*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79783 ***




By ELBERT HUBBARD


    NO ENEMY BUT HIMSELF
    TIME AND CHANCE
    LITTLE JOURNEYS. 5 vols.

                            G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
                           New York      London




[Illustration: PHOTOGRAVURE & COLOR CO NY

John Brown

_AGED FORTY TWO._]




                                 Time and
                                  Chance

                      A Romance and a History: Being
                      the Story of the Life of a Man

                                    By
                              Elbert Hubbard
         Author of “Little Journeys,” “No Enemy but Himself,” etc.

                              [Illustration]

                            G. P. Putnam’s Sons
                            New York and London
                          The Knickerbocker Press
                                   1901

                              COPYRIGHT, 1899
                             BY ELBERT HUBBARD

                             _REVISED EDITION_

                              COPYRIGHT, 1901
                             BY ELBERT HUBBARD

                     The Knickerbocker Press, New York




_I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift,
nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet
riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill, but TIME
and CHANCE happeneth to them all._




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                PAGE

                              BOOK I

      I.—AN EARLY MORNING WEDDING                           3

     II.—THE JOURNEY BEGINS                                 6

    III.—A DAY OF INCIDENTS                                 9

     IV.—LITTLE JOHN MAKES A CAPTURE                       14

      V.—AS TO JEDEDIAH—A DIGRESSION                       20

     VI.—AN EMERGENCY WELL MET                             24

    VII.—JOY ABIDETH BUT A DAY                             31

   VIII.—A VIGIL WITH DEATH                                36

     IX.—SORROW’S RESPITE FOUND IN WORK                    37

      X.—CONFORM OR FIGHT                                  42

     XI.—MAN PROPOSES, BUT WOMAN DISPOSES                  47

    XII.—PIONEER DAYS AND A NIGHT ALONE IN THE WOODS       52

                              BOOK II

      I.—A CATTLE SALE AT ZANESVILLE                       61

     II.—JOHN BROWN FINDS FRIENDS AND FOES                 65

    III.—OLD BLACKFOOT FOILS AN AMBUSCADE                  76

     IV.—THE DEACON DOES A-WOOING GO                       83

      V.—JOHN MEETS TROUBLE, AND FACES IT                  90

     VI.—A LITERARY COURTSHIP                              98

    VII.—A HORSE-BACK RIDE THROUGH THE WOODS              106

   VIII.—THE RIDE EVOLVES INTO A HORSE-RACE               110

     IX.—THE WINNER WINS A HORSE AND FREEDOM              115

      X.—MORE RUNAWAYS ARRIVE                             123

     XI.—THE SLAVES RE-TAKEN, WITH ONE WHITE MAN OVER     128

    XII.—JOHN AND JIM MAKE A HASTY DEPARTURE              136

   XIII.—VACANT PLACES, YET THE OLD WORLD GOES ON         140

    XIV.—EXPLOITING THE PUBLIC AND PROSPERITY             144

     XV.—QUIETING QUALMS, AND MORE ADVENTURE              153

    XVI.—TRAGEDY CAMPS ON THEIR TRAIL                     161

   XVII.—THE DESTINATION REACHED AT LAST                  166

  XVIII.—DISTURBING NEWS FROM ZANESVILLE                  173

    XIX.—OH! THE WEARINESS OF WAITING!                    179

     XX.—JIM SLIVERS DISAPPEARS                           187

    XXI.—A FRUITLESS CHASE                                189

   XXII.—SLAVE-STEALING AND HORSE-STEALING                193

  XXIII.—DEFEAT AND DOUBT BUT NOT DISCOURAGEMENT          196

   XXIV.—HOT HOPES FADE OFF INTO MIST                     201

    XXV.—MUCH EFFORT—EXPERIENCE A NET RESULT              209

   XXVI.—IN THE GRASP OF FATE                             217

  XXVII.—A PROPOSAL                                       223

                              BOOK III

      I.—SO RUNS THE WORLD AWAY—A LETTER                  229

     II.—THE UNDERGROUND RAILWAY                          235

    III.—JIM SLIVERS RECOUNTS HISTORY                     240

     IV.—A NIGHT-RIDE TO FREEDOM                          248

      V.—TROUBLE IN THE CHURCH                            256

     VI.—NOTHING CAN BE CONCEALED LONG                    263

    VII.—DISGRACE FACED BY FRANKNESS                      267

   VIII.—“NIGGER STEALER! NIGGER STEALER!”                274

     IX.—RESULTS OF MIXING SENTIMENT AND BUSINESS         278

                              BOOK IV

      I.—KANSAS IN THE FIFTIES                            285

     II.—POLITICS AND STRIFE                              294

    III.—CAUGHT IN A TRAP!                                299

     IV.—JOHN BROWN TO THE RESCUE                         305

      V.—A LITTLE MATTER OF DIPLOMACY                     311

     VI.—A SHERIFF INTERVIEWED                            316

    VII.—THE BAPTISM OF BLOOD                             322

   VIII.—DIPLOMACY SUPPLEMENTED BY FORTY-FOUR             330

     IX.—MASKED PEACE AND SMOTHERED EMBERS                336

      X.—WOMANHOOD AND CHILDHOOD NOT EXEMPT               341

     XI.—SURVEYING THE TERRITORY                          343

    XII.—JIM SLIVERS AND DEATH WITHOUT WARNING            349

   XIII.—THE SOIL OF KANSAS FERTILIZED BY BLOOD           353

    XIV.—JOHN BROWN AND UNCLE SAM PARLEY                  356

     XV.—LOVE EVER FIGHTS FOR FREEDOM                     363

    XVI.—CAPTAIN CARVER HOLDS A RECEPTION                 370

                              BOOK V

      I.—FORCE, FANATICISM AND SENTIMENT                  379

     II.—THE PLANS ARE BEING PERFECTED                    383

    III.—THE PLAN EXPLAINED                               393

     IV.—KINSMEN ONLY IN NAME                             398

      V.—TRANSCENDENTALISM AND “BEECHER BIBLES”           403

     VI.—THE TIME IS SHORT!                               410

    VII.—AN OLD FRIEND WORKS A SPELL                      414

   VIII.—THE PLANS HASTENED                               422

     IX.—THE BLOW IS STRUCK                               426

      X.—“I AM READY!”                                    432




BOOK ONE




CHAPTER I

AN EARLY MORNING WEDDING


In the northeastern corner of the State of Ohio is a little space of
territory, about sixty-five miles square, known as the Western Reserve.

In Congressional proceedings, especially when the tariff is up for
discussion, one hears much of this little tract. On questions of wool and
dairy products it seems as though nothing can be done without consulting
the people of the Western Reserve, and the rate on steel rails cannot be
safely raised or lowered until this peculiar people has been interviewed.

And when one considers the fact that this little corner has supplied
one president, several statesmen, and the man who, Victor Hugo says,
precipitated the Civil War, it does seem as if the Western Reserve
wielded an influence quite out of proportion to its insignificant
dimensions.

In the year 1800 all that vast territory west of Pennsylvania and north
of the Ohio River, stretching through to the Mississippi, was known as
the Northwestern Territory.

Certain States, that had supplied a contingent of soldiers to clear this
region of the French and hostile Indians, made claim to the soil, and
there seemed danger that serious differences would arise. But to adjust
matters the several States relinquished their claims in favor of the
General Government: Virginia reserving a small strip on the Ohio River
for military purposes, and Connecticut, putting forth a like excuse,
keeping the tract known as the Western Reserve.

Not needing the land for her soldiery, Connecticut with characteristic
thrift offered it for sale. And so it was divided into farms, and many
hardy, restless men of the “Nutmeg State,” on whom civilization was
pressing too heavily, packed up their earthly possessions and hastened as
fast as ox-cart could go to this new Canaan.

Of course, the men did not go alone: only gamblers, speculators, pirates,
tramps and clubmen think of defeating Deity by leaving women behind.

In those days Nature had her way; and when, in the year of our Lord
eighteen hundred and five, Nathan Crosby, of Torrington, proposed going
to the Western Reserve, his affianced wife, Ruth Halsted, spoke in the
words of that other Ruth of long, long ago, and said: “Entreat me not
to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou
goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall
be my people, and thy God my God.”

The bans had already been posted at the church door. The marriage day
had been arranged for a month later, but was hastened a little; for Owen
Brown and his family, who lived in the third house across the creek, were
soon to start west; and the Judson family were going with them.

Nathan Crosby was twenty-two, tall, slender, lithe and brown. Ruth was
nineteen, with rosy cheeks, laughing eyes and ringlets that stole out
from under the sober sun-bonnet in a very venturesome way.

Nathan’s patrimony was a fine team of young steers; the cart was the work
of his own hands, fashioned, molded, bent and hewn into shape at odd
hours, scattered over three years’ time.

The bride’s dower consisted of five quilts, a bolt of homespun linen,
certain yards of linsey woolsey and three hickory chairs.

The day for the wedding was set. The day came—bright, clear and warm, as
becomes a May-day. And although the hour of nine in the morning was an
unusual one for a marriage feast, yet even before eight o’clock there
were horses tied to every tree along the road in front of Hiram Halsted’s
house, and numerous ox-carts that looked as if they might have come from
a distance blocked the way; for the patient bearers of burdens that drew
these carts were lying down chewing the cud of reverie.

There were men sitting on the front fence whittling sticks, and men on
the stoop, and men lying on the grass; and about the back door, and
among the white-covered tables spread under the trees, women fluttered
nervously back and forth. And there were children, children everywhere;
children of all sizes, ages and complexions, and some of the women who
lingered about the tables, adding a touch here and there, carried babies
in their arms.

All were dressed in their “other clothes” and all were, therefore, a bit
uncomfortable; and the conversation was in a lowered tone as if ’twere
a funeral instead of a wedding. The bees buzzed solemnly in the locusts
and the summer winds sighed softly through the trees, but now and again a
baby spoke up loud and clear as babies will.

Then there came a sudden hush, and the men on the fence slid off their
perches and shut their knives with a quick snap; they pulled off their
hats and some removed large chews of tobacco. Those on the grass stood
up. The women who had fluttered about the back door now stood around
the front; the babies were quiet, the children frightened. In the midst
of this expectant stillness, when every heart beat fast, Nathan Crosby
and Ruth Halsted walked out upon the little porch arm in arm. They stood
so that all the company in the yard could see them, and the white-haired
old minister read the marriage service and then all the people heard his
concluding words: “And I do now pronounce you man and wife.”

Then there was a prayer, a hymn was sung, and the people laughed and
shook hands with each other and crowded around to salute the bride. The
babies raised their voices, the bees hummed louder than ever, birds sang
in the tall poplars, and the women moved back and forth from kitchen to
tables in laughing haste.

Soon the bride and groom were ushered to places at the head of one of
the long tables, and the rest of the seats were quickly filled. The old
preacher said grace, and the white petals from the apple blossoms fell
like snow as the summer wind blew softly from the south.




CHAPTER II

THE JOURNEY BEGINS


Nathan and Ruth did not eat much; they only made pretense, and merely
tasted the food that the women piled upon their plates.

They were watching the young men who were so busily loading the
canvas-covered ox-cart that stood out by the front gate. Into the cart
went the three hickory chairs and the five bed-quilts; then more hickory
chairs and more bed-quilts, that had been brought by aunts and uncles
from up the creek. And aunts and uncles from down the creek had brought
bags of beans and potatoes and corn. And neighbors had contributed hams
and dried beef, and the miller had sent a hundred pounds of meal. Then
there were rolling pins, and potato mashers, and butter ladles, and
wooden spoons, and more articles whittled out from trees than anyone ever
saw outside of the State of Connecticut.

And Nathan and Ruth saw all these things being packed away in their own
cart—the cart that Nathan had made and fashioned with his own hands—the
cart that Ruth had come to see, and admired as the young man worked at
it. It was “_our_” cart and those were “_our_” things, and they clasped
hands beneath the table, and tears filled their eyes, and the women
rallied them on loss of appetite and the men laughed loudly as the jest
went round.

But now something else caught the attention of the assemblage: an
enormous wagon drawn by four oxen, with three carts behind, all followed
by half a dozen cows and twice as many sheep, driven by several boys,
some of whom rode horses and colts.

“It’s the Browns and the Judsons starting west,” said one whittler to
another.

And Mr. and Mrs. Brown and Mr. and Mrs. Judson arose hastily from the
table and began calling to several small, rosy-faced, barefoot Browns and
Judsons.

The caravan stopped in the road in front of the Halsted cottage and then
there was much kissing and handshaking. The women wept and wiped their
eyes on their big check aprons, and all the babies cried, and the dogs
barked, and the bees buzzed discordantly as the wind made mournful music
through the trees, and a robin called anxiously for his mate from the top
of the tallest poplar.

Sundry little Judsons were packed away on top o’ the household goods in
the carts and wagon; various Browns were distributed likewise, while
other Browns in jeans, and Judsons in linsey woolsey got permission
to follow behind and drive the sheep. Mrs. Brown sat on the seat of
the big wagon holding a baby, and by her side was another, with nose
out of joint, scarcely two years old. And so amid a shout of good-byes
and God-bless-yous, there was a flourish of ox goads, and the creaking
cavalcade started slowly away.

“Oh, stop, please—one moment! where is John? has anyone seen my little
John?” cried Mrs. Brown from out the depths of her black sun-bonnet.

“Oh, he’s all safe! Ruth Halsted—I mean my wife—has him!” called tall
Nathan Crosby from where he walked by the side of the young steers.

“Who did you say?” laughed a stout man.

“Land sakes!—he’s learnin’ quick!” said an elderly woman.

But Nathan only looked back at the high seat where Ruth sat smiling,
crying, and blushing with her arm around a slender, yellow-haired little
five-year-old boy. A sickly, sedate, blue-eyed boy who thought and
thought when he should have played; who had been born into one of those
great big old-time families, when babies were fashionable, and where
there was not always quite love enough to go ’round, and no time to
manifest it even if there had been.

And so this young woman, whose heart was so overflowing with affection,
smoothed the shock of tawny hair and held the lad close to her side.

The caravan moved slowly up the village street, across the old wooden
bridge, where there was notice of a fine for him who drove faster than a
walk, on up the valley.

And the oxen pushed and clashed horn against horn, and the children from
the village, who had trooped behind, began to drop back, and finally only
the Browns and the Judsons and the Crosbys were left; they and their
cattle and their babies and their flocks.

The sun was beating down hot and the stony road was dry and dusty.

“Ruth, Ruth Halsted, where are we going?” asked the little yellow boy in
childish treble.

“We are going to the Western Reserve, John.”

“And will we get there to-night?”

“No, dear little boy, not to-night, nor to-morrow night, nor the next,
nor in a week—it may take us three months—you are not sorry, though, are
you?”

“No—no, I don’t care how long it takes if I can be with you!” said the
boy. The bride of an hour kissed the little yellow boy and laid his tired
head in her lap.

And the boy slept; and Nathan Crosby, tall, lithe, and bronzed looked up
and smiled and smiled.




CHAPTER III

A DAY OF INCIDENTS


“We’ll make a big march this first day—the cattle will drive better after
we get ’em good and tired.”

“That’s so, Captain Judson, I guess they will,” answered Deacon Brown.

The big wagon and the four carts had been driven into a stream—wide,
shallow, and rock-bottomed. The oxen drank with great deliberation,
and as the vehicles stood there side by side, the cool water gurgling
through the spokes, little John Brown awoke with a start.

“Oh, Ruth, it isn’t a Noah’s flood, is it?”

“No, dear, it’s only Timber Creek—we have come six miles!”

“Your baby is pretty cute, Mister Crosby,” called the oldest Judson boy,
Jedediah by name, a freckled youth of twenty, who was too big for a boy
and not yet a man. He rode his horse into the stream and stopped opposite
the young steers—“O Judas!” he suddenly shouted—his horse was lying down
with him in the stream. He sprang off into the water, which was over his
boot tops, and gave a kick at the colt that had gone down in a way that
gave the blanket, that served for a saddle, a complete wetting.

The women and children sent up a shout of laughter and even old Captain
Judson chuckled.

“Yes, the boy _is_ rather cute, thank ’ee,” answered Nathan.

The colt sprang up, shook the water from his hide, and made a bound
for the opposite shore. The rope ran through the young man’s hands—he
clutched at the knot at the end, and it drew him forward one big stride.
His feet slipped on the flat stones and then shot up above the water and
down went the youth with a ker-splash.

Then there was applause and more laughter.

“Yes, our baby is all right; how’s your eldest, sister Judson?”

“He always did believe in immersion!” answered the father.

“Now, Pa, we should not speak lightly of sacred things,” spoke the woman
in mild rebuke.

“Nothin’ very sacred about Jed’s losing a little of his dignity—is there,
Deacon Brown?”

“It won’t hurt the boy—Satan gets us all by the heels at times, and pride
must have a fall.”

The sheep had come up by this time and stood irresolute, bleating on
the shore. A boy seized a black-faced lamb in his arms and began wading
across, the mother anxiously followed after her woolly offspring, and the
rest of the sheep straggled along behind.

“Here, Joe, take this gourd and milk a pint from the red cow—the baby’s
hungry!” Why the red cow should be milked for the benefit of the baby,
that was at that very instant intent on satisfying hunger, would not have
been apparent to an outsider. But there was “the baby” and “the little
baby.”

The baby depended on the red cow, but the little baby knew a scheme worth
two o’ that, as it nosed under the homespun shawl.

So the gourd was duly brought by a ruddy lad with trousers rolled to his
thighs, who evidently believed in immersion, too, for he would not have
cared had he been wet all over.

“Go ’way, you rascal, don’t you splash us,” shouted Nathan, who was now
sitting up on the seat by the side of his wife and little John.

“Well, here we go—Gee, Buck! you Bright!” and away they went up the bank
with a crack of whip and sing-song creak of the great awkward carts as
they followed one after another.

Jedediah had caught his horse and stood very bedraggled on a rock
wringing his coat.

“I say, Captain Judson, how’s your baby?” called Nathan as he swung past
and pointed at the picture.

And so they moved on to the west and the day wore away; the sun was
sending out long shadows towards Torrington, but Torrington was fifteen
miles behind and only two out of all that cavalcade of twenty souls were
ever to see the smiling village again.

Another mile and the road skirted a brook that ran dancing and singing
over the pebbles. Just across was a stretch of bottom-land where the
grass grew lusty, dewy and fragrant.

Captain Judson called “Here we raise our Ebenezer!” Someone started a
hymn and the vehicles hauled out under a little grove of lofty pines that
grew by the brook-side. The boys with the cattle had lagged behind, but
now they raised a shout and came forward on a run, and their clamor made
more than one verse of the hymn out of the question.

Quickly the oxen were unyoked, the horses unsaddled; the cattle drank
lazily from the stream, and the horses rolled on the grass as if in glee
that the day’s work was done.

The boys had been promised that they could fish, and they were not slow
in turning over flat stones and rotting logs looking for bait.

The little children were helped out of the wagons and the women climbed
down by themselves, all save Ruth, who was tenderly assisted.

And while the men got wood and brush for a fire, the women laid blankets
on the grass for the babies to lie on, and were getting out pans and
kettles for cooking.

The sun had set in a burst of golden glory behind the great, green hills;
and the air was now cool, so the crackling fire added a cheer and a hope
to our homeless friends—a cheer that comes with genial warmth and a hope
of supper.

The kettle was soon singing over the coals from where it hung over the
improvised crane, the bacon was sputtering in the spider, potatoes were
roasting in the ashes, and the coffee made from parched corn was sending
out its fragrant aroma. The red cow had supplied her contribution, and
the boys and girls who had wandered off up and down the creek, fishing,
were called, and after Deacon Brown had said a short grace, business
began. The women waited on the children first, and everything was in
common. There was neither mine, nor thine, but all was ours.

And how they did eat!

The children talked and jabbered (for even Puritan children jabber, else
they wither and die) and told of the things they saw, and of the things
that they intended to do, and all the time they ate. And the fond parents
smiled, and Nathan and Ruth sat on a bowlder, eating from one plate, and
little John sat at their feet. Once he looked up and said: “Ruth.”

“Yes, John.”

“Isn’t it fun?”

“Indeed it is!”

“Aren’t you glad we’re here?”

“Yes, John, I’m very glad.”

Off to the east a big yellow star arose, and then more stars peeped
forth one by one, and the dusk gathered, and the great green hill turned
to a purple mound that lifted itself a giant shadow against the sky.
Brush was heaped on the smouldering fire, and then the women tucked up
their dresses and washed the dishes in the brook. The babies lying on
the spread-out blankets were asleep. Boxes and packages were taken out
of the carts and wagons so as to make up beds, and sleepy children were
lifted off the ground and bundled away here and there under the big
canvas-covered tops. Several of the horses and oxen were hobbled, the
dogs were turned loose, more wood was piled on the fire, and all lay
down to rest. From a pond a mile away came the solemn croak of frogs,
whip-poor-wills called, the distant screech of an owl was heard, and all
the time the brook sang its ceaseless lullaby of rhythmic song. June bugs
buzzed and bumped along the dark, the night wind sighed softly thro’ the
pines, and as the stars kept guard tired nature slept.




CHAPTER IV

LITTLE JOHN MAKES A CAPTURE


Birds and babies go to sleep at sundown, and, like Solomon’s ideal woman,
arise while yet it is night. The ecstasy of forest birds at the first
flush of summer day-dawn is a thing to remember long. But to hide their
song away in your heart so that you shall keep it forever and a day, you
must have heard it in childhood. For then hope beat high, and a belief in
the celestial, the mystical, and the miraculous was a living thing like
the song-birds themselves; then you never doubted that the magic potency
of the thyrsus would yet be yours, and at the waving of your wand spirits
would start, and men would do your bidding.

Or—well, yes—if you hear those wild notes of unseen songsters just when
the first flush of pink comes into the east, and as the shadows flee
away, and you are on your wedding journey, perhaps then you will hold
them deathless long after great things are forgot; just as men win
fortunes and kingdoms, and gamble them away, and yet keep hidden in
sacred nooks faded bits of ribbon and tatters of lace.

Before sunrise, even as jocund day stood tiptoe on the mountain top, the
camp was astir. The fire was crackling merrily, the children were washing
their hands and faces in the stream, and those too small, or without the
necessary ambition to perform their own ablutions, were having the task
done for them, not o’er gently, but kindly. Two older boys were cleaning
fish and a big girl, called Sis, was rolling the brook trout in cornmeal.

Great heaps of white mist went reeling up the distant hillside like
bacchantes of the night hieing them home from the dance. The dew hung in
beads on the grass blades and leaves. Soon the sun’s rays fell over all
and turned the pearly beads to diamonds and showed great stretches of
gauzy lace-stuff where busy spiders had spun their webs: sending out into
the darkness filament after filament—swaying out into the unknown until
somewhere they held fast, and the morning sun made all plain.

When breakfast was ready, a blast was blown on a horn. There was a quick
gathering of the clans; and about the fire savory things steamed and
even the elder children, intent on fishing, came trooping in from the
underbrush.

“Don’t let Jed pray, he’s too long-winded—everything’ll get cold,”
whispered Mrs. Brown as she plucked the Deacon by the sleeve.

The Deacon might have chided this mixing of material and spiritual things
in one breath, but he prided himself on his prayers, so he only half
smiled and lifting his voice to its best meetin’-house tone announced:
“Number one sixty-nine—long metre—

    “‘Now doth the sun ascend the sky,
      And wake creation with its ray:
    Keep us from sin, O Lord most high,
      Through all the actions of the day’

—Sing!”

And so they sang, loud, clear and sincere; the tree-tops answered it
back, and a blue-jay on an overhanging limb sneered in disrespectful
chatter. Mrs. Judson’s high-pitched falsetto shot up above the sound
waves like a sharp church steeple out of a grove.

The Deacon lined off the hymn just as if even the babies could not coo
the well known words; and so they sang there under the pines as the brook
went singing a little purring love song of its own. Then a prayer, deep,
earnest and heartfelt, was said, and before the echo of the amen was
heard the women were filling the wooden plates of the impatient children.

“Mercy me!” said Mrs. Judson, “mercy me! Ruth Halsted, I thought brides
allus looked after their husbands close—I did mine. So you don’t know
where he is gone to?”

“Why, Nathan is not far, he and little John strolled down the creek after
cowslips.”

“It’s too late for greens,” jerked Mrs. Judson.

“They did not want cowslips for greens—they were going to get blossoms
for me.”

“O ho! and in a month you’ll have to split your own wood—that’s just the
way of the men.”

Ruth did not answer, and so Jedediah chinked in the space by drawling:
“Methinks it would have showed a better spirit if Nathan had been here to
prayers—pass the Johnnie-cake, Sis.”

Ruth took up the horn that lay on a flat stone.

Jedediah took a big mouthful of Johnnie-cake and said:

“To absent—”

Ruth pursed her pretty lips and blew a too-whoooo-too-whoooo! Her cheeks
grew red, and as she paused for breath Jedediah continued: “ourselves
from—”

“Whoooo-too-too-whoooo!”

“public prayers—”

“Too-too-whooo-whooo!”

“is evil—”

“Whoooo!”

“in the sight of the Lord!”

The words came out with a roar clear above the sound of the horn.

An answering shout was heard from the dingle.

“I’ll go and find them,” said Ruth, and she tripped away.

“You’d better stay and eat your breckfuss;” but Ruth had disappeared
among the alders.

“She’s a fine young woman!” said Deacon Brown.

“But worldly minded,” said Mrs. Judson.

“Well, a leetle that way, perhaps.”

In five minutes the alders shook, then parted, and Nathan and Ruth
stepped forth, arm in arm, followed by little John, who was hugging
something very closely in his arms.

“I’ve got it—I have!” cried the child, and his dark blue eyes shone with
delight.

“Got something! Land sakes!” cried his mother, “yes, you’ve got your hand
all scratched some way—dear me! let that thing go at once—what is it,
anyway?”

“Only a squirrel,” laughed Nathan, as the boy took his prize around for
each to admire.

“Throw it away—he’s bit you already—do you hear me?” and the mother with
a babe at her breast made a threatening motion toward little John, who
backed away holding the half-grown squirrel tighter than ever.

“Oh, now, Mother!” said the Deacon.

“I know,” cried Ruth, “I know what we’ll do. I have a basket that will
just make a nest for it. We will weave bark over the top for a cover—”

“That’s what we’ll do,” said Nathan, and he reached a long arm into the
ox-cart and brought forth a splint basket that was among the wedding
presents.

“Why did you let him get scratched so, Nathan? you can’t be trusted with
children,” said the mother, not quite mollified.

“He chased the squirrel and I chased him. He is so little that I lost him
in the brush till all at once I heard him shout, ‘I’ve got it, I’ve got
it!’ And when I had pushed through the bushes I found he had not only got
the squirrel, but the squirrel had got him—by the hand with its teeth;
and the more the squirrel fought and scratched, the more he held on,
until I showed him how to hold it by the scruff of the neck.”

“Land sakes! How his hand do bleed—didn’t he cry?”

“That boy? not he—he isn’t that kind. When he gets hold of a thing he
sticks.”

“May he ever cling to that which is righteous,” said Deacon Brown.

“Amen and amen!” solemnly said Jedediah.

And so they ate breakfast there in the bright, warm sunshine, and Ruth
wove willow twigs, lacing them back and forth into a cover for the
basket, and tall Nathan laughed and laughed and put delicious morsels of
brook trout first into Ruth’s mouth and then into little John’s; for John
had to hold his squirrel and Ruth had to weave, so Nathan fed them both,
and fed himself besides, and made sundry frivolous remarks.

Across the creek in the clearing where the grass grew lush, and the warm
sun fell, the sheep and the oxen having eaten their fill, were all lying
down.

“It’s a shame to trouble ’em, but we’ve got to, I s’pose,” said Captain
Judson.

“Yes, a voice says, ‘Arise and get thee hence,’” remarked Jedediah.

And as the men yoked the oxen, and the boys saddled their horses, the
women packed the bedding away and piled in the furniture. The fire was
put out and Captain Judson made a last survey for articles that might be
left. Nathan put his arm around his wife’s waist and helped her up on
the seat. Then with an, “upsy daisy,” he swung little John up after, his
squirrel basket tightly in his hand.

“Ruth!”

“Yes, John.”

“Don’t you wish we could stay here?”

“All the time?”

“Yes, just you and me and Nathan and Bob.”

“And who is Bob?”

“Why, don’t you know, he’s my squirrel?”

“Nathan, did you hear what the boy said?” smilingly asked the blooming
young woman.

“Yes, dear one, I heard what he said,—‘just you and me and Bob and
John,’—I wish we could stay.” But the strong young man did not smile; he
was thinking.

“Forward march!” shouted Captain Judson.

The four oxen started with a jerk: the links of the big chain rattled,
tightened, and the wagon moved. The carts fell in behind; the cows moohed
and lumbered after. Two small Browns and a Judson rode the red cow; the
sheep huddled into the road and the boys on horseback brought up the rear.

“Start some familiar hymn,” called the Captain.

    “Praise God from whom all blessings flow,”

announced the Deacon, and all sang with a will.

And back under the pines the brook still sang the soothing little love
ditty of its own. At least that was what Nathan and Ruth thought.




CHAPTER V

AS TO JEDEDIAH—A DIGRESSION


Captain Judson was in command of the little caravan, as a matter of
course; for he had led a company of volunteer soldiers through to the
Northwestern Territory eight years before. They went to fight the French
and Indians. But they couldn’t find the French; and the Indians did not
find them, so there was no blood shed. Yet Captain Judson came back to
Torrington covered with renown; and like the messengers of old who were
sent forth to spy out the land, he returned and reported favorably. He
brought back no bunches of grapes swung on poles and carried on the
brawny shoulders of strong men, but his report was as glowing as a sunset
at sea and as beautiful as a rainbow touched by a dream.

Captain Judson wore a rusty gilt cord around his hat as a hint of
authority and a reminder of the stirring scenes that he had known in
the imminent deadly breach. Good Deacon Brown did not much admire that
cord—it savored of pomp and worldly lust. Of course, he said nothing, but
his wife knew what was in his heart, as the wife of a man’s bosom always
does; and she eased the Deacon’s soul, as she might have scratched his
back in a place that he could not reach, by saying confidentially:

“Captain Judson is a worthy man and means well, but his ancestors did not
come over in the Mayflower: they were only sailors.”

And the Deacon softly chided her woman’s tongue, as was meet.

Jedediah Judson was the first child of his parents. They were religious
people—were the Judsons—which is rather a needless remark when we
consider that in those days Connecticut had a state religion and those
who did not profess it were veritable Pariahs.

Religious persecution had driven the forefathers of these people from the
Old World. They had endured all—had given all for what they believed to
be truth; and, if need be, their children were quite willing to repeat
the process. And when they sang, “Religion is the chief concern of
mortals here below,” they expressed an idea that was mortised and riveted
into the very granite of their natures.

Jedediah was squat and freckled; he had bright red hair that was somewhat
curly, and china blue eyes. He was precocious in babyhood, and “sassy”
in youth, and as he was “likely” his mother had set him apart for the
ministry. He was not the son of a Levite, to be sure, but then her
grandfather had been a preacher, and that her first-born should be a
preacher too—what nobler ambition? When the youngster could scarcely
lisp, his fond mother would stand him in a chair and ask:

“What’s muzzer’s boy going to be when he gets a great big man?”

And the baby would say:

“Preacher!”

Then he was taught to recite pieces and say verses and sing tunes, when
there was company, and all would laugh and approve by knowing nods. This
performance was gone through whenever neighbors called and was never
omitted when the minister came.

And the boy grew and waxed strong.

This was rather a source of sorrow to his mother than otherwise, for that
the ideal minister should be sickly none doubted: to be weak proved that
he was not of the earth, and the probability that he might fly hence at
any time gave a serious import to his words that caused cold streaks
to shoot up the spines of the scoffers who sat on the back seats. The
pale man with a hollow cough was near to God; and how could we reach God
excepting through death?

Then physical weakness was fit excuse for not engaging in manual labor.
But even handicapped with health, Jedediah clung to the idea that he “had
a call,” and his mother constantly braced the thought for him. And as for
Captain Judson, he was half proud and half ashamed of it. For Captain
Judson was of a dual nature: one in whom the glamour of militia and the
love of religion ruled in turn, and at times these spirits struggled
for the mastery. And so he compromised by calling himself a Fighting
Christian, but the real fact was that he was not much of a fighter nor a
very good Christian. But then no man has ever yet been able to label and
pigeon-hole himself aright.

Captain Judson hoped for a military boy, and therefore took small
satisfaction in his preacher son. And so whenever the youth led in
prayer, or lifted a hymn, or opened the Bible at random and read the
message, the Captain squirmed and grew first hot, then cold. But all this
time Mrs. Judson looked on with deep, motherly pride and a hearty sense
of satisfaction in the fact that she had been chosen to bear a son whose
office it was to snatch souls from the burning.

