by Herb Karl
Brown, meanwhile, talked about the many visitors—other than the journalists—who were allowed to see him during his confinement. The first of these was Judge Thomas Russell and his wife, the couple that once offered their Boston home as a hideout when Brown was being pursued by federal marshals. Mrs. Russell, Brown said, mended his coat and sent it out to be cleaned. He said Judge Russell inspected the cell’s large fireplace, making note of the fact that the chimney was wide enough for a man get to the roof if he ever had a desire to do so.
There also had been a visit from abolitionist Rebecca Spring and her son. Mary was acquainted with Mrs. Spring, having stayed overnight with her and her family at their home in Perth Amboy, New Jersey. In an effort to lighten the mood of what he perceived was becoming a much too somber occasion, Brown told Mary that Mrs. Spring’s son had asked him how it felt to face so many life-and-death situations. “I told him I have been more afraid of being taken into an evening party of ladies and gentlemen than of meeting a company of men with guns.”
Mary, however, couldn’t conceal her discomfort when Brown turned to the subject of his death and the disposition of his remains. He began to detail an elaborate plan that would require her to see to the cremation of his body—along with the bodies of Watson and Oliver and the Thompson boys, Will and Dauphin. Brown wanted her to return their ashes to North Elba for burial.
Mary interrupted him. “Let us speak no more on this subject.” It had been only a few short weeks since she’d grieved with her sons’ young widows—Oliver’s pregnant wife, Martha, and Watson’s Isabella, the mother of a boy not yet a year old. She had no desire to discuss a matter that had been so painful to her. Besides, she’d already been told by Governor Wise that the Commonwealth of Virginia would handle arrangements following the execution.
“Well, do not fret about it,” Brown said. “I thought the plan would save considerable expense and was for the best.”
Because he didn’t want Mary to go back to North Elba with the slightest doubt about how he felt about the outcome of the invasion, Brown said, “You must trust that those who were slain have not died in vain. A merciful God will not allow the sacrifices of our family to be lost.” He told her that his mission was not the failure it appeared to be and that what took place at Harpers Ferry would one day be heralded as a most glorious success. “Let none of our family feel ashamed on my account,” he said, “for I shall be able to recover all my lost capital in this affair by hanging only a few moments by the neck.”
“Husband,” she said resolutely, “it is a hard fate.”
Her words weren’t spoken out of self-pity but rather revealed a resilience born of devotion to her husband and his cause. The years of separation, the burden of caring for the children in his absence, the tragedies that had befallen the family, had only made her stronger. She harbored no regrets, as a weaker woman might, that she hadn’t enjoyed a life bespeaking the comforts of a happy home, of a husband content to live an ordinary life, of children who would grow to adulthood free of a sense of duty thrust upon them. Instead, her husband had followed a path that required great sacrifices. Though Mary didn’t feel obliged to share his certainty about God’s intentions, she—like the rest of the family—knew her husband’s cause was right, and that was enough.
Brown shuffled to the table and picked up one of the newspapers. “Do you remember when I said it is my duty to awaken the nation?” he asked, holding the paper aloft.
Of course she had. At every stop on her journey to Charles Town, she’d been handed newspapers reminding her of his pronouncement. When she arrived in Boston in the company of Higginson, the people were talking about a lecture by Henry David Thoreau delivered just days earlier and printed in several newspapers. Thoreau’s address was the first to extol Brown’s invasion as an example of civil disobedience, a courageous act designed to restore the nation to the principles on which it was founded, an act in which violence was justified. A week later, at Lucretia Mott’s home in Philadelphia, Mary was handed a copy of the Liberator, William Lloyd Garrison’s abolitionist newspaper; it contained a report of a speech made by Ralph Waldo Emerson, a man whose status as a cultural spokesman extended far beyond Massachusetts. Emerson had echoed Thoreau’s sentiments and created a furor when he called Brown “a new saint, awaiting yet his martyrdom and who, if he shall suffer, will make the gallows glorious like the cross.” By the middle of November, while she was still in Philadelphia waiting for confirmation of her visit to Charles Town, she picked up a copy of Greeley’s New York Tribune and found herself absorbed in reading an exchange of letters between Virginia’s Governor Wise and Lydia Maria Child, the novelist and activist from Massachusetts, who listed abolitionism as one of her several causes. The letters were published in the form of a debate on slavery and Brown’s right to attack it. The debate tweaked the consciences of Northern readers and infuriated Southerners who read the reprints in their local papers.
