The Insurrectionist

by Herb Karl

  Coincidentally, Frederick Douglass happened to be in Detroit for a speaking engagement. Word of Brown’s deed had spread through the city. When the old man was discovered at the railroad station, he was invited to a reception for Douglass at the home of a local black leader. Brown accepted the invitation and shortly thereafter found himself in the company of a dozen men, some of whom he knew from the Chatham convention. Brown thought it appropriate to disclose the new timetable for his invasion and to make a plea for recruits and money. However, he soon found himself embroiled in an argument with Douglass that raised the eyebrows of those present—all of whom held both men in high esteem. The argument stemmed from Brown’s announcement that he was considering arming liberated slaves with weapons he intended to take from the US armory at Harpers Ferry, Virginia.

  Later, when he returned to the railroad station, the old man told Stevens and Kagi, “I’m not sure our friend is as committed to the war on slavery as I once thought. Mr. Douglass discourages our efforts to move boldly against the slave power.”

  At dusk, Brown, Kagi, and Stevens boarded a train bound for Cleveland, where they would wait for the wagons and livestock to catch up. Once he reached Ohio, the old man wanted to take advantage of every opportunity to raise money and enlist soldiers.

  Cleveland was rife with posters offering hefty rewards for Brown’s capture. Yet, flanked by Kagi and Stevens, the old man walked the streets with renewed confidence, often passing by the office of the federal marshal who put up the posters. Like other staunchly antislavery towns and villages in northern Ohio, Cleveland was in no mood to see a man with Brown’s reputation thrown in jail. In fact there was a demand for him to speak at a public venue—which he was happy to do for a modest admission charge.

  A Cleveland newspaper advertised Brown as the “terror of all Border Ruffiandom” and announced he’d be giving “a true account of the recent troubles in Kansas and of the late invasion of Missouri and what it was done for, together with other highly interesting matters that have never yet appeared in the papers.” The turnout at a downtown lecture hall was modest—a result, perhaps, of a combination of inclement weather and a competing event: a rally protesting the arrest and trial of persons who participated in the rescue of a runaway slave captured in the village of Oberlin, twenty miles west of Cleveland.

  After his speech the old man was approached by the Cleveland Plain Dealer ’s city editor, whose pseudonym was Artemus Ward. Brown was familiar with the journalist, knew him to be cynical toward those who professed high-minded ideals. But, as had been the case since he began his crusade, Brown viewed the press as his ally. It was important his name and cause be placed before the public as often as possible—even if the result wasn’t always to his liking.

  “Well, Captain,” Ward queried, “do you intend to continue to drive proslavery settlers out of Kansas?”

  “I have never driven men out of Kansas,” Brown replied. “I believe in settling matters on the spot, using the enemy as I would fence stakes—driving them into the ground where they can become permanent settlers.”

  The journalist fought to suppress a smile. He said, “You know, of course, President Buchanan has put a price on your head.”

  “Two hundred fifty dollars,” Brown responded with feigned pride. “And I have put a price on his head.” He paused, then quipped, “Two dollars and fifty cents.”

  As they left the lecture hall and leaned into the gusts of a rainstorm, the old man turned to Kagi and Stevens and said, “I think Mr. Ward got what he came for.”

  The story appeared in the Plain Dealer the following day. “A man of pluck is Brown,” Ward wrote. “He shows it in his walk, talk, and actions. . . . A resolution approving his course in Kansas was introduced and adopted by the audience. He thanked the audience very sincerely, although he was perfectly sure his course was right all along.”

  The wagons and livestock had not yet arrived from Iowa when Brown left Cleveland and set out for the Ohio homesteads of sons John Jr. and Jason. Stevens went along, but Kagi—now a part-time correspondent for Greeley’s Tribune—stayed behind. He figured the Oberlin affair would be of interest to his abolitionist boss.

  Brown’s visit to Jason in Akron confirmed the old man’s expectations. Jason would have nothing to do with a plan to invade the South. He’d fought in Kansas but had no desire to continue to participate in his father’s war on slavery. Jason was a farmer, not a warrior. But steady, reliable Owen—who was helping Jason with the spring planting—said he would be ready when called.

