"Mr Flashman is a constant heart. I knew it the moment I first saw him."
She was mad, of course, but Spring was much put out, because she wasn't meant to know what was going on with the black women. But he let me keep Lady Caroline Lamb.
So it was a pleasant enough cruise to begin with, for the weather blew just enough to give us a good passage without being too rough for the niggers; their health remained good, with no deaths in the first week, which greatly pleased Spring; the work was light above deck, as it always is in a fast ship with a favourable wind, and there was time to sit about watching the flying fish and listening to the hands swapping yarns — my respect for them had increased mightily over our encounter with the British sloop, which had confirmed my earlier impression that these were no ordinary packet rats with the points knocked off their knives, but prime hands. And I've learned that no time is wasted which is spent listening to men who really know their work.
However, as always when I feel I can loaf for a spell, something happened which drove all other thoughts out of my head — even my daydreams about Elspeth, and how I might contrive to come home respectably before too long, and scupper old Morrison, too, if possible. What happened was little enough, and not unexpected, but in the long run it certainly saved my liberty, and probably my life.
On the seventh day out from Dahomey, Murphy came to me and said I must go directly to Comber, who was dying. Since we sailed he'd been stowed away in a little cubby off the main cabin aft, where there was a window and Mrs Spring could tend to him.
"It's all up with him, poor lad," says Murphy, fuming with liquor. "His bowels is mortified, I'm thinkin'; maybe that jezebel's spear wuz pizened. Any roads, he wants to see you."
I couldn't think why, but I went along, and as soon as I clapped eyes on him I could see it was the Union Jack for this one, no error. His face was wasted and yellow, with big purple blotches beneath the eyes, and he was breathing like a bellows. He was lying on the berth with just a blanket over him, and the hand on top of it was like a bird's claw. He signed feebly to me to shut the door, and I squatted down on a stool beside his cot.
He lay for a few moments, gazing blankly at the sunbeams from the open window, and then says, in a very weak voice:
"Flashman, do you believe in God?"
Well, I'd expected this, of course; his wasn't the first deathbed I'd sat by, and they usually get religious sooner or later. There's nothing for it but to squat down on your hunkers and let them babble. Dying people love to talk — I know I do, and I've been in extremis more often than most. So to humour him I said certainly there was a God, not a doubt about it, and he chewed this over a bit and says:
"And if there is a God, and a Heaven — there must be a Devil, and a Hell? Must there not?"
I'd heard that before, too, so playing up to my part as the Rev. Flashy, B.D., I told him opinion was divided on the point. In any event, says I, if there was a Hell it couldn't be much worse than life on this earth — which I don't believe for a minute, by the way.
"But there is a Hell!" cries he, turning on me with his eyes shining feverishly. "I know it — a terrible, flaming Hell in which the damned burn through all Eternity! I know it, Flashman, I tell you!"
I could have told him this was what came of looking at the pictures in Bunyan's Holy War, which had blighted my young life for a spell when I first struck it. But I soothed him by pointing out that if there was a Hell, it was reserved for prime sinners only, and he probably wasn't up to that touch.
He rolled his head about on the pillow, biting his lip with distress and the pain of his wound.
"But I am a sinner," he gasped. "A fearful sinner. Oh, I do fear I am beyond redemption! The Saviour will turn from me, I know."
"Oh, I'm not sure, now," says I. "Slaving ain't that bad, you know."
He groaned and closed his eyes. "There is no such sin on my conscience," says he fretfully, which I didn't understand. "It is my weak flesh that has betrayed me. I have so many sins — I have broken the seventh commandment …"
I couldn't be sure about this; I had a suspicion it was the one about oxen and other livestock, which seemed unlikely, but with a man who's half-delirious you can never tell.
"What is it that's troubling you?" I asked.
"In that — that village …" he said, speaking with effort "Those … those women. Oh, God … pity me … I lusted after them … in my mind … I looked on them … as David looked on Bathsheeba. I desired them, carnally, sinfully … oh, Flashman … I am guilty … in His sight … I . ."
"Now, look here," says I, for I was getting tired of this. "You won't go to Hell for that. Leastways, if you do, it'll be a mighty crowded place. You'll have the entire human race there, including the College of Cardinals, I shouldn't wonder."
But he babbled on about the sin of lechery for a bit, and then, as repentant sinners always do, he decided I was right, and took my hand — his was as dry as a bundle of sticks.
"You are a good fellow, Flashman," says he. "You have eased my mind." Why he'd been worried beat me; if I thought that when I go I'll have nothing worse on my conscience than slavering over a buxom bum, well, I'll die happy, that's all. But this poor devil had obviously been Bible-reared, and fretted according.
"You truly believe I shall be saved?" says he. "There is forgiveness, is there not? We are taught so — that we may be washed clean in the blood of the Lamb."
"Clean as a whistle," says I. "It's in the book. Now, then, old fellow …"
"Don't go," says he, gripping my hand. "Not yet. I'm … I'm dying, you know, Flashman … there isn't much time …"
I said wouldn't he like Mrs Spring to look in, but he shook his head.
"There is something … I must do … first. Be patient a moment, my dear friend."
So I waited, wishing to blazes I was out of there. He was breathing harder than ever, wheezing like an old pump, but he must have been gathering strength, for when he opened his eyes again they were clear and sane, and looked directly at mine.
"Flashman," says he, earnestly, "how came you aboard this ship?"
It took me aback, but I started to tell him (a revised version, of course), and he cut me off.
"It was against your will?" He was almost pleading.
"Of course. I wouldn't have …"
"Then you too … oh, in God's name tell me truthfully … you detest this abomination of slavery?"
Hollo, thinks I, what's here? Very smartly I said, yes. I detested it. I wanted to see where he was going.
"Thank God!" says he. "Thank God!" And then: "You will swear to me that what I tell you will be breathed to no one on this accursed vessel?"
I swore it, solemnly, and he heaved a great sigh of relief.
"My belt," says he. "On the chest yonder. Yes, take it … and cut it open … there, near the buckle."
Mystified, I examined it. It was a broad, heavy article, double welted. I picked out the stitches as he indicated, with my knife, and the two welts came apart. Between them, folded very tight, was a slender oilskin packet. I unfolded it — and suddenly thought, I've been here before: then I remembered slitting open the lining of my own coat by the Jotunschlucht, with de Gautet lying beside me, groaning at the pain of his broken toes. Was that only a few months ago? It seemed an eternity … and then the packet was opens and I was unfolding the two papers within it. I spread the first one out, and found myself gaping at a letterhead design which showed an anchor, and beneath it the words: