“Say, though, they were out to hoax me – why, it wasn’t wool at all! No, sir, it was hair from a poodle-hound, with which they hoped to take me in! So I teased it, and pulled it, mighty solemn, and told them if they had machinery for working up dog-hair, it might do very well! That took ’em aback, I can tell you! Yes, sir, they had to admit they couldn’t pull the wool over my eyes! They were cheery men, though, and meant it all in fun, so we had no hard feelings. Poodle hair, can you imagine that?”36
It’s how I see him still, laughing deep in his throat, slapping his thigh, the great beard shaking and his eyes dancing with merriment – old Ossawatomie, who sabred five unarmed men to death in cold blood, and blew hell out of Harper’s Ferry.
He got back to business after that, saying soberly that I mustn’t think he would harbour any feeling against me, as an Englishman, because of the shabby way he’d been served by my fellow-countryman, Forbes. “I blame myself for trusting him,” says he, “rather than him for his betrayal. His heart was not in the work, as yours is, and he was distracted by the plight of his wife and little ones in France, wanting bread and a place to lay their heads. If he betrayed me … well, we must not judge him too hardly.”
Dreadnought Comber wasn’t having that. I cried out in disgust that I couldn’t credit chaps like Forbes; it was too bad and didn’t bear thinking about, the bounder was a disgrace to the Queen’s coat and ought to be drummed out. Brown leaned forward and laid a forbearing hand on my sleeve.
“You’re timber from a different tree, Joshua. You are what Crixus said you would be, and your story – aye, and what I see before me – speak for you.” Believe that, old lad, and we’ll get on famously. “But now, tell me …” He tightened his grip on my arm. “Crixus has told you what I purpose, and the disappointments and delays I have suffered, and my resolve that this time there shall be no turning back from the gates of Gaza.” The grim bearded face was so close now that I could see my reflection in his eyes, which is a sight nearer to John Brown than you’d want to get. “Can you show me how best this great thing can be done?”
It was more than I’d expected, and my heart jumped. “You mean, how to take Harper’s Ferry?”
His lids came down like hoods. “That’s a name best left unspoken just now.” Tell that to the rest of North America, thinks I. “In this house, at least. But … yes, that is the goal.”
“When?”
“July the Fourth. What better day to found the new United States?”
“Oh, absolutely!” Less than two months away. “I’ll have to study it. I must know what force, what arms you have, what you mean to do afterwards. You see, captain,” says I soberly, “given preparation, any fool can take a place – holding it’s another story. And using it.”
“That is all determined!” cries he, glowing.
“Then I’ve a question.”
“Ask away, my boy!”
“Very good,” says I, all business. “Am I to carry out your orders without question? Or will you look to me for advice?”
He threw his head back, frowning, and I knew I must follow up at once. “I’m a man of war, Captain Brown. It’s my trade – but I practise it against only one enemy – slavery. Did you know,” says I, “that William Wilberforce was my uncle? Oh, it don’t matter; I only tell you so that you may understand the … the force within me.” I was the one leaning forward now, going red in the face with holy zeal, and just a touch of the fanatical stare. “I am with you because you are Liberty’s champion in America. It all rests on you whether the oppressed black people of this land are brought forth into the light, or languish in bondage. You must not fail!” I gave him my grim, do-or-die smile. “I’ll not have you fail! When we strike, it must be a sure, shattering blow – not a pin-prick, not a hasty foray which miscarries for want of planning, but the breach in the dyke through which the flood of freedom will surge to sweep away the foul growth of slavery forever!”
It’s listening to folk like Crixus that does it, you know; they supply the words, and I’m the boy who can carry the tune. I was out to convince Brown that I was as crazy as he was, and that if I found fault with his plans, it wouldn’t be from half-heartedness or lack of abolitionist frenzy. I was the seasoned professional, you understand, but with the fire in my belly. Having let him feel the heat, I collected myself again, with an apologetic shrug.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I’m presumptuous – and to you, of all people! But, you see … I must be sure of victory – oh, not for myself, but for those thousands of poor black souls crying out for deliverance!”