All by himself, unknown to a single soul, Captain Judson had decided that
if worst came to worst, and a fight were on, he would put Nathan Crosby
second in command with orders to take full charge if he (Captain Judson)
should fall. “But then the dangers are few, and so prayers may answer,”
mused the Captain.

Nathan Crosby was only a year older than Jedediah and was not half so
smart, folks said. Jedediah had been away to school, had been in Boston
and once in New Haven, and he had lived a whole year in a preacher’s
family studying theology. Just as we now demand that the fledgling
lawyers shall begin their career by studying in a lawyer’s office, and as
we refuse a diploma to a doctor who has not studied with a practitioner,
so the former method was to have the coming shepherd of a flock
apprenticed to a preacher.

Nathan had the dignity that comes from absence of effort and freedom from
pretense. He was usually sedate and talked but little; while Jedediah
talked much. Nathan could take the long rifle and shoot a squirrel from
the top of the tallest tree, without a rest, while Jedediah was “gun shy.”

Nathan could ride wild horses, break steers, and climb higher at a
raising than anyone else, yet he had never made a profession of religion.
In fact, he never said anything about it one way or the other. He was as
ignorant of his “inward state” as he was of his digestion.

But the fact that he had not “professed” caused the good villagers to
look at him askance and shake their heads dubiously at the thought of so
fine a girl as Ruth Halsted marrying an ungodly man.

The risk of this proceeding had impressed itself even on Jedediah Judson,
and as he had the happiness of humanity at heart, he spoke to Ruth about
it only a fortnight before the wedding. But what her answer was no one
knew but Jedediah, and he never told. He, however, had remarked to a
neighbor that no one in all Torrington needed the grace of God in his
heart more than Ruth Halsted.




CHAPTER VI

AN EMERGENCY WELL MET


And so the Judsons and the Browns and the Crosbys, advance ripples of
the tide of Empire, went slowly rolling and bowling to the west. They
followed the winding roadway through the valleys, where tall green hills
arose on either side; they crossed cooling streams, and curious bridges,
the pieces all pegged together without the sign of a nail.

They passed by stately silent forests, and moved through villages where
all the people came out and stared,—some wishing them God-speed. And
sometimes they stopped for an hour or so at log houses by the way.
And then the women would go in and compare babies and exchange little
confidences; and the men would talk about the crops and the hard times
there in the East where the pressure of modern ways bore heavily. And
when they would pass on they would be given garden truck, and sage,
sassafras or thoroughwort to make tea for the children, if they chanced
to get sick. Then the oxen would be urged forward and the women would
wave aprons as a last salute. At night they would camp near a stream
where the picking was good, for the animals must have food and water.
Sometimes it rained and one spell it was cloudy and drizzly for three
days. The children that drove the sheep got wet and cold and some of them
cried a bit, and the sheep bleated mournfully and the cows moohed as if
they were homesick; and once when Jedediah started a hymn he had to sing
it all alone by himself.

Little John’s yellow cheeks had changed to blue and his teeth chattered,
but he held tight to the squirrel basket and quite protested when Nathan
showed him how to suspend it from the hickory center-stick that ran over
the bows. But finally he hung the basket up and lay back on a bear-skin
that Ruth tucked tenderly around him. They ate a cold supper that night,
for no dry wood could be found.

“Is it goin’ to be a Noah’s flood, Ruth?”

“No, dear little boy, the rain is needed to make the crops grow—the sun
will be out to-morrow!”

“But you said that yesterday!”

“Did I? well, I was mistaken—but wait until to-morrow and you’ll see.”

And Ruth was right; for the next morning the sun came out, and came out,
and came out, and the sky was so blue as never was.

They had passed out of New England and were in “York State”: the children
had expected a great change but things looked about the same.

“Only a little way and we reach the mighty Hudson,” shouted Captain
Judson, as the march was again taken up.

The same morning at ten o’clock, from the top of a high hill, they saw
the wide expanse of the Hudson River. From here the way was down grade,
like the road to perdition, explained Deacon Brown; yet all were very
merry, for it looked as if they were getting almost to the journey’s
end—they were making head anyway. And this was a point that the children
had begun to question.

The road led down to the ferry landing.

The ferry was simply a flat boat with a high railing around the sides
like a fence. It was propelled by poles and one big sculling oar at the
stern. The approach to the boat was by a platform on hinges that was
raised and lowered by a windlass.

“The craft’s hardly big enough for two carts—it will take several trips
to set us all over,” said Captain Judson, as they approached.

Two men sat on the fence rail of the boat smoking. They showed a dull
indifference to the approaching emigrants.

They returned Captain Judson’s cheery hail with mere grunts and made no
motion to lower the drawbridge.

“This be the ferry, neighbor, I guess,” called Deacon Brown as they came
to a halt.

“Yes, old man, you guessed it the first time—want to go over?”

“Certainly we do—we are bound for the Western Reserve.”

“Wall, haste makes waste, as the old sayin’ is: don’t git in a sweat, and
we’ll git you over—there’s a hell of a lot o’ you, though!”

“Your language is not the best, brother, but there is quite a company of
us and the quicker we begin operations the better.”

“Wall, you can’t be too quick for us!”

“Oh, you mean about the pay?”

“Slightly—we don’t keep this ’ere ferry for our health.”

“Surely not—how much is it? a shilling apiece for the carts and two
shillings for the wagon, a settler told us a few miles back—then there’s
the sheep and cows extra, of course—”

“A shilling apiece for ferryin’ a cart? hear him, Bill!”

The two men had come down on shore now and were smoking and whittling.

Bill laughed a guffaw, swore, spat, and guffawed again. Bill was
dark-whiskered, dirty, small, and bow-legged. His companion was younger,
and had a shade more intelligence; he was tall, awkward, and shambling,
and his little black eyes twinkled with amusement when he repeated:

“A shillin’ a cart!!”

The two ferrymen climbed back on their boat and again perched on
the rail. They filled their pipes afresh and smoked with the calm
deliberation and peace that a sense of monopoly always gives. Godliness
with contentment is great gain, but a monopoly of a good thing will
answer most purposes.

“You talk to ’em,” nudged Captain Judson to Nathan.

“No, let the Deacon be spokesman.”

“Look you, brother,” called the Deacon, “will you answer a question fair
and honest?”

“Wall, we are allus fair and generally honest in all our dealin’s, haint
we, Bill?”

Bill guffawed.

“Tell me, do you ferry carts over for a shilling each?”

“Not yourn!”

“Answer yes or no.”

“Wall, yes.”

“And if you take others over for that price, why not us?”

“Now, old man, be reasonable; this ferry is ourn; folks that live around
here—good, decent folks—we carry for a shillin’. You are emigrants goin’
off, the devil knows where. We will never see you agin—you don’t care a
dam for us and we don’t care a dam for you. It ’ull cost you jist five
dollars for yer wagon, three dollars for each cart, and a shillin’ apiece
for yer cows and sheep. Pay or git out—we only do this for ’commodation
anyway, eh! Bill?”

Bill removed his pipe and guffawed from out the depths of his tangled
whiskers.

The women in the carts were looking on anxiously. Things were getting
strained—there was a tensity in the air—the babies began to cry and the
older children gulped.

“Ruth!”

“What is it, John?”

“Will we have to go back to Torrington, do you think?”

“No, little boy, we have started for the Western Reserve, and I think we
will go there.”

“Yes, I think we will go to the Western ’Serve—hold my hand, Ruth!”

The four men of our party had drawn apart and were conversing in an
undertone.

“It will cost thirty dollars if we pay their price—nearly half of all the
money we have.”

“Suppose we give them a sheep!”

“I have two new pairs of shoes we might put in,” said Deacon Brown.

“And there are several bolts of cloth,” added Jedediah.

“I will try them on a trade,” said the Deacon.

And so he walked down to the water’s edge and tried to trade cloth and
leather and mutton for passage. But the men were obdurate.

“Git out! do we keep a junk shop? I reckon you don’t want to cross,
nohow—but if you do and don’t like our prices, go on somewhar else.”

But the next ferry was twenty-four miles up the river and the men who
owned it might be as rapacious as these. Things looked desperate.

Captain Judson advised scraping the coin together out of the various
stockings.

“They have us—we had better surrender with honor,” said the Captain.

Nathan drew some silver out of his pocket and made pretense of counting
it. As he did so, he suggested a plan.

“They are ungodly men or I never, never would consent to it,” said the
Deacon under his breath. Then they all fished in their pockets for silver
and they put it all in a hat, just as if it were a church collection.

Deacon Brown started down to the waterside with his offering, and the
others followed carelessly after with hands in their pockets.

The two men on the perch smiled, knocked the ashes out of their pipes and
came forward.

“It’s pretty hard, brother,” said the Deacon, “to take so much money when
we have so little. Can’t you throw off just a bit?”

“Not a dam cent! eh! Bill?”

Bill guffawed. The man reached forward to take the hat containing the
money.

He did not take it.

Nathan standing at his side had caught him by the waist and lifting him
in the air dashed him on his back, and had fallen upon the fellow’s chest
with such force that the breath left his body in a grunt.

The three other men stood about the bewhiskered and astonished Bill with
upraised ox goads.

“That rope in the tail end of the cart!” shouted Nathan, as he pinned his
squirming man to the ground.

Little John slid from his seat and dragged out the rope in a twinkling.

“Here, Ruth, wrap it around his legs. If you kick, you scoundrel, I’ll
strangle you,” and the young man’s steely grasp clutched around the man’s
throat.

The man did not kick; and Ruth and little John took a full dozen tight
coils around the fellow’s legs.

Meanwhile, the boys and girls who drove the sheep came up, and
administered various strokes and prods and digs and slashes at the
prostrate man with their sticks.

Nathan completed the tying with sailor-like skill and then turned his
attention to Bill. His hands were tied securely behind him, although he
begged hard for mercy. Then he offered to ferry the whole party over
free, but Deacon Brown offered him a dollar, seeing they would have to
supply their own motive power.

Bill consented and so did the gentleman on the grass. The drawbridge was
lowered, the oxen unyoked, and all took hold and with a long pull and
strong pull and a pull altogether the big wagon was run on the boat. Then
the women and the babies were put aboard and they pushed off.

Bill’s hands were unloosed and he worked the oar vigorously, while
Captain Judson looked after him with the butt end of a whip.

The farther shore was reached without difficulty, all singing as they
disembarked:

    “Over the Dark River Thou hast guided us.”

The wagon was unloaded and the men and boys started back for another load.

Two trips more and all were safely over, down to the last black-faced
lamb and John’s squirrel.

The man tied fast with the long coil of rope was on the opposite bank.
Bill was alone with his ferry on the western shore.

“Hold on, William! before you go over to release your evil companion,
one word with thee,” said Deacon Brown. The Deacon had no love for the
Quakers, yet when engaged in purely religious duties, he always used the
“thee” and “thou.”

Bill came ashore and stood dogged on the bank.

“It grieves me to know that thou art an ungodly man.”

Bill made no defense, because there was no defense to make.

“William, repeat after me the Lord’s Prayer!”

And so the Deacon said the prayer, three words at a time, and Bill
repeated them after him.

After which Jedediah took the man in hand and made him repeat the
Apostles’ Creed. Then they collected two shillings from him for the rope
that was in the possession of his partner, and started away.

The women had yoked the oxen. And as the carts and the big wagon moved
slowly off up the hill, Bill shouted a curse and pushed the ferry clear
of the landing.

The curse was not heard, however, for the loud, clear strains of a hymn
drowned even the loud creaking of the carts, and high over all could be
distinguished Mrs. Judson’s sharp falsetto:

    “Safely through another week, Thou hast brought us on our way.”




CHAPTER VII

JOY ABIDETH BUT A DAY


But now the road was narrow and rocky and difficult, as the road to
Paradise always is, Deacon Brown explained.

There were high hills to cross where the ox teams had to double up and
all hands pushed. Occasionally there were swamps where “corduroy” roads
had been made; and where the spring floods had disarranged the roadbed
logs had to be cut and moved into place.

Even then it sometimes happened that a cart would get stuck in the mud.
But by prying with long poles and hitching on an extra team or two the
conspiracy of the mire would be overcome. And at night when prayers were
said Deacon Brown would specify the facts and thank the Lord for having
delivered them out of the hand of the enemy.

It was formerly believed by many that Providence did not watch over
affairs west of the Hudson except in the cases of stray Puritan
emigrants. The Judsons and the Browns rather inclined to this belief, but
the Crosbys did not trouble themselves much about it.

In fact true lovers are Pantheists or Pagans ever. Lovers are
credulous—they have a faith in the miraculous beyond the wildest dreams
of merely pious people.

Love is at once an isolation and an absorption. And so Nathan and Ruth
lived a little above, and outside, and beyond the rest of the camp.

They were very happy.

They saw signs in the clouds, and portents in the trees, and heard a
message in the breeze: they called each other’s attention to this or that
as they passed, by a nod or a smile or a wave of the hand, and they had a
little sign language of their own as lovers always have. Sometimes Ruth
would walk by the side of the steers and drive them herself, while Nathan
would go ahead.

“A woman should never learn to do a thing she hasn’t got to do, for some
day her man will make her do it whether or no,” said Mrs. Judson quietly
to Ruth.

And that night Ruth of course told Nathan and they thought it very funny.
They were happy, so happy, happy all day long; full of joy and peace at
night and glad in the morning. And the thought that the joy could ever
end had never occurred to them.

There was little bickering in the camp, all were content, even though
various temperaments were represented. Not one of all the score was
conscious of a stomach, not one had “nerves.” Trouble might come, but if
so it must be a tangible thing, not a mere trumped up sprite of the brain.

They were well—were these people—for all things that live in the open air
have health. Quails, kingfishers and blue-jays never go into a decline;
neither does the chipmunk’s health fail. The free, boisterous winds of
heaven blow dull care away.

Plague-struck envy and puling discontent are part of the price we pay for
civilization. God made the country, man the town.

The days passed and still they pushed on. The settlements were now far
apart and single houses rare. At night wolves would sometimes howl about
the camp and the wild scream of panthers could be heard coming from the
depths of the forest.

There were occasional reports of marauding bands of Indians that ranged
the forests and lay in wait for travelers. At night a guard was set—the
men taking turns of two hours each when they watched with rifle in hand.

But the wildness of the woods had no fear for these people—it meant
freedom. Five generations of men who had dared the dangers of the sea and
the savagery of things on land had bred in them a stolid indifference to
peril. Besides all this they had faith in God. Had He not led His chosen
people out of bondage? He, watching over Israel, slumbers not nor sleeps.

But God’s wrath fell on that happy company—fell on them as the lightning
singles out the tallest, strongest oak and shatters it to the very roots
at a single blazing blast. For who can endure even when His wrath is
kindled but a little!

The caravan was moving up a rocky hillside. The road was very narrow.

Above rose the green hill and below lay a rocky gorge. The young oxen
began to crowd and the wheels of the heavy cart slid dangerously near the
edge. Nathan endeavored to force the steers to the other side. The tired
animals stopped. The cart with its heavy load was pulling them back, and
the wheels were slowly slipping over the loose stones of the bank. The
young man threw his shoulder against the wheel and endeavored to urge the
oxen forward. The shale slipped and a sudden balking move of the oxen
sent the cart toppling over. Nathan sprang back—a grape vine caught his
heel—he fell and the big hub struck him square on the chest, pinning him
fast. It was full ten minutes before two saplings could be cut for pries,
and that ton of weight lifted from his form.

He struggled to speak—“Ruth—Ruth”—but the message was not given. The look
of anguish faded from the face and in its place came a half smile, a
smile of peace and perfect rest.

“He’s just going to say something,” said little John.

“Silence, boy,” sternly said Deacon Brown, “the man is dead.”

They wrapped the body in a bed-quilt—one of those five quilts given as
wedding presents. Strong hands righted the cart, drew it up on the road,
blocked the wheels, and replaced the load. Then they gently lifted the
lifeless form of the owner into this hearse that his own hands had formed
and fashioned.

The women tried to lead Ruth away; but no, she took up the goad from
where it had fallen from her husband’s grasp; she did not shed a tear
nor utter a cry; she started the oxen forward, walking by their side. The
caravan moved on, and mile after mile, as the rays of the burning sun
fell, they went steadily forward. The women were astonished at Ruth’s
actions; the men were hushed into silence; the children thought that
death was only sleep.

Several hours passed, and still the carts creaked wearily westward.

“She don’t seem to have no feelin’s,” said Mrs. Judson in an undertone to
her husband.

The Captain might have answered that there were sorrows too deep for
tears, but he said nothing.

“He died in his sins—it’s a warning,” said Jedediah.

“True, he had never acknowledged his Saviour,” answered Deacon Brown,
“but he was a manly fellow and I doubt not was a true Christian
at heart—if so, he’s saved. ‘For His mercy is from everlasting to
everlasting!’”

“He never confessed Christ before men, ‘and whosoever is ashamed of Me
before men, him will I also be ashamed of in the Day of Judgment,’”
continued Jedediah.

“‘Judge not that ye be not judged,’” answered the Deacon as he waved the
young man away.

When they came to a halt at sundown, Ruth’s eyes were bloodshot and two
bright pink spots burned on her cheeks.

This hectic flush only enhanced her beauty. And the quiet of her manner
might have been quite in keeping with her womanly dignity: but the quiet
was of a peculiar, fearful kind.

Jedediah thought he would say a few words of comfort to her; he
approached, looked at her, and—changed his mind. The women came and
kissed her on the cheek, but she only gazed back stolidly—dumbly.

“Father says Nathan is dead—stone dead—and won’t never come to life till
the Judgment Day, but I’m here, Ruth, don’t you see! Ruth, why don’t you
answer? I’m going to take care of you!” and little John caressed her hand.

Then tears came to her relief; sanity came back and she faced her grief,
as women have since the world began, and as men and women must until the
heavens shall be rolled together as scroll; for joy abideth but a day,
but the sorrow of man endureth forever.




CHAPTER VIII

A VIGIL WITH DEATH


It rained that night: dark, angry clouds scurried across the face of the
murky sky, and rumbling, threatening thunder reverberated constantly,
sending its dull booming miles and miles across wild stretches of rock
and glade, of forest and swamp.

The dogs whined under the wagons as they sought a dry place, the lonesome
sheep bleated, the horses turned their tails to the storm, and as the
lightning shone out they could be seen standing with humped backs and
lowered heads.

Ruth was alone with her dead.

The women had tried to take her away, as the men had made arrangements to
watch by the corpse, but her firm will overruled them and she was alone
in the canvas-covered cart with her beloved. She covered the stiffening
form carefully as if to keep out the chill, seemingly not knowing that
the cold and damp were now his portion.

The load had been partially removed, and she sat in one of the hickory
chairs and leaned her tired head on the bent bows that his hand had
shaped.

She thought she could keep her vigil until morning, for how could sleep
come and keep company with despair?

The dull hours passed, and the big raindrops fell with monotonous thump
on the sail-cloth and trickled over the sides on spoke and tire.

The splashing steps of the man on watch could be heard as he made his
rounds.

The hours wore on and when daylight came, cold and gray, Mrs. Brown
picked her way over to the cart where lay the dead. She parted the canvas
and looked in. There by the side of her lover lay Ruth, one arm thrown
across his form, sleeping peacefully: her breath coming and going in the
slow, measured rhythm of youth and health.




CHAPTER IX

SORROW’S RESPITE FOUND IN WORK


Before noon the sun came out warm and pleasant. The drooping boughs,
heavy with their weight of water, glittered and glistened in the bright
rays, and sent a merry shower on all who chanced to brush against them.

For several hours the men up on the hillside a quarter of a mile away had
been busy with ax and adze, and pick and shovel. A rude coffin had been
made from boards split from a butternut log, and then smoothed with an
adze. A grave was dug. The coffin was then carried, with solemn steps
and slow, down to the camp, and the body was placed in it.

Jedediah read the Thirty-eighth Psalm, a hymn was sung, Deacon Brown made
a short address, naming one by one the various virtues of the deceased,
and ending with the warning, “‘Be ye also ready, for ye know not the
day nor the hour when the Son of Man cometh.’” Another hymn and then a
prayer; then all filed past,—children too, for the lesson of this tragic
taking away must not be lost on them,—and took a last farewell view of
that cold and quiet face.

The slab that served for the top of the coffin was adjusted, and wound in
place with various hickory withes. Two stout sticks were placed beneath
the head and foot; and Captain Judson, Deacon Brown, Jedediah, and Joe
lifted the bier and bore it slowly up the slope.

Ruth and Mrs. Brown followed behind, the rest came two by two. The coffin
was lowered by means of reins taken from a harness. The Deacon sprinkled
a handful of soil into the grave and said, “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.”

A short prayer was offered, and with a shovel, working rapidly, spelling
each other, the men quickly filled the grave, mounded up the earth, and
patted it down with the back of the spade.

An oak slab with the name, age and date of death of the dead was driven
in at the head of the grave. The company turned and went down the hill.

Mrs. Brown walked on one side of Ruth and little John trotted along on
the other, holding her hand.

The Deacon approached: “Ruth—I mean Mrs. Crosby—we can’t take you back to
your folks, you know; we are two hundred miles and more from Torrington;
but like enough we will meet someone goin’ that way and then you can go
back—I will buy your cart and—”

“I do not think I will go back!”

“Not go back to your father and mother?”

“No, Nathan wanted me to go on with you all!”

“Nathan! why, when did he say so?”

“He did not say so; his last words as you heard were my name, and he was
going to tell me to go on, but his breath failed.”

“Going to tell you to go on?”

“Yes, I could always anticipate his thought—”

“That’s right, Ruth,” broke in Mrs. Judson, “you must stay with us.”

“Yes, it would be foolish to go back,” spoke Jedediah.

“Hurrah!” said red-faced, thirteen-year-old Joe as he turned a somersault
on the grass, “she’s not goin’ back, boys, what did I tell you?”

This was addressed to the children tagging behind. Mrs. Brown stepped
forward and gave the lad a smart box on the ear, with a “Take that, will
you!”

“You can have my Sis,” said Mrs. Judson.

“And my John is yourn already,” said Mrs. Brown.

“And we all—esteem you very much,” said Jedediah.

“Go and kiss her, Sis, and tell her you will ride in her cart and be with
her all the time,” continued Mrs. Judson, shifting her baby to the other
arm.

Sis was fourteen. Sis was tall and bony and awkward. She had grown too
fast, and people had spoken of her height until she had tried to conceal
it by a stoop and had become round-shouldered. Her hair was very straight
and hung in rat-tails, and was generally in her eyes. She had a way of
constantly brushing it away from her line of vision—probably in response
to a perpetual snarl:

“Sis, git your hair outen your eyes—what did I tell you!”

When she was dressed up these rat-tails were all pushed straight back up,
so that they lifted her eyebrows and showed her high, narrow forehead.
Then these tails were tied in place by a yellow calico string—a bit of
carpet rag—that ran behind her ears and up over the top of her head.

She had always gone barefoot until this summer, and her shoes hurt her
feet and spoiled her gait; her ankles were thin and one stocking was
usually down around her shoe top.

“What you standin’ there for, awkwardness—be you deef? go kiss Ruth
Halsted and tell her you will stay with her,” ordered Mrs. Judson.

The girl made an embarrassed motion to push the hair from her eyes, but
did not move. Ruth stepped over and kissed her gently, and, taking the
big red hand in her own, moved away to where the oxen were grazing.

All were busy yoking up. The camp was in a stir getting ready for
departure.

“I kin hook up them steers, I kin,” said Sis.

“I’m glad, for then we need not call on others,” Ruth replied.

“Mother says I’m awkward as awkward, but I haint ef there’s work to be
did.”

“I don’t think you are awkward.”

“Well, I am ef I’m standin’ still.”

“Well, it’s better to be awkward when idle and graceful at work, than to
be awkward at work and graceful when idle.”

“Say that agin, please, and not so fast.”

Ruth repeated the remark.

“Lordy—I guess that’s so—though I don’t zakly understand—I think I must
be deef, as mother says—whoa, Buck! back up there—you Bright!” and the
goad descended with a whack.

They started away—nineteen souls in all. Sis walked and drove the steers;
then Ruth took a turn at it, and little John told them how. The road was
better now and led along a great quiet valley. It was an hour after dark
before they camped that night; the moon rose bright and full over the
eastern hill and lighted the way.

Early the next morning they started again.

“Land sakes! who braided your hair, Sis?” called Mrs. Judson to her
daughter.

“Her!” said Sis, pointing to Ruth.

“And dear me, if you haint tied your shoes for once, and from the looks
of your stockin’s you’ve got on your garters!”

Sis was walking by the side of the oxen; Ruth and John sat on the seat.
Ruth was weaving slough grass into long strips to make a straw hat for
Sis, to take the place of the sun-bonnet which she usually wore hanging
on her back.

“What’s in Bob’s basket, Ruth, guess?”

“Bob?”

“No, see!”

John showed the empty basket. Peeking out from the front of his open
roundabout gleamed two little black eyes. By bribes of nuts the squirrel
was induced to come out. He perched on John’s shoulder nibbling at the
meaty morsels.

By and by Ruth got off to drive and Sis sat on the seat. John trotted
behind and on his shoulder perched the squirrel.

“Land sakes!” said Mrs. Judson, “what next!”




CHAPTER X

CONFORM OR FIGHT


One can endure sorrow, but it takes two to be glad. The laughter had died
from Ruth’s voice, the light had gone from her eyes, and there came a
soft, subdued sadness—a dumb resignation. The constant physical exercise,
to a great degree, kept carking care at bay; and, wise woman that she
was, she filled the spare moments with useful effort in behalf of others.

But in a month she had changed from a blooming girl of twenty into a
sallow woman of thirty.

“It was a judgment,” said Jedediah to his mother.

“Yes, she was too frivolous.”

“Fond of ornament and pleasures of the world.”

“Yes, and so the hand of God was laid heavy ’pon her—but it’s all for the
best.”

“True, it’s His plan. Just see how she has changed for good—so
circumspect.”

“Jedediah?”

“Well—say it.”

“You will be reg’lar ordained and installed in a charge when we git to
the Reserve?”

“Yes, if it’s the Lord’s will!”

“And you will need a help-meet?”

“Ah, I had never thought of that.”

“Yes, Jedediah, you must pray to be guided aright.”

“Surely, we must ask Him to be with us in all we do.”

“And if I was goin’ to suggest—”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Can’t you guess, Jed?”

“No, I can’t imagine what you’re comin’ at.”

“Ruth Halsted!”

“Well, I am surprised—I never thought o’ such a thing.”

“She has the cart—”

“But not the grace of—”

“And the steers—”

“God in her heart.”

“And a feather bed—”

“But without religion.”

“And a dozen quilts—”

“That’so, but—”

“And twenty dollars in silver.”

“Still she must suffer more—her heart is not yet subdued; I tried to be
friendly with her this morning,—I asked after her spiritual state.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said she thought my mother was callin’ me.”

“She hasn’t the realizin’ sense of savin’ grace—if she could really be
brought low and be convicted of sin!”

“That’s what I was thinkin’.”

When evening prayers were held a half hour later, Jedediah prayed for
“one in our midst who is yet in the thrall of sin and the bonds of
iniquity. Subdue, O Lord, her stubborn spirit so she will come to know
Thee, the only true and living God—create in her a new heart, O Lord, and
cause her to turn from her sins and live.”

There were loud responses of Amen, and all felt that there was an
awakening of power such as had not been known for some weeks.

“They really ought to let the girl alone—that’s what I think,” said Mrs.
Brown to the Deacon after they had gone to bed that night.

“But, wife, you know she has never really been converted!”

“I don’t know about that, but she is as good as the rest of us.”

“Of course her morality is all right, but man’s righteousness is as
filthy rags.”

“Well, there may be two kinds o’ righteousness—I don’t know, I’m only
a woman and can’t argufy, but ’pears to me she’s as good as us—see how
patient she is, and then her teachin’ all the children their letters and
learnin’ ’em to count.”

“I know, but, Unity Brown, this is only the world’s goodness—she never
confessed her Saviour. ‘He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved,
and he that believeth not shall be damned!’”

The good old Deacon had Scripture on his side, and Mrs. Brown was not
wholly sure but that she was in the wrong, anyway. Her defense of Ruth
was only a woman’s impulse. Of course people should be good, and besides
that they should not hold aloof from religion—Mrs. Brown knew that.

But Ruth was not godless. In childhood she had been “sprinkled” and she
had always attended church, and took part in the singing, and bowed her
head during prayer, and listened to the sermon. But when others had stood
up and made public professions, she had kept still.

She could not think of God as a great big man who watched people and set
down in a book all their actions—she did not know who God was or what He
was. That He made all things she fully felt was true, and that our life
came from Him, but why He should send His Son to suffer for sins that
others had committed, she could not comprehend. It was all so mysterious
and miraculous and wonderful—how could she know all about God’s plans?
and so she never pretended that she did.

At prayers now, morning and evening for a full week, she was
mentioned—not by name, but all knew who was meant. It began to weigh
upon her—this being spoken of as “obdurate,” “stubborn,” “stiff-necked,”
etc. The Deacon had come to her and talked with her confidentially and
quietly; Mrs. Judson had done the same, and Jedediah had attempted it.

Even the children knew that they were trying to bring her in, and they
stared at her curiously. A sense of guilt began to prey upon her—she grew
nervous.

“What’s the use—better give in!” blurted Sis one day as they walked by
the side of the oxen.

“Do what, Sis?”

“Give in—stand up—’cept the Saviour and be baptized.”

“Should I do so, just because I’m urged, Sis?”

“What’s the harm—it can’t do no hurt, and then”—

“And then?”

“P’r’aps they’re right.”

“Perhaps they are right,” mused Ruth.

“It stops the fuss and you’ll feel better,” continued Sis after about ten
minutes.

“Will I feel better, Sis?”

“Yes, it’s you agin them now, and them agin you—there’s no pious in it,
it’s jest which ’ull beat!”

That night at prayers Ruth stood up and said in a low voice that she
wanted to give her heart to God and to be a thorough Christian—to be
filled with the Christ-spirit. She asked all present to pray for her that
she might walk aright.

“Let us pray!” roared Deacon Brown.

All knelt. Mrs. Brown was on one side of Ruth and Mrs. Judson on the
other. They each prayed in whispers and the Deacon prayed with shouts,
and when he had finished, Jedediah took the words right out of his mouth
and continued earnestly for five minutes, and then Captain Judson came in
with a few sentences. Then they sang.

“Is your peace made with God?” asked the Deacon.

“It is,” said Ruth.

“Bless the Lord, she’s saved!” shouted Jedediah.

There was much handshaking and some joyous weeping, and all felt that a
burden had been dropped—a tension gone.

“Don’t you feel better?” asked Sis the next day as they journeyed.

“Yes, Sis, much better.”

“I knew you would—’twas the same with me.”

And Ruth did feel better. The grim awakening each morning to face her
sorrow was not quite so grim—and the awful loneliness of her heart was
not quite so black. Whether she had made her peace with God is not for
us to say, but she had made peace with these people with whom she lived.
There were now no differences, but a close bond of sympathy between them
all—a oneness of hope—a bond of fellowship.

The Deacon made plans for building a church in the New Canaan that would
also do for a school-house, where Ruth should teach the children on week
days.

“You mean a school-house where there will be church,” said Mrs. Brown.

“No, Mother—I don’t mean no such thing—I mean a meetin’ house that can be
used for a school.”

At times when Ruth thought of the good she might yet be able to do, she
almost smiled. She picked thorns out of the children’s feet, and smoothed
away their childish sorrows, and told them stories; and little John hung
tightly to her dress most all the time, as if she might get away.

And as for Sis, she kept the hair out of her eyes and wore her garters
and laced her shoes.

“I do declare, that girl haint near as slovenly as she uster was,” said
Mrs. Judson more than once.




CHAPTER XI

MAN PROPOSES, BUT WOMAN DISPOSES


Ruth’s patient, gentle spirit had won the love of the whole camp; someway
they all looked up to her as a sort of superior being. Her strength of
mind held their respect; her sadness won their sympathy. Such resignation
in affliction—who could withstand the sweet influence of such a soul? Her
smile was a benediction.

“It’s religion done it,” said Mrs. Judson.

“It is strange,” said Mrs. Brown, “once so frivolous and now as perfect a
Christian as I ever knew!”

All waited on her; all did for her; there was a kind of rivalry as to
who could minister most to her needs. Perhaps Jedediah outdid the rest
in kindness: at meal time he saw that her plate was filled first; when
Scripture was read he found the page for her, and on the march he often
hovered near offering to help, where his presence perhaps was only a
hindrance.

Ruth accepted these attentions dumbly, passively. At evening prayers she
sometimes sang from the same book with him, simply because he offered
it and she could not refuse without giving offense. At such times Mrs.
Judson would nudge the Captain, and that worthy man would smile knowingly.

“As fine a young woman as that can’t live alone; ’taint nature,” said the
Captain one day to the Deacon.

“Yes, I s’pose women do get over their trouble quick when they find
another man,” said the Deacon. “I’d hardly thought it though of that
’un—still I don’t blame her!”

