"It's akin to splicing the mainbrace, Mr Lincoln," says I, "and is a term which anyone who is truly interested in the sea would have found out from a nautical almanac long ago."
He gave a little snorting laugh. "Forgive me. Of course I wasn't really interested — just testing a little theory of mine."
"What theory is that, sir?" asks I, my knees shaking.
"Oh — just that you, Mr Comber — if that is your name — might not be quite so naval as you appear. No, don't alarm yourself. It's no business of mine at all. Blame my legal training, which has turned a harmless enough fellow into a confounded busybody. I've spent too long in court-rooms perhaps, seeking after truth and seldom finding it. Maybe I'm of an unusually suspicious nature, Mr Comber, but I confess I am downright interested when I meet an English Navy man who doesn't smother his food with salt, who doesn't, out of instinct, tap his bread on the table before he bites it, and who doesn't even hesitate before jumping up like a jack-rabbit when his Queen's health is proposed. Just a fraction of a moment's pause would seem more natural in a gentleman who is accustomed to drinking that particular toast sitting down." He grinned with his head on one side. "But all these things are trivial; they amount to nothing — until the ill-mannered busybody also finds out that this same English Navy man doesn't know what club-hauling and long-splicing are, either. Even then, I could still be entirely mistaken. I frequently am."
"Sir," says I, tiying to sound furious, with my legs on the point of giving way, "I fail to understand you. I am a British officer and, I hope, a gentleman …"
"Oh, I don't doubt it," says he, "but even that isn't conclusive proof that you're a rascal. You see, Mr Comber, I can't be sure. I just suspect that you're a humbug — but I couldn't for the life of me prove it." He scratched his ear, grinning like a gargoyle. "And anyway, it's just none of my business. I guess the truth is I'm a bit of a humbug myself, and feel a kind of duty to other humbugs. Anyway, I'm certainly not fool enough to pass on my ridiculous observations and suspicions to anyone else, I just thought you might be interested to hear about the salt, and the bread, and so forth," said this amazing fellow. "Shall we go and listen to them laying it off about the Last Minstrel?"
It was touch and go at this point whether I launched myself head first through the open window or not; for a moment it seemed that the wiser course might well be headlong flight. But then I steadied. I cannot impress too strongly on young fellows that the whole secret of the noble art of survival, for a single man, lies in knowing exactly when to make your break for safety. I considered this now, with Lincoln smiling down at me sardonically, and decided it was better to brazen things through than to bolt. He knew I was an impostor, but he could hardly prove it, and for some whimsical reason of his own he seemed to regard the whole thing as a joke. So I gave him my blandest smile, and said: "I confess, sir, that I have no idea what you're talking about. Let us by all means rejoin the company."
I think it puzzled him, but he said nothing more, and we turned back into the room. I kept a bold front, but I was appalled at being discovered, and the rest of that evening passed in a confused panic for me. I recall that I was dragooned into singing the bass part in a group song — I believe it was "Tis of a sailor bold, but lately come ashore", which no doubt caused Mr Lincoln some ironic amusement — but beyond that I can remember little except that eventually we all took our leave, and Fairbrother carried me off to quarters at the Navy Department, where I spent a sleepless night wondering how I could get out of this latest fix.
They would send me back to New Orleans, assuming that the prying bumpkin Lincoln kept his suspicions to himself — which seemed likely — and it was imperative that I should take french leave before there was any risk of my confronting the Balliol College crew at their trial. Washington was no place to try to decamp, so that left Baltimore or New Orleans. I favoured the former, but as it turned out there was no opportunity, for when the Navy Department finally finished with me on the following morning, I was sent back with Fairbrother to his brig, and he took me straight aboard. We sailed within a few hours, so there was nothing to do but resign myself to sitting out the voyage, and make plans for escaping when we reached Louisiana. What I would do when I slipped away, I didn't know; if my own mother wit couldn't get me back to England hale and sound, I wasn't the man I thought I was. When you've come safe through an Afghan rising and a German revolution, with all manner of cut-throats on your tail, you regard evasion from the United States as a pretty smooth course, even if they set the traps after you for slave-running and impersonation, as Fairbrother and his superiors eventually would do. I fancied I could manage passably well, if I minded my step — oh, the optimism of youth. If I'd known what lay along the path to England, home and beauty, I'd have surrendered then and there, told Fairbrother the whole truth, and taken my chance in a slavery trial any day. Thank God I've never had the gift of second sight.
7
The closer we got to New Orleans, the worse my prospects of successful desertion looked, and by the time we dropped anchor at the big bend in the Mississippi River off Customs House levee, I was well in the dumps. Having nothing to unload, you see, except me, the brig stood well out in midstream, so my notion of slipping down a gangplank to the quay was quite out of court. We hove to at night, with the whole splendid panorama of lights twinkling on either bank, the glow of Algiers to port and the French Quarter to starboard, but it was lost on me. Fairbrother was to take me ashore personally in the morning, so my only hope must be to give him the slip when we landed.
I already had a good idea of what my first moves would be when I had won free, so I set about my preparations. First I went through the clothes which I hadn't worn since I first boarded the Balliol College, and which had been bundled up in my valise. There was a superb coat by Gregg of Bond Street, in fine plum broadcloth, now foully creased, but I borrowed an iron from the steward, waved away his offers of help, and working secretly in my cabin, soon put it to rights and sponged out the stains it had taken. I had two good pairs of trousers, excellent boots from Todd, a smart grey embroidered waistcoat, several shirts which were beyond redemption, and a fine neckercher of black China silk. That was my wardrobe; the coat and neckercher at least could be counted on for what I had in mind.
My other valuables consisted of a ruby pin and an old-fashioned gold and silver chain with seals which had belonged to my grandfather Paget. They could pawn for a tidy sum, but I hoped this would be unnecessary, as I had a more immediate use for them. For the rest, I had eleven gold sovereigns, which would tide me over the beginning at least.
Having completed my inventory, I packed everything carefully in my valise, and next morning when Fairbrother took me ashore I stood forth in the dothes he had lent me; since I should be staying ashore when he had presented me to the proper authorities it was natural that my valise should go with me in the boat.
We were rowed to the Algiers side by four bluejackets, Fairbrother sweating in full fig, and as we neared the bank my spirits rose. The levee and wharves were positively teeming with people, there was a forest of shipping along the bank, with small craft scudding about everywhere, hall-naked negroes toiling at the derricks as cargo was swung ashore, folk bustling about every which way on the jettys, nigger children playing and squealing among the piles, ship's officers and cargo bosses bawling above the hubbub — a tremendous confusion of thousands of busy people, which was just what I wanted.