by Джон Джейкс
"Oh, I suppose not."
He'd won. Not a victory. Merely a reprieve.
The night was even more unhappy for Billy than for Brett. Sleep refused to come, and he was troubled by depressing thoughts about Orry's rejection; sectional animosities and the possibility of a war; even by memories of a nearly incomprehensible warning from George. A warning which he had just remembered. It involved some crazed Army officer who hated all the Hazards, God alone knew why. His brother had even suggested the officer might pose a threat to him, somehow.
Well, he had neither time nor inclination to take that kind of thing seriously — or even remember it on any occasion except a gloomy one like this. No, not when he had Brett to fret and dream about.
Three days later, on a Thursday, Billy saw the visitors aboard an eastbound train.
Orry had said little to the young officer after their near quarrel. Now, standing beside their coach, he realized this was his last opportunity to go beyond cool, empty pleasantries, to make Billy feel better.
He grabbed Billy's hand to shake it. That helped disarm him. Then Orry surprised him by smiling.
"I think you and Brett could weather almost any storm together. Just give me a month or so to convince myself, eh?"
"You mean we can —"
Orry raised his hand to interrupt. "No promises, Billy. I didn't close the door; I'm sorry if you thought I did. Like you, I've always been cautious. Ask your brother."
"Thank you, sir." Beaming, Billy took and pumped his hand. Then Brett hugged her brother.
Orry left the young people whispering, their foreheads close together. His conscience was salved, but he felt no better about the future as he climbed aboard the train.
52
Screaming wakened him, a woman's screaming, loud and shrill. Orry rubbed his eyes. The train was standing still. People were running along the aisle of the coach. One tall man bumped the dim coal-oil lantern hanging at the end of the car. The lantern swung wildly, throwing distorted shadows over the walls.
On the seat across the aisle, Brett was waking. Orry stood, trying to make sense out of the confusion. Outside, the woman continued to scream. A curt male voice silenced her. From the vestibule Orry heard the conductor:
"They want everyone off. I don't know what's wrong, but I'm sure no one will be harmed. Please hurry. Watch your step."
The conductor struggled against the tide of people pushing toward him. He called to Orry, Brett, and a few others who had been doing their best to sleep sitting up. ''Please hurry. Everyone must go outside.''
Still not fully awake, Orry wondered if all this commotion was necessary. Surely it was just some minor accident. He tugged his big silver watch from his waistcoat pocket. He thumbed it open while Brett crossed the aisle, stepped past him, and raised the window blind on a rectangle of darkness.
The watch showed half past one. That meant it was already Monday morning. Monday, October 17. Early Sunday, they had left Wheeling on this B&O express for Baltimore, where Orry was to purchase several thousand dollars' worth of shipyard equipment for Cooper. He had the long list of specifications in his luggage.
Brett leaned against the window and cupped her hands around her eyes. Suddenly she jerked back, her face white.
"I saw a man walk by outside. He had a musket."
"I don't believe it."
He leaned past her and looked out. Dim in the distance, a few lamps gleamed. He felt reassured by signs of civilization. Suddenly a hand closed on his shoulder from behind.
He whirled, ready to strike. It was only the conductor.
"Please, sir, get off the train." The man was in a panic, practically begging. "I am the representative of this railroad. My name's Phelps. All passengers are my responsibility. Please do what I ask until we get permission to proceed."
"Permission from whom?" Orry's voice was stronger now, his sleepiness gone.
"From the armed men outside. They have control of the station. They say they have also captured the Federal Arsenal and Hall's rifle works. They strike me as exceedingly determined."
Somewhere a gun exploded. Brett, startled, uttered a soft cry, then looked up and down the car. "Everyone else has gone. We'd better do as this gentleman asks."
Orry's mouth grew dry. He felt tense, instinctively alarmed as he often had in Mexico. He followed Phelps to the head of the car, only then thinking to ask the obvious question:
"Where are we?"
"Harpers Ferry. Last stop in Virginia before we cross the river to Maryland."
