all wight in church, but if you say it outside it’s vewwy dweadful, an’ God will punish you!’ Little Baptist.
‘What’s moulderin’ mean, Great-gran’papa?’ asks Augustus.
‘All rotten an’ stinkin’,’ says John. ‘It’s what happens when you get buried. You go all squelchy, an’ the worms eat you –’
‘Eeesh!’ Words cannot describe the ecstasy of Alice’s exclamation. ‘Was Jombrown like that, Great-grampapa, all rottish –’
‘Not as I recall, no. His toes stuck out of the ends of his boots sometimes, though.’
This produced hysterics of mirth, as I’d known it would, except in John, who’s a serious infant, given to searching cross-examination.
‘I say! Did you know him, Great-grandpapa – John Brown in the song?’
‘Why, yes, John, I knew him … long time ago, though. Who told you about him?’
‘Miss Prentice, in Sunday School,’ says he, idly striking his cousin, who was trying to detach Alice from me by biting her leg. ‘She says he was the Angel of the Lord who got hung for freeing all the niggers in America.’
‘You oughtn’t to say “niggers”.’ Jemima again, absolutely, removing her teeth from Alice and climbing across to possess my other arm. ‘It’s not nice. You should say “negwoes”, shouldn’t you, Gweat-gwampapa? I always say “negwoes”,’ she added, oozing piety.
‘What should you call them, Great-grandpapa?’ asks John.
‘Call ’em what you like, my son. It’s nothing to what they’ll call you.’
‘I always say “negwoes” –’
‘Great-gran’papa says “niggers”,’ observes confounded Augustus. ‘Lots an’ lots of times.’ He pointed a filthy accusing finger. ‘You said that dam’ nigger, Jonkins, the boxer-man –’
‘Johnson, child, Jack Johnson.’
‘– you said he wanted takin’ down a peg or two.’
‘Did I, though? Yes, Jemima dearest, I know Gus has said another wicked word, but ladies shouldn’t notice, you know –’
‘What’s a peggatoo?’ asks Alice, twining my whiskers.
‘A measure of diminution of self-esteem, precious … yes, Jemima, I’ve no doubt you’re going to peach to Great-grandmama about Gus saying “damn”, but if you do you’ll be saying it yourself, mind … What, Gus? Yes, very well, if I said that about the boxer-man, you may be sure I meant it. But you know, old fellow, when you call people names, it depends who you’re talking about …’ It does, too. Flash coons like Johnson1 and the riff-raff of the levees and most of our Aryan brethren are one thing – but if you’ve seen Ketshwayo’s Nokenke regiment stamping up the dust and the assegais drumming on the ox-hide shields, ‘’Suthu, ’suthu! ’s-jee, ’s-jee!’ as they sweep up the slope to Little Hand … well, that’s black of a different colour, and you find another word for those fellows. And God forbid I should offend Miss Prentice, so …
‘I think it best you should say “negroes”, children. That’s the polite word, you see –’
‘What about nigger minstrels?’ asks Alice, excavating my collar.
‘That’s all right ’cos they’re white underneath,’ says John impatiently. ‘Shut your potato-trap, Alice – I want to hear about John Brown, and how he freed all the … the negro slaves in America, didn’t he, Great-grandpapa?’
‘Well, now, John … no, not exactly …’ And then I stopped, and took a pull at my flask, and thought about it. After all, who am I to say he didn’t? It was coming anyway, but if it hadn’t been for old J.B. and his crack-brained dreams, who can tell how things might have panned out? Little nails hold the hinge of history, as Bismarck remarked (he would!) the night we set out for Tarlenheim … and didn’t Lincoln himself say that Mrs Stowe was the little lady who started the great war, with Uncle Tom’s Cabin? Well, Ossawatomie Brown, mad and murderous old horse-thief that he was, played just as big a part in setting the darkies free as she did – aye, or Lincoln or Garrison or any of them, I reckon. I did my bit myself – not willingly, you may be sure, and cursing Seward and Pinkerton every step of the way that ghastly night … and as I pondered it, staring across the lake to the big oak casting its first evening shadow, the shrill voices of the grandlings seemed to fade away, and in their place came the harsh yells and crash of gunshots in the dark, and instead of the scent of roses there was the reek of black powder smoke filling the engine-house, the militia’s shots shattering timber and whining about our ears … young Oliver bleeding his life out on the straw … the gaunt scarecrow with his grizzled beard and burning eyes, thumbing back the hammer of his carbine … ‘Stand firm, men! Sell your lives dearly! Don’t give in now!’ … and Jeb Stuart’s eyes on mine, willing me (I’ll swear) to pull the trigger …
‘Wake up, Great-grandpapa – do!’ ‘Tell us about Jombrown!’ ‘Yes, wiv his toes stickin’ out, all stinky!’ ‘Tell us, tell us …!’
I came back from the dark storm of Harper’s Ferry to the peaceful sunshine of Leicestershire, and the four small faces regarding me with that affectionate impatience that is the crowning reward of great-grandfatherhood: John, handsome and grave and listening; Jemima a year younger, prim ivory perfection with her long raven hair and lashes designed for sweeping hearts (Selina’s inevitable daughter); little golden Alice, Elspeth all over again; and the babe Augustus bursting with sin beneath the mud, a Border Ruffian in a sodden sailor suit … and the only pang is that at ninety-one2 you can’t hope to see ’em grown …
‘John Brown, eh? Well, it’s a long story, you know – and Great-grandmama will be calling us for tea presently … no, Alice, he didn’t have wings, although Miss Prentice is quite right, they did call him the Angel of the Lord … and the Avenging Angel, too …’
‘What’s ’venging?’
‘Getting your own back … no, John, he was quite an ordinary chap, really, rather thin and bony and shabby, with a straggly beard and very bright grey eyes that lit up when he was angry, ever so fierce and grim! But he was quite a kindly old gentleman, too –’
‘Was he as old as you?’
‘Heavens, child, no one’s that old! He was oldish, but pretty spry and full of beans … let’s see, what else? He was a capital cook, why, he could make ham and eggs, and brown fried potatoes to make your mouth water –’
‘Did he make kedgewee? I hate howwid old kedgewee, ugh!’
‘What about the slaves, and him killing lots of people, and getting hung?’ John shook my knee in his impatience.
‘Well, John, I suppose he did kill quite a few people … How, Gus? Why, with his pistols – he had two, just like the cowboys, and he could pull them in a twinkling, ever so quickly.’ And dam’ near blew your Great-grandpapa’s head off, one second asleep and the next blasting lead all over the shop, curse him. ‘And with his sword … although that was before I knew him. Mind you, he had another sword, in our last fight – and you’ll never guess who it had once belonged to. Frederick the Great! What d’you think of that?’
‘Who’s Frederick the Great?’
‘German king, John. Bit of a tick, I believe; used scent and played the flute.’
‘I think Jombrown was howwid!’ announced Jemima. ‘Killing people is wrong!’
‘Not always, dearest. Sometimes you have to, or they’ll kill you.’
‘Great-gran’papa used to kill people, lots of times,’ protests sturdy Augustus. ‘Great-gran’mama told me, when he was a soldier, weren’t you? Choppin’ ’em up, heaps of –’
‘That’s