by Herb Karl
Before going inside, the old man saw that the terraced hillside was alive with armed men. He knew the lower village soon would be overflowing with companies of militia.
There was nothing for him to do but wait.
Inside the engine room the hostages shivered. The liberated slaves continued gouging gun ports into the walls. The remaining able-bodied soldiers tended to their carbines, cleaning them as best they could and taking turns standing watch at the doors.
The old man tried to comfort Watson. The ball that entered his abdomen had pierced his bowel and infection had set in.
As Brown predicted, the militias poured into the village. The firehouse gradually was surrounded, though no attempt was made to launch an assault. The leaders apparently were content to seal off any possibility of escape.
Small arms fire continued to pepper the firehouse incessantly. An exasperated Edwin Coppoc was determined to retaliate. As he stood watch at one of the double doors, he spotted someone near the B&O water tower. “If that fellow keeps on peeking,” he said, “I’m going to shoot.”
Moments later the man stuck his head out and Coppoc fired. He didn’t know that he’d killed an unarmed Fontaine Beckham, the B&O stationmaster and mayor of the village.
Oliver, like Coppoc, had grown increasingly weary of the constant exploding of bricks and glass and the thumps of musket balls slamming into the engine room’s thick oak doors. The situation was made unbearable by the pleas of his dying brother. He was unable to help Watson and felt a nagging guilt whenever he heard his brother’s groans. When it was Oliver’s turn to stand watch at the door, he didn’t hesitate to react to a shooter taking aim at the firehouse from the railroad overpass. He stepped outside to get a clear view of his target but never had a chance to squeeze the trigger. A ball shattered his sternum, sending splinters of bone into vital organs. He was brought inside and placed alongside Watson. Oliver died a short while later.
Though the old man had accepted what was fast becoming a tragic outcome to his plan to free the slaves of Virginia, he was comforted by the belief that suffering was an integral part of his faith. He knelt beside Watson—who begged to be put out of his misery—and whispered, “You must have patience, my son. You will get well. But if you die, you will die for a glorious cause.” He brushed his lips against Watson’s forehead.
Meanwhile, the gunfire was increasing in intensity and volume. The hostages were braced against the back wall as the last fragments of glass from the transoms were blown away. Brown’s soldiers crouched low, as did the liberated slaves. The old man’s posture, however, was unchanged. He stood as erect as his body would allow.
When the barrage was all-consuming, when everyone inside the engine room was rendered immobile and talk was impossible, Brown made a mental inventory of the status of his twenty-one soldiers:
Dangerfield Newby—killed.
Oliver Brown—killed.
Stewart Taylor—killed.
Watson Brown—engine room, mortally wounded.
Aaron Stevens—Wager House, wounded.
And while he presumed Will Thompson was still alive, he wasn’t sure about Billy Leeman. Earlier, Jerry Anderson had told him Leeman was sickened by the killing of Newby and that, when the rest of the men retreated to the engine room, Leeman ran for the Potomac. As for the men stationed at the rifle works—Kagi, Leary, and Copeland—Brown could only guess their fate. The same was true of the men at the arsenal—Albert Hazlett and Osborne Anderson. And he knew nothing about the soldiers who were assigned the task of moving arms and equipment from the Kennedy farm to the schoolhouse. The rest—Shields Green, Jerry Anderson, Edwin Coppoc, and Dauphin Thompson—were the men with him who were still able to fight. Though there was much he didn’t know, the old man found satisfaction in having done his duty as commander in chief. He’d attempted to account for the whereabouts and condition of each of his soldiers.
The shooting never stopped, though it diminished as dusk approached, replaced in part by the wrath of angry villagers, their cursing inflamed by the free whiskey dispensed at the Galt saloon.
Darkness had come when Brown noticed the light from a lantern across the yard. A shadowy figure was moving near the warehouse where the old man had left his horse and wagon. Shields Green also saw the lantern; he stood at one of the gun ports and was taking aim when Brown called out, “Don’t shoot. That man is unarmed.”
