by Herb Karl
He said to Watson, “We will give the troops on the bridge a warm reception.” Then to Stevens, “We will hold on to our positions. If we cannot bring our adversaries to terms, we will die like men.”
Any symptoms of illness or anxiety had disappeared. Brown’s raspy voice spit out orders. The men posted outside the musket factory’s gate were to be brought in immediately. Stevens was to fetch the men patrolling Shenandoah Street while Jerry Anderson and Watson rounded up those stationed at the arsenal and the covered railroad bridge. It was too late to warn Kagi at the rifle works.
They came on the run, black men and white, clutching Sharps carbines. Some found it difficult to keep up with the old man as he led them down Potomac Street toward the Galt saloon. He positioned them at the corners of shops, had them kneel behind the steps of elevated porches. Instead of hiding them behind trees bordering a river—as he had at Osawatomie—he made use of any kind of cover and concealment available along the cobbled street.
The drumming of boots on the bridge’s plank roadway grew louder.
There was scarcely enough time for him to call out his final instructions. “Wait for my command before you shoot,” he shouted.
As the old man spoke, a company of fifty men emerged from the railroad bridge and turned onto Potomac Street. They marched in unison, five ranks deep, ten men abreast, muskets shouldered. The first two ranks completed the turn and came on line.
Brown stepped into the street from behind the tobacco shop—the same tobacco shop over which resided Dr. John Starry, the person responsible for mustering the company of Charles Town militiamen that now marched on Potomac Street.
The appearance of the bearded old man—unarmed except for the sword he held at his side—brought the company to a halt. The first rank dropped to a kneeling position, muskets ready. The men behind moved their muskets to the shooting position and remained standing.
Whether the first shots fired by the militiamen were intended as a warning, or whether the shooters were simply unnerved by the old man’s disregard for his own safety, is unclear. When the smoke from their muskets thinned, Brown was still standing.
He raised the sword that once belonged to George Washington and gave the order to commence firing. From their scattered positions his soldiers responded with a volley that drove the militiamen back to the covered bridge.
The superior firepower of the breech-loading Sharps carbines blunted several more assaults, but it was evident that numbers alone would eventually favor the militia. The skirmish came to an abrupt conclusion with the arrival of rain. Not the cold drizzling rain that had fallen at intervals throughout the morning, but a sudden downpour that threatened to dampen the ammunition of combatants on both sides.
For the exhausted militiamen it was an excuse to remain inside the covered railroad bridge or move their wounded to the less toxic environment of the Wager House.
Brown had no choice but to order his men to fall back to the firehouse. The rain-soaked wool ponchos had become a burden and were shed by those who still wore them.
18
Minutes Later
October 17, 1859
Harpers Ferry, Virginia
In the semi-darkness of the firehouse’s engine room, Brown’s soldiers—drenched and cold—leaned their carbines against the fire wagons. They checked their ammunition pouches for wet cartridges. The old man was relieved that no one complained of wounds, but he was puzzled that the only black men present were Osborne Anderson, Dangerfield Newby, and Shields Green. Where were the runaways? Brown recalled placing at least a half dozen on Potomac Street. He would have known if any were killed or wounded. Had they judged the invasion doomed? The words of Frederick Douglass echoed in his ears: If you fail it will be fatal to all engaged. But it will be worse for those you liberate. For them, death will be a welcome deliverance from the wrath of their masters.
Brown was again faced with conditions he hadn’t foreseen. Even with Sharps carbines, he couldn’t expect the soldiers gathered in the engine room to chase the militiamen from the railroad bridge. They could simply pull back to the other side of the Potomac, take cover, and pick off his men as they attempted to leave the bridge. Besides, he wouldn’t consider making a break without John Kagi, John Copeland, and Lewis Leary—still at the rifle works awaiting his orders. And he was unwilling to abandon Owen and the men moving arms and equipment to the schoolhouse. As he pondered the situation, Dauphin Thompson came from the watch room and told him the prisoners offered no resistance during the fighting even though they were forced to share close quarters with the slaves guarding them.