And it came to be a settled thing—looked on as a matter of course—and why
not?

Here is a fine young woman, unmarried. She needs the protection that
only a husband can give. And here is a young man of marriageable age,
who needs a help-meet, at least his mother says so, and he fully agrees
with her. He will soon be a minister and should have the assistance
of a gentle, yet earnest, Christian wife. No woman better looking or
more intelligent can be found than this young widow. She is strong and
can work; she is diplomatic and can serve; she has a dower and this is
no objection; and best of all she is alone, with no prying kinsmen or
interfering parents. When safely married she can be subdued if needs be
(which of course is not likely to be the case).

In those days the woman’s side of the question was not considered, as
it is now, when feminine careers are opening up for women outside of
procreation and housework. The advice of St. Paul was never doubted: “If
a woman would have knowledge, let her ask her husband.” Woman’s work was
to minister to man’s wants—no one questioned it—the Bible said so. Again,
in a pioneer country people marry young—nature demands it—to hold aloof
is a sin. God even allowed polygamy among pioneers. How about Abraham and
Isaac?

Thought is in the air and women absorb it. The gossip of the camp did
not interest Ruth—her heart was far away near a lonely grave on a wooded
hillside; strange misty forms arose out of the future and beckoned her on
and on. At times she seemed to be moving in a dream and expected without
a doubt that some morning she would awake and find Nathan by her side,
and together they would laugh at the nightmare of the past.

But it came over her one day that a coil was tightening around her: all
of these people expected she would do a certain thing; even children were
discussing it; she was drifting—moving in a certain direction, and if
she did not put forth a strong effort soon these people would have their
way exactly as they had done once before, when she arose to her feet and
professed a faith that was not hers. Only this time when she stood up it
would be by the side of a man and her lips would move dumbly and say “I
will,” and then the people would sing, just as they did before, and she
would be the property of this man to be used as his will or whim might
dictate.

The earnest thought of several people brings about a certain result—this
is called “answer to prayer.”

It would come as sure as death—it was approaching—she need not do a
thing, nor lift a finger—fate was binding her fast—she was powerless and
slowly drifting to sea. And this all because she desired peace and had
been compliant when she should have been rebellious.

And now what if she asserted herself—would they all turn against her?
Very well, it must be so.

That evening Ruth went to Mrs. Brown, who she thought would be most
likely to understand.

Ruth meant to talk to her calmly, to unburden her heart by degrees, and
make all plain by word of mouth. She began to speak, but a lump came
into her throat; she tried to go on—the elder woman’s mother-heart was
touched—she held out her arms and the motherless girl fell in her embrace
and sobbed away her grief and her fears on the good woman’s shoulder.
Mrs. Brown was a wife who had many cares—there was much work to do,
heavy burdens to bear, and little time for sentiment or demonstration.

Ruth did not have to talk much: it was not necessary, the other
understood.

Peace came to Ruth that night—pleasant dreams and visions of rest. After
all, does it not really take two to bear a burden?

They had reached the shores of Lake Erie. Great was the excitement, and
great the joy when that vast stretch of water was seen. All were filled
with a strange wonderment and a heartfelt gratitude to the Providence
that had thus brought them out of the wilderness. The wagon-train halted.

For nearly three months they had journeyed, journeyed through unending
woods, but now their eyes could look straight out in front for five, ten,
yes, twenty miles.

“Is it the Western Reserve, Ruth?” asked John.

“No, little boy, it is Lake Erie.”

“It looks like the sky turned upside down. Is the Western Reserve like
that?”

“Just as serene as that!” said a voice at the cart wheel. Ruth started a
little. It was Jedediah who spoke—he was chewing a stick—one foot was on
the felloe.

“Just as serene as that, if me and you are together, Ruth, eh!”

Ruth colored and turned her head to avoid his leer.

“Of course you blush, little widow, it’s becoming; but I have prayed that
our future will be as smooth as the lake, and a Voice says it shall be
so. We will reach the town of Erie to-morrow, Ruth—did you know that?”

“No, to-morrow?”—she clutched at it, it seemed a change of subject.

“Yes, to-morrow; there is someone there I know.”

“Is there, who is it?”

“A minister!”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, shall we call on him, me and you—why not?”

“No, I think we will not call on him.”

“We might as well—now’s the time—you’ll never get ’nother man like me.
I’m goin’ to be ordained soon.”

“Jed Judson, you let that girl alone, will you!”

Mrs. Brown had approached the cart from the other side and had caught
Jedediah’s last remark. She walked around and standing close to him
turned her sun-bonnet defiantly towards his face:

“Go long with you now and don’t you bother a lone woman.”

“Why, what’s the fuss, Sister Brown—was you afraid you wouldn’t get an
invite to the weddin’?”

“Who says there’s going to be a wedding?”

“Why, the widow will say so if you wait a minute.”

Ruth turned a supplicating look at Mrs. Brown, and spoke:

“He means well, Mrs. Brown, Jedediah means well, but it can never be—make
him understand once for all that I am his friend, but can never, never,
never be his wife!”

“Now, will you quit pesterin’ her?” asked Mrs. Brown.

“And why won’t she marry me?” whined Jedediah? “I like her and she says
she likes me—you heard that with your own ears.”

“Fool!” Mrs. Brown took the youth by the elbow and led him away three
steps. Then she whispered something to him. He smiled and whistled a
long, low whistle of astonishment.

“Jeeminee! but I don’t care for that—I won’t mind if she won’t!”

“Jed Judson, are you crazy?”

“Well, if that’s all that’s in the way, let her say the word.”

“You are a fool.”

Mrs. Brown’s stout form was shaking with womanly indignation. She led the
young man straight across to where his mother sat on a log nursing her
baby.

“Charity Judson, you make this boy quit botherin’ Ruth Halsted; if he
says anything more ’bout marryin’ of her, and you don’t box his ears, I
will!!”




CHAPTER XII

PIONEER DAYS AND A NIGHT ALONE IN THE WOODS


In 1796, the first pilgrims from New England landed at Conneaut, Ohio;
they called the place New Plymouth. But the name slipped them, for
commerce is stronger than pride of ancestry; and the name that the French
traders gave the post crowded the other out, like a cuckoo in the nest of
a thrush.

When our wagon-train reached Conneaut—only a few miles beyond the
Pennsylvania line—there was great rejoicing. There were prayers of
thanksgiving and songs of praise; and then there was feasting.

Poverty in the city is horror; but poverty in the country is only a
disadvantage—and not always that. These people had little money; they
were poor, but they were not poverty-stricken. They had an abundance to
eat, raiment to keep them warm, and fuel for a hundred years. They had
health and hope and faith.

After a few days of rest at Conneaut they were joined by several other
families, and together they pushed on through the forest for a two days’
journey to the south. At Conneaut they had met a worthy man by the name
of David Hudson, and he led the caravan to a clearing in the woods where
he had built a house.

Then they camped—there on the banks of a stream in the primeval woods—and
the long, long march was at an end.

Northern Ohio was very beautiful in those days—beautiful in its wild,
untamed diversity. Rock and hill, forest and stream, wooded slope and
clearing; and then the rich bottom-lands where Nature seemed to make
her tryst, waiting for the pioneer—all this was New England, with New
England’s blessings multiplied by two and her disadvantages divided in
half.

There were miles on miles of waving forests, tunnels of endless trees:
oak, beach, elm, chestnut, and now and again great pines that lifted
their evergreen heads high over all, as if jealous of the sun’s rays.
These brooding forests were dim even at midday, dusky in the evening,
fragrant, sweet, dewy.

The cool streams were stocked with gamy, hungry fish; beneath the ferns
and in the canebrakes were sounds of stirring game, mark of hoofs at the
deerlicks, plantigrade tracks about rocky caves, little clearings where
wild turkeys strutted and called; and from the afterglow of sunset until
day-dawn might be heard the screech of panther, the howl of wolf and the
wild, mysterious call of night birds echoing across the solemn dark.
And now all day long the ring of the ax could be heard; and the smoke
ascended from a hundred sacrificial fires: the forest was being subdued.

The women and children burned brush and trees; certain other women
looked after the babies; others prepared food; the men hewed logs into
shape and erected a meeting house—a house for the worship of God.

In a week they were putting on the roof. A solemn service was held.

There was a dirt floor to this church, and the windows were only sliding
shutters, and the pulpit was very rude, and the pews slabs of wood; but
this church was dedicated and the people were very happy.

While log houses were being built the people moved into the church,
dividing it off into rooms by deer-skins or cloth suspended from poles.

The name of Froebel was not known to these people, and the word “crêche”
had not yet been imported, but still the kindergarten and the day
nursery were established by Ruth. For a primitive civilization is like
the highest in this: that which is needed is evolved; in one case by
necessity, in the other by science.

Ruth’s presence in that primitive settlement was a benison: her tact, her
gentleness, her patience, and her common sense did for the children what
the mothers could not; her endowments set her apart as a teacher of the
young, and all respected her office.

When the sun set the example, children went to bed, and as the darkness
gathered, “the grown-ups” did likewise. But first the fond mothers would
take inventory of their broods as they lay sleeping in rows, in all the
positions of abandon that tired nature suggests.

One night, as usual, Mrs. Brown looked after her little flock before
going, herself, to rest. She checked them all off on her fingers and then
she did it again, for one was missing.

Little John could not be found.

The mother called his name aloud, but the only answer was the echo of
her anxious cry. The alarm was given: men took up the call; they ran
hither and thither with torches; they followed the bed of the stream
for miles and the roadway where a path was blazed through the forest.
And still they shouted aloud, but there came back only the sad echo and
muffled noises of the night.

When daylight came it brought night to the stricken mother. The searchers
returned from their fruitless hunt. Then they started out again—men,
women and children—walking straight out into the forest ten feet apart.
They stretched out in a line a full quarter of a mile wide. Only Ruth
remained at the village to take care of those too young to tramp.

Her eyes were red with weeping, her head ached from the sleepless vigil,
her heart was heavy with its sorrow; for some secret mysterious bond had
bound her own fate up with that of the strange child who had gone off
into the void of the unknown. She went drearily about her work and her
inward eye saw only a tattered, tangled pile of child-clothes, that the
searchers would find and bring sorrowfully home; for at night the forest
was full of ravenous wolves and prowling bears.

A little shadow came into the doorway and a little voice piped:

“He’s gone, Ruth—I want to die!”

Ruth thought it was a spirit and she answered:

“So do I!”

But she looked and there was little John Brown, very wet with dew, and
eyes as red as hers from much weeping. In an instant he was held close to
her heart, and both cried, and although five babies joined in the chorus
Ruth heard them not.

Finally John squirmed his head loose from Ruth’s embrace, as they sat
there on the door sill:

“Where are all the folks, Ruth?”

“Looking for you, little boy.”

“Will mother whip me very hard, do you s’pose?”

“No, dear child, she will be only glad that you are safe.”

“I don’t care even if father switches me—and he do switch awful—I want to
die, I do.”

“Why, John?”

“Bob’s gone!”

A fresh burst of weeping here followed, and Ruth bethought herself of the
agreed signal. She rested the long gun across a log and shut her eyes
(for she was a woman), then pulled the trigger with a jerk. There was a
loud report. Then she quickly poured in powder, rammed home a wad made
from a hornet’s nest, primed the flint, and fired again, then once more.

“I was going to starve myself to death so I would die myself dead, but I
guess I’d eat a bite if I could git it,” said little John as he leaned
his head sadly on the door jamb.

Ruth started to get the boy something to eat, but she heard a shout from
the forest and soon another from the edge of the clearing. She ran to
the door and waved an apron. Soon the whole village came trooping in
pell-mell.

“Land a livin’—where was he at?” asked Mrs. Judson.

“Didn’t the bears eat him?” called another.

“Was he dead and come to life?” asked a little girl.

“He oughter be well cuffed for makin’ us such a scare,” added Mrs. Judson.

“That’s right, a good taste of the birch is what he needs,” said the Rev.
Jedediah.

“I’m sorry, John, that you should have been so perverse as to go away
without telling us first,” solemnly said the Deacon.

And as all crowded around and asked questions, Ruth held the boy on her
knee and his mother fed him bread and milk from a wooden bowl.

When hunger was partially satisfied, the child took time to say between
two spoonfuls:

“He’s gone—the Lord took him.”

“Is the child crazy—what do he mean?” asked a woman.

“Bob’s gone and I have nothin’ to live for!”

“Oh, you mean the squirrel?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad, he was a nuisance.”

“No he wasn’t.”

“Well, where were you?”

“Bob run off and I followed him a hundred miles in the woods—he run up
a holler tree, and I waited for him to come down. He didn’t come down—I
waited all night in the holler of the tree. He’s gone up in the sky to
where Nathan is!”

“He surely needs the birch,” mused Jedediah.

“But didn’t you hear us call?” asked his father.

“Of course I heard you, but I must do my duty—I waited in the holler of
the tree for Bob to come!”

“Such willfulness! the sprout is what he needs,” resumed Jedediah.

“The Elder is right!” said several women in concert. Others nodded their
sun-bonnets in approval.

“I think you folks had better pike off and do your work, that’s what I
think,” said Mrs. Brown; “when I can’t look after my own children, I’ll
send for you to give advice,” and she shooed them away with her apron.

Little John turned and put his arms around Ruth’s neck: “God don’t ’flict
everybody as much as He does we, does He, Ruth?”

“No, dear little boy, but those whom He loveth, He chasteneth.”

“Why does He do it?”

“So as to make them better—prepare them for a great work, the Bible says.”

“And do you think I will do a great work some day?”

“I have never doubted it, John.”

“Then I guess I won’t die just yet a while!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Three months after this a baby was born to Ruth Crosby—a girl baby. They
called her Rachel.

In a very few days Ruth was propped up in one of the big hickory chairs
on the sunny side of the log house. Little John stood near, very happy
and very proud of the new arrival.

“Ruth!” said John.

“Yes, little boy.”

“I know why God did not let the bears and wolves eat me that night!”

“Why, John?”

“He saved me so I could take care of you and Rachel.”

“I think so, John.”

“So I could take care of you, so you could both help me do my work.”

“Lordy!” exclaimed Sis, who stood near. She made a quick jerk as if
brushing her hair from her eyes. “Lordy! but when that boy talks like
that, it do give me the shivers up my back!”

[Illustration: Ruth Crosby]




BOOK TWO




CHAPTER I

A CATTLE SALE AT ZANESVILLE


In 1812 the capital of Ohio was at Zanesville. It was then removed to
Chillicothe, but Zanesville remained a place of much importance. There
was considerable society thereabouts, and for many miles in every
direction it was considered the intellectual center: for no matter how
crude or rude a people is, there are certain self-appointed “hubs” whence
culture is supposed to radiate.

The highest court of the West sat at Zanesville; much of the Government
machinery was located there; the military made it their chief rendezvous.
And where these things are gathered together, there is always a large
demand for tobacco, whiskey, and paste-board.

The uncertain tenure of office and the speculative spirit of Government
contracts breed a fever in the blood that makes gambling a necessity, and
then come late hours and stimulants as a matter of course.

Zanesville was very gay.

There were market days each month when farmers gathered for hundreds of
miles. They brought sheep and cattle and horses to sell, if they were
very rich; or if not so prosperous they brought only beans, corn, and
wheat; then others who ranged the forests for bee trees brought honey,
sarsaparilla, sassafras, and ginger root; and there were Indians who
brought skins—muskrats, coon, beaver, and deer.

When court was in session these monthly markets were busy places—for
country people have ever a thirst for litigation—they buzz about an
assize like moths around a candle.

In the square at Zanesville were rows of pens made from rails piled on
each other after the manner of a “worm fence.” Perched on the top rail
of one of these pens sat a long, slim youth of perhaps fifteen years.
Back and forth ranged the buyers and sightseers. They joked and laughed
and priced this and that, and made offers. No one seemed in a hurry—the
market continued until things were sold—buy now or the next day or not at
all.

“And haven’t you sold your cattle yet, youngster?”

“I sold two, sir.”

The questioner was a large man—good-natured—evidently well pleased with
himself, and prosperous. His hair was red, eyes blue, and face slightly
freckled. He wore a wide felt hat on the back of his head, top-boots into
which his trousers were tucked, a flannel shirt, and as he talked he
snapped a black-snake whip that he carried in his hand. He knew everyone
and everyone seemed to know him. The boy on the rail was evidently a
close observer: he had noticed this man go by several times, and he had
seen that people in meeting him jerked the forefinger of their right
hands to their hat brims and addressed him as “Kuhnel.”

The boy had tried this “Kuhnel” at the bar of his judgment as he sat
there blinking in the sunshine, and the verdict was that the Colonel was
not a worthy man.

Yet when the great Colonel to whom people jerked their forefingers to
their hat brims, snapped his black-snake whip, spat, and addressed the
boy, the lad was pleased. The Colonel had come to the boy, not the boy to
the Colonel. And the Colonel had looked up to him, too, for he sat clear
on the top rail.

“Sold two, eh! well, where’s your pap? I reckon I’ll buy the rest if the
price is right.”

“You mean my father—he’s at home.”

“’Taint you that’s sellin’ the cattle?”

“Yes, I’m selling the cattle.”

“Where did you steal ’em?”

“I did not steal them. I brought them here to sell.”

“Pap sent you?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Brown.”

“Holy smokes!—you might as well have no name ’t all—if I’d shout Brown
right here, good and loud, twenty men would come on the run.”

“My first name’s John.”

“Worser and worser.”

“We live at Hudson.”

“Oho—now I see! yer dad aint Squire Owen?”

“Yes, that’s what they call him—his name’s Owen Brown.”

“Well, your name’s Timothy Buckskin—now Timothy, how much for the lot?”

“The three two-year-olds are twenty-two dollars apiece, the ox is
twenty-seven dollars, and the old cow is nineteen dollars.”

“Jeminy cats, but you are percise; how much will you knock off if I take
the lot?”

“Nothing!”

“And s’pose you don’t sell ’em.”

“I’ll drive them home.”

“Did you fetch ’em?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“A hundred miles?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you air smart!”

“It will not be necessary for me to take the cattle back; someone will
buy ’em.”

“Did your dad put the prices on ’em?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll take ’em, drive ’em over to Silverside on the hill, and I’ll
pay you when you come back.”

“You pay me now and I’ll drive them over.”

“Look here, Major,” the man called to another who was passing, “this
young Yank won’t put these cattle in my pen ’til I pay him!”

The men laughed loud and uproariously, they pounded each other on the
back, and then got the boy to repeat his refusal to let the cattle go
until he had been paid. Again they roared and several men standing about
shouted:

“It’s one on you, Kuhnel—it’s one on you!”

The boy looked on with face unmoved; he returned their look with
a steadiness of gaze that quite put several of the crowd out of
countenance. There he sat, all clothed in buckskin; he wore a coonskin
cap with a dangling tail, heavy shoes but no stockings. His complexion
was the color of his clothes, and the dust on his shoes was the tint of
both.

The Colonel got over his mirth, and drew forth a weasel-skin money bag.
He counted out the money and handed it up to the lad. The boy counted it,
distributed it carefully through several pockets and slid off the fence.
He quickly took rail off rail, of the improvised pen, and leading out
the ox the rest of the cattle followed after.

“Go with him, Slivers,” called the Colonel to a negro boy who stood near
“Show him where to put ’em. Oh, you, Smith, Timothy, Yank, what’s your
name? I say, you wait there at the house and git your dinner!”




CHAPTER II

JOHN BROWN FINDS FRIENDS AND FOES


John and Slivers were friends from the first. They were evidently about
the same age.

Slivers was a curiosity to John and John was a curiosity to Slivers.
Slivers was that curious thing, “a redhead nigger.” His wool was a rusty
red, the color of iron in the ore, or of the breed of pigs known as
“Jersey Reds.” His eyes were light blue and his face was freckled as a
turkey’s egg.

The cattle were safely yarded and Slivers had walked around the tall boy
twice. He examined the fringe on the buckskin jacket and stroked the
dangling tail of the coonskin cap.

“You couldn’t feel it if you was whipped through that jacket,” said
Slivers.

“See here,” said John, “Injuns made ’em, you can have one!”

Two yellow marbles were produced and the mulatto boy laughed with delight.

“Are they good to eat?” asked Slivers.

“No, you roll ’em, this way.”

Slivers chuckled.

“I’m ’fraid of Injuns, I am. They are decent in town, but a mile out
they catch folks and suck their blood.”

“Who says so?”

“The Missus.”

“Huh, I guess that’s a mistake. They never hurt me—I know ’em well—I talk
Injun!”

“Was your daddy an Injun?”

“My father! why, my father is Squire Brown—a Deacon! What made you ask if
he was an Injun?”

“You have fringe on your jacket.”

“That’s nothing.”

“When my daddy was a white man—why couldn’t yours be an Injun?”

“Who is your father?”

“Mine?”

“Yes.”

“Will you never tell?”

“Never!”

“S’ welp you?”

“Yes.”

“Cross your heart, an’ hope to never?”

“Yes.”

The freckled boy looked carefully on all sides, and putting his face
close to the other’s ear whispered:

“Marse!”

“Who?”

“Marse Silverton.”

“You mean the man who bought my cattle?”

“Of course—why not? I’m a Silverton; some calls it Sliverton, and we
is all Slivers. Thar’s Big Slivers, Little Slivers, Old Slivers, Tom
Slivers, Jim Slivers—and that’s me, although Marse often calls me just
plain Slivers. We all has red hair and blue eyes.”

“Gracious! then Mrs. Silverton is black?”

“Not very—ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”

The laugh ended very abruptly. Slivers fell over backward from where he
was sitting and crawled behind a gooseberry bush.

John looked around to see the sudden cause of fright, but he saw only a
tall, slender woman. She wore a blue dress, a white shawl, and she walked
very slowly as if ill; her face was pale. She took a seat on the veranda
that ran clear around the large, low-roofed, two-story house.

“Is she gone?” whispered Slivers.

“Who, the lady?”

“Yeh.”

“No, she is on the porch, who is she?”

“That? that’s the Missus.”

“Why do you lie so—that is not your mother?”

John had never seen a real live lady; he had heard of them just as we
hear of angels, and as we would recognize an angel at once should we meet
one, so did this boy recognize the lady. Ladies were pale and delicate,
they wore blue dresses and were very beautiful. This was a lady and this
negro boy was taking her name in vain.

“It’s better to tell the truth and not be so frivolous.”

“Hold on, Injun—I didn’t say Missus was my mother—my mammy was black.”

“Very likely, where is she now?”

“Sold!”

“So you are a slave?”

“No, I haint—I just b’long to Marse Silverton.”

“But he can sell you, too?”

“I s’pose so, if I don’t behave.”

“Are you sure he’s your father?”

“Are you sure ’bout yourn?”

“We are talking about you.”

“Well, I says to Marse once when he was feelin’ good: ‘You says I’s
cute—I reckon if I is, it’s cause you’re my daddy!’”

“What did he say?”

“Didn’t say nothin’, just slammed a plate at my head—if it had hit me I
wouldn’t be layin’ here talkin’ to you. Next day he says if I ever tole
anything like that agin, he’d send me straight to the cotton fields.”

“We don’t have any slaves where I come from.”

“Where you live?”

“Hudson—in the Western Reserve.”

“Everybody free?”

“Yes.”

“Golly, I’d like to live there—nobody does any work!”

“Of course they work.”

“But not if they don’t want?”

“No, they can be idle if they prefer.”

“If I lived there would I be free?”

“Certainly!”

“Well, I reckon I’ll go,” said Slivers with a chuckle.

Slivers had no idea of going, but unwittingly the white boy had sown
dragons’ teeth, which when the time was ripe were to spring up into armed
men.

John was sitting on the ground, his back against the fence. Involuntarily
he stood up; the lady on the veranda was looking at him. She beckoned him
to come to her. He did so and removed his cap as he approached. The lady
motioned him to a seat and said: “Are you the boy that led the cattle by
a little while ago?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He came a hundred miles alone,” called Colonel Silverton, who rode up
just then on horseback.

“Indeed!”

“Yes, I knew you would like to see him—he’s going to stay to dinner;
here, Slivers!”

Slivers was making busy pretense of pulling weeds for a lot of pigs that
stood with their front feet on top of a pen, squealing loudly.

Slivers came forward and took the horse.

“Yes, Belle, a hundred miles and only fifteen years old.”

“Fifteen—going on sixteen,” corrected John, without a smile.

“Why, neither George nor James could do that—I wouldn’t trust ’em with a
sheep! You are always so interested in queer specimens—I knew you would
like him.”

“Is he French, Canadian, or Pennsylvania Dutch?” asked the lady.

“Dutch! ha, ha!—he’s a Yank—a full-blooded Yank.”

“Maurice, you should not speak so before him, it may hurt his feelings.”

“I’m not ashamed of being a Yankee,” said the boy, with a quiet show of
pride.

“Listen to that! Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the Colonel.

“My ancestors came over in the Mayflower, I’m a descendant of Philip
Brown,” continued the boy.

The Colonel tried to laugh again, but the mirth was hardly a success.

“What is his name?” asked the lady of her husband.

“Smith, John Smith.”

“Brown,” corrected the boy.

“Margaret, my dear, come here, please.”

A young girl came out—a sort of second edition of her mother—only with
a bloom of health on her cheeks. She wore a blue dress, too, and John’s
quick glance told him that she was a lady also—the second he had ever
seen.

“Margaret, this is John Brown; he has brought cattle to your father a
hundred miles, all alone.”

“How do you do, John Brown? I hope you are well—but you must be very
tired after so long a march.”

John tried to speak; he had never in his life calculated his words; this
time he wished he had. He answered:

“Our folks are well, thank you—how are your folks?”

He felt his face burning and for the first time in his life he was
embarrassed. He had never yet quailed before the glance of man, woman or
beast; like the Indians with whom he had associated, he had the dignity
and the grace of a nude statue.

But now, like Adam and Eve in the presence of God, he was ashamed. He
would have run away if he dared; he tried to speak again, to apologize
and go, but he only sat, and the impassive yellow of his long face, with
its peaked chin and curved nose, burned scarlet.

He was a man.

The father, mother and daughter were discussing the boy—he dared not look
up.

“But they all came from England,” he heard the young girl say; “some
landed at Plymouth and some at Jamestown.”

“Yes, but one class belonged to the nobility and the other was the dregs
of creation.”

“Oh, that is too strong, Papa—you forget Oliver Cromwell.”

“My, but the girl is getting along in her history.”

The bell rang for dinner, to the great relief of John Brown. The dinner
was the most stately, courtly and uncomfortable affair that he had ever
known.

Colonel Silverton sat at one end of the large table, his wife at the
other. On one side sat John and Miss Margaret; on the other, two big
slouching boys who were introduced as George and James. They stared at
John, whispered together and then fell a-laughing.

No grace was said. Behind the master of the house stood Slivers with
a big tray ready to carry each plate to the proper person when it was
filled. And considering the size of the table, John thought this was
quite a necessary proceeding. Margaret was evidently a year or two older
than John, but she appeared to him like a full-grown woman, and he
noticed with inward discomfort that she treated him as though he were a
little boy. George had a downy mustache and was evidently near twenty.
James was about eighteen.

John could not eat much, neither could he talk; his pride of birth
was gone, and the trip through from Hudson alone had dwindled into
nothingness—he only wanted to get away into the woods alone.

Slivers stood, too solemn by half, behind his master’s chair. He watched
his chance, held up the marble that John had given him, and winked. But
John could not smile back.

As soon as the others had pushed their chairs back he walked hurriedly to
the veranda, put on his coonskin cap, and then putting his head in the
door called “Good-bye!” and started down the front path.

“Hold on there, Timothy, hold on! come back here! come back!” shouted the
Colonel.

John came slowly back.

“Where you going?”

“Home.”

“What’s the hurry—we want you to stay all night—wait until to-morrow
morning and take an early start.”

“Yes, wait until to-morrow,” added Mrs. Silverton.

The father, mother, two sons and daughter stood bare-headed on the
veranda. They looked at the stripling in wonderment—he was a curiosity—a
novelty; they desired to look him over as they might some strange wild
animal, before allowing it to escape to its native jungle. As deer,
pressed by necessity, sometimes run into villages, or wild birds fly in
at open windows, so this strange specimen of humanity had strayed into
their midst.

The Colonel smiled indulgently and held out his hand as though tempting a
cow with salt. George and James coughed, Margaret and her mother beamed
sympathy and compassion from four blue eyes that matched the blue of
their dresses. Behind all grinned the speckled face of Slivers as he held
up the yellow marble in token of eternal friendship.

John came back in very hang-dog fashion. He noticed only two points;
these were that Margaret and her mother were exactly the same height and
that the dresses were doubtless cut from one piece.

“Please say it quick,” said John, “I’ve got to make twelve miles
to-night!”

“Listen to that!” laughed the Colonel.

“I have no time to waste,” continued the youth. His dignity was coming
back.

“Where you going to stay to-night?”

“At Big Tree Clearing.”

“Not in that Indian town?”

“Yes, with Blackfoot, the chief.”

“Wall, if you was starting for Big Tree, why was you going back to town?
It’s two o’clock now and ’twill be dark ’fore you get through.”

“I was going to exchange these ribbons,” replied the boy, holding up a
small package he held in his hand.

“Who are they for?”

Of course the great Colonel Silverton had no interest in these
trivialities; he was only supplying amusement for his family.

“One is for Ruth Crosby and the other is for little Rachel. I got two
yards of red ribbon—a yard for each—I’m going to take it back and get
blue. Do you think the man will be mad if I ask him to change it?”

“Oh no, he will change it for you,” said Mrs. Silverton.

“What else is in your package?”

“Handkerchers—handkerchers for my brothers and sisters—seven on ’em. See
the letters and pictures—aren’t they nice?”

Mrs. Silverton admired the flimsy little presents. George and James
laughed.

“But who is the Ruth you spoke of?”

“Why, don’t you know? But I forgot, of course you don’t—why, Ruth
is—is—is—why, she is Widow Crosby and she teaches school and takes care
of folks when they are sick or in trouble, and when women or babies die
she lays ’em out.”

“What a queer person she must be; and Rachel is your sister, I suppose?”

“Why, yes, not exactly, though; she is Ruth’s little girl, she is nine
going on ten.”

“So you will not stay all night?”

“No.”

“But you will when you come again?”

“Yes, perhaps.”

“And if you bring cattle fetch them right here to me—I will pay you more
than anyone else.”

“You will be sure to make this your home when you are in Zanesville!”
said Mrs. Silverton.

“Yes, thank you, but I must go now.”

“Hold on, aint you going to shake hands before you go?”

John stood on the ground and solemnly reached up his big, bony hand. He
had outgrown his jacket so the sleeves were short, and there showed a
long length of red, sinewy wrist.

Each shook hands with him.

“Take care of that money, Timothy—your father hasn’t any too much, I
reckon—good-bye,” said the Colonel.

“You will come again, John Brown, won’t you?” said Margaret.

“If the Lord wills!” answered John. And this made them all laugh, all
save Margaret. John noted this and thought of it afterward. Slivers
laughed louder than all; the Colonel turned and made a kick at him, and
if his boot had hit the mark it might have meant the loss of valuable
property.

John walked rapidly, and very awkwardly, down the hill. He unconsciously
lifted his feet as if walking through plowed ground, for he knew that
seven persons were intently watching him from the veranda.

“Let’s set the dog on him,” cried George.

“All right—let’s: how he will scamper!”

“He might kill your dog and come back and thrash you both!” rebukingly
said the Colonel, as the party strolled into the house.

The Yankee boy went to the big store and the ribbon was exchanged without
a question. The proprietor even asked him to call again. This pleased the
boy and raised his spirits a little: his heart was heavy, for he felt
that he had been trifled with.

He started off out of the village. Up at the top of the hill he stopped
and looked back. Below lay the town—a very Babel of sounds and
commotion, thought the boy. He was glad to get away. He plunged into the
forest and followed the narrow road on an easy half run and walk, such as
the Indians had taught him.

He had gone perhaps two miles when he heard the clatter of hoofs behind
him. He felt to see that his money was safe and then stood still. The
quick hoof-beats came nearer and the boy withdrew into the bushes to let
the horseman pass. As the galloping horse appeared, John peered out and
was surprised to see that the rider was Slivers, on the Colonel’s horse.
Slivers’s feet could not reach the stirrups, so the stirrups dangled and
swung with every plunge. As the horse and rider flew past, John stepped
out and called.

Slivers drew in on the curb bit and showed, as he swung the animal around
by a neck-rein twist, that he was an experienced horseman.

“Oh, I was afraid I’d miss you!” gasped the colored boy. His countenance
had a bluish tinge and would have been pale had he not been a mulatto.

“Say, Yank,” he continued, “you must do something—I don’t know
what—George and James are going to rob you. I heard ’em plan it in the
hay mow—they are going on horseback by the East Road and lay for you at
the Gorge. I must hurry back or they will miss me—I was only sent to the
blacksmith shop with this here horse.”

The horse and rider started back on a canter and left John Brown staring
after, standing in the middle of the road.