Brown nudged the door open and gave a shout: “Halloo. You shan’t be harmed if you come forward.”
The man with the lantern took Brown at his word. He approached the door and said, “I am Captain Sinn, Sixteenth Regiment, Maryland Volunteers.”
The old man replied, “I am Osawatomie Brown of Kansas.”
19
Eight Hours Later
October 18, 1859
Harpers Ferry, Virginia
During the night a cold front pushed the rain south, leaving behind an icy fog that settled over the lower village. By 7 AM the fog began to lift.
In the firehouse’s engine room, the sunlight filtering through the shattered transoms did little to warm the occupants. For them, sleep had come in brief snatches. It wasn’t the cold that kept them awake but rather the knowledge that dawn promised a reckoning, a settling of accounts, a summation of costs incurred over the past thirty-three hours.
The previous evening Brown had been told by Captain J. T. Sinn—Sixteenth Regiment, Maryland Volunteers—that federal troops were on their way from Washington, DC, to quell the disturbance at Harpers Ferry. Sinn claimed there were enough volunteers already on hand to take care of the situation but officers in charge of the several militias deemed it prudent to wait for the professionals.
Brown had invited Sinn into the engine room, hoping an outsider would respond favorably to a proposal that had been rejected by the local citizens. “I’ve tried to negotiate a retreat from the village,” Brown told Sinn, “but the men I sent bearing a flag of truce were shot down like dogs.”
“You and your men must expect to be treated like dogs when you take up arms and violate the peace of those who mean you no harm.”
“I bear no malice toward the citizens of Harpers Ferry,” Brown protested. “My aim is—and always has been—to help the slaves of Virginia seek freedom.”
“Whatever your intention, you have killed people in this village, and the citizens are angry and would have revenge.” Sinn cocked his head, pointed a finger at one of the shattered transoms. “Listen,” he said.
Through the dark, glassless openings came the howling of the drunken mob, background noise to the occasional discharge of a firearm.
Brown said, “When I took possession of the village, I could have massacred the inhabitants—but I did not. I fought only those who fought me.”
“Not so,” Sinn replied. “A shot fired from this building killed an unarmed citizen, the mayor of the village . . . a man I am told was much loved.”
“If this is true,” Brown said, “it was a mistake and I regret it.”
Sinn said the shooting of Mayor Beckham had incited the most shocking acts of revenge. He told of a young man Brown deduced was Will Thompson, how he’d been cursed and dragged from the Wager House, executed, and tossed into the Potomac. He described another victim—in all likelihood Billy Leeman—who was shot in the face while attempting to swim across the river, then propped against the rocks and used for target practice by the militiamen on the covered bridge. Sinn recoiled as he told of the desecration of Dangerfield Newby’s dead body. “Disgraceful,” he said. “Some of the villagers cut off his ears as souvenirs.”
Brown listened, his eyes taking on a watery glaze.
Sinn said he’d been to the Wager House and seen Aaron Stevens lying on a bench, his head covered with blood. “They would have killed him too—had I not intervened. Some local boys were taunting him, threatening to shoot him, but he never flinched.”
And what about the rifle works? Did Sinn know anything about the men stationed at the rifle works?
“All dead. Except for a light-skinned Negro. They wanted to hang him on the spot, but a doctor came to his rescue. He’s in the custody of the sheriff.”
The occupants of the engine room were able to hear only fragments of the conversation.
“Before I came here,” Brown said, “I knew what I and my men might have to endure. I weighed the responsibility and did not shrink from it. I said if we must die, we die knowing our purpose is right.”
Sinn was mystified; he shook his head. “I confess I have no sympathy for the actions you’ve taken. Yet I regard you a brave man.”
Brown responded with the words he’d uttered many times: “I only claim to be doing my duty. To sit still and do nothing in the presence of the barbarities of American slavery is an eternal disgrace.”
Sinn didn’t argue the point. He operated a livery stable in Maryland and owned no slaves.