Ringing stuff, and he took it like a man, mangling my fingers again. “We shall win that victory!” cries he. “And we’ll win it with your good counsel, be sure of that! Why, Moses hearkened to his Joshua, didn’t he?” He chuckled and clapped me on the shoulder, saying I’d turned his hope to certainty. And now it was time for me to meet “our friends – good men one and all, bound to the cause … but not men of action,” says he with a sigh. “Still, we depend upon them, and it will put heart into them to see you take the oath.”
This, it turned out, was a rigmarole which Joe and I had to repeat before the company in the other room, a motley bourgeois crew of about a dozen, male and female. Among them were three of the “Secret Six” – Sanborn; a truly enormous beard which went by the name of Stearns; and Dr Howe, a keen-looking citizen who had in tow the only passable female present, a spanking little red-head with a sharp eye.37 They were affability itself, but I guessed they were wary of me and Joe, possibly because we looked fit for spoils and stratagems; they beamed approval when Brown bade us raise our hands and swear to fight slavery with all our might, and keep secret all our transactions, but while the women clapped and murmured “Amen!”, I wondered if one or two of the men were altogether easy about witnessing the men of blood getting their baptism, so to speak.
I played strong and silent, and Joe, of course, didn’t say a word, but it didn’t matter, for the purpose of the gathering was to pledge money, which apparently they’d already done, and thereafter to admire Brown, to the accompaniment of coffee and sandwiches. Sanborn took the lead by reading a press report by one Artemus Ward of a meeting which Brown had addressed in Cleveland some weeks earlier, after his triumphant return from the Missouri raid in which he’d snatched eleven niggers and various horses.
“Listen to this, will you?” cries Sanborn, adjusting his glasses. “‘A man of pluck is Brown. You may bet on that. (Cries of “Hear, hear!” and “I should say so!”) He must be rising sixty, and yet we believe he could lick a yard full of wild cats without taking off his coat. (Laughter) Turn him into a ring with nine Border Ruffians, four bears, six Injuns and a brace of bull pups, and we opine that the eagles of victory would perch on his banner!’”
Loud laughter and applause, and Sanborn cries: “He writes further that Captain Brown is ‘refreshingly cool’, and could make his jolly fortune by letting himself out as an ice-cream freezer!” Delighted cries from the ladies, while Brown stood gravely regarding the carpet. “What d’you say to that, captain?”
“He has one thing right,” says Brown drily. “I’m rising sixty.”
At this they all cried, no, no, Ward had hit it dead on, and clustered round him, filling his cup and offering sugar cookies. He took it all pretty cool, with that stern modesty that’s worth any amount of brag. One shrill old sow in a lace cap said she had been told that at that same meeting Captain Brown had said that the only way to treat Border Ruffians was as though they were fence-stakes, and whatever had he meant by that? Brown looked down at her, stroking his beard, and asked, what did she suppose people did to fence-stakes?
“Why, they strike them, I suppose!” says the beldam.
“Just so, ma’am,” says Brown. “You drive ’em into the ground, so that they become permanent settlers.”
She cried “Oh, my!” and fanned herself, while the other women tittered, Sanborn said “Yes, indeed!”, and the men chortled that it was the only
way. One said he had much admired Captain Brown’s reply to a heckler who had accused him of stealing horses and looting the property of pro-slavery people; Brown had answered that since the pro-slavers had started the war in Kansas, it was only right that they should defray its expenses.
“But even better,” cries a small snirp with a cow-lick and glasses, “was your hit at the expense of the wiseacre who questioned your right to sell horses taken from Missouri!” He beamed at Brown. “Do tell the company, captain, what you retorted!” He nudged his female companion. “Listen, Sally, ’twas the neatest thing!”
“Why,” says J.B., very serious, “I believe I told him they were not Missouri horses, but abolitionist horses, since I had converted them!”
This had them in fits, while I watched with approval, for I knew this game of old, having played it myself a hundred times in the days when I was being hero-worshipped. It’s almost a ritual: they flatter you by praising your words or actions, and you play it easy and modest, but just giving a hint every now and then, in a humorous way, what a desperate fellow you are, because that’s what they love above all. We had a prime example of it that night when a young fellow came in with the news that one Governor Stewart was expected in Boston soon, at which there was a sensation, for this Stewart was the man who’d put a price of $3000 on Brown’s head in Missouri. The women squealed, and the men looked anxious; Brown, standing by the fireplace, asked the young chap, whose name was Anderson, if it was Stewart’s intention to set the U.S. marshal after him, and were the reward posters up in Boston?