CHAPTER III

OLD BLACKFOOT FOILS AN AMBUSCADE


John Brown stood still until the sound of the galloping horse had died a
way.

“Huh! Slivers is a fool—I’d like to see ’em rob me! I’ll get a club and
fight the two of ’em.”

He started ahead on a walk.

The lad was no coward. An ancestry of five generations that had fought
wild beasts, savages and men, and that had coped with Nature in all
her savage moods, had bred in his blood a calm indifference to danger.
In fact to those early settlers danger was the norm and safety the
extraordinary.

Afraid? not he; he was brother to the panther; his nerves were the nerves
of a bear; and in his nature, as in the nature of all men who roam wild
forests, there was the cunning of the fox. He pitted his craftiness
against the untamed forces of crude Nature or against those finer forces
of nature manifest in brute and man.

But as he walked he pondered.

He had asked and urged his father for the privilege of making this trip
alone. The young delight in their strength, and the first foretaste of
coming power is sweet. He knew he could drive those cattle to Zanesville,
a hundred miles; he knew he could sell them and bring the money safely
home; he craved that he might be allowed to do it.

All had gone well so far; in two more days he would walk into his
father’s house; he would lay the money on the table. His father would say
little, but he would be very proud of him; and all the children would
crowd around and get their presents, and he would give them each one of
the funny handkerchiefs, and tell them of the wonderful things he had
seen. Then he would go over to Ruth’s little home behind the church and
she would kiss him, and he would kiss little Rachel, and then he would
give them the blue ribbon and they would all be very happy.

Ah! but suppose he was waylaid and robbed! The pictured handkerchiefs
would be stolen, the ribbon, too, and all the money—and then how dared he
go home and confess that he had not been able to care for himself?

He started forward on a trot. Then he stopped and took the money out
and looked at it; he opened the parcel in which the handkerchiefs were
tied; he counted them. Yes, there were still six, none had been stolen;
he looked at the ribbon and made sure there were two full yards, and the
color blue.

There was little breeze through that long aisle of stately trees—it was
warm. He took off his jacket and cap and tied them in a bundle with a
twist of hickory bark; he changed the trot to an Indian lope, and when he
came to a stream where there was a wide shallow ford he knew that he had
come five miles.

He took off his shoes and the cool water was very refreshing to his feet.
He wished to sit down on a big bowlder that was in mid stream and watch
the snake-feeders as they circled around, and the kingfisher that sat
on a dead limb, and the minnows that swam in the eddies where the water
was deep. But there was no time for that now, the Gorge was seven miles
beyond; he must pass it before dark.

He bathed his hands in the water, and lay flat down on the bank and drank
and then soused his head under. When he arose the water ran dripping down
his long hair that was matted over his head.

The sun was sinking behind the hills. He hastened his steps. The miles
were slipping behind, but the sun kept going down, and down, and down. It
was a great golden ball hung in the heavens by an invisible thread. The
boy kept looking over his shoulder as he ran, and saw that the ball kept
dropping. The edge touched the tree-tops and sank lower; when he looked
again the upper rim had dropped clear from sight and there were only
great red streaks marking the spot where it had disappeared.

The Gorge was yet two miles away.

The East Road was a little farther than the road our lad traversed; these
roads joined but a short distance beyond the Gorge. This gorge was a
narrow ravine—seemingly an immense fissure in the stratum of sand-stone;
a stream had run through it years before, but now it was only a dry bed
of gravel with perpendicular walls of solid rock on either side.

The boy felt sure that these degenerate sons of Colonel Silverton would
calculate on his walking not more than four miles an hour, and at this
rate he would not be due at the spot for some time.

The question was whether he should go straight ahead and run the risk
of their meeting him, or should he make a detour of the dangerous spot.
As to which was the safer course there was no doubt, but youth always
delights in taking chances.

John cut a two-foot length of wild cherry an inch and a half thick and
started ahead on a brisk run. Outside of the ravine it was barely dusk,
inside it was gloomy, and the darkness seemed to have been pushed over
the top and tramped down.

The boy eased his pace to a slow walk to show himself that he was not
afraid. He started to whistle, but concluded he had better not. He moved
forward, warding off the dark by swinging his club; soon light shone
through at the other end—it grew larger and the lad took longer breaths.

He was safely through—the danger lay behind.

“Slivers lied to me—that’s what he did. But then I would rather Slivers
would tell me I was going to be robbed, and lie, than to say I would be
robbed, and tell the truth. Still the Bible says we should not lie—ah,
here is the cross track coming down the hill from the East Road.”

He sat down on a big flat stone to rest—he listened—then he got down on
his knees and laid his ear to the ground.

“Someone is coming—_two_ someones.”

The rhythmic patter of hoofs on the dry earth could plainly be heard.
They came nearer and nearer. John crept back into the bushes. In five
minutes two men on horseback came down the hill through the trees, turned
into the main road, and passed within ten feet of where the boy lay.

They were George and James Silverton.

George carried a shotgun on the pommel of his saddle. As they moved
slowly by John caught the words:

“He won’t be here for at least half an hour yet.”

“No, we are in time—we will catch him at this end of the Gorge.”

“You’ll hold the gun on him, and if he runs, shoot.”

The voices died away into a murmur. John moved along for a hundred yards
in the edge of the bushes, then slipped off his shoes and, carrying them
in his hand, started on a run for the Indian village two miles beyond.

When he reached the two or three log huts and the collection of bark
teepees, he was greeted by a full half dozen dogs. He gave a whoop and
a call in Indian tongue to announce his coming; a squaw came out and
drove the dogs away with a stick. Old Chief Blackfoot was sitting by a
camp-fire hugging his knees and scarcely looked up as the boy approached,
but seeing who it was out of the corner of his eye, he grunted:

“How, how, Little Blue, you come heap soon—you deer foot—run fast.”

“Yes, Father, I ran fast; they tried to rob me—they are up at the Gorge
now.”

“Ho, ho! I thought Little Blue no ’fraid of dark?”

“I’m not afraid of the dark, but I tell you there are robbers up there.”

Blue was as near Brown as old Chief Blackfoot could come; he respected
the Browns and during several hard winters had been supplied with
provisions by “Big Blue,” to whom he applied for help when times were
hard. For “Little Blue” he had a genuine affection, and when he got it
through his stupid head that someone had tried to waylay the lad, he
sprang up all alert.

He soon understood the case and called to three ragged and dirty “bucks”
sitting near, to whom he explained the situation in rapid lingo.

It was not pure philanthropy or friendship that stirred Old Blackfoot to
action; it was rather that the piping times of peace which had recently
been enforced on him were not to his taste, and he jumped at the chance
of a little adventure.

He issued an order to one of the bucks. The Indian at once picked up a
big coil of hay rope that lay near, and like a spirit disappeared in the
darkness.

In ten minutes more they started—three bucks, five squaws, half a dozen
Indian children, and one white boy.

John insisted that guns and bows and arrows should be left behind, for he
wanted no murder.

The bare feet and the moccasins made not the faintest sound as they moved
on down the road like a group of gray ghosts towards the Gorge.

Not a word was spoken.

As they neared the ravine the women and children were signaled to remain
behind. They sat down in the middle of the road as if camping out for
the night, each holding fast to the neck of a dog. The three Indians and
Little Blue skirted the track through the trees and approached the Gorge.
The neigh of a horse was heard and the attempt of the rider to quiet him
and stop his pawing.

“It’s time he was here,” said James in an undertone that came clear and
distinct through the silent night.

“Yes, but we rode on a gallop most of the way!”

“D’ ye think he has two hundred dollars?”

“Fully that—if he fights shall we kill him?”

“Well, not exactly kill him—but then he’s only a Yank anyway, you know.
I’ll tell you what we’ll do—”

But he did not tell. At a signal from Old Blackfoot four stones went
whizzing at the horsemen and four voices sent up a wild yell followed
with a ki, yi, yi, ki, yi, yi, that awoke the echoes for miles about.

Before the Indians could spring into the road the frantic horses had
shot down through the narrow ravine in a mad race for life, their hoofs
sending a shower of gravel through the branches of the scrubby oaks on
either side.

Little Blue’s club flew through the air towards the fleeing horsemen; the
dogs were at their heels.

The squaws and children had disobeyed orders and crawled up, evidently
as the men had, and they all rushed with shouts and yells pell-mell into
the Gorge, the barking dogs clear ahead in hot pursuit.

The clattering hoofs suddenly ceased; there was that wild scream of a
falling horse which very few men ever hear, and as the mob of yelling
Indians emerged with a rush from the ravine and passed down the road,
they saw ahead two men scramble onto one horse and disappear, like a
shadow, into the night.

A squaw who had taken her skirts under her arm and run like a sprinter,
outstripping all the rest, turned a double somersault in the road and all
the Indians stopped and laughed.

The moon’s faint rays were coming over the hill: they showed a dead horse
in the middle of the road. Little Blue put down his hand and felt a hay
rope stretched tightly from tree to tree just where the knees of a horse
would strike it.

“Ugh! Dam—no luck—me want two blankets!” grunted Old Blackfoot.

The squaws took the saddle, bridle and halter from the dead horse. The
blanket that was beneath the saddle Old Blackfoot appropriated for
himself and wrapped it around his form after the manner of a Roman
Senator. Ten feet away in the edge of the bushes was a shotgun—one of the
squaws found it. The chief at once took it away from her and gave the gun
to Little Blue. The lad turned it over to the woman’s husband, the man
who had gone ahead and tied the rope across the road.

The saddle was taken apart, two Indians each taking a stirrup, another
the seat, and another the crupper. The bridle and halter were also
separated into parts as much as buckles would allow; the tail and mane
were cut off from the dead horse and the spoils were then distributed by
the chief, even the children having a share.

All took hold and dragged the carcass of the horse into the bushes and
the march for home was begun.

“Ugh!” said Chief Blackfoot as they dived into the blackness of the
Gorge, “Ugh, me no luck since pale-face come—dam!”




CHAPTER IV

THE DEACON DOES A-WOOING GO


Eight years before, John’s mother had died. To be motherless is the
saddest condition that comes to youthful mortals on earth; but fate is
seldom wholly cruel: John went straight to Ruth Crosby and sobbed the
keen edge off his desolation, sitting on her lap with his arms about
her neck. Sleep, kindly sleep, comes to stricken childhood, just as the
kindly sleep of death comes to take the burden from grown folks when the
load grows too heavy to bear.

Ruth undressed the boy and laid him beside her own chubby little darling,
who was clasping a rag doll in her sleep and dreaming the dreams of
babyhood.

Ruth tucked them in, and as she looked at the fresh, innocent faces she
sighed and said:

“I wonder if they too must journey by the thorn road as the years go by!”

She undressed there in the moonlight and lay down on the bed that stood
beside the other.

When she awoke the sunlight was streaming in through the sliding window,
and in the trundle bed John, Rachel, and the rag doll were making a house
out of the bed-clothes, and chatting merrily; Rachel repeating the words
for the doll, who was tongue-tied and could not talk.

“Are you ’wake, Ruth?” called John.

“Yes.”

“Well, Rachel says I’m to be your boy and you are to be my mother—aint it
nice?”

“Yes, my boy, I asked your father, and he says you may stay here.”

A few weeks after this Deacon Brown came to call one evening; quite
smiling, he was, for a widower. He wore a “biled shirt,” squeaky boots,
and had had his whiskers shaved after the manner of the giddy youth of
that day and generation. Everyone in the village knew that he had called
on the Widow Crosby on a week day, and that he wore his “other clothes.”
But no one knew exactly what the conversation was that took place.

In four weeks thereafter Deacon Brown was married to a widow about his
own age: a worthy woman who had seen hard work and trouble and all the
privation that comes to the lot of pioneers. She was not a “smart”
woman, but she did her duty as she saw it, and entered on her new life
with the Christian determination to bear and forbear. Her goodly flock,
added to the Browns, made quite a house-full, and no one urged that a
certain little stray called John Brown should come back from the fold
where he had found shelter. So John staid at Ruth’s, and cut her wood,
and made garden, and she taught him to read and write and “do sums”; and
every other morning he went over to his father’s and was set to work at
some task. For the labor of children is their parents’ right: no one
ever doubted that until yesterday. Children were once a good financial
investment. You cared for them until they were about ten years old (or
less), and after that you owned everything that they produced until noon
on the day when the boy was twenty-one and the girl eighteen.

It does not “pay” to raise children now—they are a serious bill of
expense, and the advice to give a man about to start family life is,
“don’t.”

But blood is stronger than finance, and even in New England there is yet
marrying and giving in marriage; but the average number of children to
each couple has been cut down to three, whereas in 1810 it was eight.

Deacon Brown prospered in worldly affairs. His calm, judicial quality of
mind easily crowned him as First Citizen of the place: he was Deacon,
Justice of the Peace, School Trustee and Postmaster. His tannery brought
him a goodly income, and while his flocks and herds did not cover a
thousand hills, yet for the time and place they were large.

The Judsons plodded along after their kind. They had the reputation of
being “nice folks,” but “shiftless”; yet they always had enough to eat,
and they could not get very much in debt, even if they wished, for there
was no one to trust them. Jedediah became a preacher of considerable
power—that is he preached loud and he preached long—and no one doubted
his earnestness. His personality was not strong enough to crowd Deacon
Brown, who practically ran the church (for a church, like every other
institution, must be managed by a one-man power if it flourishes), and
so he kept his place and also established other churches in settlements
round about, acting as missionary and circuit rider.

When Jedediah was absent on “Lord’s Day” Deacon Brown would conduct the
services, and instead of preaching a sermon of his own, he would read one
by Jonathan Edwards. And it was whispered about that Deacon Brown kept
the Reverend Judson out on the circuit considerable more than was meet.

One fine day when the young circuit rider rode into town there was seated
on a pillion behind him, with her arms tightly clasped around his waist,
a blooming, buxom young woman.

The children in the street saw them coming and straightway ran into the
houses to tell their respective mothers. And as the preacher rode forward
on a slow trot, up the street, he passed in review before dozens of eyes
that peeked through fences, over fences, under fences, from windows and
from behind doors.

The good women of the place were warm with indignation at the scandalous
proceeding. The old horse and his two riders stopped in front of the
grocery, and Deacon Brown was called out. The blushing young woman (still
holding tight-fast, because in her embarrassment she had forgotten to let
go) was introduced as Jedediah’s wife. The Deacon would have kissed her,
but the horse was full sixteen hands. The explanation was made that they
had been married that same day. The preacher then headed the horse for
the two-room log cabin of Widow Crosby. In response to the “Hello!” the
widow came out, and Jedediah said, “This is my wife,” giving the young
woman behind a gentle jab in the ribs with his elbow.

Contrary to Jedediah’s expectation, Ruth shook hands cordially with them
both, wishing them long life and much happiness. Then they rode to the
Judsons’, where they dismounted and going in made this parent nest their
home for the time being.

The good women of the place were not at all appeased, even when they knew
that the buxom young woman was the legal wife of the man to whom she
clung (through evil and good report), as they rode that first morning,
when for them the world was young. Yet all of these women at times rode
on pillions, and all clung to their husbands when there was danger of
sliding off, and such as had no husbands clung also, only instead of
putting their arms around the man’s waist they put their hands on his
shoulders, and this was the distinguishing feature between the wedded and
the soon-to-be.

The wrath of these women was kindled, and that not a little, for “what
right has the pastor nohow to go off and git married without saying
nothing to nobody!”

All were very angry, save one—that one was Ruth Crosby.

Jedediah had followed her with his leering looks, until a week before she
had requested him not to come to her house.

His rhinoceros hide was stung at last. And when he saw Liza Ann, the
blooming daughter of Joshua Hoskins, at whose house he was stopping, the
bleeding of his broken heart ceased. The girl was younger than Ruth; she
was prettier than Ruth; she was bigger than Ruth.

Jedediah looked at her across the supper table, and ate the salt pork and
dock greens, and she colored and simpered a bit just as buxom young women
of eighteen will; and he decided then and there that he would marry Liza
Ann if her folks were willing.

After the supper things were done, he broached the subject to her father.
The family sat around and listened. That a preacher should select Liza
Ann for a wife was very flattering to the house of Hoskins. To make the
matter secure, Jedediah explained that he had had the young lady in mind
for a year; he had prayed over the subject earnestly and now was acting
as the Lord directed.

Mr. Hoskins had only lived in the neighborhood six months, but he was not
given to quibble: he gave the couple his hearty blessing and the bride a
feather bed.

So the next day they rode to a certain “Elder” who lived a few miles
away; and then on to Hudson, where they arrived all as herein truthfully
recorded.

All that morning as they rode, the bridegroom’s thoughts dwelt more on
another woman than on his newly wedded wife. He thought of Ruth Crosby
and chuckled to himself as he anticipated the look of surprise and pain
that would sweep over her face when he presented his new wife.

But alas, it is the unexpected that happens—we know everything but the
obvious! All the women in town were surprised and all were pained, save
Ruth alone.

Yet surprise is transient and pain does not last forever. The women
gradually got over their wrath, and the men held a bee and built a
parsonage: and the women furnished it, for mortals like ants only do good
work collectively.

The preacher and his wife moved in.

In a year they were blessed with twins.

Another year passed and a third child came.

The bloom on the cheek of the parson’s wife had gone; the simper had
changed to a scowl; the laughing eyes had lost their twinkle; the
roundness of her form gave place to angularity; and her voice grew loud
and discordant. She worked and toiled in house and field trying to make
both ends meet. Of course she scolded. When fate is unkind, men swear
and get drunk, but a woman can only scold. It is her right. The worst
condition that overtook Saul, who came from Tarsus, in all his tragic
career was when he was chained to a Roman; a dull, unsympathetic, bestial
Roman soldier.

Liza Ann Hoskins might have made a gentle, worthy woman, but being
chained to Jedediah Judson she developed into a shrew, and lucky it was
for her that the ducking stool had been left in Connecticut. She ruled
Jedediah as one having authority: she said to this one go, and he cometh,
and to that one, come, and he goeth. For scolding women never accomplish
their desire. The diplomacy of a coquette counts for more than the
imperious threats of a shrew. Threatened people live long.

As for Ruth Crosby, her face grew white, people thought. Yet she was not
ill. A few traces of silver were seen among the coils of her dark-brown
hair. She lived in her little cottage with its snug garden behind; she
had her cow and chickens and a little flock of sheep. She taught the
village school, and tended the sick, and closed the eyes of the dying.
And once when there was a case of smallpox at a house in the edge of the
clearing, she let John Brown and Rachel go to a neighbor’s, and she was
nurse and doctor to the patient until he got well.

She was not happy—who is? but she had pleasures, for she knew what it was
to do good work.

Up in her garret, where it was not high enough to stand up straight,
slept John Brown. He really didn’t know which was home, this or his
father’s. Perhaps he liked Ruth’s house best. Thus stood matters in the
year 1815: that day when John came in and saw Ruth and little Rachel
all a-smiling—when he gave them each a yard of blue ribbon that he had
fetched clear from Zanesville, a hundred miles away.




CHAPTER V

JOHN MEETS TROUBLE, AND FACES IT


John Brown arrived home on schedule time, and duly gave out his pictured
handkerchiefs and blue ribbon. Squire Brown counted the money—it was
right to a cent—he patted the boy on the head and gave him a silver
quarter for his very own. The dignified Justice of the Peace thought it
best not to praise the lad to his face—it might make him vain, but he
promised the boy that some time he might go again. And after all, this
was the richest reward he could possibly have paid.

Not a word did John say to anyone of the attempted robbery. He was too
shrewd for that: to explain that the money came near being taken away
from him would have placed a veto on any further trips alone. His father
was from Connecticut, and loved a dollar on this side of idolatry as much
as any. John kept still.

Then it was not much of an adventure anyway. Several good men and true,
who lived in the village, daily told tales of strife twice as great as
this: these men loved a lie for its own sake, and this quiet boy felt too
deeply to think of going into competition with the village romancer by
displaying his truth alongside of the other’s fiction.

He told Ruth of the beautiful lady he had seen, and of her beautiful
daughter, and how they both wore blue dresses, and how they shook hands
with him; and he held out his hand to show by way of proof. Little Rachel
took the hand, holding onto the fingers, and looked it over solemnly.

The village of Hudson had grown until there were twenty-five houses, and
not all were made from logs either, for there was a saw-mill down by the
river now. But yet no one kept servants—all did their own work, except
in case of sickness, and then neighbors came in and did it for them. No
one had a big long veranda, and surely no woman in Hudson had a beautiful
blue dress and white shawl: and even if she had she would not have had
time to sit on the veranda and look pretty!

And then the colored boy who waited on table, who wasn’t colored so awful
much, for he was nearly white, and all the other colored folks that John
had caught glimpses of, all were very funny. Ruth and Rachel were much
interested, and so were the neighbor women who dropped in. John told it
all several times over, describing the house, the pictures on the walls,
the furniture and dishes and silverware, always ending by saying, “They
all shook hands with me and said I must come again.” John had gained in
strength as the years passed. He was tall and slender, but very wiry. At
wrestling and foot racing he could beat many boys who were older than
he, but yet he was a “woman’s boy,” and he would always rather play with
girls than boys. This had given him a gentleness and withal a modest
dignity that made him the butt of the jokers at the grocery, but it
gained him the admiration of the discerning.

He was religious through and through. Not a trace of skepticism had ever
blown across his soul; he had a simple, childish faith in an overruling
Providence that watches our every act. “Whatever is, is best,” is a grim
doctrine, but it breeds the sternest kind of courage in a man; and he who
can cling to it through life’s vicissitudes is a fool—or else a saint in
whose breast there throbs a lion’s heart.

Squire Brown was considerable of a speculator, and the success of his
son in selling the last lot of cattle induced him to try it again.
From settlers around he purchased a drove of a dozen beef cattle, and
instructing John to sell them for twenty-five dollars each or drive them
back, the lad started away. By picking out the probable leader of the
drove and leading him with a rope the others would follow behind, with
the assistance of an occasional nip from Simon, the Scotch Collie.

Then in a new country cattle are not given to straying—they stick to the
drove. Unlike the cattle of the plains, domesticated cattle in a wooded
country rather implore the protection of man than disclaim it. Cows know
a deal of natural history, and if they could talk, what legends they
could give of calves that strayed away and were devoured by wolves; or
sick cows for which wild beasts lay in wait day after day, waiting until
the protection of the horns and hoofs of her mates was out of the way!

The journey to Zanesville was not difficult. It was divided up into
stages of ten or fifteen miles a day. Each night there was a settler’s
cabin, where the boy was made thrice welcome and his cattle were yarded.
The stock was driven slowly and allowed to graze along the way in
bottom-lands and open spaces, so that they would arrive in good condition.

The night before Zanesville was reached John stopped at the Indian
village.

Chief Blackfoot looked at the youth in disapproval, and the squaws walked
around him and felt him over with smiles of wonderment. The cause of
all this was that the boy had exchanged buckskin for homespun, and the
coonskin cap had been replaced with a man’s broad-brim, felt hat. Only a
month had passed, and aside from the change in raiment, cubits had been
added to the boy’s stature. As a sudden jar will at the right time turn a
liquid to a crystal, or a severe experience turn dark hair to white in
a single day, so there are times in the life of man when the soul moves
onward with a bound. We grow by throes and throbs.

At daylight John left the Indian village with his cattle. By noon he
stood on the hilltop and looked down on the “city.” It was the world—the
great, busy, seething, active world of men, of which he was now a part!

His eye ran across to the east. There on the hillside above the town,
stood Silverside, the homestead of Colonel Silverton; behind the house
were the whitewashed “quarters” of the servants; to the left the barn,
the carriage house and cattle pens.

The boy’s heart beat fast.

Whom did he wish to see there? Why, Colonel Silverton, of course, to whom
he expected to sell the cattle. And then Jim Slivers, too, for he had
neglected to thank the colored boy that day when he warned him of the
plot that had been laid to rob him. Above all, he wanted to face George
and James Silverton—to look them squarely in the eye and show them he was
neither a fool nor a coward. It was unchristian to fight, but he would
like to wrestle either one or both, and he would cross-buttock them onto
their heads in a way that would make them see stars.

Then he wanted to see Mrs. Silverton. He liked the lady and yet he was
piqued to think how patronizingly she had treated him, and Margaret had
been even more condescending. He was now positively offended to think
that she had treated him as if he were a little boy. She was a young
lady, as tall as her mother, a little more slender, perhaps, and her blue
dress came only to her shoe tops, but she was a young lady and she had
almost talked baby talk to him.

He disliked her heartily.

And yet—he did wish his hair would not stand up so bristling all over his
head! Ruth had barbered him and the cut was too short; his hair was as
obstinate as a balky mule, so it was! He took off his hat and tried to
smooth it down with his hand, but it was hardly a success.

The sun was hot and John did not care to enter town in his shirt sleeves.
He was too proud of his coat for that. The thought occurred to him that
he could remove the woolen shirt and wear only the vest and coat—the
vest being cut high in the neck anyway. So the shirt was removed, and
hidden in the bushes where he could find it on the way back. The vest was
then put on and buttoned down the front with its row of sixteen buckhorn
buttons, the coat was put on and the line of march moved forward.

Jim Slivers saw him coming and ran down the road to meet him. The slave
boy was frightened and his freckles stood out like daubs of brown paint.

“Stop! you must go back—you won’t tell on me, will you?—they’ll kill me
if you do—they’ll kill me!” groaned Slivers.

“Tell them that you warned me?—never, never, here’s my hand.”

The slave boy clung to the proffered hand with both his own and cried
over it.

“I run Marse’s horse to cotch you that day ’til he was all foam, and when
I got back I got licked awful for it. I tole Marse that I run a race with
another boy, and he licked me with a stirrup strap.”

“Did George and James come home all right?”

“Got home on one horse, the other was stole from ’em—robbers stretched
a rope ’cross the road, and they rode agin it in the dark and they was
robbed of their watches and money and one horse—that’s what they told
their father—they was chasing a horse thief, they said—say?”

“Well, what is it?”

“You wasn’t one of the robbers, was you?”

“I, I a robber? Who says I robbed them?”

“George says so—he saw you in the moonlight—you and a lot of Injuns.”

“No, I did not rob them, and I don’t run away. I am going to see the
Colonel.”

“What for?”

“To tell him the truth.”

“Then he will kill me.”

“But I will not mention you.”

John pushed by the slave boy, on up past the house, and placed his cattle
in one of the pens. He saw no one about, so walked over and sat down on
the veranda to wait for the Colonel. Soon a step was heard behind him and
Margaret came through the door.

“This is Mr. Smith, I believe—there is such a resemblance—I hope your
brother is well!”

John arose with a jerk, stuttered, bowed twice, sat down with a jolt
and said his brother was well and so were his sisters. He twirled his
broad-brim hat nervously.

“Are your brothers well?” he asked after a painful pause. It was pure
accident—he did not mean to mention them at all.

“Quite well, thank you—it was a long trip for him to make alone, and so
young!”

John did not get the import of the remark, so he changed the subject.

“I want to see your father—will he be here soon?”

It was not necessary for her to reply. The one, two, three, four of the
Colonel’s single-footer was heard on the hard road, and the next instant
he reined in at the driveway.

“Slivers—you, Jim Slivers! where the devil is that nigger?—Slivers!”

Slivers slid slowly around the corner of the house—all of a tremble. He
led the horse away.

“This is Mr. Smith, Papa; you remember his brother.”

“What the devil—why, it’s Timothy himself—ha, ha, ha, ha!!”

He stood the boy up and looked him over.

“It’s Timothy himself, with his father’s shad-belly coat and a Puritan
parson’s hat! ha, ha, ha, ha!!”

In fact it was funny. The coat had long tails running down to a point
behind; the ample vest buttoned to the chin; both garments were cut
large, in anticipation of future growth.

Mrs. Silverton stepped out on the veranda: both she and the daughter
looked on in amazement.

“Sit down, Timothy—sit down, I say—I’ve been wanting to see you—Lord,
but you have impudence to come straight back here again after robbing my
sons. You Yankees are so rabid for money that you steal from your best
friends. You thought you were not known, of course, I see, but now I’ve
got you—George, George, George—where the devil is that rascal! Here you,
George, do you identify this fellow as one of the gang that robbed you
and stole your horse?”

“He’s the one,” said George doggedly.

“I’m the one _you_ tried to rob,” retorted young Brown with flashing eyes.

“You lie,” screamed the other, and as he spoke he snatched the riding
whip from his father’s hand and made a savage stroke with it at John’s
face.

He dodged the slash and sprang to the ground from the piazza. He stripped
the long coat off in a twinkling.

“Come on!” said John Brown, “come on—here on the grass, you coward!” And
as he spoke the vest was peeled off too. There he stood, stripped to the
waist. He had totally forgotten the fact that he wore no shirt.

“Why don’t you come down here, you coward!”

A shout of laughter went up from the Colonel. It ended in a
half-suppressed whistle of admiration, in which the two ladies joined, in
sentiment at least. Had it been a shirtless man there in front of them,
they might have thrown their aprons over their faces and rushed into
the house. But this was only a boy; besides, the thing was surprisingly
sudden. His muscles stood out like whip-cord: not an ounce of superfluous
tissue was there: the flesh was lean and clean as ever an athlete knew.
His shoulders were not broad, but the chest was deep, the neck strongly
corded, and beneath the pink skin of the breast the muscles twitched in
nervous restlessness as he stood there in the sunshine, his straight,
short hair all bristling.

“You’d look better with a shirt on,” bawled George.

A blush went over the boy’s face, it spread to his neck and suffused
itself to his waistband.

“Here, my son, put on your clothes!”

Mrs. Silverton had stepped down on the grass and picked up the vest, and
held it so the boy could put it on. Then she helped him to don the coat.
She turned to her husband:

“Maurice, why do you accuse this lad?”

Margaret was crying:

“You are awful wicked, Papa Silverton, and you too, George—I don’t like
you either one”—she boohoo’d.

John was now clothed and partially in his right mind.

“Say now, Timothy Hymnbook, come now and give us the facts. Why did you
say my boys tried to rob you?”

“Because they did.”

“Now we will call them in—they will tell their story and you tell yours.
James, you James and George, come here! Daughter, go tell the boys I want
them!”

The girl went into the house. She was gone several minutes, and then came
back and reported that the boys could not be found.

“It’s queer, George was here a minute ago, and you said James was around
somewhere?”

“Why, yes.”

Slivers’s freckled face popped out from behind the door:

“I know where they’s gone, Marse Kuhnel! I know, I do. They scooted!
James, he hide in the haymow when Mister Himbooks he come—just now they
got their horses outer the back barn door and tole me they was gwine to
de Fort and wouldn’t be back for a week!”

“Shut up, you black rascal—you’d talk the horns off a mooley bull! For
Heaven’s sake, Mother, shake up them niggers,—aint dinner ready?”




CHAPTER VI

A LITERARY COURTSHIP


Someway the Yankee boy had shifted places with the slim, fair-haired
daughter of the Southerner. When he was here a month before she was
confident, natural, easy; he was awkward and embarrassed. Now she hardly
knew what to say and evidently was treating him as she might some strange
young gentleman; as her surety of manner wavered, his returned. He ate
dinner this time without choking.

After the meal the Colonel looked at the cattle, and not needing them
himself, he took John to a buyer who seemed satisfied with the price
asked and paid over the money at once.

Then the Colonel took the young man down town and introduced him as
“Mister Brown” (for he had finally gotten his name straight), and
casually mentioned that he was a son of General Owen Brown, an old friend
whom he had known many years, etc. John was astounded at the ease with
which these white lies slipped off the Colonel’s tongue. He started to
make corrections, but concluded to keep still.

When the boy went back to the house in the evening, he was a bit
conscious of the fact that he wore no shirt. The fact of itself was
nothing, but the fact that others knew of the fact—there was the rub.

Women divine things: Mrs. Silverton took advantage of a moment when no
one else was in the room and said smilingly:

“Mister Brown, I believe I’d like you better if you were in shirt
sleeves—that’s the way our visitors usually dress. Come with me and I
will give you one of my sons’ shirts!”

There was no time to reply: he followed the woman to an upper chamber
that she told him would be his room.

It was a gorgeous apartment, John thought. A mirror hung on the wall,
the second he had ever seen; there were a comb, a hair brush, a clothes
brush, a little rocking chair, and on the bed was a snow white spread.
On the spread was a white shirt which the woman indicated with a wave
of the hand. She closed the door and left him alone. The lad had never
worn a “biled shirt,” but he managed to get into it. Yet when he went
down-stairs things were again shifted—Margaret was composed, and John
never felt so out of place in his life.

“Do you read much, Mister Brown?” asked the girl.

“Lots—that is, no, I don’t read very fast.”

“What books do you like best?”

“I don’t like any so very much—it’s hard work to read. But I read the
Bible ’cause we should, you know: then Jonathan Edwards’s sermons are
hard because the print is small, but I like _Pilgrim’s Progress_ best, I
guess, for there are pictures that help.”

“Did you ever read _Plutarch’s Lives_?”

“No, who was he, an Englishman?”