The old man had another decision to make. If he was going to use the prisoners to negotiate a retreat, he had to do it now. But before beginning the negotiations, he wanted to bargain from what he considered a position of strength. He wanted to be able to tell those with whom he’d be negotiating that he still occupied the armory.
The rain had stopped and there was no indication the company holding the covered railroad bridge was preparing for another attack. So Brown told Osborne Anderson and Albert Hazlett to go back to the storage building at the arsenal and wait for further orders. Then he turned to Newby and Leeman and told them to take a position outside the fence that surrounded the arsenal grounds—a position where they could observe activity on Shenandoah Street between the wagon bridge and the musket factory. Shields Green stepped forward and volunteered to go along, and Brown approved. He’d grown to appreciate the zeal of Green, whose hatred of slavery was as profound as his own. And to make sure the soldiers at the rifle works were aware of what was happening, Brown sent Jerry Anderson with yet another message for Kagi: he was to remain at the works until arrangements for the retreat were completed. The rest of the soldiers—including those formerly posted on the covered bridge—were to take defensive positions along the musket factory’s iron-picketed fence.
Brown took Aaron Stevens aside, told him he needed a few minutes alone. Stevens could see the signs of fatigue on the old man’s face but reminded him, “We need to move quickly, Captain.”
With his head down and his torso bent forward in the familiar pose, the old man headed for the covered wagon he’d driven from the Maryland farmhouse. He pulled back a canvas flap and peered into the wagon’s bed. The extra carbines and pikes had already been moved to the engine room. The torches and tools remained, but they were of no use to him now.
He lifted the lid from a wicker basket filled with oats, scooped up a handful, and walked to where the horse he called Dolly was harnessed to the wagon. He’d given her the same name as the horse that took him to Kansas, and he’d grown as fond of the new Dolly as he had the old. They had made many journeys together since his arrival in Maryland. She was a small but strong horse and as tenacious as Brown. He saw that her coat was wet and matted. For more than fourteen hours she’d withstood the rain, the cold, and the occasional bursts of small arms fire. The old man extended his hand with the oats. She ate. He took her halter and gave a gentle tug, then led her across the musket factory’s yard until they reached a vacant area between a warehouse and a forging shop where there was a tub used by blacksmiths to quench hot metal. The tub was filled with water, and Brown felt it would be a good place to leave Dolly and the wagon—until he was ready and able to retreat from the village.
By the time Brown returned to the firehouse, the ten hostages he’d selected earlier had been transferred to the engine room—a dark place where the only natural light came from high, arched transoms. Still, the old man felt it wasn’t as vulnerable to an attack as the watch room with its large, mullioned windows.
Even with the removal of the hostages from the watch room, twenty prisoners remained penned inside. Dauphin Thompson secured the door before he and the slaves guarding the prisoners joined the others in the engine room.
As the hostages huddled together, Brown said, “Gentlemen, perhaps you wonder why I’ve selected you from the rest. It is because I believe you to be the most influential. And I
have only to say now that you will have to share precisely the same fate that your friends extend to me and my men.”
Brown intended to tell the hostages what was in store for the prisoners still confined in the watch room—that he planned to release them as soon as he felt it feasible to do so—but he was distracted by a volley of gunshots, apparently fired at some distance from the firehouse. Brown and Stevens stepped outside to assess the situation. The shooting had stopped and was replaced by the clatter of boots striking the cobbled pavement outside the gate to the musket factory.
Jerry Anderson, Shields Green, and Billy Leeman were running toward the gate. They were breathing with difficulty when Brown and Stevens met them.
Anderson spoke first: “They’re everywhere, Captain . . . Couldn’t get near the works.” He paused to take a deep breath. “I fear it is all over for Kagi and his men.”