Mary was aware of all this when she replied to the question Brown posed: “Yes, husband. I remember what you said.”
“Well,” Brown declared, “the journalists are sounding the trumpet.” He paused before adding, “God smiles on the journalists.”
Not all the newspapers stacked on the table were as kind to Brown as those handed to Mary during her journey to Charles Town. Most of them excoriated him for his failed invasion. The paper he held aloft was a copy of the Nashville Whig; it contained a story warning its readers that what happened at Harpers Ferry “will be but a preface to the history of a civil war in which the same scenes will be re-enacted on a larger scale and end in the dissolution of our glorious Union.”
The stance taken by newspapers toward his invasion didn’t bother Brown. All that mattered was that the messages sent to readers either created fear in the hearts of slaveholders, awakened the nation’s citizens to the principles contained in the Declaration of Independence, or reminded those of the Christian faith of their obligation to do unto others as they would have others do unto them.
During the twenty-nine days since his conviction the old man had read enough to convince him he’d succeeded in accomplishing his purpose. The fact that he’d captured the imaginations of Thoreau, Emerson, and Mrs. Child—who, with a few others, were doing their best to transform him from a pariah into a hero—was an unexpected bonus.
The sun had set when General William Taliaferro—Governor Wise’s choice to command the military forces in Jefferson County—arrived at the jail on horseback. Taliaferro and his company were to take Brown to the gallows in the morning.
24
Minutes Later
December 1, 1859
Charles Town, Virginia
Brown and Mary were sitting on a sofa in the jailor’s parlor, having just finished sharing supper with Avis and his wife, when General Taliaferro was ushered in by Mrs. Avis.
Though his principal job was to convey Brown to the site of the execution, Taliaferro was also charged with ensuring Mary’s safe return to Harpers Ferry, where she was to wait for the delivery of the coffin containing her husband’s body.
Brown was aware that his visit with Mary was about to end, but it didn’t dissuade him from standing and making an impassioned plea. “General,” he said, “I ask that you allow my wife to remain with me this evening—that we may spend these few remaining hours together.”
The response of the thirty-six-year-old black-bearded general—who would one day forge a reputation as an uncompromising disciplinarian—was swift and stern. “Out of the question. You already have been granted more time than allowed by the governor.”
For an awkward moment there was the expectation of a rare burst of anger from Brown. But it didn’t come, and he said, “Then surely the governor will allow the condemned prisoner to spend these last minutes with his wife—alone.”
The general nodded to the jailer and Mrs. Avis, then turned to Mary. “The carriage will be waiting for you, Mrs. Brown.” He looked to the old man. “I advise you not to ke
ep the driver waiting. It is a dangerous time to be traveling—even with an armed escort.” He turned smartly and left the apartment.
Captain Avis and his wife excused themselves, and the Browns were alone in the parlor. The old man appreciated the general’s warning and didn’t want to delay Mary’s return to the Ferry. He rose and held out his hands, and she grasped them tightly. He told her he’d be grateful to live longer but that it was his fate to be murdered for a good cause and he was quite ready to die. Mary appeared on the verge of tears. He told her to cheer up, that his spirit soon would be with her. Then he implored her to gather the children together in North Elba. “Impress upon them,” he said, “the importance of inculcating in each succeeding generation the principles that have guided our family.” He pointed to a bundle of papers that sat on the floor beside the sofa. “Those are the letters I have collected since my arrest. Perhaps they can be put to some good use.”