“Oh, no, he was a Greek who lived hundreds and hundreds of years ago.”

“But folks didn’t know much then—they were all barbarians, but the Jews,
and they would have been, too, but God looked after them.”

“The Greeks were not barbarians!”

“I always thought they were the same as Injuns—our preacher said so!”

“Oh, no, they were just as enlightened as we are to-day—and so were the
Romans.”

“You don’t say!”

“Yes, Plutarch compares a Greek with a Roman—shall I read to you?”

“If you don’t mind.”

So the girl read—right straight off—without even tracing the line across
with her finger. It was about Cæsar, and John was wonderfully interested.

“But why did they kill him?” he asked with flashing eyes.

“Why, people always kill other folks who are in their way—they have to,
I s’pose, or there could not be any government.”

“I wish I’d lived then—I would have taken his part!”

“But brave men are needed now as much as then.”

“Oh, I don’t think so—there is nothing now but farming and buying things
and selling them again.”

“Oh, I’m sure that men make their own opportunities.”

“It don’t seem so to me.”

“Well, are you always just going to farm and drive cows?”

“Why, no, but father says young people always propose doing great things,
but in a few years they just settle down and farm it.”

“If I were a man, I would want to think and act so I could influence
other men—make them better.”

“And I intend to!”

“Oh, I am glad—you seem to me just like one of those heroes we read of in
books.”

John had never heard much of book heroes or any other kind, and his
egotism was so small that the naïve frankness of the remark was lost on
him. Yet he was filled with a restless, chaotic ambition to do something
and to be something. And here at last was a being who sympathized with
him. He was all aglow. He leaned forward in his chair and said:

“Yes, yes, I will be somebody yet—do you know what I am going to do?”

“Why, no; tell me, please.”

“No one knows it but Ruth and little Rachel!”

“Indeed!”

“Not even my father!”

“But won’t he object?”

“I don’t think so.”

“No one must know it just yet.”

“I’ll never tell.”

“Well, I’ve had a call.”

“A what!”

“A call—a call to preach the Gospel.”

“And who has called you?”

“The Lord.”

The girl started in a half-frightened manner.

“Do you mean that you are going to be a preacher?”

“Yes, aren’t you glad?” asked John after a pause.

“Not very—that is, yes—but if it were a priest I wouldn’t care.”

“Catholic? Never!”

“Oh, no—the Church, Church of England.”

“What’s that?”

“Episcopal.”

“Why, they are people who do that which they ought not and leave undone
the things which they should have done!”

“I s’pose so—I’m one.”

“Impossible! you should not jest on sacred subjects. But next month
I’m going to start back for Connecticut to study for a preacher with a
minister Ruth knows—that is if father is willing—I never talked with him
yet about it—he’s so busy, you know.”

The Silvertons were zealous members of the Episcopal Church; they never
attended any other, and looked on all preachers of other denominations as
fanatical dispensers of gloom.

In that isolated life far removed from the dissipation of great cities
were two spirits: the joyous and the sullen. The happy people who sang
the carols out under the twinkling stars; and the oppressed, revolting,
protesting folks. The negative spirit that continually dinned “Thou
shalt not,” and the affirmative spirit of youth whose feet delighted in
keeping time to merry music: the spirit of fasting and the spirit of
feasting; of droning prayers and joyous mirth.

The Silvertons did not know that these two spirits were often found in
one person; they knew the faults and the extremes of Puritanism, but they
did not know its virtues. In fact it scarcely dawned on them that it
could possess merit in any appreciable degree.

“Oh dear—if you are a preacher, you will never dance!”

“Never!”

“Nor play cards.”

“I pray I never shall!”

“Nor listen to music.”

“Only sacred music!”

“All good music is sacred music, our rector says.”

“Fiddle music cannot be.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, I can’t argue. But mamma and I thought you were—that
is, peculiar of course—but something like King Arthur! Oh dear, and you
are going to be only a Puritan preacher!”

John was getting very much confused. He kind of half recalled King
Arthur as a Bible character, but still he could not place him, so he
did not know whether he was good or bad. And as for being a preacher,
what nobler aim, what higher ambition? The only educated men he ever
knew were preachers: education and preaching were one and the same. The
world was divided into common folks and preachers. He aspired to be a
preacher: Ruth wished him to be, and prophesied that he would be a great
success; and as for little Rachel, she clapped her hands every time it
was mentioned, and she was ten years old going on ’leven.

Why anyone should object to a profession that was devoted to making men
better, he could not imagine.

Of course a man might mistake his “call”; possibly Jedediah Judson had,
but that was not the question. The profession itself was the highest and
most exalted to which mortal man could aspire. It was doing the work of
God.

He tried to explain these things to Margaret, but before he had gotten
through the firstly of his argument, Mrs. Silverton came in and sat down
at the harpsichord.

She seemed rather sad, John thought. She played gently as if merely
testing the instrument, and then the tones gradually merged into “Rock of
Ages.” It was the most entrancing, heavenly music the boy had ever heard.
He sat with open mouth, and the sweet strains wrapped him round as a
garment. The presence of the young girl opposite him, sitting with closed
eyes; the dim twilight of the room; and the music such as he had never
heard, moved him to tears.

Then the mother and daughter sang, not hymns, but still songs such as the
angels in Heaven might sing, John thought.

After a while Mrs. Silverton lighted a candle, and excusing herself by
saying, “you must be very tired,” started him off for bed.

He was in a half trance of sublime delight. He moved up-stairs without
saying a word: it seemed as though he were lifted from off the earth and
was being carried to another realm. His sensitive soul had been saturated
with the delight of sweet sounds and his mind was in a state of dreamy
forgetfulness. He entered the little chamber, snuffed the candle out so
as to be alone with his thoughts, and sat down at the open window. The
moon’s silver rays slanted in over all, and as he sat there he lived
over again the experiences of the evening.

That Margaret should have read for him, _for him_, and sung for him,
and that her mother should have done the same! that they should have
wished him good-night! Then he tried to recall each particular word that
Margaret had spoken, and the expression of her face as she voiced it. He
did not think of going to bed—the exquisite delight of his sensations
made sleep out of the question—so he sat and thought and he seemed to be
lifted and floating away, away, away! But there was a touch of pain in
it all—Margaret did not wish him to be a preacher—possibly the Lord was
speaking through her! why not? such beauty, and honesty, and innocence,
and intelligence—surely, why should not God speak through Margaret
Silverton!

He had fallen asleep as he sat there. How long he slept he did not know.
He felt chilly—was someone calling? A little shower of sand fell on the
roof of the veranda near the window.

He leaned his hands on the sill and looked out—no one in sight.

“Come down, John, I must tell you somethin’!”

The whispering voice seemed to come from an evergreen tree twenty feet
away.

“Come down—it’s me—Jim Slivers!”

“Well, tell me, then!” spoke John in an undertone.

“I can’t from here—come down quick!”

John Brown slipped off his shoes, stepped out on the roof of the piazza,
and feeling with his feet for a pillar, slid softly down to the ground.




CHAPTER VII

A HORSE-BACK RIDE THROUGH THE WOODS


“Come back here in the bushes—I must tell you, quick!”

John followed the slave boy through the dewy grass to a small clump of
trees a hundred yards off.

“I’m running away,” said Slivers. He held up a bundle tied in a bandana
handkerchief.

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“Marse, he sold me, they’re goin’ to send me to the cotton fields.”

“Why?”

“Marse, he says I played off—hid in the weeds and don’t do my work—then
I raced his horse. He’s jest mad, that’s all, so he’s sold me. I’m goin’
with you—I’ll meet you at the Gorge to-morrow noon—you know the place? I
must git there ’fore daylight an’ wait till you come.”

“Slivers, you must not.”

“But you said there was no slaves ’mong your folks!”

“True, but you are someone’s property; the Bible says, thou shalt not
steal; they have already accused me of stealing a horse! No, no, I cannot
help you to run away. Here is five dollars, now just stay—the cotton
fields are all right. If you behave and work you will be treated well,
for you will be valuable to your new owner—he can’t afford to hurt you!”

“Niggers are only good to wear out—that’s what they have ’em on a
plantation for. I’m goin’ with you where folks is free—I’ll meet you at
the Gorge!”

Slivers slipped away into the bushes.

“Hold on there, Jim. Come back!”

John tried to follow; the boy was gone. Should he go too? Why not? but
no, for them to disappear together, this would never do. The damp boughs
brushed against his face as he picked his way back towards the house; his
feet were wet with the heavy dew. He started to climb the pillar, and as
he did so two big dogs came tearing around the corner of the house; but
he was safely beyond their reach. He climbed in the window, and as he
went to bed he heard Colonel Silverton at the door below endeavoring to
quiet the barking dogs.

John slept late the next morning; when he came down-stairs breakfast was
awaiting him.

A colored girl waited on the table—she was a sister of Jim Slivers, sure.
She was nearly white, had blue eyes and red hair. At first glance John
thought it was Jim in petticoats. He was prepared for almost anything
in the way of metamorphoses; he realized that even within himself great
changes had taken place since he came to Silverside.

Margaret was beautiful, but hardly as beautiful as she was the evening
before: something seemed to trouble her. Mrs. Silverton’s paleness was
hardly so becoming: her eyes were red, as if she had been crying. In fact
they were not angels at all, just beautiful women—which was a deal better.

The Colonel ate fast and was preoccupied: evidently computing in his mind
how much the profits would be on eleven steers, when slaughtered, the
meat packed in barrels and sold to the Government, and the hides to the
tanner.

These were all excellent people, of course, and John was having a good
time, but still he was anxious to get away alone, on the road for home,
so he could figure out just who he was, and what he proposed to do.
Everything was in a sort of whirl.

The Colonel pushed his chair back, flourished his napkin and said to the
colored girl:

“Molly, send Jim in, I want to see him!”

The floor began to go up and down, the ceiling settled, and John Brown
swallowed hard and clutched his chair awaiting the crash.

“So you are going to start for home this morning?” said Mrs. Silverton.

“Ye-ye-yes,” said John from out between his clenched teeth. He felt the
strain growing less, and knew that in a few moments he would be himself
and ready for the blast.

“I can’t find him, Marse Silverton!” said the girl as she appeared in the
doorway, after five minutes had gone by.

A cold wave dashed over John Brown—he held his breath.

“Never mind now, anyway—oh, I say Smith—”

“Brown!” said John, nerving himself for the worst.

“I mean Brown; now, Brown, we were speaking yesterday when you first
come, about a horse—a horse that strayed away—horses will stray away, you
know? Well, you are a little hasty tempered and in your anger accused
my sons of trying to rob you—of course, you did not mean that—they only
tried to scare you. They are like all spirited young men, fond of a
little joke, they are sowing their wild oats and will be the better for
it. Now, Brown, you are a good fellow: tell us honest, now, they just
tried to scare you, didn’t they?”

John looked towards Margaret. She was gazing on him with great, big, open
eyes, beseeching eyes.

“That’s all—they only tried to frighten me,” said John.

“What did I tell you?” said Colonel Silverton, turning to his wife.

The lady gave a sigh of relief and the pained look seemed to go from her
face. Margaret sighed too; then John sighed, and all felt better.

“Now, Mr. Smith—”

“Brown,” said John.

“Now, Mr. Brown,” continued the Colonel, “about that missing horse, of
course I know that you did not take it, but if by any chance you know
where it is, why simply tell me and no harm shall come to you in any
event. You are a fine, honest young fellow and no matter who says to the
contrary, we believe in you. Now tell me, do you know where that horse
is?”

“Yes.

“Well, where is it?”

“Twelve miles north of here.”

“Will you show me that horse, on my promise not to ask you a single
further question, or bother you in any way about it?”

“I will show you the horse.”

“That’s good—Molly! Molly, tell Jim—oh, you can’t find him, eh! well,
call Tom—he is working in the garden. Tell Tom to saddle Miss Nancy and
Trusty.”

“Yes, Marse Silverton.”

The girl disappeared.

“So we will not see you again soon,” said Mrs. Silverton, as they moved
out onto the piazza.

“No, I start for home at once.”

“Can’t Mr. Brown take the _Plutarch_, Mamma? I know he will enjoy it!”

“Why certainly; then he will have to come again to bring it back,” smiled
the lady.

“Here are the horses: now, Brown, let’s go!”

“You remember what you promised—not to trouble him in anyway!” said Mrs.
Silverton in an undertone, laying a hand on her husband’s arm.

“I remember, and I promise you!”

Each of the ladies shook hands with John: he mounted the roan mare:
Margaret handed him the _Plutarch Lives_.

“Oh, I forgot, I will need a halter, won’t I, Brown?” asked the Colonel,
one foot in the stirrup.

“What for?”

“Why to lead that horse back.”

“Take the halter if you wish.”

“Here you, Tom, fetch a halter quick—don’t keep us waiting all day!”

Tom brought the halter and the two horsemen rode away.

They turned into the main road that ran down the hill, and just before
they reached a clump of trees that hid the house from view, John looked
back. Margaret stood on the veranda watching them. John held up the
_Plutarch_ and the girl waved her handkerchief as a last farewell.




CHAPTER VIII

THE RIDE EVOLVES INTO A HORSE-RACE


Two miles out of town John reined the roan mare into the bushes, and
lifted a flannel shirt from off a hickory limb—but did not go near the
water. He rolled the book up in the garment, tied the bundle around with
a strip of bark, and with a longer withe strung it around his shoulder.
Then they rode forward.

The Colonel tried to be affable, but subjects to discuss were scarce.
Their minds did not belong to the same stratum. One was practical, alert
and alive to all present things; the other was dreamy, abstracted,
theoretical. One was interested in Zanesville, the other in heaven and
earth and the waters under the earth.

But as they floundered about for a mutual theme they struck “pay gravel.”

“Your folks don’t own slaves?” said Colonel Silverton with an upward
accent.

“No, I believe they did once though, before I was born.”

“Why did they quit?”

“There’s a feeling against it in Connecticut.”

“But they don’t think it’s wicked, do they?”

“Oh, no, not exactly wicked. Still my father says he does not care to buy
and sell _men_.”

“Well, that’s just where I stand.”

“Don’t you buy and sell slaves?”

“No, I sold all I had but half a dozen, for good and all, when I moved
from Virginia.”

“And you intend never to sell these you now own?”

“Of course not.”

“Hem!”

“What do you mean by that noise?”

“Nothing.”

“You might as well speak out!”

“Well, Jim Slivers told me last night that you had sold him!”

“Oh, he lies.”

“No, he was in earnest.”

“Well, I did threaten it. He is a lazy dog: I just had a man look him
over and bargain for him, to scare him.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes; and another thing, I seldom punish my slaves—I don’t believe in
it. You see it’s just plain common sense to treat your live stock well.
If they are happy they do good work. You was out in my quarters, wasn’t
you—No? Well, they are treated as well as my own folks. In fact, they are
just one big happy family. Of course I make them work—that’s for their
health—and I see that they are clothed and fed and that their houses are
clean and comfortable. Heaps of white folks ’bout here don’t get as good
a living as my slaves.”

“I s’pose so, yet the white folks are free.”

“You know your father owns you until you are twenty-one?”

“But he can’t sell me.”

“No, but you are obliged to work for him and do what he says. Now I do
not want to sell my slaves any more than your father wants to sell you.
And instead of my letting them go when they are twenty-one, I keep them
and take care of them until they die.”

“But suppose you should die.”

“Oh, my wife and boys would then treat them just as well as I do now.”

“What if you should get in debt, so you would be obliged to sell them?”

“Well, that’s out of the question.”

“Do they ever run away?”

“I never had a slave run away yet—treat ’em well and they’ll stay. But
aren’t we getting near where that horse is?”

“Not far now.”

“You know the law—take your own wherever you find it?”

“Of course.”

“Lord! something smells mighty strong around here.”

“Rather so—follow me.”

John reined his horse to the right into the thicket.

The other followed.

“There’s your horse, Colonel Silverton.”

Before them lay the bloated body of the dead horse.

The Colonel turned several colors. John thought he was going to have an
apoplectic fit: he tried to speak but only gurgled. Then he turned and
rode out to the road.

“Brown, you deserve a dam good thrashing, and if you was a man you’d get
it. You’re the first fellow that ever got the start of me. Now, why have
you played me this trick?”

“Well, Colonel, for several reasons. Your sons tried to scare me, you
say?”

“Yes.”

“Well, instead of their scaring me, I scared them.”

“But the horse?”

“I tied a rope across the road and let them run their horses over it.
This horse got its neck broke.”

“But you had no business to do that.”

“Your sons had no business being here—”

John had dismounted and had passed his bridle rein to the other.

“Well, I have no time to argue, and I promised you, and promised my wife
I’d not trouble you, and I won’t—good day!”

“Hold on; you pull out under those trees down below and wait a few
minutes—I will show you something that will please you.”

The Colonel was mystified, but he walked his horse down toward the trees,
leading the roan mare behind. John walked on to the Gorge, that was a
quarter of a mile ahead.

In fifteen minutes he returned, leading by the hand Jim Slivers. The
Colonel had taken the horses to a little open space under the trees and
was letting them graze.

It would be difficult to tell who was the most surprised, Colonel
Silverton or Jim Slivers, at the sight of each other.

“He ran away, Colonel, he thought you’d sold him, but of course you
didn’t; you were only trying to frighten him—everybody seems to be
trying to frighten someone nowadays. Now, Jim, go back with your master
quietly—he has promised me he will never sell you.”

Jim began to cry. He wept like a baby, but on the Colonel’s promise not
to punish him, and not to sell him, he agreed to go. In fact it was the
only thing to do.

The stirrups of the saddle were taken up two holes, and Jim mounted the
mare. John shook hands with both master and boy; and they rode off on a
fox trot side by side.

John started for the north on his long walk. He reached the Gorge, and
two miles beyond came to the Indian village.

Old Chief Blackfoot sat on a log sunning himself, smoking in stolid bliss.

“Ugh! Little Blue, how, how!”

They shook hands and Little Blue sat down on the log beside the red man.
The chief passed the pipe to the boy, who made pretense of taking a few
whiffs and then handed the pipe back.

They sat quiet without saying a word, which is the way an Indian visits.
On the whole the plan is to be recommended, but this time it was spoiled
by strange, rumbling, thundering sounds that suddenly broke on the ear.

Louder, louder they grew. All at once out of the archway of trees that
covered the roadway to the south, shot a running horse.

It was the roan mare. Fifty yards behind was the thoroughbred horse,
Trusty. Both horses were running at their very best. They went by like a
flash, but the roan was ahead and easily kept the lead, for Jim Slivers
weighed but a hundred pounds, while Colonel Silverton weighed twice
that, and was not used to the pace.

They disappeared as the road curved gently to the east around a hill.

The clatter of the pounding hoofs died away before John turned his
staring eyes toward the Indian, who sat calmly smoking.

One might have supposed that thoroughbred horses racing at breakneck
speed went past every few minutes, from the calm indifference of the
Chief.

“Did you see ’em?” excitedly asked John Brown.

“Ugh—dam—they go heap quick!!”




CHAPTER IX

THE WINNER WINS A HORSE AND HIS FREEDOM


Puritans are not given to horse-racing. When they have a “Punkin Show” in
New England it is a genuine affair, but a pumpkin show in the South and
West only veils a “hoss-race.”

The modern Agricultural Horse Trot has been evolved as a social necessity
for the benefit of people, who, not that they love the pumpkin less, but
that they love the horse-race more, require it.

John Brown dearly loved animals and the proud strength and beauty of a
horse was to him a delight.

That the roan mare was ahead and likely to hold her lead gave him the
keenest satisfaction. He saw that Slivers rose in his stirrups and leaned
over Miss Nancy’s neck. He also noticed that Slivers carried a switch and
did not use it; while the Colonel’s riding whip was not for show, for at
every stride it was cracking merrily around the stifle of the straining
Trusty.

Evidently Slivers was saving the mare.

John turned to the Indian, and forgetting the instructions of his youth,
would have laid a bet with the Chief on the roan, but the Indian had
no interest in the race, and worse, no money. The lad started in the
direction of the fleeing horsemen at a rapid pace. Why did he go?

He didn’t know. Perhaps he wished to see which won; perhaps he thought he
might be of use to one or the other of the contestants, or possibly he
felt that he himself was directly concerned in the issue, but probably
his emotions were a mixture of all these elements.

Before he had gone a half mile he discovered that his pace was too fast.
He was coming to his senses a bit: he could not hope to overtake those
race horses unless they stopped, and if they turned back he could head
them off in one place as well as another. And he also knew this fact,
that a man on foot, who is used to walking, can go a hundred miles as
quickly as a man on horseback. This being so, if they all kept on, they
would arrive at Hudson about the same time.

The tracks in the road showed plainly that the horses had still run fast:
in a mile they had eased down to a gallop. The trapper’s eye that had
followed trails knew the speed at which they had passed, but he could
not tell whether it was fifty yards, one hundred yards or ten feet that
separated the riders.

Two miles more and one set of tracks turned to the left on a side road
that ran over the hill.

The roan mare had kept straight ahead; Trusty had given up the race and
turned for home by the East Road.

John sat down and could have cried. He hoped to see Colonel Silverton and
explain that he had had nothing to do with Slivers’s running away. He was
bewildered.

As he sat there on a bowlder that marked the fork of the road, his eye
glanced on a fluttering bit of paper that was held by a split stick
driven into the ground. John wondered that he had not seen it before. He
stepped over and took the paper. It was a leaf torn from a pocket note
book. He unfolded the paper and scrawled across it were these words:

    JOHN SMITH of Hudson:

    You have fooled me by your Yankee tricks, but I will get even
    with you yet. You enticed my boy Jim to run away—then you got
    me to go with you on pretence of finding my horse. You rode
    my valuable race mare and gave her over to the nigger. I will
    catch you yet. When my sons said you was a horse thief, they
    told the truth. Dam all Yanks.

                                                       M. SILVERTON.

This was scratched off so hastily that it took John several minutes to
make it out, and even then he did not get the sense of it.

He jammed the paper into his pocket and started ahead. Only one idea
possessed him now: that was to overtake the slave boy and prevail upon
him to take the horse back at once. And, if necessary, he would return
the horse and boy himself. It was well toward the middle of the afternoon
when John stopped at a settler’s cabin that stood back in a clearing.
They had seen a boy on a roan horse go by, but it was fully two hours
before. Evidently Slivers was going to put as many miles between himself
and Zanesville as possible.

In his excitement John had forgotten about dinner, and this with the
excitement of the day before and the sleepless night, now told on him to
such an extent that he was feeling faint. He decided to remain at the
settler’s until the next morning.

Before the morrow’s sun appeared he was again on his way. The tracks
of the mare could still be made out, but no one had seen the horse and
rider: evidently they were traveling by night.

A passing shower came sweeping over the woods, but John trudged on
regardless of wet; and the rain had made it impossible to know whether
the roan mare was still moving northward or not.

But as he walked he saw something in the roadway that attracted his
attention. He turned back to examine it closer: it was a yellow marble
lying on a large, flat, green basswood leaf. The boy picked up the
marble—it was the identical one he had given to Slivers on his first
visit to Zanesville.

Half a mile farther on he saw a small stone on a broad green leaf just
as the marble had been placed. And so at intervals of about a mile were
these signs that Slivers had left.

But why did he not wait for his friend and offer him a ride?

The reason to John was plain: Slivers was afraid that if John Brown
should catch up with him he would send him back, and so he kept steadily
in advance, and at every mile he placed in the middle of the road a round
stone on a green leaf.

At nightfall on the third day John found the last broad basswood leaf
held to the earth by a pebble.

One mile more and the outskirts of the village were reached, and there in
the twilight by the roadside sat Jim Slivers, holding the bridle rein of
the roan mare. He had arrived just a half hour ahead of his friend.

“You won’t send me back—they’ll kill me now—you won’t send me back, will
you?”

“Not to-night, anyway.”

The mare was thin and gaunt and the boy’s appearance showed that he was
near starvation.

John waited until dark and then led the horse straight to his father’s
stable, where the tired racer was given feed and a comfortable stall with
a good straw bed. In this straw the worn out slave boy was also deposited.

Then John went to Ruth’s. Little Rachel was abed, and John only told the
woman that a tired and hungry traveler was in the stable, and straightway
she packed in a basket more food than two men could eat. John took it to
the boy, using due precaution to give him only what he needed.

The next move was to find Squire Brown and take him to Ruth’s. Arriving
there John drew up three chairs, and sitting with their elbows—John, the
Squire and Ruth—on the table, the young man started to give the facts
just as they had occurred.

The Justice of the Peace stopped the story in the first chapter, to ask
if John had sold the cattle, and being answered in the affirmative and
the money passed over, he settled himself into his judicial frame of mind
and listened to the recital.

That he was pleased with his son’s spirit was very evident, and that he
was angry that anyone had dared accuse a Brown of theft, was very sure.
To this extent he lost the poise that a true Justice should possess.
The boy paused, and the story being done, Ruth gave him for his pains
a world of sighs, and swore ’twas strange, ’twas wondrous strange. The
Judge cleared his throat preparatory to giving a decision, when a rap was
heard at the door, and without waiting for an answer, in walked the Rev.
Jedediah Judson.

The preacher’s house was just across the way and he had seen John
come and go: he had also noted the arrival of Squire Brown. Like all
small-minded men he had curiosity about the affairs of his neighbors. He
concluded he would make the widow a long deferred pastoral call.

“Ah, I just dropped in—I thought someone might be sick, so if I could be
of any help—”

“Yes, we’re glad you’ve come,” said Squire Brown.

The Squire was not quite sure about what to do—it was a case such as he
had never before had—his own son was involved. It suddenly occurred to
him to shift the matter with legal to spiritual grounds; in other words,
to ask the advice of the preacher.

“Yes, we’re glad you’ve come—we want your advice!”

Now advice was the one thing that the pastor delighted in giving—the more
advice he gave the more he had left—it was like the widow’s cruse of oil.

He drew up a chair and listened intently while Squire Brown explained
that a slave boy had run away and taken his master’s horse and that both
horse and slave were now in his barn.

“Let us take it to the Lord in prayer!” said the preacher. So all knelt
while the minister asked that they be guided aright.

Then they got up from their knees and debated the question.

“We mustn’t keep the slave or keep the horse, they are the same as stray
cattle—we must send ’em back. But that man Silversides must apologize for
accusing my son of robbery!” grimly said the Justice.

“Yes, let him come, pay costs, apologize and get his property, it’s the
only thing to do,” said the preacher.

“John, go fetch the negro. Let’s have a look at him!!”

“Yes, bring him here, I will give him a word or two of truth. It may
place his feet on the solid rock of salvation.”

John went out and soon returned with the boy.

“Why, Judas! he’s white,” exclaimed Rev. Judson, forgetting all dignity.

“Poor fellow,” said Ruth.

It was pitiable. The boy’s teeth were chattering with fright. He half
expected to be executed on the spot; the absence of food, and the
sleeping out of doors, had affected his nerves to such an extent that he
was positively ill.

“Surely he is more white than black!”

“He’s as white as we are,” said the preacher.

“I swan, he looks like you,” laughed the Squire. And seeing there was
danger of giving offense, he made matters worse by backing it up:

“He has red hair, blue eyes, and freckles, so he has!”

“Well, what of it! his hair is kinky!”

“We’ll cut it close to his head and then he’ll be a white man!”

“But we can’t keep him here—his master will be after him, dead sure, in
less than twenty-four hours!”

“Hide him, then!”

“I have it, send him to my wife’s father. He can work for ’em and it’s an
out-of-the-way spot anyway. This fellow’s horse will come in handy for
Hoskins!”

“But we must get him away from here to-night—the whole village will know
of his arrival if we wait until to-morrow!”

“It’s only eight miles—I’ll take him over to Hoskins’s to-night, myself,”
said the preacher.

Slivers felt relieved to know that he was not going to be sent back to
slavery. He tried to thank his new-found friends, and after Squire Brown
had raised his spirits with a good dose of whiskey, he did.

“I’d never consent to this plan under the sun,” said the Justice of the
Peace, “but for three reasons. First, he’s nearly white, so isn’t legally
a slave at all. Second, the Western Reserve belongs to Connecticut and
it is against the law to import slaves. Thirdly, relates to the horse,
and as for this, the defendant, not being legally a slave, is entitled to
wages for past services rendered and takes the horse on account.”

This was rustic judicature, and very bad law. The Court of Appeals would
surely have reversed every count. But the case was not carried to a
higher court, all for good and sufficient reasons which are hereinafter
given.

Slivers’s hair was cut tight to his head, and at midnight, when it was
quite certain that all Hudson was abed and asleep, the Reverend Jedediah
Judson mounted his dumb beast, and followed by Jim Slivers on the roan
mare, moved out of town on an easy jog.

No irate slave hunters from Zanesville arrived, as expected, in Hudson
the next day; or the next; but at three o’clock in the morning of the
fourth day, six people from Zanesville stood in front of Squire Brown’s
residence. The much surprised Squire was awakened. He admitted these six
people to his house; and then hurried over to Ruth Crosby’s for his son
John.

But John was not there.




CHAPTER X

MORE RUNAWAYS ARRIVE


Many men have hobbies, and expend their time in accumulating this, that
or the other. Whatever they fix their hearts upon, they want it to be
finer, better, more distinctive than that of any other collector with a
similar bias.

One man wants only Jersey cattle, another Holsteins, another Durhams and
the fourth man will have none of these; Herefords is the only cow for
him: and they must all have the white face, the line down the back and a
certain curve of horn.

Other men take to horses and breed only one class. The man who has a
penchant for trotters has no use for a Percheron. And whether the human
heart fixes itself on rare books, spoons, orchids, cattle, horses, or
dogs, it wants the most peculiar and the most noteworthy.

In slavery times, when negroes were chattels, owners often had a taste
for certain shades of complexion. And in the South, even unto this day,
can be heard at country post-offices arguments as to the excellence of
servants of a certain tint, and warnings as to others.

Colonel Silverton of Zanesville, as we have already seen, had red hair,
blue eyes and freckles. He was a man of force and intelligence. In
another environment he might have made a citizen of rare excellence, for
he had in his nature the germ of many virtues.

Some years before our story begins, a mulatto woman whom he owned had
had a child. The baby was nearly white: it had freckles, blue eyes, and
its kinky hair was a rusty red. The child grew and was very active and
intelligent.

At first Colonel Silverton was annoyed to think that this slave child
looked so much like himself, for the neighbors took it as a great
joke. But finally the Colonel grew to have a sort of affection for the
youngster and aside from the embarrassment at the idea of its resemblance
to himself, he took a pride in it. In less than two years the slave
mother had another child that looked almost exactly like the first. In
fact this woman and another octoroon bore eleven children, all looking
remarkably alike and all resembling in a marked degree their owner. These
slaves were all known as “Slivers” for miles around: the name being a
corruption of Silverton: Sliverton, Slivers.

They were all what were known in slave times as “redhead niggers.” They
were so nearly white that if they had had straight hair and had lived in
the North they would easily have passed as whites.

The law never defined just how small a degree of negro blood makes a
negro. Even one sixty-fourth part was enough to make the person a slave.
He might be absolutely white, and if there was proof, or even legendary
proof, that there was negro blood in his veins, he could be bought and
sold. And even now a person with one sixty-fourth African blood cannot
legally ride in a first-class passenger car in the State of Kentucky.
And if a white man with curly hair and a snub nose should associate with
negroes in the South he would gain the name “nigger,” and could not
possibly get away from it without moving far away, and even then it might
follow him. The only proof of a man’s being a negro often rests on the
one fact that he lives with negroes.

Colonel Silverton took great pride in his blue-eyed slaves. He treated
them well, and did not part with any of them unless they were so unruly
that there was danger of their corrupting the others, and then it came
to him as a personal sorrow.

Some folks thought that the Colonel’s tender heartedness on the slave
question was only sophistry: for he sold a slave or two every year and
they were not real up and down vicious niggers—merely lazy niggers—and
all niggers are lazy.

“He sells them ’cause he’s hard up, and as an excuse he swears they’re
bad!” whispered the white trash among themselves.

But what of it? why, even parents often send their children to reform
schools. They even disinherit them and turn them out of doors. Yankees
are given to saying to erring daughters—“Never darken that door again.”

Colonel Silverton was sure he would not do anything so heartless as that.
If his slaves reached a point where he could not manage them, he would
simply transfer them to someone who could look after them properly.
This was true Christianity, compared with kicking them out to shift for
themselves. And let us admit right here that Colonel Silverton was not a
totally depraved man. He delighted in kind deeds and generous acts. In
the clay that was used to make him there was mixed much positive good.

Indeed, the plotting villain only exists in imagination: outside of book
covers and away from the theatre the like of him is never seen on land or
sea.

Colonel Silverton even had rudiments of a conscience, and at the Last
Day he will perhaps stand not far from Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, David and
Solomon. His practices were not unlike theirs when in his palmiest days
of prosperity—back in Ole Virginny—he blossomed out in barbaric splendor.
His horses, his cattle and his slaves were the finest and best that
money could buy, and all were cared for with every attention that a
lavish purse could devise.