Brown moved to where Watson lay on the floor clenching his teeth, trying not to surrender to the pain. The old man knelt and took Watson’s hand, looked up at Sinn and said, “This is the third of my sons to have sacrificed for the cause of freedom. The first died in Kansas.” He eyed Oliver’s body. “Another lies here beside his brother.”
Sinn was moved by Brown’s words, saw the agony on Watson’s face. “Allow me to summon a doctor,” he said.
“I thank you for that,” Brown said. “My only request is that I be allowed to leave the village with all my men—living or dead. We shall take the hostages across the bridge, after which they will be set free.”
“I can guarantee nothing,” Sinn replied, “but I’ll make your wishes known.”
Sinn picked up his lantern, thought about reaching for Brown’s hand, decided against it, headed out the door into the cacophony of shouts and curses.
The old man knew another violent confrontation lay ahead. He unbuckled his belt and removed the scabbard holding the sword that once belonged to George Washington. He didn’t want harm to come to a relic that in his mind was a symbol of his nation’s struggle for freedom. He placed the sheathed sword on the sideboard of the bucket wagon. Before returning the belt to his waist, he shifted the ammunition pouch to its original position.
Shortly before midnight Captain Sinn reappeared. With him were a doctor and Sinn’s superior, Colonel Edward Shriver, the commander of the regiment of Maryland volunteers. While Sinn stood holding a lantern, the doctor opened his medical bag and examined Watson’s wound.
Colonel Shriver, meanwhile, introduced himself to Brown and told him straightaway that the militia leaders had denied his request for a negotiated retreat. Shriver said the lives of Brown and his men already were forfeited. He looked to the prisoners in the back of the room. “In light of present circumstances,” he told Brown, “I urge you to release these unoffending gentlemen you hold as hostages.”
“I have secured the hostages for the safety of my men and intend to use them accordingly,” Brown replied.
“I must warn you,” Shriver said, “this building will be taken at dawn. In order to ensure the safety of the hostages, we shall refrain from firing our muskets. We shall use only the bayonet.”
Brown showed no emotion. “I am prepared to die,” he said.
The doctor finished applying a gauze bandage to Watson’s wound. He stood and whispered something to Sinn, then walked to the door where Colonel Shriver waited. Before departing, Sinn paused to speak to Brown: “The doctor tells me your son’s condition is grave. He tried to staunch the bleeding and hopes to do more in the morning.”
Brown nodded. He knew what awaited him and his men. He also knew surrender wasn’t an option. The Lord had led him on a path of righteousness and he wouldn’t turn back. He thought of the words he’d spoken at the farmhouse in the presence of Owen: We have only one life to live and once to die. And if we lose our lives in this endeavor it will perhaps do more for our cause than our lives could be worth in any other way.
The old man wasted no time preparing a defense against a possible assault. He took a coil of rope from a fire wagon and handed it to Edwin Coppoc, told him to lash both sets of doors together. The two fire wagons were rolled to the front as obstacles to anyone attempting to breach the doors.
The four soldiers still fit for action—Coppoc, Shields Green, Dauphin Thompson, and Jerry Anderson—now bore the burden of defending a cause that seemed certain to deprive them of their young lives. It wasn’t surprising that at least one of them entertained thoughts of surrender. Such was the case with Dauphin Thompson, the younger brother of the man whose death was described by Captain Sinn. Dauphin had overheard a conversation between Brown and one of the hostages, the armory paymaster. The paymaster said Brown and his men were committing treason against Virginia and the United States.
Dauphin spoke up. “Is it true, Captain? Are we committing treason against our country by being here?”
There was a lull in activity as the occupants of the engine room—an audience composed of those who hated slavery as well as those who felt entitled to its beneficence—turned their attention to the challenge levied against the old man by one of his own.
After a long pause Brown said, “You must remember that it is the slaveholder who is committing treason.” Another pause. “Our nation was founded on the promise of freedom. By holding men and women in bondage, the slaveholder has declared war on the nation. If it be treason to take up arms to free the prisoners of that war, then our cause—no matter what others choose to call it—is right.”