There was a knock on the door and the jailer and his wife entered the room.
“God bless you, Mary,” Brown said, releasing her hands, “and God bless the children.”
“And may God have mercy on you, my husband,” she replied. She picked up the bundle of letters, and Mrs. Avis led her to the waiting carriage.
Brown looked to the jailer and requested the time of his execution.
“Tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock,” Avis replied.
“Well,” Brown said, “I must get to work. I have more letters to write.”
“I’ll not shackle you this evening,” Avis said, tossing the leg irons to the floor, “although I am ordered to do so by the governor.”
“I thank you, Captain Avis. You are indeed a man of goodwill, and you shall have my gratitude to the end.”
Back in his cell, Brown sat down at the table—now cleared of the mound of newspapers—and turned up the wick of the coal oil lamp. He began to write a letter to Mary Stearns, the wife of the most generous of his secret benefactors. The letter concluded: “I have asked to be spared from having any mock or hypocritical prayers made over me when I am publicly murdered and that my only attendants be poor little, dirty, ragged, bare-headed slave boys and girls led by some old grey-headed slave mother.”
He finished another letter, his last to his family, and lay down on his cot fully clothed. Surprisingly, sleep came quickly.
Brown didn’t stir until the bars of the cell’s only window were projected on the wall by the first rays of sunlight. The morning was cool but not exceptionally so, and the old man made no attempt to rekindle a fire. He went straight to his table and resumed writing. He wasn’t aware that a tray containing a cup of hot tea and some biscuits had been slipped under the door—along with a pair of crimson slippers.
By nine o’clock he’d already met with a lawyer and made out his will. There was a gentle rapping on the door’s iron bars followed by the jailer’s voice. “A minister is here, Captain Brown. Do you wish to see him?”
Brown got up from the table and went to the door. He was wearing his new slippers.
In the doorway, standing next to Avis, was a man attired in the dark suit of the clergy. “I am Reverend Wilson,” the man said. “I have come to offer a prayer for your salvation.”
Brown asked, “Do you believe in slavery, Reverend Wilson?”
“I do,” the minister said, “under the present circumstances.”
“Then I thank you to retire from my sight. Your prayers would be an abomination to my God, and I shan’t bend my knees in prayer with anyone whose hands are stained with the blood of slaves.”
Reverend Wilson was speechless. He hadn’t anticipated having to defend the merits of holding human beings in bondage. Avis took him by the arm and led him away.
Shortly after the minister’s departure, the jailer returned with a half dozen armed guards. Brown was busy writing. “I’m sorry to say the time has come,” Avis said, unlocking the cell door. “General Taliaferro and his soldiers are here.”
Brown gathered up the several letters he’d written and gave them to Avis to be posted, then reached under his cot and pulled out a glossy black, broad-brimmed slouch hat. He placed it on his head and followed the jailer into the corridor, where the guards waited.
“May I have a last word with my men, Captain Avis?”
The jailer unlocked the cells containing the six prisoners. John Cook and Edwin Coppoc were together in one cell, Shields Green and John Copeland in another, Aaron Stevens and Albert Hazlett in a third. Brown had a brief dispute with Cook, having already expressed disappointment that Cook was the only one of the soldiers to submit a “confession” to his captors. And Brown made a point of ignoring Hazlett, who had been captured under the alias William Harrison; the old man had hopes that Hazlett might eventually be exonerated. To each of the rest Brown gave a coin, something tangible to remind them of their loyalty to him and his cause. Then he told them to meet their fate with courage and dignity.
The last soldier Brown approached was Stevens. “Good-bye, Captain,” Stevens said as they embraced. “I know you are going to a better land.”
“I know I am,” Brown replied.
The men returned to their cells.
In the corridor stood one of the guards with a coil of rope that was to be used to secure Brown’s arms.
The old man reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded note, and handed it to the guard, who took the note, slipped it into his coat, and began the task of lashing Brown’s arms behind his back.