Stevens was concerned about the missing soldier: “What about Newby?”
“Dead, sir,” Anderson replied grimly, then looked to Green before adding, “But his murderer is no more. Green here made sure work of it.”
Brown pressed his lips together. It crossed his mind that Newby may have been the first of his soldiers to be killed in the line of duty. Whatever the case, the old man was now resigned to the fact that his invasion was no longer the one he’d planned at the Maryland farmhouse.
Stevens, realizing the urgency of the situation, looked to Brown. “Captain,” he said, “we’ll need the men stationed at the arsenal.”
Before Brown could reply, more gunfire crackled in the distance. Then, as though the shots were a signal, the hillside above the musket factory erupted in muzzle flashes. Brown and his soldiers found themselves caught in a hailstorm of lead balls.
The old man made no attempt to take cover, nor did he tell anyone else to do so. He stood erect and quite still—as though he were in no danger—while bullets burrowed into the firehouse’s brick walls and shattered the transoms.
“Run, boys!” Stevens shouted. He grabbed Brown by the arm, dragging him along. As the last man heaved himself inside the engine room, Stevens pulled the heavy doors shut.
In the dimly lit space, amid the glut of wagons and firefighting equipment—with musket balls pecking at the walls and shards of glass cascading from the transoms—stood a knot of humanity: ten hostages, four liberated slaves, nine of Brown’s soldiers. With the exception of Stevens, who still held his captain by the arm, the eyes of everyone—soldiers, hostages, liberated slaves—were fixed on the old man, expecting him to announce their collective fate . . . or at least bring order to a situation that seemed to be devolving into chaos.
Though he couldn’t help sensing the tension that filled the room, Brown felt strangely removed from it, almost as if he were outside looking in, a spectator rather than a participant. Yes, he was trapped. Yes, he was unable to cut his way out against a superior force. Yes, he’d lost men—Newby and possibly others at the rifle works and the arsenal. But he refused to believe his God had abandoned him.
He pulled his arm from Stevens’s grip. “We must not despair,” he said, the words intended only for Stevens. “We shall continue to do our duty. We can only trust the Lord to reveal the true purpose of this time of tribulation.”
When Brown spoke next, his voice was strong and steady and aimed at the hostages: “We shall soon discover if those shooting at us have any regard for the lives of their fellow citizens.”
The old man surveyed the room, aware for the first time of Billy Leeman’s absence. No matter. He’d inquire about him later. First, though, he had a request for the hostages. He asked for a volunteer to carry a message into the street.
An elderly gentleman—Reason Cross—stepped forward, claimed he was sure to be recognized as a longtime resident of the village. Brown nodded, then asked for a volunteer among his own men to accompany Cross. All were willing, but Brown picked Will Thompson.
The old man’s message to his adversaries was simple: His soldiers—wherever they happened to be located—were to be allowed to return safely to the musket factory, after which he’d load his wagon with the hostages. Soldiers and hostages would then proceed across the railroad bridge until they reached the Maryland side of the Potomac, where the hostages would be released; he’d take his chances against anyone pursuing him.
With Will holding a pike flagged with a white handkerchief, he and Cross left the engine room. The gunfire subsided. Brown peered out the partially opened door as the two men passed through the gate and moved onto Potomac Street.
Seconds later the shooting resumed.
Brown turned around and saw that the hostages had separated themselves and were clustered against the back wall. He said to them, “It seems your friends do not hold your lives so dearly.” He would have said more had Stevens not interrupted, insisting he be sent out immediately—this time in the company of a hostage who was sure to be treated in a civilized manner. Stevens pointed to the acting superintendent of the armory. Stevens was angry, said he’d take Kitzmiller and wouldn’t hesitate to use his Sharps carbine on anyone, including the acting superintendent.
Watson, disturbed by what might have happened to Will, told Brown he intended to go along. He reminded his father that Will was the brother of his new wife and was therefore part of his family.
