Well, it wasn't a bad performance, and it took them pretty well aback. Moultrie looked d––d solemn, and his pals wore the alarmed expression of men in the presence of a portent they didn't understand. Then Moultrie says:
"Yes … I see. You are in no doubt, sir … of the consequence
that is, the importance, of some of those implicated? Do you suggest that … when all is known … their would be a, er, a political scandal, perhaps?"
I gave my mirthless laugh. "I may indicate that best, sir, by assuring you that among the Britons whom I know to be involved in the traffic — and whose complicity can be proved, sir — are two peers of the realm and one whose name was, until lately, to be found among Her Majesty's Ministers. And I believe, sir, that the American names include men of comparable stature. The profits of the slave trade, sir, are immense enough to tempt the highest. Judge whether a scandal may be expected."
He was regarding me round-eyed. "Mr Comber," says he, "your knowledge makes you a very dangerous young man."
"And therefore," says I, smiling keenly, "you would say — a very endangered young man? I am used to risk, sir. It is my trade." I was almost believing it myself by now, so I wasn't surprised that they took it in. So much so, that being Yankees, and no fools, they made me go through my whole yarn again — from the Channel to Whydah, Gezo's village, our escape, the voyage west, Roatan, and all the rest — in the hope of my slipping out some information unawares, But since I didn't have any they were wasting their time. Finally they conferred while I cooled my heels, and announced that they would discuss matters with the British Ambassador, and in the meantime I would hold myself ready to go to New Orleans to testify against the Balliol College.
I didn't fancy this, at all, but again there was nothing to be done at the moment. So I bowed, and later that day I was hailed to the Ambassador's house-a very decent old stick, and a pleasant change from those yapping Jonathan voices. I was a shade wary in case he, or any of his people, might by a chance in a thousand be acquainted with the real Comber, but all was well. I told my story for a fourth time, and that evening, when he bade me to dinner with him, I went through it yet again for the entertainment of his guests. And I'll swear I didn't put a foot wrong — but there was one man at that table with as keen a nose for a faker as I have myself. How or when he saw through me I shall never understand, but he did, and gave me one of the many nasty moments in my life.
There were about a dozen at the dinner, and I didn't even notice him until the ladies had withdrawn, and Charterfield, our host, had invited me to regale the gentlemen with my adventures on the Slave Coast. But he seemed to take an even closer interest in my story than the others. He was an unusually tall man, with the ugliest face you ever saw, deep dark eye sockets and a chin like a coffin, and a black cow's lick of hair smeared across his forehead. When he spoke it was with the slow, deliberate drawl of the American back-countryman, which was explained by the fact that he was new to the capital; in fact, he was a very junior Congressman, invited at the last moment because he had some antislavery bill in preparation, and so would be interested in meeting me. His name will be familiar to you: Mr Lincoln.31
Let me say at once that in spite of all the trouble he caused me at various times, and the slight differences which may be detectable in our characters, I liked Abe Lincoln from the moment I first noticed him, leaning back in his chair with that hidden smile at the back of his eyes, gently cracking his knuckles. Just why I liked him I can't say; I suppose in his way he had the makings of as big a scoundrel as I am myself, but his appetites were different, and his talents infinitely greater. I can't think of him as a good man, yet as history measures these things I suppose he did great good. Not that that excites my admiration unduly, nor do I put my liking down to the fact that he had a sardonic humour akin to my own. I think I liked him because, for some reason which God alone knows, he liked me. And not many men who knew me as well as he did, have done that.
I remember only a few of his observations round that table. Once, when I was describing our fight with the Amazons, one of the company exclaimed:
"You mean to say the women fight and torture and slay on behalf of their menfolk? There can be no other country in the world where this happens."
And Lincoln, very droll, inquires of him: "Have you attended many political tea parties in Washington lately, sir?"
They all laughed, and the fellow replied that even in Washington society he hadn't seen anything quite to match what I had described.
"Be patient, sir," says Lincoln. "We're a young country, after all. Doubtless in time we will achieve a civilisation comparable with that of Day-homey."
I spoke about Spring, and Charterfield expressed amazement and disgust that a man of such obvious parts should be so great a vfflain.
"Well, now," says Lincoln, "why not? Some of the greatest villains in history have been educated men. Without that education they might have been honest citizens. A few years at college won't make a bad man virtuous; it will merely put the polish on his wickedness."
"Oh, come, now," says Charterfield, "that may be true, but you must admit that virtue more often goes hand in hand with learning than with ignorance. You know very well that a nation's criminal class is invariably composed of those who lack the benefits of education."
"And being uneducated, they get caught," says Lincoln. "Your learned rascal usually goes undetected."
"Why, at this rate, you will equate learning with evildoing," cries someone. "What must your view be of our leading justices and politicians? Are they not virtuous men?"
"Oh, virtuous enough," says Lincoln. "But what they would be like if they had been educated is another matter."
When I had finished my tale, and had heard much congratulation and expressions of flattering astonishment, it was Lincoln who remarked that it must have been a taxing business to act my part among the slavers for so long. Had I not found it a great burden? I said it had been, but fortunately I was a good dissembler.
"You must be," says he. "And I speak as a politician, who knows how difficult it is to fool people."
"Well," says I, "my own experience is that you can fool some people all the time — and all the people some times. But I concede that it's difficult to fool all the people all the time."
"That is so," says he, and that great grin lit up his ugly face. "Yes, sir, Mr Comber, that is indeed so."
I also carried away from that table an impression of Mr Lincoln's views on slaves and slavery which must seem strange in the twentieth century since it varies somewhat from popular belief. I recall, for example, that at one point he described the negroes as "the most confounded nuisance on this continent, not excepting the Democrats".