“You bet, cap’n,” says Anderson, who was a jaunty bantam. “But I reckon you may stand under ’em, and the marshal won’t trouble you.”
“Indeed, he’d better not!” cries Howe. “Massachusetts won’t stand for any Missouri warrants being served here!”
“I think Massachusetts need feel no alarm,” says Brown. “There were posters in Cleveland, and I stood under those, and made myself conspicuous outside the marshal’s office down the street. But he chose to ignore my presence, I can’t think why.” He was resting an arm on the mantelpiece, and now he turned so that his coat fell open, to reveal an enormous Colt strapped to his hip. “I guess it was just civility on his part, in case I’d feel embarrassed.”
There was a great whoop of laughter, and arch glances at the pistol, while they nudged each other and agreed that it would have been real embarrassing – for the marshal, ha-ha! The old biddy in the lace cap said it was monstrous that Southern reward posters should be permitted in a Northern city, and what would happen if the marshal and his “government hounds” should try to arrest Captain Brown – “why, they might have the gall to try it in one of our very own houses!”
“If they do, ma’am,” says Brown, “we shall bar the door against them. I should hate to spoil your carpet.”38
That seemed to set them in the mood for a few bloodthirsty hymns, with Sanborn thrashing the harmonium; one was about a small, weak band going forth to conquer, strong in their captain’s strength,39 which was sung with approving smiles in our direction, and a scrawny female had the impudence to press my hand in encouragement; if she’d been worth it I’d have arranged a prayer meeting with her later, for there’s nothing like religious fervour to put ’em in trim, you know. I gave her my brave, wistful smile instead, and devoted my energies to “Who Would True Valour See?”, which concluded the soiree, with Brown in great voice, eyes shining and beard at the charge, as he roared defiance at the hobgoblins and foul fiends.
When the guests had gone, Sanborn gave us a slap-up supper in his kitchen, during which Brown made a point of engaging Joe in talk, plainly to make him feel at home, and an equal member of the band – which was ironic, in its way, since Joe was a sight better educated than Brown or, as it turned out, any of his other followers. He took care not to show it, though, which wasn’t difficult, since Brown prosed on at length, telling him that when they’d been in Chicago, and a hotel had refused to take the coloured people who were along with him, Brown and his gang had trooped out en masse, and hadn’t rested until they’d found a place where there was no colour bar. It amused me to see Joe trying to look impressed by this earnest recital, but I didn’t overhear much more, for young Anderson, who was seated next to me, had that curious American compulsion to tell you his life-story, as well as his views on everything under the sun.
He was an engaging lad, fresh-faced and full of beans, with a Colt in his armpit and that restless eye that you develop from years of learning not to sit down with your back to the door. He called me “Josh” right away, told me he was “Jerry”, that he’d fought on the Kansas frontier as lieutenant of an irregular troop of Free Soilers, skirmished with the U.S. Cavalry, been jailed by pro-slavers, ridden on the recent Missouri raid, and thought Brown was the next best thing to God. He was one of your true-blue hell-fire abolitionists, and itching to prove it.