Stevens was barely able to hold his anger in check. He shoved Kitzmiller out the door. The acting superintendent dug into his pocket for a handkerchief—waved it frantically as Stevens prodded him with the barrel of his carbine. Watson—also armed with a carbine—walked close behind. The three men disappeared beyond the gate.
As Brown paced nervously inside the engine room, gunfire once again broke out, this time in concert with angry shouts.
Then, as though on cue, the sky darkened and once more a hard rain fell. The gunfire ceased.
Though Brown had kept his emotions under control throughout the morning and early afternoon, his patience finally reached the breaking point. He startled everyone in the engine room as he raised his voice and declared: “I had it in my power to destroy this place in half an hour—but I would not do it. It was not my aim. Now my attempts to leave peaceably are ignored.” He eyed the eight remaining hostages and said, “It distresses me that I can no longer assure your safety. You must protect yourself as best you can.”
Oliver approached his father, pleading that he be allowed to look for Watson. The old man refused, afraid his youngest son would become yet another casualty.
With the prospect of a negotiated retreat unlikely, Brown prepared for the fight he knew was coming. He told the men to take the axes and picks from the fire wagons and dig gun ports into the brick walls. The extra carbines were to be loaded and placed alongside the gun ports. When the attackers came, the old man wanted to be able to maintain continuous fire while the carbines were being reloaded. He cautioned his soldiers not to shoot anyone unarmed.
As the men began the work, a groan came from the yard. It was barely audible above the steady tapping of rain on the firehouse’s slate roof. Oliver didn’t bother to ask his father’s permission; he rushed outside and returned seconds later with his brother draped over his shoulders. Oliver gently laid a bleeding Watson on the floor.
Brown hovered over his wounded son, found the hole where a ball had penetrated his abdomen. The old man knew that even with medical attention the wound would cause much pain and suffering. Death would come slowly.
In a weak voice, Watson said, “They gave no quarter, Father.”
“And Captain Stevens?”
Watson had to muster the strength to respond. “In the street, Father.”
They lifted Watson and placed him under the larger of the two fire wagons. The old man removed his son’s coat and spread it over him, told him to rest.
One of the hostages—a young shopkeeper named Joseph Brua—offered to make another attempt to deliver Brown’s message. The old man declined, said there was no guarantee Brua wouldn’t be shot by his own people.
But the shopkeeper persisted, even swore to return to the engine room after he told Brown’s adversaries they were endangering the lives of the hostages. Brown reluctantly nodded his approval.
The rain had slackened by the time Brua returned. While he hadn’t been able to persuade the leaders of the militia to accept Brown’s demands, he was able to get help transporting a severely injured Aaron Stevens from the street to the parlor of the Wager House.
“He is a very fortunate to be alive,” Brua said. “His wounds would have snuffed out the life of someone of a lesser constitution.”
The attack the old man anticipated finally came, though not from the direction he expected. Dauphin Thompson was standing watch at the door when he saw men approaching from the opposite end of the yard. Carrying shotguns and pistols, they were marching down the alley between the workshops and mills.
Brown would learn later they were railroad men—conductors and freight handlers from Martinsburg, one of the towns alerted by John Starry.
The old man was now down to only six able-bodied soldiers. He told each man to take two carbines and form an irregular line outside the firehouse. They were joined by one of the liberated slaves—Allstadt’s coachman, Jim.
The railroad men charged the firehouse but weren’t prepared for the firepower of the Sharps carbines. The clash was intense but brief. A third of the railroad men suffered wounds and were forced to withdraw—but not before they broke the watch room’s mullioned windows, freeing the prisoners Brown planned to eventually release.
When the Martinsburg troop retreated, Brown discovered his only casualty was Stewart Taylor—the Spiritualist from Canada who believed it was his destiny to be killed in action. He was shot in the throat and died almost instantly. The freed slave Jim had carried his body into the engine room.