But things got in a bad way—his speculations in tobacco showed a balance
on the wrong side: when he played cards he got no trumps: but when
he straightened up matters by giving long-time notes and moving to
Zanesville, he hoped for better things.

The war of 1812 made business good and his contracts for supplying the
army with beef brought him in good returns. But suddenly peace was
declared and this again upset his prospects. Still the Colonel was a man
of courage and resource: he never said die.

The old notes were extended and in the little games at cards at the Royal
Hotel he won some money. He played heavier—with high hopes of taking up
those threatening, hounding notes: in fact he had a “system” at cards
that he was sure would win if he could hold out. But he was unable to
hold and the cards running against him, he sold Jim Slivers—in fact he
had to. Besides that, Jim was a lazy dog, anyway.

That night Jim ran away. The Colonel discovered this fact in a peculiar
way, as we have seen. He thought, of course, the darkey would return,
without question, but when he saw the roan mare suddenly swerve and shoot
back the other way, he knew there was a horse-race on hand.

Having chased the boy until he knew the hope of overtaking him was
futile, he headed back for Zanesville by the shortest cut, intending to
swear out a warrant for the arrest of young Brown and let the Sheriff go
with a posse and capture the slave and horse.

But when he arrived home he did not have to call the Sheriff: the Sheriff
called on him. The holders of the dreaded notes having been informed
that the Colonel had gambled away one of his niggers, and fearing the
others would go the same way, had attached the six “Sliverses,” and when
the Colonel returned from his horseback ride, the Sheriff was sitting on
the veranda, documents in hand, awaiting his return. For the present,
the “property” was allowed to remain where it was, awaiting a possible
adjustment of the debts.

Of course, the slaves were much agitated. They thought this sudden legal
move meant immediate transportation to the rice fields. All that night
they sat up and prayed, calling on the Lord for deliverance.

Slivers had run away: they guessed where he had gone, for he had told
great tales about how everyone in Hudson was free. John’s few chance
words had taken root in the tropic soil of his imagination, and when at
nightfall he told his companions about the Western Reserve, he pictured
it as a paradise.

There were seven of these Sliverses: Tom, Jane, Molly, Squint, Sandy and
Jerry: Jim had already gone.

Tom was twenty-two and the others ran down to little Jerry who was only
eight. They decided to run away, and that night after their prayer
meeting they started: walking only at night and sleeping in the woods in
the daytime.

The Colonel was so chagrined by the unlucky turn things had taken that he
grew reckless and simply went off and got drunk.

This indifferent spirit had given the runaways an opportunity to get a
good start.

They had heard of the great Squire Brown and they felt that if they could
only reach him they would be safe. They enquired their way to his house,
and having found it, the worthy Squire was awakened from sleep.

He was astounded: from confused references to his son, he feared John was
the cause of this exodus. He huddled the six shivering runaways into his
little sitting room, and wearing only trousers and shirt he ran in his
stocking feet over to Ruth’s. After considerable banging the widow was
aroused: John was not there; she thought he had gone over to Hoskins’s to
see that colored boy.

“I swan to Guinny—Confound it! What’s to be done—they will be proving me
a stealer of black men next.”

He hastened over to consult the preacher.




CHAPTER XI

THE SLAVES ARE RE-TAKEN, WITH ONE WHITE MAN OVER


A preacher may be very ordinary in point of sense, but he still has
much the advantage of an average farmer or mechanic. His appearances in
public give him a self-confidence that carries weight, even with men of
discernment, and, no doubt, meeting with many people supplies a degree
of surface glitter even to dull wits. Squire Brown deferred to no one in
town but the preacher.

“It beats the Dutch,” said the Rev. Jedediah. “Why in time are all the
niggers in the land coming to Hudson?”

“There are only six in the party, and one the other day is seven,”
apologized the Squire.

“Are seven, you mean,” said the preacher—“Well, wait a minute till I get
on some clothes and we will go over; I can give ’em some good advice,
anyway.”

Jedediah looked the runaways over, holding a dim lighted candle in his
hand. He counted them, placing his hand on the head of each—there were
just six and none to carry. “Let us pray,” said Jedediah, and he dropped
on his knees and proceeded to ask for divine guidance in this hour of
difficulty.

The slaves were filled with hope when they found they were among
Christian people, and would have shouted and sung for joy had they not
been restrained.

The oldest man in the party told their story as we have related it, but
with many circumlocutions and much needless detail. None of the six had
ever talked with John Brown, but all had seen him and heard through Jim
Slivers of the wonders of the Western Reserve, which they seemed to think
had been reserved by God for oppressed humanity.

The Squire’s wife was preparing breakfast for the half famished refugees;
and Jedediah had gone home to take the difficulty to the Lord in prayer
in the secret of his closet, promising to return soon.

When he returned it was broad daylight.

As he entered the room and cast his eye around he exclaimed: “Holy
Moses—why, they are white folk.”

And so they were, only not quite. Little Jerry had lain down on the floor
and gone to sleep in sweet content; Molly and Jane, two fine, strong
young women, had taken hold in true womanly style and were helping Mrs.
Brown do the housework.

Squire Brown had no fixed idea of what was the best plan of action,
neither had the preacher. These people could stay and work, of
course—they were welcome to a home in the village, and Jedediah had even
thrown out a promise that he would accept them in full membership in the
church, on profession of faith, even without the letters which they had
neglected to secure.

But no definite scheme of procedure was laid out; in fact, fate had
decided for them.

It was still early in the morning, when the firing of guns was heard
close at hand. The Squire and the preacher rushed out of the house and
found it surrounded by armed men. They had evidently come in two wagon
loads, with half a dozen on horseback, approaching the village from
several different directions. A few had guns, the others were armed with
pitchforks, scythes tied to poles, or clubs. They were as villainous a
lot of ruffians as were ever turned loose on a community. Beneath the
wagon were chained several blood-hounds.

It was a sheriff’s posse from Zanesville, made up of volunteers, and the
promise of unlimited whiskey and lots of fun had secured the very scum of
the town.

The Sheriff was a big, bewhiskered individual, with probably some sense
of decency, but his overweening thirst to do his “duty” made him a
regular despot.

He exhibited his papers authorizing him to secure “one roan mare, and the
bodies, dead or alive, of seven negroes, to wit:” etc. His form darkened
the doorway when he stood and read aloud in a high official court-crier
voice the long document. Then he produced another warrant for the arrest
of one John Brown, who was accused of stealing horses and “bondsmen.”

In the name of the law the Sheriff took possession of the six negroes.
One of his henchmen produced a chain about twenty feet long and eight
pairs of handcuffs. The six slaves were handcuffed to this chain in
pairs, being placed about three feet apart so that they could walk in
procession if need be.

Squire Brown protested, Mrs. Brown begged, the children cried: but all
were roughly pushed aside. The ruffians outside kept up a din of shooting
and yelling; the blood hounds bayed and the village people, thoroughly
intimidated, wisely kept to their houses.

When the six slaves were safely chained the Sheriff rattled the two pairs
of handcuffs that were left over:

“Here we go now, my Christian fren’s—jest two pair left, one fer a white
man and t’ other fer a nigger—bring ’em out and we bid you good-day. We’d
like to stay, thankee—but no use teasin’ us, we can’t do it—now fetch out
the accused!”

“The two persons you want are not here!” protested Squire Brown.

“Don’t lie, ole man, you know where the liars go—bring out the two
beggars er we’ll turn the house wrong side out!”

“You may search the house if you choose, but you will not find them!”

“Oho, so we may search the house—oh, thankee very much—search the house,
boys!”

Three men began to search. They jerked the clothes off from beds, turned
trunks upside down, dived into chests, looked into the clock, rummaged in
boxes and went through the house from cellar to garret.

Then they searched the barn; threatened, swore, cursed, and declared they
would search every house in the place and stay for a month, but that they
would capture their men. And carrying out their threat they proceeded to
Ruth’s, leaving a guard who were instructed not to allow Squire Brown
to leave his house. The Sheriff kept Jedediah close to him—he evidently
thought these men were the instigators of the trouble.

Finding nothing at Ruth’s, they started across the road for the
parsonage. Jedediah pleaded with them to spare his home, and hinted
that if the Sheriff would go in alone with him, they might have a quiet
understanding that would be to the advantage of all parties.

The Sheriff was anxious to make a complete success of the raid: he
was sent to bring back seven slaves, one horse and a horse-thief: one
slave, one horse and the horse-thief were yet to be found. He wanted
to make a clean job of it, so he caught at once at the hint of a
compromise—anything to succeed.

The Sheriff ordered his men to stay behind, and he and the preacher
entered the parsonage and closed the door.

“So you know where they be, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Man, nigger and horse?”

“Yes.”

“Wall, show ’em up.”

“How much will you give me?”

The Sheriff’s little black eyes twinkled: he was debating whether he had
better throttle this fellow at once and force the secret out of him, or
should he buy it! Ah, he need not do either—he would be a lawyer and use
diplomacy.

“I want the property and I want the man, but you oughter not to make us
pay—not very much anyway!”

“Give me a hundred dollars and I’ll show you where they are!”

“Is it far?”

“Only eight miles.”

“Wall, I want no trouble—and I oughter hurry back too—make it fifty and
it’s a go!”

“All right, pay me the money and I’ll show you your men and horse.”

“Oh, I can’t do that—it’s a good paymaster who pays when he gets the
goods.”

“So you’ll agree to pay me fifty dollars as soon as I show ’em to you?”

“Yes, sirree—shake!”

So they shook hands. Jedediah went to the stable, followed by the
Sheriff, and saddled his horse, and with the Sheriff and four of his men
they started for the farm of Joshua Hoskins.

When within a mile of the house, the preacher pointed it out and refused
to go further. The Sheriff riding behind him patted the stock of the
rifle he carried and told him he better go on. Three of the riders
circled down the valley so as to come in from the other side: the
Sheriff, the preacher and the other man rode slowly straight ahead. They
arrived at the house at the same time.

Mr. Hoskins and his wife were much surprised to receive this unexpected
visit from their son-in-law.

“These gentlemen want to see John—John Brown,—on a little matter of
business!”

“Why, he’s not here!” answered Mr. Hoskins.

“Then that slave boy, Splinters. Send Splinters out at once!”

“Slivers, you mean. Why, he’s not here, either!”

“And the roan horse?”

“The horse is gone, too—the boys rode away, both on the one horse,
yesterday—”

“Why, they can’t be far. What did they take with them?”

“John carried a book with him, nothing else.”

“Search the house!” roared the Sheriff.

The three henchmen sprang from their saddles and handing their bridle
reins to the Sheriff, proceeded to rummage through the Hoskins residence.

It did not take them long to convince themselves that no one was in
hiding in the house. They proceeded to the stable and saw where the roan
mare had stood the day before.

“A wild goose chase! You’ve lied to us, rascal!”

Jedediah tried to explain. He was as much disappointed as the other, yet
could not convince the Sheriff of the fact.

They rode straight back to town on a quick pace, Jedediah obeying orders
and keeping in the front.

Arriving in Hudson, the Sheriff was evidently relieved to find that the
townspeople had not swooped down and liberated his prisoners. Yet he
hated the idea of going back one slave short. Young niggers were worth at
least five hundred dollars apiece, and when he was sent to do a job, he
wanted to do it.

“Come in here, you red head,” he said to Jedediah when they had reached
Squire Brown’s.

The refugees had settled down and were meekly accepting their fate, just
as we always do when worst comes to worst. They were singing the songs of
Zion, and getting satisfaction from a religion that has a blessing for
the persecuted and a promise of reward for the meek.

Jedediah took the opportunity to whisper a few words of spiritual
consolation to the bondsmen as they huddled together in a corner of the
little room.

The Sheriff and two of his men were conversing in an undertone. One of
these men was a quiet individual who seemed in appearance somewhat of a
gentleman. He carried a gun, but kept apart from the others and drank no
whiskey from the keg that was in the wagon. This keg had been replenished
during the day at the grocery, and the visitors had not thought to pay.
In fact they had helped themselves to eatables and drinkables and were
now noisy and reckless to a high degree.

“By God, they do look alike,” blurted the Sheriff.

“They are all cut from one piece, I tell you.”

“All have red hair!”

“And freckles!”

“And blue eyes!”

“And bow-legs!”

“Captain Harker, do you identify these seven negroes as the ones you
purchased from Colonel Silverton?” asked the Sheriff in a voice that was
designed for all to hear.

“I do,” said the quiet man firmly.

“Boys, we’ve got the niggers!”

This last remark was shouted out of the door at the men in the yard.

Several of them came running forward until the room was crowded full. One
fellow knocked off Jedediah’s hat, another grabbed into his collar and
yanked him towards the chain.

In a twinkling he was handcuffed fast. His face was pallid with fear and
in his dishevelled condition he did not look unlike the group with which
he was chained. The ruffians sent up shout after shout of triumph, as
they hustled the captives out into the road where they were ordered to
climb into the wagon. Being fastened too closely, they were unable to do
this without considerable difficulty.

“Load ’em in, boys.”

A dozen of the posse rushed forward, and picking up bodily the seven
prisoners, tumbled them into the wagon.

It was a deep box partially filled with straw. Several men with
pitchforks climbed in and sat on boards that were placed across the wagon
bed. The horses were already hitched on—the order was given to start,
and away they started with a cracking of whips, a barking of dogs and a
shout of defiance.

Several of the horsemen stayed back and fired shots into the air as a
warning that the townspeople must not follow; then away they went with a
rush towards the south and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

The runaway slaves were gone, the pastor of the church was gone. But John
Brown, Slivers and the roan mare, where were they?




CHAPTER XII

JOHN AND JIM MAKE A HASTY DEPARTURE


The ability to conceive and the will to act were budding in the breast
of John Brown. The self-reliance of manhood was pushing him out and away
from his fellows and even from his parents. In his own mind he had worked
out the truth that it was “a condition and not a theory” that confronted
him. He had viewed the question from the side of Colonel Silverton, and
how that gentleman (who was not o’er gentle) could help throwing the
blame for the loss of a slave and a horse on him, he could not imagine.
The property was valuable—the officers of the law would follow it up—and
if they came to Hudson, as they surely would, they would likely get a
clue in some way to the whereabouts of Slivers. And from the threat made
by Colonel Silverton, he—John Brown—would be apprehended.

His sympathies for Slivers were aroused and he began to look upon the boy
as a victim of persecution: he cast about in his mind for a way to get
his friend to a place of safety.

Yet doubt and perplexity wrung his soul, for the sweet face of Margaret
was ever before him. If he could only advise with her—if he could only
tell her his plans! And then the remembrance that she had not looked with
favor on his becoming a preacher shook his fortitude like an ague chill.
If she only knew what a great and good preacher he proposed to be, he was
sure that she would give him her blessing and say, “Go, and may the Lord
be with you!”

Instead of reading the Bible he was now reading _Plutarch_. He went into
the house resolved to open the book at random, and the paragraph his eye
chanced to light on, he would take for a message. This was the passage:

“He was directed by the gods; and having received the impression what was
best to do he straightway did it, keeping his plans hidden in his own
heart; and whatsoever he attempted, he succeeded in doing....”

John closed the book and exclaimed to Ruth:

“Please bring me a sheet of paper. I want to write a letter!”

“Why, surely, you are getting to be almost a man when you can write
letters!”

The paper was brought and John labored at the letter, Rachel looking on
in admiration. But she could not read writing; besides that, John could
not write well, so Rachel did not know to whom the letter was or what it
was about.

The letter finished, folded, directed, and sealed, John sprang up with a
sudden determination and said:

“I’m going away—I’m going away”—And the words of Plutarch kept singing in
his ears—“keeping his plans hidden in his own heart.” He lowered his tone
and said casually, “Yes, I’m going away—good-bye!”

He had already passed out of the door.

“And not even tell where,” smiled Ruth.

“And without kissing me good-bye,” said little Rachel, who now came
running forward from where she was washing the dishes, her hands all
soap-suds. She held up her rosy face to be kissed, and the tall boy
leaned over the little girl and tenderly kissed her cheek and patted the
brown curls.

“No, and not even tell where—my plans are hidden in my own breast!”

Ruth thought she saw tears in his eyes as he turned and went down the
pathway.

“John’s getting funny lately—don’t you think so, Mamma?” said little
Rachel.

“Oh, he’s always odd; you know people can’t be alike!”

“I think he is getting stuck up since he went to Zanesville. He didn’t
fetch us anything the last time!”

“Oh, he can’t think of us all the time.”

“He ought to—wasn’t it we that brought him up?”

“Well, partially.”

“Where’s he going now, do you think?”

“Oh, only after the cows somewhere; his father sent him, I suppose.”

And while the harmless little talk between mother and daughter was in
progress, John had stopped for an instant at his father’s house and had
then crossed the bridge and was walking fast towards the clearing in the
woods that marked the farm of Joshua Hoskins.

The eight miles were turned off in a fraction less than two hours. In a
stump patch near the log house John saw the roan mare hitched alongside
of an ox. The team was hitched to a plow: Hoskins was riding the horse (a
new experience for him) and Slivers was holding the handles.

John looked at the combination and grimly wondered after all whether
the condition of a free man was any better than that of a bondsman. The
mud-chinked house, devoid of the slightest attempt toward beauty, was
surely not so good as the smartly whitewashed “quarters” at Silverside;
the work was hard, and the society of the sober, serious, life-burdened
Hoskins was not enlivening. Slivers had had three days of “freedom” and
was ready to accept any change—even to going back to slavery. A cotton
field could not be worse than a stump field, and at least there was in
slavery the companionship of his fellows.

So when John told Mr. Hoskins, with a touch of imperiousness, that
Slivers must go with him for a day or so, Slivers was delighted and
Hoskins depressed.

“I thought I was to have the boy and horse for taking care on ’em,”
slowly said the thrifty Hoskins.

“And so you are—when I bring them back,” said John.

“I s’pose your father has sent you off for cattle, and so you’ll have to
have the horse, too?” said Hoskins as he dismounted.

“Yes, we’ll have to take the horse and go quick,” said John, inwardly
congratulating himself that he had escaped telling a positive lie.

Slivers was keen for liberty, which he now realized was quite a different
thing from freedom. He unfastened the traces, and slipped the old chain
harness off the mare in a twinkling.

At a bound John sprang into the saddle; Slivers, without being told,
swung up behind as the mare moved away.

“When will we see you again?” called the puzzled Hoskins.

“When we get back,” shouted John.

The severe work had told on Miss Nancy, yet at a dig from John’s heels
she struck into a gallop and boys and horse disappeared in the woods, but
not in the direction from whence they came.

That same night the slave hunters arrived in Hudson.




CHAPTER XIII

VACANT PLACES, YET THE OLD WORLD GOES ON


It was dusk when the Sheriff’s party made their noisy exit from the
town of Hudson. No one in the place had witnessed the abduction of the
preacher, save Squire Brown; and the whole matter had happened so quickly
that he hardly realized it. He had tried to protest, but his voice was
drowned by the howling of the drunken mob.

In an hour after the coast was clear the frightened citizens began to
come out of their houses. No one knew just what had happened—very few,
indeed, knew that the refugees were in Squire Brown’s house; and when it
became known that he had harbored the runaways and thus brought the mob
of slave hunters down on the place, they were naturally incensed.

Brown was the richest man in town, and one woman now hinted that his
money came by very dark methods, with a sneer and a slide and a peculiar
twist on the word “dark.”

Squire Brown did not tell of the capture of the preacher: he felt he
would be blamed in the matter—why had he allowed it? the whole proceeding
occurred in his own house, under his very nose. He prayed hard that it
would come out all right, and he fully believed that in the morning when
the posse were sober, they would see their mistake and bring “the Elder”
back; further than this, the preacher had a tongue in his head and could
speak for himself. And as for the slaves, it was the Sheriff’s duty to
take them.

So Squire Brown absolved himself from blame, and assuring his family, who
had been hiding in the barn, that all danger was past, he ordered his
wife to prepare supper. After the meal, and before the younger children
were put to bed, he proceeded to hold family prayers, as was his custom.

On opening the Bible, the leaves parted at a place where there was a
letter. The family Bible was always a sort of receptacle for documents
and papers; he had seen this letter the night before, but had paid no
attention to it. He now discovered that the seal was not broken, and on
inspection saw that the missive was directed to himself.

He broke the seal and read the letter. With bad spelling corrected, it
ran as follows:

                                      HUDSON, OHIO, August 30, 1815.

    MY DEAR FATHER:

    When you read this I will be many miles away. I do not tell you
    where, for that would put you to the trouble of following me.
    I have a work to do. My plans are hidden in my own breast. I
    know you have always wanted me to do something worthy, and as
    you are very busy, I did not care to waste your time by talking
    about it. I have received the impression what is best to do and
    I am going to do it.

                              Yours truly,

                                                         JOHN BROWN.

    P. S.—I’m not afraid of them slave owners, but still I know
    they will blame me and be here soon looking for Slivers and the
    horse. Slivers and the horse are going with me.

                                                               J. B.

The Deacon hastily stuffed the letter into his pocket and then proceeded
to do his chapter. He read in a hurried, absent-minded sort of way. The
prayer that followed was a stereotyped affair that proved to the entire
dozen of Browns, big and little, that the father of his family was
thinking of the contents of that letter.

Like many another good man, Deacon Brown never took his family into his
confidence; but he felt now that an explanation was due, so he told the
children that he had sent their brother John away on a trip, and that the
letter was only about some business. Then he went out into the night air
and mopped his forehead in perplexity and tried to recall what particular
sin he had been guilty of, that the hand of the Lord should be laid so
heavily upon him.

He loved the boy, John, more than all his flock, yes, more than his wife:
the lad resembled his dead mother—the woman whom he had loved in his
youth—and now that the boy had gone, he knew for the first time how great
his affection for the lad was. He was to him what Joseph was to Jacob.
The rest that were left were good, and they were strong, but they lacked
the spirit and individuality. And yet—yes, he said it with hot tears of
regret—he had never once taken the boy to his heart and told him of his
love. Never had he shown him sympathy except in indirect ways.

No, he did not blame the lad for going, but if he had only asked his
advice or asked for money or asked for his blessing. But he asked for
nothing: he went, that’s all: he was sufficient unto himself. The
Deacon was grieved, but as he thought again how independent the lad was
in planning his own course and carrying it out, there came instead of
tears, a sad smile of satisfaction to think that his favorite son was no
weakling, after all.

The Deacon sent one of the children over to the parsonage to tell Mrs.
Judson that her husband would not return until the next day.

The pastor’s wife sent back word that she “did not care if he did not
come at all.”

The lady spake wiser than she knew, for the preacher did not return the
next day, or the next, or the next, and it became noised about that he
had run away. It was known that he did not live on good terms with his
wife; besides he was in debt to many people for various small sums.

If there had been a newspaper in the town the affair would have been
written up, and the headlines would have announced, “Another good man
gone wrong.”

The Bible has a special injunction concerning our duty towards the widows
and the fatherless in their affliction, and country people are not
slow in following it. A preacher’s widow is fit subject for a farmer’s
commiseration the wide world over.

A bee was held, and Liza Ann Judson’s little harvest was gathered. What
her garden did not produce, their farms did—so her cellar was filled, and
many loads of wood were brought, for the local weather prophet predicted
a hard winter.

It is very, very rare that any one man in a community is necessary to its
life. A preacher especially, who is always a consumer and not necessarily
a producer, may often be easily spared. Deacon Brown filled in on Sundays
with Jonathan Edwards; and Liza Ann being freed from the trammel of a
quibbling, selfish, and small-minded man was fairly contented. Unknown to
herself she was glad he was gone, but the people of the town thought she
was sorely afflicted and this brought her their sympathy, a thing which
they tendered to her begrudgingly when her husband was with her, and
when, therefore, she needed it most. Perhaps she thought herself sorely
afflicted, and yet being able to bear the burden, she got a satisfaction
from it, for martyrdom is never all martyrdom; so she was happy, and
thinking herself miserable, she turned to “good works” for peace; and
therein was she refreshed, and with Ruth’s guidance she lightened the
labors of many who bore burdens in very fact.

These Sisterhoods of Mercy, whose membership is made up of stricken
womanhood, what would poor humanity do without them!

But the boys of the village, and the men of the village, and the women
of the village, missed John Brown. For he could run and wrestle, and
drive cattle and do that which other boys of his age could not do; he had
intellect and was alive and alert, so the boys liked him, and the parents
knew that his influence over the other boys was good.

In Ruth’s little household there was a great big vacant space, and in
Deacon Brown’s heart was another.

They felt sure John could manage for himself, but the uncertainty of it
all, the uncertainty!




CHAPTER XIV

EXPLOITING THE PUBLIC AND PROSPERITY


“Where we goin’, Mister Himbook?”

“Call me John, please! Where did you get that other foolish name?”

“Why, that’s what Marse, he called you!”

“Well, we have got through with ‘Marse’ now.”

“Aint we goin’ back to Zanesville?”

“No, we are going further than that!”

“Lordy, I’se glad, but I radder go back and take the chances of the
cotton fields than b’long to Marse Hoskins—he work from sun-up to dark
and no chance to rest. Where you say we goin’?”

“I didn’t say—but I tell you now, we are going to Connecticut.”

“How far am it?”

“Seven hundred miles.”

“Golly! has you money to buy chuck?”

“People will not charge us for food—we will have to stop and work along
the way to get money for bridge toll, though.”

“How much money has you now?”

“Just twenty-five cents.”

“Lordy, we’ll never git there.”

“Yes, I think we will arrive.”

“Well, I’se your nigger—you owns me now.”

“No, I don’t—you are free.”

“Don’t you want me?”

“Yes, I want you to go with me.”

“Why, I b’longed to Marse Silverton: I got free; and if I’m free I
b’longs to me, and I can give me to you—see?”

“No, I don’t see—you are a fool. I told you that the Western Reserve
belonged to Connecticut and that slaves brought into the State from
elsewhere were free. Now do you understand?”

“Marse Hoskins said I was his.”

“Well, you were not.”

“Then I b’longs to no one?”

“Certainly not.”

“Not even to me?”

“Don’t talk me to death, Jim Golden—that’s your name now—don’t talk me
to death—slide off and walk a ways now. We must save Nancy.”

Jim slid off and trotted along in silence. From time to time Jim would
ride, then John would walk. That first day they made twenty miles. At
night they stopped at a settler’s cabin. Every hospitality was extended
to them, and the statement that they were brothers and were going East to
bring back cattle was accepted without question.

The good woman of the house remarked that they looked alike: it is very
easy to see family resemblance, as anyone can testify who has an adopted
child in the family. John had instructed Jim not to talk, and the boy
obeyed so well that the folks thought him deaf and dumb. John was not
inclined to say much either, so at breakfast the host shifted from one
subject to another in hopes of saying something of interest. The weather
had been fully discussed, religion touched on, then politics, and finally
the man said:

“There’s goin’ to be a hoss race down at the Cross Roads this afternoon!”

“What’s ’at! what’s ’at!” exclaimed Jim, all of a quiver in an instant.

“Why, I thought you couldn’t talk.”

“Whaffer ’bout that hoss race?”

“Nothing, only there’s a hoss race down at the Roads last Saturday in
every month—great goin’s on, ten-dollar purse—everybody runs thet wants
to.”

Jim could eat no more breakfast, but at a kick from John under the table,
he kept still.

No charge was made for the accommodation, and at once after breakfast the
boys shook hands with the kind people and started away.

Once out of sight of the house, Jim slid off the horse and pulled John
with him. He threw his arms around the other’s neck and cried:

“It’s ourn, it’s ourn, it’s ourn!”

“What is ours, lunatic?”

“That ten dollars! It’s ourn, it’s ourn, it’s ourn!”

They walked on slowly, leading the horse. Jim was half crazy over the
prospect and was sure that Nancy could win in any “scrub race.”

John had conscientious scruples on the subject of horse-racing. It was a
positive sin, as much so as card playing.

“But you don’t bet,” explained Jim, who had heard both sides of the
argument—“You don’t bet, you jest lets the mare gallop, and if she goes
over the scratch ’fore the others, they gives you the ten dollars—see?”

John saw and decided after all that it was not a positive sin—the Bible
said nothing about it, and if they captured the ten dollars, it would
mean just the wages of ten days’ work.

They reached the Cross Roads, a thriving place, consisting of a
blacksmith shop, a church, a store and a tavern.

The two boys mounted on the horse and approached the tavern, where the
landlord sat smoking on the veranda.

“Going to be a horse race here this afternoon, I hear,” remarked John.

“You’ve got it, young man—’light, and make yourselves at home!”

“About that race—can we go in?”

“Certainly, it’s free for all. It brings trade here, you know, makes fun
for the boys, and then encourages the breeding of good horses.”

The landlord was a glib sort of fellow—evidently from “York State.” He
owned a half interest in the store, and being prosperous, was a man who
might be honest.

“Put your horse in the barn and come in and take something. I say, has
your nag ever been in a race?”

“No,” answered Jim, who was willing to relieve John from the onus of
telling a lie, “no, but we wants to see if she can run.”

The landlord followed the boys to the barn. He looked Miss Nancy over
carefully, then called the hostler and they consulted together.

“’Er is a dam good ’orse,” remarked the hostler, as he felt of her hocks.
“An’ wot’s more if ’er can go as well as ’er looks, it’s all up with the
rest.”

The landlord had a good horse of his own: the horse had won the race the
month before, and the fact that his horse could probably beat the rest,
likely had something to do with his liberality in offering the stake. In
other words, there was a string tied to the purse.

“Would you mind showing what your horse can do—just a canter, you know.”

John objected: Jim didn’t know. They both realized that they were in the
hands of a sharper; still sharpers may be fair, and the honor that exists
among thieves is often nearer genuine than that which is supposed to
exist among honest men. Our sins differ in quality, not quantity.

“Only a canter! see here now, leave this to me; if your horse can go,
I’ll make you a dollar—I’m white, I am.” Jim turned pale at this allusion
to color and then got his tongue enough to affirm, “So am I.”

Both boys were relieved when the landlord did not dispute it: he was
intent on horse, he emitted horse at every pore.

“Only a canter, walk down the road a bit and let ’em come back
easy-like. Get out Hurricane, Harris, and one of the boys will go with
you.”

There was no way but to follow the will of this stronger mind.

Hurricane was led out. He was a dock-tailed hunter, big and bony. John’s
heart sank at the sight of the beautiful animal as the blanket was
stripped off. It took two men to saddle him.

“He can’t run, Marse Himbook—he can hurdle, but he can’t run as fast as a
cow,” whispered the excited Jim.

“I’m your brother—call me John—be careful now.”

The English hostler took off his coat, exchanged his hat for a cap and
rode the big, rearing, plunging horse up the road, followed by the meek
and seemingly tired Miss Nancy.

The road ran through the bottom-land, level as a floor. After they had
gone a half mile they turned and started back on a canter; they increased
it to a gallop, which soon settled into a run. Hurricane now had his
head and ran in great lunging springs. By his side, neck and neck, was
Miss Nancy moving with a light, quick, nervous patter. She ran low, her
nose straight out in front and her back as straight as the top rail of a
fence. They shot past the hotel exactly side by side, eased down, stopped
and came back.

“Why didn’t you beat him, you miserable John Bull!” called the landlord.

“I didn’t want to, don’t you know, Sir,” replied the Englishman.

Hurricane was all excitement and covered with foam. The roan mare had
scarcely turned a hair.

John was as excited as was the black racer, but a long solemn wink from
his “brother Jim” gave him confidence.

The horses were put back in the barn. In the box stall where Hurricane
was kept, the landlord and his agent were having it out in an undertone.

“Why didn’t you pull away from him, you fool?”

“Pull away from ’im, Sir? that mare is a ghost—she ’angs like a
shadder—you cawn’t pull away from a ’orse like that—you cawn’t do it, you
know. I’d back ’er on Epsom Downs, for the Derby plate, Sir, I would, be
Gawd!”

The landlord came out.

“So you are brothers, are you?”

“Yes,” said Jim.

“And you, Freckledy, are going to ride in the race this afternoon, are
you?”

“Why yes, you said we might!”

“And so you may. Now my horse can beat you—my man Harris didn’t let
him out at all just now. Still, you are good fellows—I always like to
encourage the young—was a boy once myself—I want you to win this race.
Here’s five dollars and if you win it, you get the ten—you hear? Now we
are strangers—don’t either of you speak to me the rest of the day.”

He counted the five silver dollars out into the hands of John Brown and
walked out of the barn. Jim tumbled over into an empty stall and acted as
though he was having a fit. He rolled over and stood on his head and tied
himself in a knot with his feet around his neck.

After sundry kicks from John, he came to, sat up and chuckled:

“It’s ourn, it’s ourn, it’s ourn!”

It was yet early in the forenoon and very few people were about, but in
an hour men and women on horseback began to appear. Then ox-carts and
people afoot; girls in white, women with babies, barefoot men in jeans,
and by noon nearly five hundred people were picnicing in the little
grove back of the tavern. Every tree and post that could be seen had a
horse tied to it.