Preposterous. This was nickel-novel melodrama, being performed in the middle of the night for reasons that were as yet incomprehensible. Yet an undercurrent of fear persisted. Brett was behind him, clutching his hand as he followed Phelps into the cold, damp air.
He moved down the iron steps, his field of vision widening. Lamps hung from the roof beam of the platform. Their light revealed five armed men, four white, one black. Down to the right, other men with revolvers and carbines were herding passengers into a small, drab building next to the platform.
To the left Orry spied another figure. He was sprawled on his back near an empty cart. A baggage handler, Orry guessed. The front of his tunic was splotched with blood.
Orry helped his sister down the last step, then moved in front of her. Phelps confronted the armed men.
"I demand to know when you will permit this train to continue to its destination."
The conductor's words were stronger than his voice, which had a crack in it. The black man tucked his carbine under one arm, walked up to Phelps, and struck him in the face.
"You in no position to demand anything, mister."
The conductor rubbed his cheek. "Do you realize the penalty for interfering with the United States mail? When word of this atrocity is telegraphed to Baltimore —"
One of the white men interrupted. "The wires east and west of here are cut. You go put the lamps out in all the cars, then get inside with the rest. You have your choice of the depot or the hotel right next door." Evidently the hotel was the small, drab structure.
"What the devil's going on here?" Orry said. The man with the carbine gave him a sharp look.
"Southron, are you? Better keep your mouth shut, or I'll turn our nigra boys loose. I 'spect they'd like to settle some scores with you."
Orry put his arm around Brett and guided her down the platform to the hotel. A small sign identified it as the Wager House.
Brett's cheeks were drawn, her eyes huge. "What are they doing, Orry? Is this a robbery?''
"Must be." He could think of no other explanation.
A young man with a rifle stood guard at the hotel entrance. Inside, a woman sobbed while a man, his voice tense but controlled, urged her to loosen her corset and keep calm. Near the door, Brett stumbled. The startled guard pushed her, evidently fearing an attack.
Brett reeled against a window bay. Orry swore and started for the guard, who jumped back and leveled his rifle.
"One more step and you'll never see Baltimore."
Orry stopped, his fist tightly clenched.
"Put up your gun, Oliver. We have no quarrel with these people."
The deep, resonant voice belonged to a tall, middle-aged man who came striding from the dark at the end of the platform. He wore a farmer's shirt and old cord pants tucked into muddy boots. His white beard was trimmed to a length of about an inch. His craggy face had a familiar look, yet Orry couldn't place it.
The young man still had his rifle in firing position. "Oliver," said the bearded man.
"All right, Pa." He lowered the gun. The butt thumped the platform softly.
Orry glared at the bearded man. "Are you in charge of these ruffians?"
With exaggerated politeness, the man said, "Be careful with your language, sir. You are addressing the commander in chief of the Provisional Government of the United States. Captain Smith."
Not Smith. John Brown of Osawatomie: Orry recognized the face from engravings in illustrated weekli
es, even though the beard had been much longer. Had he cropped it, hoping that would make identification more difficult?
Brown's blue eyes resembled bits of pond ice. "My son meant no harm to the young woman. He was merely protecting himself. Tempers run high in an enterprise of this importance."
"Enterprise?" Orry snorted. "Damn fancy term for train robbery."
"You insult me, sir. We are not thieves. I have come from Kansas to free all the Negroes in this state."
Despite Brown's calm tone, Orry sensed madness in the fierce glint in the man's eyes. He thought of Virgilia then. Was this her revolutionary messiah?
"You mean to lead a revolt?" he asked Brown.
"I do. I already have possession of the United States Armory. No more trains will be permitted through this station. You will go inside and keep silent until I decide on the disposition of this one. If I'm interfered with, I'll burn the town and have blood. Do I make myself clear?"
Grim-faced, Orry nodded. Then, supporting Brett with his arm under hers, he led her into the small lobby and to a horsehair settee.