It was almost ten thirty when Brown was led by Avis and the guards onto the plank sidewalk outside the jail. The Jefferson County sheriff, James Campbell, stood beside a furniture wagon to which was harnessed a pair of white horses.
The street was bustling with foot soldiers and cavalry, among them General Taliaferro, who guided his mount toward those assembled on the sidewalk in front of the jail. He greeted them with a perfunctory salute.
Brown was amused by all the activity in the street—the mass of cavalry and foot soldiers being organized into a formation for the march to the site of the hanging. He looked up at the general and said, “I had no idea Governor Wise considered my execution so important.”
Taliaferro gave a nod, turned his horse, and began shouting orders. He was intent on providing maximum security along the route, which terminated at an open field outside the town where the scaffold had been erected.
Because his arms were bound, Brown needed the assistance of Avis and Sheriff Campbell to climb onto the wagon. All three men had seated themselves on Brown’s coffin as the driver, an undertaker named Sadler, gave the reins a shake. The wagon moved forward.
Taliaferro, meanwhile, deployed his foot soldiers in a double column, one on either side of the wagon. He’d split the cavalry into two units—one in front, the other to the rear.
It was an extraordinary December morning—the sun radiant, the temperature cool but not unpleasant, and not a trace of haze. The mountains to the east rose clear and sharp against a brilliant blue, cloudless sky.
There was little talk among the occupants of the wagon, though Brown offered his observations of the countryside as the procession reached the rolling farmland beyond the town. “This is a beautiful country,” he said. “I never had the pleasure of seeing it before.”
“Yes, it is,” Avis replied.
“It is the more beautiful to behold,” said Brown, “because I have so long been shut from it.”
The wagon, with its retinue of foot soldiers and cavalry, neared a broad, undulating field littered with the brown stubble of harvested cornstalks. Militiamen clad in the colorful uniforms of their respective units had been formed into a large square, three ranks deep. On a mound in the center of the square stood the scaffold. There were perhaps a thousand soldiers in the formation, the bayonets of their muskets glittering in the sun.
A cannon manned by cadets from the Virginia Military Institute was situated inside the formation. By order of Governor Wise, the cannon was pointed directly at the sc
affold. Wise still feared that a massive plot was underway to stage a last-minute rescue, and in anticipation of such a possibility, the cannon was loaded with grapeshot. Other cannons were placed outside the square, all under the command of Thomas J. Jackson—a VMI instructor who would one day come to be known as “Stonewall.” Another notable who participated in the hanging was Edmund Ruffin, a wealthy Virginia plantation owner, slaveholder, and notorious fire-eater who had long argued for the South’s secession from the Union. The sixty-five-year-old Ruffin had donned the uniform of a VMI cadet so he could witness the execution up close. Also among the troops was a handsome twenty-one-year-old wearing the uniform of the militia he’d recently joined, the Richmond Greys. The young man was just beginning to establish a reputation as an actor. His name was John Wilkes Booth.
Cavalry patrolled the field and the neighboring hills and woods, while sentries manned a perimeter outside the formation—precautions taken to ensure sufficient warning in the event of a rescue attempt. Governor Wise had declared the execution site off limits to all civilians, yet members of the press, some prominent local citizens, and visitors from out of town were gathered on the public road to see the prisoner as he approached the gallows.
General Taliaferro waved off the spectators as he led the wagon and his soldiers onto the field and marched them toward the formation. The ranks parted to allow the wagon and soldiers to pass through. As the ranks closed, Taliaferro ordered his officers to assemble his foot soldiers and cavalry and redeploy them to predetermined positions.
The wagon came to a halt. Brown was the first to drop to the ground. Though his arms were bound, it was much easier for him to exit the wagon than it had been to get on board. He moved briskly toward the scaffold.
Spectators were surprised at the old man’s agility as he ascended the thirteen steps to the platform. He was followed by Captain Avis and Sheriff Campbell, the latter having taken a moment to remove a hatchet from the wagon bed.