Once again Brown had drawn on his powers of persuasion—with apparent success. His men, including young Dauphin, went back to work.
There was little talk during the few remaining hours before dawn. When preparations were completed, the only sounds heard inside the engine room were the groans of a dying Watson.
By seven o’clock what little sunlight that was able to penetrate the fog had filtered through the shattered transoms and partially illuminated the engine room’s dank interior. The hostages, numb from the cold, stood shivering against the back wall. The liberated slaves squatted behind the fire wagons. One of them—Jim—made it clear that if an attack came he would fight alongside Brown’s soldiers.
Even though the fog was lifting, the old man had decided that poor visibility made the gun ports unusable. He didn’t want harm to come to an unarmed person or someone not directly engaged in an attack. He told the men to train their weapons on the doors. The firepower of the Sharps carbines, he said, would discourage any attempt to gain entry.
Meanwhile, new sounds were coming from outside the firehouse. The bellowing of the drunken mob had been replaced by the assertive tones of voices issuing commands . . . the clamor of boots scuttling across the yard . . . the clash of metal on metal as bayonets were fixed to muskets.
Then silence.
With his carbine at the ready, Brown stood at one of the double doors. He nudged it until the ropes gave way and allowed him to peer through a narrow slit. He saw two figures emerge from the fog. They were walking toward him. One was clad in the uniform of a US cavalry officer, the other held a flag of truce.
The officer was J. E. B. Stuart, the young lieutenant who’d been present after the fighting at Black Jack Springs when Brown was forced to give up the supplies he’d confiscated from the militia leader Henry Clay Pate. Stuart had questioned the failure of his commander, Colonel E. V. Sumner, to arrest Brown and charge him with treason.
“Aren’t you old Osawatomie Brown of Kansas whom I once had there as my prisoner?” Stuart asked as he stood gazing at the bearded face.
“Yes,” Brown replied, “but you did not keep me.”
“This is a bad business you are engaged in,” Stuart said. Before the old man could respond, the lieutenant announced: “The United States troops have arrived, and I am sent to demand your surrender.”
“Upon what terms?”
Stuart explained that his commander had been assigned a company of ninety marines and was preparing to storm the engine r
oom. “If you lay down your arms,” he said, “my colonel will protect you and your men from the local citizens and guarantee you a fair trial by the civil authorities.”
“I cannot agree to such terms,” Brown replied. “You must tell your colonel that I should be allowed to leave this place with my men and the hostages. After we cross the river, I shall release the hostages. The colonel and his troops would then be free to pursue me.”
“I have no authority to agree to such an arrangement,” Stuart said. “My orders are to demand your surrender on the terms I’ve stated.”
“Well,” Brown said, “rather than hanging by a rope elsewhere, I prefer to die just here.”
“Is that your final answer?”
“As I said, I prefer to die just here.”
Stuart bowed and turned to leave.
From the back of the room Lewis Washington called out to the lieutenant. “Sir, you must arrange a meeting between Captain Brown and your colonel. Surely they will be able to settle this affair peaceably.”
“My colonel will never accede to any terms but those he has offered,” Stuart replied, then added, “You needn’t worry about your safety and that of the other hostages. I assure you it shan’t be compromised.”
Brown pulled the door shut. He wasn’t aware Stuart had given his colonel a prearranged signal, letting him know the terms of surrender had been rejected. The colonel—a fifty-two-year-old career army officer from Virginia, Robert Edward Lee—directed the leader of the marines to begin the assault.
20
One Minute Later
October 18, 1859
Harpers Ferry, Virginia
Brown had positioned himself between the two fire wagons. To his left—under the suction engine—lay the bodies of Stewart Taylor and Oliver. To his right—under the bucket wagon—lay Watson, quietly praying for his death. Brown shouted some words, but they were drowned in the pounding of sledgehammers. Meanwhile, the door at which the old man had met Lieutenant Stuart shivered with each blow, the strands of rope absorbing most of the force.