“It’s this way, Josh,” confides he solemnly, “I reckon this fight is more mine than most folks’ – ’cos my family held slaves once, till my daddy came up North, so I figure I have to wipe the slate clean, don’t you see? Maybe you can’t understand that, bein’ Canadian – oh, sure,” grins he, winking, “I guessed that straight off, from your ac-cent – but I feel it in my heart, don’t ye know? I just wish I could make everyone feel that way. Why, those poor black folk are cryin’ out for help down yonder – but does anybody listen? Oh, I know there’s lots o’ good people, like we seen tonight, who’d wish slavery away tomorrow, an’ they talk, an’ ’tend meetin’s, an’ take up collections – but they don’t do anythin’!” He had dropped his voice, so that Sanborn didn’t hear; now he gritted his teeth. “Well, there’s a few of us ready to do, an’ dare – people like you an’ me – an’ we’ll be enough, you’ll see! Yes, sir, when Cap’n Brown gives the word, we’ll shake this land of liberty and equality clear to its centre!”40
I hope the rest of the gang are your sort, my son, thinks I – young and full of ideals and without a brain among you when it comes to sober planning; the last thing I wanted was older and wiser heads competing with me for Brown’s ear. Fortunately, the old man seemed to have taken to me; he wrung my hand fiercely at parting – he and Jerry were staying at a hotel in Concord, but Joe and I were to bed down in Sanborn’s attic – and assured me that as soon as he’d finished his work in Boston, the two of us would start to plan “the campaign”, as he called it. Joe pricked up his ears at that, and as soon as he and I were alone under the eaves, where mattresses had been provided, he rounded on me.
“What did Brown say to you befo’ – when you was alone?”
“Well, Joe, I don’t know that that’s any of your concern,” says I, just to provoke him, but before he could do more than glare, I went on: “If you must know, he wants to be in Harper’s Ferry by the Fourth of July. There, now. Does that satisfy you?”
He came swiftly, stooping under the beams, and squatted down by me, whispering.
“Fourth July! You reckon the others know – them as was heah tonight?”
“I doubt it. I don’t think they want to.”
He nodded; he was quite smart enough to guess that Sanborn and his friends were scared of the whole business.
“He say how many men he’s got? How he’s gonna do it?”
“No. He’s waiting for me to show him. That’s bound to take time – and I don’t know how long it’ll take to assemble his men, or how many he can count on, or what arms he’s got, or what money. I don’t know if he can be ready, in just two months –”
“Listen!” His ugly black face was thrust into mine, whispering furiously. “You better see he’s ready, you heah me? An’ you –”
“Now you listen!” I hissed, as loud as I dared, giving him back glare for glare. “The sooner we have this straight, the better! I’m being paid five thousand dollars to see that this damned farmer takes Harper’s Ferry – and no blundering black fool is going to queer my pitch! I know how to do it – you don’t! If it takes
me all summer to make it sure, that’s my affair! I’m his lieutenant, not you – and the farther you stay clear of me, the safer we’ll both be. D’ye think you can prowl at my elbow, looking like my bloody keeper? D’ye want to make ’em suspicious of us?” I sat back, sneering. “How long d’ye think we’d last if they guessed you were a Kuklos spy? Why, we –”
Before I knew it I was staring into the muzzle of a cocked revolver, his eyes rolling with rage behind it.
“The day they guess that, Mistuh Comber,” hisses he, “yo’ gone! An’ case you think you kin get up to any shines with me … jes’ remembah … I ain’t the only one watchin’ you! So now!”
I forced myself to look unmoved down his barrel, with my bowels doing the polka – by God, he was a quick hand with a barker – and then to fetch an elaborate sigh as I stretched out on my mattress.
“You’re a fool, Joe. You don’t understand me at all, do you? Why, if I’d wanted to split on you, I could have done it when I was alone with Brown, couldn’t I? But I didn’t, because I’ve got five thousand good reasons, and when I make a deal, I keep to it. Now go to sleep – and in the morning, do try to remember that you’re not my watchdog but a grateful darkie abolitionist who’s fairly sweating to set his brethren free. Give ’em a chorus of doo-dah-day, why don’t you?”
He stood looming over me for a long moment, then stirred his hand, and the pistol had vanished. He turned on his heel, and went without a word to his mattress – but not to sleep with a tranquil mind, as I became aware in the small hours, when I woke, discovered that there wasn’t a piss-pot to be had, descended the attic ladder to a window where I relieved myself into the night … and turned to find him within a yard of me, pistol in hand and glowering as though he’d just escaped from Sinbad’s bottle. It gave me a horrid scare, but I got my own back by offering to hold the pistol and keep a look-out while he took his turn at blighting Sanborn’s geraniums. He wouldn’t, though, and when I dropped off to sleep again I guessed he was still brooding watchfully, wondering what to make of me, no doubt.
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