In the bar room whiskey flowed over the counter like water, and every
seat at the long table in the dining-room was taken by a man in shirt
sleeves. As fast as one got up, another took his place.

Harris took our two boys around to the kitchen and piled their plates
with corned beef, cabbage and potatoes. Then came a blackberry pie that
was divided into two parts and stowed away, all without a word.

After dinner the crowd increased and John noticed that the landlord was
flourishing money and making a great bluff at backing Hurricane; and all
the time the bartender was quietly taking as many bets as possible on the
roan mare.

Back in the grove, there was a dancing platform and the screech of a
fiddle could be heard.

The program of the day began with a blindfold race of fifty yards; then a
chase for a greased pig; and after this a foot race.

It was a queer crowd, made up of a different class of people from that
which John had ever seen before. Mostly New York people, John thought,
and folks from New Jersey and Maryland who had fallen into the ways of
certain Virginians who had moved into the neighborhood.

It took a good while to get around to the prime event of the day, but
when at last the horse race was called there was a buzz of excitement;
the screeching fiddle ceased and people came trooping from the grove, the
tavern and every direction.

Full a dozen horses moved down the level road to a big tree a mile away.
Several were just plain, sturdy plow horses, ridden by farmers’ boys;
others were ponies, one was a pacing saddle horse, then there was the
docked hunter and the sober little roan mare, ridden by a barefoot boy,
whose close cropped hair might have been red, and who was very freckled.
John climbed a tree that stood by the roadside, and clear off down the
valley he saw the flag drop. There was a wild scamper of horses coming
towards him. They got away in a solid mass, but soon strung out.

Hurricane was in front and the little roan mare clear behind.

John’s heart sank within him and he could have cried for very shame. He
glanced away and when he looked again there was still an Indian file
procession, save that Miss Nancy was creeping up at one side. John
breathed freer. In another instant Hurricane and the roan were neck and
neck, moving as a double team.

On they came.

“It’s a tie, it’s a tie,” came the excited shout from a score of throats.
They were within fifty yards of the scratch—forty—thirty, and the roan
shot forward a full length, and crossed the mark two lengths ahead.

A stout man holding a watch in one hand and ten silver dollars in the
other stepped off the hotel veranda. Making his way through the crowd, he
handed up the money to Jim Golden without a word.

Jim looked about for John and soon saw him up in the tree: he closed one
eye in a long, solemn wink that said very plainly, “I told you so.”

John slid down and the boys were putting on their saddle getting ready to
go. The landlord came pushing through the crowd: “You aint going, boys?”

“Yes.”

“Why, you mustn’t—stay until to-morrow, it won’t cost you a cent—you
shall have the best room in my house!”

“No, we must go,” answered John.

“Now look here, boys, you just sha’n’t do it—to-morrow is Sunday, anyway,
you know.”

“That’s so, I forgot,” said John.

“That’s right, be sensible—this fool crowd will be out of the way soon
and then we can visit.”

“Shall we stay, Jim?”

“Yes, that pie was just right—p’r’aps there’s another!”

So they stayed.




CHAPTER XV

QUIETING QUALMS, AND MORE ADVENTURE


Stretching south from Erie was a wagon road to Pittsburg. By the aid of
appropriations from the Government, which used the road for military
purposes, this road had attained to the respectability of a turnpike.
From Erie, mails were regularly dispatched by boat to all points on
the Great Lakes; and thus Erie came to be a very important place in
stage-coach times.

The “fast mail” that made the trip daily from Erie to Pittsburg at the
wonderful speed of nine miles an hour, was a great inciter of “horse” in
the minds of the citizens. At the relay stations, every fifteen miles,
the taverns did a good business, and farmers who had horses fit to take
a place in the fast mail service got good prices for their steeds. For a
space of ten miles east or west of the turnpike, the settlers had gone
horse crazy, and thought nothing of taking a day off to see a “hoss-race.”

When night settled down at the Cross Roads the crowd had disappeared.
There was left behind a stale odor of beer and tobacco, whiskey and hard
cider, pickles and ginger bread. A banquet hall deserted is not to be
compared in point of desolation to a picnic ground forsaken.

The few visitors who had that peculiar temperament that “gets drunk in
the legs” were bundled off into the haymow. John and Mr. Marden, the
landlord, sat on the porch, enjoying the cool of the day. Out in the road
in front Harris was slowly leading Hurricane back and forth; behind him
trailed Jim with Miss Nancy.

They had had a good supper, John had eight dollars in his pocket, Jim had
seven and the landlord had several hundred and the Englishman had more
than he needed, all as the result of one day’s work.

“Yes, it’s a godsend to these hard-working people—a picnic like this—it
rests ’em and does ’em good morally and physically,” said the altruistic
landlord.

“How, morally?” asked John.

“Makes ’em happy—they forget their troubles—all people have trouble—even
you perhaps, young as you are. Now haven’t you had a good time?”

John admitted that he had.

“Well, that’s what we’re here for—to make other folks happy—that’s my
religion.”

“I—I—that is, I did not know before that you were religious.”

“Well, I am not so dam religious, but I give more to that church over
there than all the town put together!”

“What is it—Methodist?”

“Well, I reckon not—we had a Methody preacher here, but he had too much
to say on the horse question and the boys told him to take a walk. No,
sir-ee, this is Church of England—same church that George Washington
belonged to!”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, I see you are religious, too; you must go with me to-morrow—sit in
my pew!”

Harris and Jim had put up their horses, and now came over, each chewing a
straw.

“Well, my lads—how do you feel?” asked the landlord.

Harris put on an air of gloom, as an Englishman always does when he is
supremely content; Jim grinned.

“Quite a horse you’ve got, Freckles, and you ride like a regular jock!”

Jim broadened the grin.

“It’s none o’ my business, but I half believe you know a deal more ’bout
horse racing than you let on.”

“That horse of ourn was hitched up with a cow and at work all the fore
part of the week.”

The landlord gave a long, low whistle, then burst into a laugh: “Hooked
with a cow!”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“Well, I’ve an idea.”

“What is it?”

“Hitch her up again with a cow, then drive over to Hemlockville on the
turnpike and clean out the boys! Ha, ha, ha, ha!!”

The night was warm, so Jim preferred to throw down a bundle of hay and
sleep in the barn, thus following the example of Harris; for between
these two there was quite an affinity.

The next morning Mr. Marden was not feeling very well, so did not care to
go to church; Harris seldom attended and Jim did not care to go, so John
and Mrs. Marden—a trim little woman—tripped off alone.

It was John’s first experience in an Episcopal church. At first he was
inclined to resent the signs of “popery” that he detected, but the soft
playing of the melodeon, and gentle thoughts of a girl in blue who also
probably was at that moment in an Episcopal church, soon put him in a
different frame of mind.

The chancel was trimmed with green branches and wild flowers, and the
little attempts at beauty meant much to his sensitive, receptive nature.

The sermon was very short and no reference was made to the sin of
horse-racing. The prayers and responses were dignified, the singing was
better than he had ever heard, the little melodeon was so well played
that it sort of brought the tears to John’s eyes.

Only a few people were present but they were all so quiet, so polite and
so refined that John could not bring himself to think that they could
really believe in horse-racing. His conscience was troubling him, and if
he could only keep that quiet, he thought he would be really happy. The
eight silver dollars were heavy in his pocket and did not give that peace
to his soul that they should have lent. When the plate was passed he
dropped in one of those dollars and felt considerably better: his money
was being used for the service of God.

He resolved that when the meeting was out, he would wait and ask what the
preacher thought of horse-racing.

Mrs. Marden was very glad to introduce him to the clergyman. The
clergyman was very glad to meet him—had noticed him in fact—it was a joy
to preach to such a receptive listener, etc. John was pleased; he had
decided he would not trouble such a nice man with a foolish question.
He had started away and had reached the church door, when a sudden
determination seized him and he went back and hurriedly asked the rector
in a whisper:

“Is it wrong to race horses?”

“Once more, please—I did not understand.”

“Is it a sin to race horses?”

The clergyman laughed softly, looked at the boy and said:

“Oh no, not if you run a good honest race.”

“Then I suppose one should make good use of his money if he wins.”

“Why, certainly, the money must be used for a good purpose!”

“Thank you,” said John and hurried away.

“Does the preacher live here?” asked John.

“No, he lives in Hemlockville, but supplies both places.”

The next morning when John looked out of his window towards the stable,
he noticed that the big barn doors were closed and he could hear loud
laughter coming from within. He hurried down and there on the barn floor
he saw a sight that made his eyes bulge with amazement.

Marden, Harris, and Jim had hitched a four-year-old black ox up to a
rickety old cart, and there harnessed alongside of that dark complexioned
beast was the roan mare.

John looked on with flashing eyes—it was a vile indignity to Miss
Nancy—an ox, and a black one at that. The ox was peacefully chewing his
cud, and Miss Nancy took the situation as a matter of course. John was
mad:

“Keep quiet, my friend, lay low, and you shall have this ox and cart for
your day’s work.”

“Ha, ha, it’s ourn, it’s ourn, it’s ourn!” laughed Jim as he stood on his
head in the hay.

“You see, there’s a rascal of a landlord over on the turnpike that I want
to get even with,” continued Marden. “He’s awfully stuck up and thinks he
has the best horses on earth. Now, if you drive over with this old rig
and a lot of traps in behind, I will go on ahead and when you get there,
I’ll bluff him into a race—you can beat him, I know, and if you do, I’ll
give you the ox and cart.”

“It’s deceiving him, though.”

“No, it’s not, you run your horse against his and I give you the ox for
pay.”

A thought came that sounded like, “It’s no sin if you run a good honest
race—it’s no sin if you run a good honest race!”

So after breakfast they started away in the cart. Miss Nancy was the most
sensible horse one ever saw. She accepted the world as she found it and
did the will of her master, asking no questions. Aside from a few nips at
Sambo’s neck she did not draw the color line, and made no boast of her
royal blood. And as for Sambo, he lumbered along at a good fast gait for
so fat an ox.

A few burrs in the tail of each, and a splash or two of mud added to the
general untidiness of the mismating; while the rope lines, chain harness
and the old boxes in the cart made an outfit not unlike those that
came from over the hills and far away, and such as one can see in the
Southland even yet.

“Ask the way to Hemlockville,” shouted Marden as he rode on ahead, “and
good luck to you.”

It was near noon when they turned into the dusty stage road that led to
Hemlockville, a mile beyond. They could see a church spire lifting itself
out of the trees, and soon they came to a tavern which seemed to be quite
a busy place. The stage with four horses attached had just whisked up
with a cracking of the long whip and a blowing of horns. A half-dozen
passengers got down from the top and several others alighted from the
inside. Loafers and idlers appeared from nobody knew where.

In front of the tavern was a watering trough, and straight to this trough
moved the black ox and his mate.

“I tell you, your horse is a plug—he can’t run as fast as a sheep!”

“Can’t eh!”

“No, he’s a dunghill—why that crow-bait there at the trough can beat him!”

“Have you any money that says so?”

“Yes, I have, I’ll bet you twenty-five dollars.”

“I’ll just take that! Here, Captain—you hold these stakes.”

They were loud angry voices and the crowd had gathered around and were
cheering them on.

“Here, young fellow, can your horse run?”

“Never was in a race!” bawled back Jim Golden.

“Well, that’s no difference—just unhitch him and gallop him for half a
mile against this lunatic’s dunghill and I’ll give you a dollar, whether
or no.”

Marden flung the dollar out into the dust and Jim jumped down and picked
it up. John and Jim began to unhitch: more loafers and hangers-on
appeared.

It was time for the stage to start, but the passengers begged that the
driver hold on for a few moments that they might see the race. In fact
several of them had made small bets among themselves, and even the driver
had put up a dollar.

The horse that was to run against Miss Nancy was brought out, saddled and
bridled. He was a bay thoroughbred, and a good one. But there was a hitch
somewhere about the distance or the judges, and the longer the delay, the
greater the excitement.

“I tell you I saw this roan mare run last Saturday—this is a trick—she is
a race horse. If you bet against her, you lose.”

John looked around and saw that the speaker was none other than the
clergyman he had heard preach the day before: he was button-holing a
friend. John made no sign of knowing him, but pushed through the crowd
and made the discovery that men were betting on Miss Nancy. But the
strangers on the stage coach were putting up money on the bay.

Jim mounted the mare bareback, and away they went down the road. It was
to be a half-mile dash.

Soon came the cry:

“They’re off—they’re off!”

There was a cloud of dust, the crowd parted and the horses could be seen
coming neck and neck. They held this position until they were within ten
yards of the stretch, when the bay drew away and came in ahead by half a
length.

“The bay wins,” called the judge.

John was humiliated. What would Marden say? But he soon found out what
Marden would say. That worthy came and with his back half turned to him
said:

“That steer is yours, and so is the cart—you better git!”

It was a disorderly crowd, and John thought it best to take Marden’s
advice and “git.” So did Jim.

They hitched up and moved away, while the stage went off with a rush in
the other direction.

Once safely out of town, John spoke:

“Couldn’t you beat him, Jim?”

“Yes, but golly, it would ’a’ cost money, see this!”

He handed over a ten-dollar bill.

“Where did you get this?”

“Me? Marse Marden, he give it to me ’cause I lost—‘Let the bay in first
and you have the steer, the cart and this,’ says he, and so I did.”

“And was he betting on the other horse?”

“For sure! that preacher man, he told ’em to bet on us—that we was
foolin’ ’em—so the two landlords bet on the bay, and the bay he win—ha,
ha, ha!!”

John’s conscience was again getting troublesome. It had not been an
honest race: but the only thing he could do was to use the money for a
good purpose.

But wasn’t it a curious thing—this horse-racing! They had run two races,
once they had beaten and both times they had made money.

Jim launched out into wonderful tales of racing at Zanesville when he
rode Colonel Silverton’s horses; but John paid little attention to this
chatter, his thoughts being far away.

But he had decided on one thing, once for all: that was that he would
thereafter “run an honest race,” and of this he was very sure, “he would
use his money for a good purpose.”




CHAPTER XVI

TRAGEDY CAMPS ON THEIR TRAIL


They stopped at a farmer’s that night and the kind tiller of the soil
offered to trade them a black ox for their horse, so they would have a
matched team, but the boys declined. Then he offered to trade them a
horse for their ox, but this was also refused.

“We raised him from a calf,” said Jim, “and we love him ’cause he’s an
orphan.”

“Are you an orphan?” asked the man.

“Yes.”

“And if you were black, you’d make a good nigger.”

“And if you were black, you’d be a nigger yourself,” retorted John.

They rigged a pair of adjustable shafts for the cart, and led Miss
Nancy behind. And so they traveled straight towards Pittsburg, or Fort
Duquesne, as it was still often called.

John had decided on a system; and they began working it out with a
regularity that might have set an example to the planets.

When they would get near a town they would hitch the ox and horse
together. They would approach the village tavern and find the man who
owned the barn. Then John would simply ask if he wanted to race horses.
The solemn, business-like manner of the boy would usually raise a laugh
or cause a smile of wonderment, at least. About half of the time the man
addressed would say, yes: and if he did not have a running horse of his
own, would find someone close at hand who had.

John did not bet: he made a purse; he put in ten dollars and the other
man ten dollars. No more and no less, and it was a half-mile dash or
nothing.

Miss Nancy knew her business and could get away like a flash of
lightning. She was never beaten and she would run as fast or as slow as
Jim desired. Once they got cheated out of their money by the stakeholder
running away, but only once. John found that there was considerable honor
about the business of horse-racing after all; for even gambling has its
code—its sins that are venial and its sins that are mortal: and its
unpardonable sin is to turn “Welsher” and run away with the stakes.

The mails from the South reached Pittsburg by the three rivers that meet
there, and there were also stage roads leading in several directions. But
the business road of all was the one leading to Philadelphia. It was a
vast artery of traffic. By sticking to this stage road, the boys kept in
a “horse country.” The relay tavern always supported a crack runner, and
sometimes several. An average of one race a day was secured by applying
at every barn. Several times they stopped even two or three days to
accommodate horses that were sent for. It was always ten dollars and half
a mile; just that or nothing.

Occasionally John’s conscience would awaken; he was not very happy any
of the time; but so peculiar is this second self that sits over against
us, and passes judgment on our acts, that it usually allows the end to
justify the means. The Jesuitical conscience is primarily an honest
one—it does this or that, that good may follow; and after all, who shall
decide when this maxim is right or wrong, “By their fruits ye shall know
them”?

Then there is concrete wisdom—or folly—in the proverb that all is fair in
love and war. Even at the early age of sixteen young Brown looked at life
as a struggle for existence, although Darwin was a name he never knew.

He was a “soldier of the cross”; life was a “warfare”; and to undo the
“infidel” was proper and right—this was his inward argument, and the
other self for a time was silenced. And the reason that the substance of
the infidel is not now taken for holy purposes, as in the days of the
Canaanites, is simply because the infidel strenuously objects, and we
have a modicum of caution that forbids the attempt. But having done the
act, man can justify himself in anything.

Tess of the D’Urbervilles committed the two crimes at which society does
not wink—the last one was murder: she was hanged. Yet Thomas Hardy,
Prophet, Philosopher, Philanthropist, uses for his sub-title these
words: _The record of a pure woman._

Young Brown was not a sinner—but pish, we are getting serious! These boys
had a beautiful and a very intelligent little horse, and this horse could
run very fast. So these boys bet that this horse could run faster than
horses owned by other people. And as for the burrs in Miss Nancy’s tail
and mane, and the chain harness and rope lines, and the black ox, Sambo,
who looked on with big, open, wondering eyes, we will say nothing. No
one surely can be so captious as to condemn Sambo. Probably he wished he
could run, too, and perhaps Miss Nancy and he talked the thing over by
themselves.

Anyway, Sambo cropped the short, green grass along the roadside, and was
very happy. He was no stalled ox, and in his black hide there was no
hate. Then Miss Nancy was content and took a quiet pride in her smooth,
dexterous strength. Jim Golden was more than jubilant, and chuckled to
himself. John was serious, sober and in earnest.

His face had grown long and had taken on a manly turn. His eyes were
large and wide apart, his chin strong, his mouth firm, but there was
about the lad an abstracted far-away intentness that youth is better off
without. They had reached Philadelphia. Sewed up in a belt John carried
three hundred dollars.

“What you goin’ to do with all your money, I dunno?” asked Jim.

“Yes, I was going to explain—that money is to be sent to Colonel
Silverton to pay for Miss Nancy and when we get enough I’ll pay for you,
too!”

Jim was astonished. Why pay money to Colonel Silverton? He was far
away—did not even know their whereabouts—besides, he had enough money
anyway.

But John explained that in Ohio colored men and horses were property.
They must not be taken away unless they were paid for, and at last Jim
was satisfied. In fact it could not be otherwise, for his mind must shape
itself after the other’s.

So John wrote a letter to Colonel Silverton, telling him he had taken the
horse and boy because it seemed God’s plan; but that they should be paid
for to the last cent. He sent the three hundred dollars on account and
asked Colonel Silverton to send a receipt to Plainfield, Conn., in care
of Rev. Doctor Melden.

The letter and money were placed in a canvas bag, and this tied up and
sealed by the express agent; a tag was addressed bearing the inscription:
Col. Maurice Silverton, Zanesville, O.

John had only ten dollars left in his pocket, Jim had a few cents more,
but what of that: they had Miss Nancy and she could earn more! so John
patted the pretty mare, and Jim kissed her on the nose and they moved on
out of the city.

Bordentown, but a few miles up the Delaware River from Philadelphia, has
been a great horse town from the time of Washington.

The boys applied at the stage barn as usual and found quite a stable of
racers. John offered to run his horse against any one of them.

The purse was made up and full fifty men adjourned to the race track
across the fields. With little preliminary, the flag fell and the horses
got away quickly. The horse that ran against Miss Nancy was a black
stallion and a fast one. He kept his lead for full half the distance,
when Jim sent Miss Nancy forward. Her nose came even with the other’s
flank—then to the saddle—then neck and neck. Jim knew exactly what he was
doing—he could send the mare ahead at any instant—the other horse was
doing his best. The rider of the black applied his whip, but the horse
could not respond. The reckless rider in anger reached forward and struck
Miss Nancy a slashing blow over the head. The whip struck her in the eye
and she swerved to one side; in her blindness she dashed full against the
fence. Horse and rider fell in a heap. Jim scrambled out unhurt.

John came running out on the track, and as he approached, the mare
struggled to her feet and whinnied. She stood on three legs, for the
right fore leg was broken in two places so that the jagged bones
protruded through the skin.

Again the mare called and put out her nose to her young master in a mute
appeal for help.

At a glance John saw the extent of her injury.

He drew from his pocket a sheath-knife, and feeling softly for the
pulsing jugular, sent the keen blade home with one strong stroke.




CHAPTER XVII

THE DESTINATION REACHED AT LAST


The rider of the black hotly denied that he had struck the other horse.
All saw him do it, but the strangers were boys and these were men. The
stakeholder decided that the roan mare had swerved from the track on
account of “blind staggers,” and as the black horse came in first, his
owner was entitled to the money.

Sambo was lying down in the dusty road peacefully chewing his cud. Jim
fell on his neck and cried aloud, and Sambo ceased chewing and looked up
at him and was sorry.

Sambo arose to his feet and John and Jim got into the cart; and they went
lumbering out of the village, followed by the jeers and laughter of the
tavern loafers.

At Trenton the boys found work at a farmer’s, and hoed corn for three
days, each getting a dollar for his toil: then they moved on toward New
York.

John read _Plutarch_ aloud as the slow miles were turned off, and Jim was
interested to about the same extent that Sambo was, save when there was
fighting or chariot racing. In which case he would usually take sides,
and if “his side” won he would be jubilant, or if it lost he would be
depressed.

But John had a buoyant spirit and his hope was high, yet over it all was
a tinge of gray.

“What is you goin’ to do when you git there, John?” asked Jim one day.

“I’m going to study—get an education. My mother’s brother—my own mother’s
brother, lives at Plainfield, you know—he is a preacher and always wanted
me to come there. He has hundreds of books and I am going to read them
all.”

“Lordy! but you will be smart; and what am I to do?”

“Oh, there is plenty of work there—you can always get good wages.”

And so it came to pass that after many days’ journeying they reached the
thriving village of Plainfield. They enquired the way to the residence
of the Rev. Dr. Melden and were directed to a little house that stood in
a grove of pines. The house was painted white and it had green blinds,
and this looked very gorgeous to the boys, for only the very, very rich
painted their houses “out West.”

A sinking came over John’s hopeful attitude now that the end of the
journey had been reached. He had never seen this uncle—had only heard him
spoken of—and Doctor Meldon sort of loomed out of the misty nothingness
like one of _Plutarch’s_ heroes. And whose heart would not beat fast when
approaching a home where he was about to ask for Mr. Lucullus!

Then John took a swift inward glance and he perceived that this long
journey was not so much to find Dr. Melden as to get away from his own
restlessness and satisfy some seething, undefined ambition. He would have
turned and gone away; or if the man of whom he had just enquired had said
that Dr. Melden had been dead for ten years, he would not have been very
much disappointed.

They left Sambo to graze by the roadside and were now walking toward
the house. The place looked restful and inviting there in its mass of
sheltering green. It commanded respect and the boys moved around to the
back door as a matter of course. An elderly Irish woman answered their
rap.

“Yis, the Docthur lives here—are ye’s beggars, I dunno?”

“No, ma’am, we aren’t beggars, we are—”

“Niver mind if ye be—even if ye be beggars, it’s all the same to him
providin’ ye air clane—he’ll feed nobody that’s dhirty! He’s takin’ his
nap—ye’ll just have time to take a schrubbin’ in the creek down yander
and the Docthur ’ull be up—”

“You mean we should go swimming? It’s October!”

“An’ don’t I schrub me flure in November? It’s Injun summer—go on wid
ye—I’ll never lit ye into the presence loike that!”

John looked at Jim; Jim looked at John.

John saw that Jim was travel-stained, dusty, disheveled, as men who
sleep in their clothes always are. Haymows, barns, caves, and the earth
had placed their odors and marks on the boys.

“You do need a cleaning up,” said Jim to John.

“But not so bad as you,” said John to Jim.

The woman pointed the way to the creek, and handing them each a coarse
towel, they started away.

While the boys are taking a much needed bath, let us say a word about the
man who owned the white cottage.

Dr. Melden was what we would to-day call a superannuated minister. He was
near eighty years of age, and men thirty years of age said they had not
seen a particle of change in the man or in his way of life since they
stole his cherries in childhood. If you had asked the neighbors how long
he had lived in Plainfield, they would have replied: “Always.”

From an orthodox point of view we cannot state Dr. Melden’s religious
convictions. His opinion on original sin, the vicarious atonement,
justification by faith, election of the saints and the state of the
heathen who die in sin, are all matters of conjecture. In his younger
days he had been very zealous in the faith and had defended the letter of
the creed with great power; but some people thought his mind had given
way just a little, for on the doctrinal points of theology he could not
now be brought into an argument.

Occasionally he would preach for the regular pastors round about when
they went on journeys or vacations; couples would sometimes come to him
from long distances to be married, as a sort of superstition had gotten
out that his blessing had a potency beyond that of other ministers, and
this belief had spread among parents, too, as many children were brought
to him for baptism.

He was kind, gentle, benevolent, cheerful, and had no word of blame for
any man or anything. His life was pure affirmation. He said, “Do this,”
but never, “Thou shalt not.”

Such a man as this is always a sort of central sun around which swing
the lesser planets: there were always a half-dozen—more or less—of young
men preparing for college who came to him to recite. If these youths had
money they paid him small sums for their instruction, and if they had no
money it made no difference—they were just as welcome.

So it will be seen that Doctor Melden had a little income: it was not
much, but his wants were few and so he lived, filling his days full of
good work in study, giving instruction or tilling his little farm.

Only two persons lived in the white cottage with Dr. Melden—these were
an old Irish couple. Paddy McBride and his wife had their apartments and
Dr. Melden had his two little rooms. His table was spread in the room
that served for study and parlor, while Paddy and Mrs. McBride ate in
the kitchen. This made quite a little scandal, years before, among the
neighbors, because it proved the pride of the Doctor; but these good
people quite forgot how a mob had threatened to drive old Paddy and his
wife out of town because they were Catholics, and hearing of it, Dr.
Melden had at once hired them to come and work for him. This made their
position secure, for old Dr. Melden had the respect of three-fourths of
the people in the neighborhood and the love of the rest.

And in the interest of unsullied truth, let us place on record the fact
that Paddy McBride and his wife did not eat at the same table with Dr.
Melden, simply because Paddy McBride and his wife preferred to eat by
themselves.

The prefix of “Old” usually went with the Doctor’s title, thus: Old
Doctor Melden. And it is a significant fact that this word “Old” is
either a reproach or a compliment, according to whether a man has lived
good or ill.

In Old Doctor Melden’s case the word “Old” was simply synonymous with
“The Reverend.”

The boys came back from the creek slightly improved in appearance, but
greatly improved in feeling, for cleanliness is psychologic as well as
ethical.

“The Docthur says to show ye in.”

The boys pulled off their hats as boys do when they feel that they are
approaching superiority, and entered the little parlor.

“Come right in, young gentlemen, come right in and tell me what I can do
for you.”

The old gentleman sat in an easy chair, an open book on his knees. His
hair was snow white and his clean-shaven pink face beamed with good
nature.

“I am—I am John Brown of the Western Reserve—I—”

“Yes, yes, my boy!”

The old man did not arise, but held out his hands. John approached and
Old Doctor Melden’s blue eyes half filled with tears as he said: “Yes,
yes, you are my sister’s boy. My! my! you are a fine strong fellow—you
are surprised that I know you! and then how did I know that you were
coming straight to me from the other side of the world? Clear from the
Western Reserve! and this is not your brother—come closer, my lad, let me
place my hand on your head—Goodness me! you’ve been in swimming! wouldn’t
Mrs. McBride let you see me until you had taken a bath? How that woman
does literalize!”

The old man had the boys standing in front of him and was looking them
over with delight. The rags and travel stain were nothing to him.

“But who is this boy? You did not say, John, tell me.”

“He is a negro, sir, he is a slave.”

Out it came, suddenly, abruptly, all without thought. He had told that
which he had inwardly vowed again and again he would reveal to no one.

In Connecticut he intended to swear, if necessary, that Jim Slivers was
James Golden and that he was white, yet almost at the first sentence he
had spoken truth. But then Doctor Melden invited truth—only once or twice
in a lifetime do we meet a person to whom we may confess all.

“Oh, no, he’s not a slave,” said the old gentleman—“he’s not a slave,
he’s God’s free child, just like you and me.”

“No,” said John, “you do not understand—I must tell you all about it. We
ran away and stole a horse, we—”

“My dear boy, just tell Mrs. McBride I wish to see her—Oh, Bridget,
please set the table for three—these are my nephews. Did you wet their
heads?”

“Sure, and they needed it, yer honor! Yis, I’ll make tay at wanst.”

Bridget tried to courtesy as she did in the days of her youth. She cast a
suspicious glance at the two nephews. Old Doctor Melden was often imposed
upon by mendicants: Bridget felt sure that this was only another item in
the long list.

“Oh, I forgot, I have a letter for you, John, it came yesterday! It’s in
that pigeon-hole—no, the other—bring the whole package, please.”

John handed the old man the package; he took out a blue-tinted missive
and handed it to the mystified youth.

It was the first letter John Brown had ever received. He turned the
packet over and looked at the seal, then he read the inscription, then
the post-mark and in the corner his blurred vision made out these words:

                         FROM MARGARET SILVERTON,
                             ZANESVILLE, OHIO.




CHAPTER XVIII

DISTURBING NEWS FROM ZANESVILLE


How did the letter get here? John could not guess. He had forgotten that
the stage coach made the astonishing time of eight miles an hour, day and
night.

He broke the seal and unfolded the letter. A faint, undefinable odor of
violets stole out upon his senses; he caught a vision of a blue dress,
and his head began to swim.

“Read it to me, please!”

Dr. Melden took the letter, adjusted his glasses, and read:

                                         ZANESVILLE, Sept. 15, 1816.

    DEAR JOHN BROWN:

    The money which you sent to my father was received last
    night. When Mamma read your letter she wept for joy to think
    that we had such a friend as you. You know the extent of our
    tribulation and you have adopted this most generous plan in
    order to assist us; but your delicacy in avoiding that which
    might wound our pride has had a peculiar effect on me. I would
    rather you had written frankly and plainly and then it would be
    easy for me to answer you with the same unreserved frankness.
    You are good and noble and yet I have made you juggle with
    truth. You say you purpose sending us money to pay for the
    negro boy, Jim Slivers; when the real fact is that you did not
    take Jim Slivers. The seven slaves ran away, but they were
    all caught by the man who bought them, and sent South. And
    supposing you had Jim Slivers with you, would you write back
    here telling his owner of the fact?

    You want to help me, and you assume that I do not know what
    became of Jim Slivers, so you tell me an untruth. This grieves
    me, for my dream is that you will never tell me or any one
    aught save fact. I am just your age, but at our time of life a
    woman is older than a man and so I take the liberty of advising
    you what to do.

    You doubtless heard that my father’s creditors all came upon
    him at once and took all of his property, including the
    homestead. You of course know, too, that his mind tottered and
    he died by his own hand, but I suppose that you did not know
    that both of my brothers have gone to New Orleans to find work,
    and were it not for the three hundred dollars you sent, Mamma
    and I would have been absolutely destitute.

    If we had always been poor I would then have been taught to
    sew and cook and scrub, but as it is, I seem so helpless. As
    soon as my brothers find employment we will be cared for, and
    anyway, I can earn something.

    I suppose you have gone to study so as to be a preacher, but
    how sudden it was—you did not tell me you were going right away!

    Mamma and I are very sure that you will make a great and good
    man, and we pray every night that God may be with you and
    direct you aright.

    With sincere regard, I am,

                                 Yours,

                                                 MARGARET SILVERTON.

“What a gently sweet letter it is!” The old gentleman sighed as he took
off his glasses. “What a sweet letter—‘we pray every night that God may
direct you aright’—why, do you know, boys—well, yes, it is a fact, I can
show you a whole bundle of letters that my wife wrote me fifty years ago
that sound like that—have the same sort of spiritual fragrance. Why,
what’s the matter, John?”

The youth’s eyes were glassy and his face was marble in its dumbness.

“I—I—I did not understand what it was in that letter—will you read it
again, and who did you say it was from?”

“Oh, I didn’t read the signature—I’m so careless—but my wife never signed
her name at all—just filled up the page and stopped, and that last
clause some way made me think of her. Now let me see, M-a-r-Margaret
Silverton—that’s the name, Margaret Silverton. It is headed Zanesville,
no State, but probably Ohio—‘Dear John Brown’—”

The white-haired man read the letter through slowly, folded it and handed
it back. John’s face burned scarlet—he stepped forward—the room seemed to
spin—he burst into tears. The tall old man arose and folded him in his
arms as he might a woman.