  Brown and Stevens traveled next to Ashtabula County, east of Cleveland, to the home of John Jr. and his family. His eldest son told Brown that he—like his brother Jason—was no longer able to serve as a soldier in the old man’s antislavery campaign. He said he still hadn’t recovered from the physical and emotional wounds of Kansas, but he agreed to a noncombatant role. He’d oversee the storage and delivery of weapons and ammunition, assist in recruiting, and act as a liaison between Brown and his men—many of whom would be separated from their leader while final preparations for the invasion were completed.

  John Jr. then introduced his father to forty-four-year-old Dangerfield Newby, a recently manumitted slave whose wife and children were held in bondage in Warrenton, Virginia, forty miles south of Harpers Ferry. Newby was active in Underground Railroad activities but was hoping to find a way to free his family; he wanted Brown to know he was available for service. The old man told him that it would soon be possible to satisfy his wishes and that John Jr. would let him know when and where he was needed.

  When Brown and Stevens returned to Cleveland, Kagi had good news. The wagons had arrived. As soon as the guns could be delivered to John Jr., the wagons and livestock would be ready for auction. Kagi also had much to say about the trial of the thirty-seven professors and students from Oberlin College who had been charged under the Fugitive Slave Act with rescuing the runaway slave. The trial had attracted a crowd of almost twelve thousand antislavery protestors.

  Kagi said, “If the people of Ohio bespeak the attitude of the rest of the North, the time to strike a blow against slavery couldn’t be better than at this very moment.”

  Brown liked what Kagi had to say and gave him a vigorous nod of approval.

  “That’s not all, Captain. I’ve signed up two more men.”

  Kagi was referring to twenty-four-year-old Lewis Leary and Leary’s twenty-five-year-old cousin, John Copeland. Their parents were from North Carolina and had moved to Ohio in order to escape the racism they were subjected to as free blacks. Copeland attended Oberlin College, and Leary worked as a harness maker. When Kagi met them they were among the protestors supporting the rescuers of the runaway slave. They had read about Brown’s Kansas activities and were eager to join his company.

  “Tell them the call to action is close at hand,” Brown told Kagi. “They should take care to alert their families.”

  The sale of the wagons and livestock took place in front of a Cleveland hotel where Brown and his men had taken rooms. The old man was enjoying a rare period of extended good health and was decidedly optimistic about the future. His men sat on the steps of the hotel, ready to assist in the auction. Brown had shed his mantle of solemnity and seemed amused by the gaggle of prospective buyers assembled in the street.

  “Where’s the title to these horses?” someone shouted.

  “No title necessary,” Brown shouted back. “These animals are to me like slaves are to the Vermont judge who said he wouldn’t consider a slave as property until the owner produced a bill of sale from the Almighty.”

  Laughter.

  “You mean the horses come from slave country?”

  “They are good abolitionist horses now,” Brown declared. “I converted them.” When the auction concluded, Brown did well enough to send Mary a bank draft for $150.

  The respite from his illness, however, was short lived. The chills returned, along with the gathering in his head. When he resumed his journey, Bro
wn wasn’t traveling alone. At Kagi’s insistence, Jerry Anderson accompanied him to attend to his needs.

  While Brown and Anderson traveled to New York by rail, the men who remained behind—including Kagi and Stevens—found temporary jobs, as they had after the Chatham convention. They wouldn’t stray far from northeastern Ohio. The old man wanted to be able to muster them quickly.

  Before reaching the North Elba farm, Brown made two stops in western New York, the first at the Rochester printing shop of Frederick Douglass. Brown was still disturbed by the confrontation that took place in Detroit and didn’t want to jeopardize his relationship with the man he wanted with him when the invasion commenced. Douglass agreed to meet with him before the blow was struck.

  Brown next visited the Peterboro estate of his patron Gerrit Smith. At a gathering of abolitionists hosted by Smith, Brown told the story of the Missouri raid. It moved some to tears. Smith reiterated his faith in Brown and handed him $400, adding that he planned to raise several hundred more.

