Forgive me for the self-indulgence of suggesting that Snooks, a hero of mythical proportion, was the one who lost the cigars (and the papers they were wrapped in) after receiving them at dead of night in a railway shack hard by the Frederick spur of the Harpers Ferry to Baltimore line in this fashion:
Yet the call came again and then again until I woke up in the darkness of the hut and heard the whispered name coming from somewhere outside the broken window at the rear.
“Hick...ah...I mean, Smith’s not here”, I hissed back. “He sent me. Do you have the package?” There was a sharp indrawing of breath from the shadowy figure outside and a woman’s voice replied.
“Who are you? Your name at once!” I moved as close to the window as possible. If this wench were at all favourable I’d have her in the building and trading secrets in ten minutes or draw stumps and declare myself beaten. As it turned out, I didn’t need much light to see that whatever attractions she may have as courier, she had none at all as a female. She was short and round—altogether too much like our beloved Queen to entice anyone other than a desperate sausage-eater whose sense of duty was far larger than whatever other sense he may have had.
“Flashman”, I replied, almost by habit now. “Major Flashman. Now do you have it or not and where am I to go?”
For a moment I thought this name meant something to this repulsive dumpling—she seemed to stiffen and almost drew back. Then she thrust something through the broken glass, something that fell to the floor and rolled some distance before I could grasp it in the pitch-black interior.
“My gold!” I cried, “Don’t forget the dosh!”
“Gold?” she hissed. “There is no gold here. Take the packet toward Frederick, to the first Union officer you can find. He’ll make sure you get your reward”.
And with that she turned away and in moments I heard the sound of a wagon moving off into the night, heading further south. **** Wild Bill—probably there never was to be any gold. He’d just wanted to put me to the hurdle and I’d jumped it for nothing. But this packet now, that might be something valuable.
I scrabbled around until it was safely in hand. It was a paper or two rolled up to hold four cigars and that was all. I took one out and gave it a good sniff and a listen, whereupon it promptly fell apart in my hand—typical dry rubbish from some southern plantation no doubt, not worth the effort of locating a match, so I tossed the halves aside. The rest I wrapped up again and stowed away in my jacket pocket; come daylight there might be something to these papers and even a bad cigar might win me a friend at need.