we faced such peril. “It would destroy us!” cry the fainthearts. “Let it be!” cry the thoughtless. Still they hope that conflict may be avoided – but