  Prospects for the future looked bright as Brown and Anderson left Smith’s mansion and boarded a train bound for Albany; from there they would travel north by boat before completing the final miles to North Elba on foot. Brown told Anderson that he longed for his family and the comfort of his remote community. He missed the mountains and forests of the Adirondacks.

  Now, lying on his back in the bedroom of the North Elba farmhouse, still in despair at having to be treated like the invalid he’d become, an anxious Brown stared at the ceiling. He could smell the aromas coming from the kitchen. Mary, with the help of the girls, was preparing the evening meal. Brown could hear the distant, rhythmic cracking of logs being split; Jerry Anderson was performing yet another task that allowed Mary to devote more time to her husband’s care. Brown appreciated Anderson’s help but didn’t like what it implied—that he was dependent on others. He hated being bedridden, rendered helpless by an affliction that struck with little warning. Especially since he was so close to carrying out the plan he’d been contemplating for twenty years. He now had the weapons he needed. George Stearns soon would supply him with the money he needed. And though he hoped to raise an army of one hundred soldiers, he wouldn’t be deterred if he had to carry on with a smaller force. After all, he’d declared publicly that a few good men in the right—and knowing they are—could overturn a king.

  He was glad he’d gotten commitments from Oliver and Watson, as well as son-in-law Henry Thompson’s brothers, Will and Dauphin. Neither his son Salmon nor Henry—both of whom fought in Kansas—could be persuaded to join him. Though Salmon still possessed the family’s antislavery fervor, he was skeptical about the old man’s ability as a tactician and even told Oliver to be aware of “Father’s insistence that everything should be arranged perfectly before making a move.” Salmon warned his brother, “Beware that his dalliances don’t get you trapped.”

  Confinement to his bed caused the old man much grief. He feared the delay his present infirmity produced might prompt his benefactors to abandon him. Already there had been too many delays. Sanborn wrote him that a member of the secret committee Brown deeply admired—Thomas Wentworth Higginson—was expressing doubts as to whether the old man would ever live up to his promises. Brown’s desire to strike a blow on Southern soil, in Higginson’s words, “had begun to seem rather chimerical.”

  “I am not dead yet,” the old man muttered as he pushed away the covers and forced his legs over the edge of the bed. The thump of his feet hitting the floor brought daughter Annie to the door.

  “Father,” she said, “you must not get up. You’re not well—”

  “Tell your mother I shall be eating her soup. I have been lying in this bed too long. Lazarus already had risen by now.”

  So saying, the old man willed his body to respond, refusing to allow Mary to assist as he struggled to dress himself.

  Later, at the kitchen table, they all joined hands—Mary, the three daughters, and Jerry Anderson. Brown asked his God to bless the food that had been set before them. He asked a special blessing for those held in bondage.

  Hardly a word was spoken during the meal. The old man swallowed only a few spoonfuls of Mary’s soup. He was still sick, but he wouldn’t allow himself the luxury of a lengthy recovery. Stearns was waiting for him in Boston. Cook was gathering intelligence in Virginia. John Jr. was guarding an arsenal of weapons and telling prospective recruits that an attack on Southern slaveholders was near. Kagi was in Cleveland, waiting to head south with the rest of the company as soon as the old man gave the order. And one thousand unfinished pikes were in the hands of toolmaker Charles Blair in Connecticut; Brown had no intention of leaving the pikes behind.

  It was early in the evening when the old man stood with Anderson in front of the North Elba farmhouse and gazed at Whiteface Mountain. The fading twilight had transformed remnants of ice and snow at the summit into patches of gold. It was a fleeting moment, and Brown had seen the spectacle before and wanted Anderson to witness it with him.

  “In four days, I shall reach my fifty-ninth year,” Brown said, his eyes still fixed on the mountain. “I am not afraid of dying. A man dies when his time comes. But I hold a commission from God Almighty to act against slavery, and much remains to be done.”