A small boy began to cry; his mother drew him onto her lap. A husband chafed the hands of his sniffling wife. Orry counted eighteen passengers sitting or standing around the lobby.
Opposite the door they had entered was a second one, this leading to the street. Half open, it permitted a view of another of Brown's men, a Negro who paced slowly back and forth with a Navy Colt in his hand. Orry saw farmer's shoes and ragged pants several inches too short.
He sat down next to Brett, rubbed his palm back and forth over his knee. Obviously John Brown had recruited slaves or former slaves. Deep in Orry's gut old childhood fears were stirring.
At the station doorway, Phelps put his head in and said, "I am attempting to negotiate with Captain Smith for release of the train and its mail. Please be patient and remain calm." Then he was gone.
A clock with a brass pendulum tick-tocked behind the lobby counter. The boy's crying continued. Orry yawned. He thought of John Brown's eyes, and for the first time he believed in Senator Seward's irrepressible conflict.
He was jolted by Brett's whisper. "Orry, that man's been watching us."
"What man?"
"The guard outside."
"The captain's boy?"
"No, the other one. The nigra. There he is again."
Orry looked up and as if one nightmare were not enough, confronted another.
Just outside the door hovered a dark face, its good looks scoured away by care and hunger. Orry had seen that face at neighborhood gatherings along the Ashley, and would have recognized it anywhere.
"Grady," he whispered, and walked swiftly to the door.
Grady stepped back as Orry came outside and shut the door. A few misty lights glowed in homes on the mountainsides, but little could be seen of the town itself.
"Grady, don't you remember me?"
"'Course I do, Mr. Main." He cocked the Colt. "Better stand right there. Captain Smith says to shoot if anybody causes trouble." He sounded as if he hoped someone might.
"How many are you?" Orry's breath plumed in the night air as he spoke.
"Eighteen," Grady replied quickly. "Thirteen white men, the rest nigra."
"How on earth did you concoct a scheme like this?"
"Captain Smith, he's been planning it a long time. We been living across the river at a rented farmhouse quite a while now. We get supplies and guns shipped down from Chambersburg."
One more shock on top of the others; Virgilia had said she was bound for Chambersburg.
"Is your —" He couldn't bring himself to say wife. "Is George Hazard's sister with you?"
"Yes, she's at the farm with the other women."
"God," Orry whispered.
"Go back inside, Mr. Main. Sit quiet an' don't provoke us an' maybe the captain will let the train go on. With the guns and ammunition that's in the Armory, we're going to bring the jubilee. If anybody stands against us, blood will run."
"You can't win, Grady. The blood will be yours."
Grady's pride exploded in anger. He extended his right arm to full length. His hand trembled, but whether from excitement or uncertainty it was impossible to say.
The muzzle of the Navy Colt quivered an inch from Orry's nose. Orry stood motionless, rigid in fear. Five seconds passed.
Five more —
Suddenly the hotel door opened. "Orry?"
Grady jerked the Colt down, self-disgust evident on his face. "Get in there!" He pushed Orry toward his sister. Orry followed her inside. With his heavy plowman's shoe, Grady kicked the door shut behind them.
The lobby was still. The passengers dozed or simply stared at nothing. Hours had passed. All emotion had been spent. It had been a long time since anyone had cried or even spoken.
Brett slept with her head on her brother's shoulder. Orry watched the clock's brass pendulum sweep back and forth. Soon the pendulum slowed and seemed to float from side to side. Orry knuckled his eyes, tiredness and strain beginning to affect him.
Conductor Phelps entered, looking haggard. "Everyone please get aboard. They're going to let us go." He whispered that news, as if fearful that saying it any louder might cause Smith to change his mind.
Men and women gasped and rushed toward the door. Orry roused Brett, led her outside and down the platform past the guns of four guards. They climbed the steps to the darkened coach, and within minutes the train was chugging slowly through the covered bridge over the Potomac River.