  11

  Four Months Later

  Late August 1859

  Southern Pennsylvania

  Brown sat on a stone slab on the floor of a limestone quarry that had been carved out of the wooded uplands on the outskirts of the town of Chambersburg. Steep walls rose from a basin strewn with rubble. At one end of the basin a pool of tepid water bloomed with green algae. Leaning against the slab were a Sharps carbine and a fishing pole. A blanket and a rucksack lay at the old man’s feet. Since the quarry hadn’t been worked for years, he felt it was remote and secluded enough for a meeting with Frederick Douglass. This was the meeting Douglass had agreed to attend when Brown was ready to launch his invasion.

  Douglass had arrived in Chambersburg by rail the previous morning. Traveling with him was Shields Green, the fugitive slave whose friendship Brown cultivated during the weeks he spent at Douglass’s Rochester home drafting a constitution for a provisional government. Douglass and Green were staying with Henry Watson, a local barber who let slip the fact that the acclaimed orator would be stopping in Chambersburg before returning to New York. A representative of the mayor had met Douglass’s train to welcome the distinguished visitor and invite him to speak at the town hall the following evening. Douglass accepted the invitation, hoping that in doing so there would be no questions asked about the reasons for his layover and the identity of his traveling companion.

  In the morning, before opening his shop, the barber led Douglass and Green to a gravel ramp, the quarry’s only entrance and exit. Douglass and Green descended to the quarry floor.

  Brown stepped forward to greet his visitors. His skin was pasty and deep lines were visible under a beard trimmed back from its former length. Beads of sweat clung to the ridges of his brow. Douglass presented the old man with an envelope containing some cash, a token of appreciation from a mutual friend in New York.

  In the sweltering August heat, surrounded by precipitous walls that shut off any hope of a cooling breeze, Douglass and Green sat down on a block of limestone and listened while Brown paced, detailing his plan for invading Virginia. High above, John Kagi patrolled the rim of the quarry, a carbine slung over his shoulder.

  As Brown spoke, Douglass seemed distracted, the expression on his face alternating between perplexity and exasperation.

  The old man stopped pacing. “It’s settled, Fred,” he declared. “I mean to take the armory at Harpers Ferry—the musket factory, the arsenal, the rifle works . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Douglass took out a handkerchief and blotted the moisture from his face. “Forgive me, John, but you’re still talking about attacking a federal installation.” A pause. “That’s insurrection.” Another pause. “That’s treason.”


  “Call it what you will,” Brown said. “I shall take Harpers Ferry. It was my hope that you would stand with me.”

  Douglass already had expressed doubts about Brown’s plan. And just days before his arrival in Chambersburg he’d made his feelings known again during a meeting he and Brown attended in Philadelphia, where Douglass had stopped to take part in an antislavery rally. Brown had gotten word of the rally and was concerned that such an event—so close in time and place to Harpers Ferry—would create a climate of suspicion that could jeopardize the invasion. His apprehension was confirmed when he got to Philadelphia in time to hear one of the rally’s leaders make a speech in which he claimed there was “a grand project afoot” involving an army of Northern blacks that soon would be marching south. When the rally was over, Brown and Douglass—along with several of Philadelphia’s most influential black citizens—sat down to talk. Brown expressed his concerns, then announced he was on the verge of executing a plan that would send fear into the hearts of slaveholders. To Brown’s chagrin, Douglass seemed indifferent and made no effort to endorse the plan. The old man returned to Chambersburg worried that the confidence of his Philadelphia allies had been shaken and their support compromised.

  Now, at the quarry, Douglass continued to question Brown’s judgment. “The measure you propose will be construed as an attack on the federal government,” Douglass insisted. “It will array the whole country against us—the North as well as the South.”

  Brown didn’t like defending the mission that represented his life’s calling, especially when the person challenging him was someone he thought shared his beliefs and trusted him. He said, “Maybe an attack on the government is just what this nation needs.”

  Douglass persisted. “I know nothing of the tactics of an armed incursion, but from what you’ve told me you will be entering a perfect steel trap. Once in, you’ll never get out alive.” He lifted his arm, made a sweeping motion, his fingers tracing the rim of the quarry. “This place is no different from where you are going. Here there are high walls; there you will be surrounded by mountains and hemmed in by water.”