Phelps walked ahead of the cowcatcher, searching for any signs that the structure had been deliberately weakened. One by one, the coaches rolled out from the shadows of the bridge. Dawn had reached the Blue Ridge. Orry sat with his forehead against the sunlit window, thinking that he should tell Brett who Captain Smith really was. The car passed Phelps, who jumped onto the rear steps.
In the aisle, a man waltzed his weeping wife around and around. Phelps came into the car. Another woman rushed to him, clutching a scrap of paper. "I'm going to throw this off. We must warn everyone of what's happened."
"But we'll be in Baltimore in just —"
The woman paid no attention. As she hurried away, Phelps took off his cap and scratched his head.
Orry felt drained — and convinced for the first time that only armed force could meet the threat of Yankees such as John Brown. Suppose you granted that slavery ought to be ended — and in his most private thoughts he sometimes granted exactly that — even so, violent revolution wasn't the way. Revolution had to be resisted.
That was his conviction as he watched scraps of paper blow past the window. Messages thrown from the cars by the passengers who had survived the night.
Messages carrying the news of Harpers Ferry to the world.
Three evenings later, Orry bought a paper at their Baltimore hotel. In the lobby, in restaurants, and in the streets, people were talking of nothing but the raid, which had ended with only two of the insurrectionists left uninjured. Brown's men had killed four townsfolk. One was the Negro baggage handler Orry had seen lying on the platform. For a time a great-grandnephew of President Washington had been held hostage.
The insurrectionists had finally been overcome by a detachment of Marines rushed from Washington. The commander of the detachment was Lee, and he had been accompanied by Charles's old friend Stuart. Brown himself had been wounded defending an engine house in which he had taken refuge. He was now in jail at Charles Town, Virginia.
Orry took the paper up to the suite. "They list Brown's men who were killed," he said when Brett entered the sitting room. "One is a Grady Garrison, Negro."
"Garrison?" she repeated.
Orry shrugged. "He must have adopted the last name of that Boston rabble rouser.''
Brett's face was nearly as melancholy as his. "Is there a mention of Virgilia?"
"No, not a word. It's presumed that any of the conspirators who didn't take part in the raid fled after the shooting started. The farm isn't so far from Harpers F
erry that they couldn't hear the gunfire."
"Well, much as I dislike Virgilia, I hope she got away."
"I do too. For George's sake."
Frightening as it had seemed when Orry was in the middle of it, the raid, it was now clear, had been a pathetic doomed affair. A conspiracy organized by madmen, executed by misfits. Even so, it was sending shock waves through the country and around the world. If the North and the South had not been irreparably split by the events of the last few years, they would be split now, he thought.
So it proved in the days that followed. Not even bleeding Kansas had divided the nation quite so completely. Late in October, Brown went on trial for conspiracy to incite a slave revolt and treason against the state of Virginia.
Influential Northerners praised him and spoke out in his defense.
Emerson called him a new saint. In the South, Huntoon's reaction was typical. He denounced Brown as a homicidal maniac and his scheme as "our homeland's deepest fears made manifest." With that Orry sadly agreed. Although Brown's raid didn't propel Orry into the camp of the fire eaters, he found himself a good deal closer to it.
Fear of further uprisings spread like a plague. Along the Ashley, planters and their wives spoke of little else. The LaMotte brothers formed a militia-style marching organization of like-minded men, the Ashley Guards. Huntoon was named an honorary captain.
George wrote Orry to apologize for his behavior at Lehigh Station. He made no reference to Virgilia or to her presence at the Maryland farm. George found it deplorable that some Southerners were blaming Brown's raid on the so-called Black Republicans. He said Brown was clearly in the wrong, except perhaps in the matter of his original motivation. The desire to see all slaves freed was, in George's opinion, laudable.
"Laudable!" Orry crushed the note and flung it into a corner.
On the night of December 1, church bells pealed across the North from Maine to Wisconsin. It was a night of mourning for John Brown. Next day he ascended a scaffold in Charles Town and gazed peacefully at the bleak and wintry sky as the hangman settled the noose around his neck.