“The supper things is gettin’ cowld an’ there’ll be icicles on the tay
pot if ye don’t ate soon!” said Mrs. McBride as she thrust her head in
from the kitchen.

“There, there! We forgot all about supper—we three boys, together—and
boys generally have good appetites, too. Sit here, John, and you, James,
on the other side—never mind, Bridget, I can pour the tea—we like it a
little cool, anyway!”

Mrs. McBride disappeared.

“I’ll wait on table if Marse Melden don’t mind, then I’ll eat in the
kitchen, afterward.”

“No, you sit down, James.”

“I’se caught and sent south,” chuckled Jim as he sidled into a chair.

“Oh, so you are the Jim Slivers mentioned in the letter, are you?”

“No, I’se gone south.”

“Yes,” said John with a look of rebuke at Jim. “Yes, his name is James
Golden now, but he is the person that Mar—I mean Miss Margaret refers to.
I don’t understand it though, things have got so mixed.”

“I see, you were trying to do good by stealth—sugar and milk in your tea?
you can’t deceive a good woman, though—help yourself to bread, James—I
have tried it.”

“But I have not tried to deceive anyone—I did not know at all about these
troubles that have come to the Silvertons!”

“Is Marse de Kuhnel dead for sure?” asked Jim.

“Yes—Margaret says so—he died by his own hand.”

“What’s that! killed hisself?”

“Yes.”

“Shoot, drown, pizen or hang?”

“I do not know.”

“Lordy, I’ll bet he hanged hisself in the barn—got up in the haymow, tied
a rope to a rafter, then round his neck—count three and jump off into
hell—he tried it once after he had been on a two weeks’ booze!”

The free and easy tramp life they had been living; the stimulus of the
sudden good fortune of being welcomed, together with the news of his
old master’s death, which he felt freed him, had tended to loosen Jim’s
tongue. He might have talked considerable were it not for a warning kick
from John under the table which caused him to relapse into a sphinx-like
silence. After supper he went out to attend to Sambo, who was grazing
about just as if a cart was a piece of natural impedimenta that every
good ox should tolerate. Then he assisted Mrs. McBride in washing the
dishes, much to that worthy woman’s surprise that a boy could be so handy
in a kitchen. And all the while he made the acquaintance of Mr. Paddy
McBride, who had come from his work.

Meanwhile John sat on an ottoman at the feet of Old Dr. Melden, and told
all concerning his acquaintanceship with the Silvertons: of how he had
helped Slivers run away: of taking the horse, the racing, the sending the
money to Zanesville, and of the death of Miss Nancy. Here Doctor Melden
sighed. The death of the horse affected him strangely—it seemed to touch
him like an old sorrow.

“You killed her, John?”

“Yes, I had to, her leg was broken, so I put her out of misery.”

“Yes, yes—I forgot—it was only a horse—but then all life is from God!
but you did it in pity, yes, it was right. But now you are here safe—I
need you. Your mother used to write me long letters about you and tell me
how she proposed to send you back here to study with me, and now you are
here. No one wrote of your coming—only that letter came for you and then
I sort of worked it all out in a dream. I knew you were on the way, so I
was not surprised when you came. Now how old are you, John?”

“Seventeen.”

“Only seventeen—why I thought you were nineteen, at least—you might even
pass for twenty. But Margaret loves you and you love her, and on such a
love, I am sure that God smiles a benediction; but you are young, John;
you must stay with me and study and you will become a great and good man;
you will preach truth to thousands; you will make the world better and
you will do the work that I have neglected to do. You are only a boy now,
but after a few years you can go back after Margaret and she will help
you, but by that time I will be gone!”

“Oh, no, you must wait until you see her.”

“My wife died forty-one years ago, John—it only seems yesterday that she
passed on, and do you know, my boy, I’m growing a little impatient to go
to meet her. If I were superstitious I might say her spirit is with me
now; but never mind that, I must stay to help you.”

“Docthur Melden, is the red-haired boy to shleep in the barn, I
dunno—he’s yawnin’ so you can see his back teeth, and tryin’ to prop his
peepers open, he’s that shleepy.”

“Oh, I forgot him almost. Bring in the candles, please, and we will have
prayers and the boys can go to bed—they will sleep in the spare room.”

“An’ it’s lucky fer the shates that I made ’em take a schwim!”

Paddy McBride put on his coat and made his toilet by running his fingers
through his hair: then he entered the little parlor, followed by Jim and
Mrs. McBride. Doctor Melden drew his chair up to the table and read a
short passage from the Psalms; then all bowed their heads in silence.
After a pause Doctor Melden repeated a brief prayer and John did not
think it strange that he closed with the words: “We pray that Thy
watchful care will be over those whom we love, and in all their actions
may they be guided aright. Amen.”




CHAPTER XIX

OH! THE WEARINESS OF WAITING!


John was making progress in his studies—very slow progress, he thought.
He constantly reverted to the subject of co-education and he concluded
that if he were studying with a certain tall, slender, fair-haired girl
in blue he could solve any problem in mathematics that might be produced.
Then grammar was hard—this parsing of sentences—but Margaret could
understand and she would make it plain to him. Yet Dr. Melden was very
patient, very gentle and always full of encouragement.

Every forenoon they worked at the lessons, and in the afternoons there
was wood to chop, crops to gather or carpenter work to attend to, for
labor with one’s hands was a part of Dr. Melden’s creed.

Jim had forsaken books for the saw-mill; he did a man’s work and was
getting rich at the rate of a dollar a day.

So winter settled down and the snow lay deep and smooth over the New
England hills. Paddy McBride had fallen in love with Sambo and Sambo
returned the affection, and between the two, great piles of wood were
accumulating in the back yards of various neighbors; all of which added
to Paddy’s worldly prosperity. So all were very busy, and very happy. The
presence of the young men in the house had given Dr. Melden a new lease
of life, and he declared that Fate had reversed the flying spindle and
that he was growing younger every day.

A letter was dispatched to Ruth Crosby, a long letter of news and good
cheer and high hope. To be sure, John’s plans were a bit misty and
undefined, but the spirit of self-reliance that they breathed warmed the
heart of the Widow Crosby like wine.

She did not know that the boy had run away. No one in Hudson knew it
except Squire Brown, and he was a diplomat: he just gave out the news
quietly that he had sent the boy away to school.

“It’s costly,” said the Squire, “but when they gets it in their heads
that book-learnin’ is the thing, the only way to ondeceive ’em is to send
’em to school.”

“And where did you send him?” someone asked.

“Well, now, I should think that you had known me long enough to know that
I do not blab my private affairs on the street corners—I sent him to the
best school there is, regardless of expense.”

And so the matter rested. But when Ruth Crosby took that letter over for
Squire Brown to read, that gentleman’s heart thumped beneath his hickory
shirt in a way that made him fear apoplexy. He excused himself and took
the letter out behind the barn and read it.

Thank God, the boy was well! And thank God again, he did not explain that
he had gone away without his father’s consent.

Squire Brown took the letter in the house and handed it back carelessly
with the remark—“Oh, it’s ’bout the same he wrote me.”

John had written full twenty letters to Margaret: only two of them had
been mailed: the others were torn up as soon as penned. The first letter
had been dispatched the day after his arrival at Plainfield. It was
rather stiff and precise in its formal expressions of condolence, yet a
deal more sincere than most similar messages. But after a week another
letter of eight pages was sent. It was a genuine news letter and told of
his studies, his work, of Doctor Melden and Paddy McBride and Sambo, and
then it swung back to Old Doctor Melden and it pictured him as the saint
that he was. No reference was made to Jim; for the present it would be
wise to let well enough alone.

The first letter had said, “I much regret to hear of the sad afflictions
that the Lord has sent you.” This one said, “I’m awful sorry for you,
Margaret—I think of you all day and dream of you at night. I wish
you would tell me what to do, for I want to send you something or do
something for you, and so does my Uncle Melden, who is the best man that
ever lived.”

It was seven weeks before a letter came, postmarked Zanesville. Here it
is:

                                                       Dec. 3, 1816.

    DEAR JOHN BROWN:

    Both of your letters are here and have been read several times
    over both by Mamma and myself. You are very good and kind to
    us. At this time you seem almost our only friend, for some of
    our old neighbors shun us now that our money is gone and we
    live in a rented apartment. Then there are rumors that father
    was dishonest in his dealings; and there are those who hint
    that we are living thus in poverty as a blind and that we have
    large sums of money secreted. You can imagine how such scandals
    wound us.

    Mamma is quite ill—had not sat up for three days until
    yesterday, when an old friend of papa’s came to visit us. His
    name is Captain Brydges—he is a widower and highly respected.
    His courtesy in calling on us seemed to infuse Mamma with a
    hope that our affairs might yet take a turn for the better.

    We have not heard from my brothers since they went away—but we
    hope to soon.

    Give Doctor Melden our love, and tell him that we respect and
    revere him for all that he has done for you. How glad I am that
    you are doing so well in your studies!

    Write me again and tell me of the books you read.

                         Sincerely Your Friend,

                                                       M. SILVERTON.

    P. S.—I did not mail this letter yesterday, as the stage does
    not start until this noon. Do not worry about us. I have one
    pupil to whom I give music lessons, and hope for more. Captain
    Brydges called again last night. Mamma used to keep company
    with him when she was a girl. Isn’t it funny that he should
    come back to see her after all these years?

                                                           MARGARET.

This letter placed the young man on the highest pinnacle of happiness.
Its declaration of friendship, and its unrestrained confidence made him
almost delirious with joy. He read the letter and Doctor Melden read it
to him; and then it was read to Jim.

“I’se gone south to the cotton fields—but read ahead!”

The real fact was that Jim was delighted to hear from Zanesville and his
former “Missus.” There was a tie of blood that drew him to her—a tie
that he never whispered aloud—but he realized its existence. The girl’s
happiness was Jim’s and her sorrow his. And that she should still be
hopeful and in good spirit was a consolation to him.

“I know that Captain Bridge,” said Jim, “he’s rich, he is. He lives in
Kaintuck and has a whole town full of niggers, ha, ha, ha!”

“What are you laughing at, loon?”

“Ha, ha, he, he, ho!”

“Well, tell us what’s the matter!”

“What a joke if that Captain Bridge he marry Widow Silverton!”

“Oh, there’s nothing strange in such an event,” said Dr. Melden, “yet of
course the fact that they were lovers in youth—well, such things have
happened. I hope he is a worthy man!”

“Oh, he’s all sque-gee! He has a white goatee, and dresses to kill—I used
to shine his shoes and my mammy had to iron his shirts—one every day. He
has a gold watch chain ten feet long. I say, if they cotch me I s’pose
I’d b’long to Marse Bridge, wouldn’t I?”

“We will take pains to see that they do not catch you,” quietly replied
John.

Young Brown was slow in making acquaintances. People thought him
exceedingly cold and reserved, and although the young people of the town
sought to thaw him out they did not succeed.

One young man came near it. This was Walter Warren, son of the richest
man in Plainfield, the man who owned the saw-mill. Walter was two years
older than John and was studying for the ministry. He had been to Boston
and New York, so was extensively traveled. He was a bright student and a
young man of considerable culture. He came twice a week to recite Greek
to Doctor Melden, and John looked on him as a model.

And on the other hand, Walter, knowing little of his friend’s history,
but guessing much, regarded John as a hero. And the free and unrestrained
manner of the young pioneer was as pleasing to the rich man’s son as the
rich man’s son’s culture was to the other.

John was a bit ashamed of the adventurous life of toil and chance that
he had led—not that there was anything especially disgraceful in it, but
it did not harmonize with his pulpit ambitions. On the other hand Walter
regarded all these privations and adventures as valuable experience that
enriched one’s life. And so the two young men came to enjoy the society
of each other; each acted on the other as a stimulus. They grew quite
confidential, and it was promised that after John had been duly ordained
as a preacher—which of course would not be for several years—Walter would
come out to Ohio and see him, and together they would go on evangelizing
tours doing God’s work, summoning men to repentance.

So John worked away at his lessons and was very happy, for over all his
thoughts was a tinge of bright blue, not the tinge of melancholy, but the
blue of the sky—or of a blue dress, and diffused in the air was a faint
odor of violets.

In ten days there came another letter from Zanesville. It was hardly
expected, for letter writing in those days of high postage was a luxury.
Letters nowadays are a two-cent affair, but letters then carried an
import proportioned to the postage. This letter was evidently written
hurriedly: it was startling in its suggestiveness. It ran:

                                                ZANESVILLE, Dec. 14.

    DEAR JOHN BROWN:

    There is still left of the money you sent us nearly one hundred
    dollars; and it seems that I should use this money for the
    purpose of getting away from Zanesville. The pupil I had in
    music has left me and there is nothing to which I can turn to
    earn a livelihood for myself and mother. I cannot think of
    going to our aristocratic kinsmen in Virginia, for there we
    would be but pensioners on others’ bounty.

    Perhaps I should state plainly that the cause of my agitation
    is that Captain Brydges has asked me to become his wife. He is
    very courteous, very respectful, and very kind. Most of his
    conversation is with Mamma, and he told her last night if I
    would marry him, he would buy back Silverside for our home.

    Mamma does not dictate what I shall do, and although I promptly
    said “No,” the Captain simply says that “I must take a full
    fortnight to think it over.” I will take three months and my
    answer will still be the same.

    In a New England town, I might work with my hands, but here all
    work is done by blacks, and no respectable young woman goes out
    to earn her daily bread any more than they do in Virginia.

    Do you think Dr. Melden could get me work in
    Plainfield—anything from governess to dish washing?

                              Yours Truly,

                                                       M. SILVERTON.

    P. S.—The greatness and goodness of Dr. Melden, as you have
    described him have appealed to me so that I seem to turn to him
    at once. Mamma does not know of this letter, but she will go
    with me, I know, wherever it seems best.

                                                           MARGARET.

John read the letter with sickening chills of fear, but the mood soon
turned to exultant hope; yet what to do, what to do?

He gave the missive to Dr. Melden. The old gentleman read it very slowly,
and then again.

“My boy, I have a plan. I’ve been thinking it over for some days, and
this letter makes the course plain.” John listened breathlessly.

“Yes, John, I’ll tell you. I have six hundred dollars saved up and I
cannot live very long anyway, and even if I should linger along for a
while you would care for me. Now I feel that we should make James Golden
a free man—legally free. We will send five hundred dollars to Margaret
Silverton to pay for the boy; we can then issue manumission papers and
give him his freedom.”

John’s eyes filled with tears of joy. All along he had felt that
he had stolen property; the law of the land said so; he must make
restitution—not send Jim back, no! he would fight first, but the slave
must be paid for.

Now a way was opened, but it would take the savings that this saintly old
man had been a lifetime in accumulating. Was not the sacrifice too great?
Ah, but then to whom was the money to be sent? and how was she to use it?
In coming straight to Plainfield—to him!

The youth did not know it, but he would have sacrificed not only this
five hundred dollars but all the money to be had, and human life, if
needs be, for the sake of getting Margaret Silverton away from Zanesville.

His eyes shot fire as he reached out his hand toward the old man. Youth
and age shook hands in a firm grasp.

“But that Captain Brydges—what a scoundrel!” John felt in his pocket.

“No, it’s not there, boy, no one needs to carry such a wicked knife in
this civilized country,” smiled Dr. Melden. “I told you I put it away!”

John tried to answer smile with smile, but he only grimaced.

“And shall—shall we send the money at once, Uncle?”

“Yes, to-morrow. And we will tell Mrs. Silverton and her daughter to come
straight here. You know they are putting an organ into our church—someone
must play, who so good as Margaret? I can find her pupils, too, in music.
They can rent that little vacant house down by the river—Plainfield will
be better for such gentle people.”

“I think so,” said John.

The old man smiled.

“And to-morrow we will send them word?”

“Yes, my boy.”

So on the morrow five hundred dollars was sewed up stoutly in a canvas
bag and duly dispatched to Zanesville to pay for one slave boy, by name,
_i. e._, “James Slivers.”

John wrote a letter and Doctor Melden wrote a letter: both urged
immediate removal to Plainfield. Jim went to his work in the morning and
back at night; he sang and laughed and worked, all oblivious of the fact
that he had been bought with a price.

And John Brown resigned himself to that most wearisome of all wearisome
tasks—waiting, waiting.




CHAPTER XX

JIM SLIVERS DISAPPEARS


The days dragged their slow length along and each morning John checked
them off on a Poor Richard Almanac.

A month passed—a month of steady work at long lessons that were only
memorized and mumbled over; for we learn only in moments of animated,
pleasurable concentration.

John had calculated the time that it would take for a letter to reach
Zanesville and a reply to come back. Thirteen days was the quickest trip
possible. But on the eleventh day he was down to the village when the New
Haven stage arrived; he saw the leathern pouch tossed off; he watched
it as it was carried into the post-office and then he waited until the
letters were distributed.

Next day he did the same, and the same the next.

On the thirteenth day he met the coach a mile out of town and ran beside
it wondering at the manner of the driver who so carelessly flicked his
whip, indifferent of the precious message in the bag beneath his feet.
But there was no message for John Brown; no letter for Doctor Melden.
Would the postmaster please look again?

The postmaster did so. There was no letter.

Neither did one arrive the next day, nor the next. Twenty-six days had
come and gone. John had no appetite: he could not study: once when he
went out to split wood he carried a hoe, and if Doctor Melden asked
him to bring the grammar, he brought a history. He sat all day gloomy,
abstracted. That night he paced the floor, and at breakfast Jim tried to
rail him out of his melancholy.

The day wore away: the sky was heavy with leaden clouds, and gusts of
snow now and again filled the air.

John tried to read, then to work. He could do neither.

He hoped that Jim would begin his prattling talk at supper—perhaps it
would brighten his spirits a little.

But Jim did not come to supper. The victuals grew cold on the table, and
John urged Doctor Melden to eat alone this time. He put on his cap and
started off in the storm toward the saw-mill. All there was dark.

He went to the house of the foreman and found the good man calmly smoking
his after-supper pipe in the chimney corner, while four children in their
night clothes were frolicking on the floor before being put to bed.

No, the foreman had not seen Jim since he quit work.

Inquiry was made at the house of a workman close at hand. This man had
seen two strangers in a sleigh waiting on the hillside—these men called
to Jim and he had seen the boy go over to where they were—that is all he
noticed.

John then began to ask at house after house. No, none had seen the
freckled boy that lived with Old Doctor Melden.

At last a woman was found who had seen a boy—it might have been Dr.
Melden’s boy—seated in a pung between two men. She had passed them on the
bridge at dusk, and she had heard one of the men say, “We will kill you
if you do not keep still.” She thought they were trying to tie the boy’s
hands, but she had been too frightened to look closely. When they saw
her one of the men shouted, “Is this the New Haven stage road?” and when
she said, “Yes,” they whipped the horse into a run and disappeared in an
instant, to her great relief.

It was now nine o’clock.

John ran home and burst into the little study where Doctor Melden sat
waiting for him before the fire.

“The slave hunters—the slave hunters—they have stolen him away! My knife,
where is it, do you hear? my knife, my knife!”

“No, my boy, you do not need a knife—pray eat some supper and we will
talk of what is best to do.”

“Talk of what is best to do? why should we?—I know what is best to do. I
will overtake these men—we have paid for the boy—a receipt for the money
will be here to-morrow! I shall follow them to the brink of hell! And so
you will not give me my knife—very well, I’ll go without it!”

“Come back, come back here, John—John Brown!”

The old man was out in the yard and the wild wind was tossing his white
hair in mocking derision.

“John—John Brown!”

But there was for answer only the smothered shriek of the gale through
the pines, and the soft, purring, menacing hiss of the racing snow.




CHAPTER XXI

A FRUITLESS CHASE


It was a forlorn hope to overtake that sleigh: a wild, foolish, undefined
hope.

Age takes time to consider, but youth acts. John had followed the snow
path for several miles, and although the track was partially obscured by
the drift, he could still make it out. But the soft snow slipped beneath
his feet and his progress became slower and slower. From six miles an
hour his gait slackened to barely three.

The night was dark, and the air was full of sleet and flying flakes.
Angry scudding clouds chased each other athwart the sky, but now and
again for an instant there could be seen rifts where the moon shone
through. Then the gloom would seem to lift, only to give way again to the
murkiness of the winter night.

The boy’s legs were getting heavy and as his footsteps became slow, his
senses came back. After all, what could he do, even if he should overtake
the men in the sleigh? He could not successfully fight them and rescue
their prisoner!

Still, Jim Slivers was his property. Dr. Melden’s money had bought him:
these men had no moral or legal right to the boy. Grant that he was a
negro—admit that he was a slave: he was the property of John Brown.

Thrice armed with the consciousness of right, he sprang forward,
determined that if he could catch these slave stealers he would cling to
them and detain them until he could prove his position.

The black clouds parted and the landscape seemed to lighten. Over to the
right was a brown spot that marked a farmhouse; no light was seen—all
were sleeping soundly. On closer approach the dull reflection of
smoldering coals in the fire-place could be made out against the little
windows. Joined to the house by a long open woodshed was the barn. John
approached and looked in at the window. All was quiet. He moved along
back to the barn and tried the door: it was locked. To one side was a
sliding window used for throwing out compost. At a gentle push this gave
way, and a horse within answered with a neigh.

John crawled in through the window and felt his way back to the door,
which was held by a hook. This he unfastened and the wooden hinges
creaked ominously as a flood of soft light came in, followed by a gust of
snow.

The boy could see the animals in the stalls, and he felt along the backs
of each: two cows, then a colt that snorted and squirmed under his touch,
next came a horse that made no motion and showed by his manner that he
had arrived at years of discretion.

Behind the horse was a tangle of harness on a wooden peg. John felt for
a bridle, picked it out, took a blanket that hung near and led the horse
out into the night, closed the barn door and vaulted onto the animal’s
back.

The horse’s hoofs made not the slightest sound in the soft snow as he
moved on a trot out into the roadway and headed for the south.

Was this young man so devoid of all moral instinct as to steal a horse?
Bless you, do not be captious—he did not commit larceny. He borrowed the
horse only for an hour or so—it would be safely back in its stall in the
morning at farthest. A horse is power—hands and feet—an annihilator of
space. A horse means safety to the oppressed—liberty to the threatened.
In times of emergency a horse belongs to him who can mount it first.
Attacked by Indians, do you ask who holds a bill of sale of this beast,
ere you place foot in stirrup?

The old farm horse snorted at the spurring heels and swung into a lunging
gallop that meant ten miles an hour.

Only two faint velvety furrows marked the road now: the elements were in
conspiracy with the enemy.

In an hour a teamster was met, his jingling bells echoing on the frosty
air.

“Did you pass a pung?” called John.

“Three men in it?”

“Yes.”

“Driving as if the devil was after ’em?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I should say I did—nothing wrong, I hope!”

“No—how far back?”

“Oh, ten miles—who were they and who are you in such a rush?”

But John made no answer; he sent his horse forward on a run. It was
getting towards morning. The cocks were crowing, and now and again
twinkling lights could be seen in farmhouses.

At one of these a man was going out to the barn with a lantern in one
hand and a basket in the other.

“Did you see three men go by in a sleigh?”

“How could I, when I just got out of bed!”

“Well, how far is it to New Haven?”

“Twenty-five thousand miles the way you are going—if you right about face
and take the left hand turn at the village eight miles back, it’s twelve
miles.”

John had missed the main track. Eight miles out of the way—sixteen miles
of travel for naught! He was stiff, sore and benumbed with cold. But back
he turned and the honest old horse responded to his urging.

Just at daylight New Haven was reached. The wind had died down, and just
before the stars disappeared they shone out in a clear sky a brief space,
just as sanity comes to a dying man. Curling blue smoke arose from many
houses. In a doorway between two warehouses stood a watchman in a big
muffled overcoat. In his hand he held a stout knotted cane.

“Are you a policeman?” called John.

“That’s what they call me!”

“Did you see three men in a sleigh come into town?”

“I might ha’ seen a dozen sleighs come in town—who do you want?”

“Two men who were stealing a slave.”

“Oh, there were two or’f’cers with a runaway just drove down to the dock
to take the New York boat!”

“Which way—quick, tell me which way!”

“Don’t get in a sweat, youngster—they didn’t steal the boy, they had a
warrant for him signed by the Gov’ner. But that’s the way to Long Wharf!”

John turned and looked in the direction the man pointed. The loud exhaust
of a side-wheel steamer was heard, and then the boat herself showed
between the buildings.

The steamer was a full half-mile away, plowing through the broken ice and
headed down the Sound.

“You see,” said the watchman, “that ’ere boat should ’a’ left las’ night,
but there was too much gale, so she layed up till daylight. The gentlemen
you speak of are aboard of ’er.”




CHAPTER XXII

SLAVE-STEALING AND HORSE-STEALING


The question of slavery was a vexed one at this time in New England
States. The real fact was, slaves were a poor investment, for only where
they could be worked in gangs could they be made to pay.

Cotton and an enervating climate demanded slaves, so cotton’s conscience
was not affected by the ethics of the case. For let us admit that
conscience and self-interest are never very widely separated.

For the most part, though, the New England conscience on the slave
question was apathetic. Yet only a year before there came near being a
division in the Presbyterian Church at Plainfield on the question. Not on
the general issue—of course not—no one was interested enough for that—but
rather on personal grounds.

A Virginian had moved to Plainfield and brought several slaves with
him. By the law of the State they were then free, for there was an act
forbidding the importation of slaves into Connecticut. However, our
Virginian did not like the climate and proposed moving back to Dixie. At
the eleventh hour his slaves claimed their freedom and refused to go. He
threatened. They appealed to the townspeople for protection. He being a
member of the church, in good standing, appealed to the brethren, and
argued eloquently on the rights of property. He had bought the slaves; he
had paid for them; he had always treated them well; he proposed to compel
them to go with him, just as he could compel his children to accompany
him.

The slaves were intelligent mulattoes, and Christians, the same as
their master. They agreed to leave it to a vote of the church, for many
disputes in those days were decided by the church instead of by the
courts.

Doctor Melden made a strong plea for the slaves. He viewed them simply
as men, and he applied the Golden Rule to the case. As for himself, he
did not care to become the chattel of any man, no matter how Christian;
therefore he wished to give freedom to others.

A few of Dr. Melden’s personal friends stood by him, but the majority
went with the pastor of the church; and on putting the matter to a vote,
it was decided that the slaves should accompany their master; and they
did.

And now it was the talk of the whole town that Doctor Melden had not
only argued for abolition, but was actually engaged in the business of
running off slaves: for be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow,
thou shalt not escape calumny. But in fact there was no defense: James
Golden, alias Jim Slivers, was a runaway slave; officers had come with
full authority to take him back. This slave had been harbored by Doctor
Melden. Moreover, Doctor Melden had protected a young renegade who called
himself John Brown.

This young Brown had stolen a horse and disappeared. Leastwise the horse
was gone, and Brown was gone; and a teamster had seen a boy that looked
like Brown with a horse that looked like the one missing.

Old Doctor Melden had been harboring both Brown and the runaway negro.
How sad that a man of his age, so venerable, so universally respected,
should sink to such depths!

Old Doctor Melden made no excuse, for there was no excuse to make.
Possibly he was troubled by these rumors; for a committee had come to him
from the church to reason and pray with him. They assured him that they
bore him no malice and would forgive him even if he sinned to seventy
times seven: that is, provided he was repentant.

But he was not repentant: he even asked them to cease praying for him:
said that he wished to leave the matter to God who judgeth in secret.

The committee went away sorrowful, but being charitable people, they
reported that Old Doctor Melden was fast sinking into the hopeless
irritability and senility of second childhood. Someone sent a copy of the
report to the Doctor by mail.

Of course we cannot say he was done to death by slanderous tongues; this
would be too harsh; and although no disease preyed upon his vitals, death
claimed him.

One morning, just a fortnight after the disappearance of John Brown,
Mrs. McBride entered the little study at daylight as was her custom.
Sitting at the table, with his white-crowned head bowed, and resting on
the open Bible, was the stiffened form of the old man.

Death had come to him while in the act of devotion—his spirit had flown
on the wings of prayer.




CHAPTER XXIII

DEFEAT AND DOUBT BUT NOT DISCOURAGEMENT


Two thoughts kept racking the brain of John Brown during all that
chilling night ride; and sunrise shed no new light upon them.

He felt that he must rescue Jim; to abandon him now to fate would be the
basest kind of poltroonery. Perhaps he did not think out this sentiment
to its limit, for the idea of rescue was supreme: the thought of giving
up the chase never entered his mind.

The second thought, which was the more vital, as it enveloped the other
completely, was the rescue of Margaret Silverton. The five hundred
dollars sent to purchase freedom for Jim was meant to give liberty to
Margaret. And yet this sacrifice on the part of Doctor Melden, so far as
John knew, had benefited neither.

Could it be possible that this angelic young woman had received the
money and yet made no acknowledgment of it? Stories that he had heard
concerning the duplicity of woman-kind came stealing into the boy’s mind;
he shuddered and thrust them back as though they were pollution.

Yet, after all, how did these slave hunters get track of the runaway—had
Margaret told them? It could not be, and the slave having been paid
for, why follow him? Surely, if Margaret had incautiously revealed his
whereabouts, she also would have told the fact of the purchase: and this
being true, there would be no excuse for the capture. Then how did the
slave hunters get on the track of the boy?

He had gone over the matter a hundred times, as his eyes followed the
disappearing steamboat.

“Have you come far?”

The watchman’s voice awoke the lad: he started.

“Yes—that is, not very.”

“Your horse is pretty well blowed.”

“Yes, he’s a little tired—where can I put him up?”

“Just around the corner is the tavern barn.”

The horse was brown when in his natural color: now he was white, for
sweat and steaming breath had frozen over him like a blanket.

John headed the horse around the corner, dismounted, and shoved back the
big sliding door of the barn. There on the floor stood a horse white
as the one he led, coated with frozen foam like his own. A hostler was
industriously rubbing the animal with a woolen cloth.

“Shut that door, jackanapes, this horse will catch his death o’ cold!”

“He’s got it now,” answered John.

“They gave him a devil of a drive, for sure!”

“Who were they?”

“Constables, I guess—they hired the rig o’ us, an’ gave me a dollar extra
to keep this horse from goin’ to horse-heaven!”

“Where are the men now?”

“On the steamboat—hold on, aint you goin’ to put yer horse in?”

“No, not this time, thank you.”

John backed the horse out, pushed the big door to, mounted and rode on a
jog trot out the main street that led straight toward the west.

He had entered the barn with the intention of having the horse fed and
properly cared for. He could smell the aroma of coffee, ham and eggs and
fried potatoes coming from the tavern kitchen; he was faint from hunger,
for he had missed his supper the night before: why did he not remain for
breakfast? Simply because the truth came to him that he had not a cent of
money in his pocket.

His cheeks burned with fever, yet his hands and feet seemed frozen stiff
with cold. He tried to pucker his lips to whistle, but not a sound could
he make.

The horse was very tired and the clogging snow made him stumble. John
reeled on his back and clung to his mane for support.

Three miles out of town he stopped at a farmhouse. His rap at the kitchen
door was answered by a motherly old woman.

“Missus, I’m hungry, and I have no money to pay you. Will you give me
some breakfast?”

The woman smiled, asked the boy in, and explained that the breakfast
things had all been put away, but of course she would give him something
to eat. Then noticing his horse standing at the door, she directed him
to put the animal in the barn. John led the horse to the barn, and after
giving it water, oats and hay, returned to the house.

A simple lunch was set on the table for him. He drew up a chair, sat down
and started to eat. But his fast had been too long and Nature’s craving
for her needs had vanished. He tried to eat, but the food choked him—he
cast a despairing look on the kind woman who sat near—the room seemed to
swim, and had not the motherly arms caught him, he would have fallen.

The next he knew he was lying on a lounge and under his head was a pillow
that gave out a pungent odor of pine needles.

He had a guilty feeling that he had been calling for someone; and he
gradually made out the fact that there were two persons in the room with
him: Margaret Silverton and his Uncle Melden. Soon his blurred vision
grew stronger and he discovered that the man and woman were simply two
plain old people—strangers. The woman’s face looked familiar to him—where
had he seen her? She had placed a wet towel on his forehead and was now
rubbing his hands; the man had taken off the boy’s shoes and was wrapping
his feet in a woolen shawl that had evidently been warmed by the stove.

“You feel better now—try to drink some of this tea!”

The voice brought back his scattered senses and he now remembered where
he was. How long had he been here? a week maybe—certainly since yesterday.

“Have I been sick long—when did I come here?”

“Oh, about ten minutes ago. You fainted and I called my husband from the
woodshed and we got you on this lounge. Now drink this tea, please!”

In the corner a tall wooden clock solemnly ticked off the seconds. The
hands marked twenty minutes of nine. In ten minutes’ time his soul
had traversed the earth, fought battles, rescued Jim Slivers, brought
Margaret Silverton to Plainfield—then he had grown weary and lain down
on the lounge in Doctor Melden’s little study and Margaret had come and
placed a damp cloth over his forehead and was now caressing his hands.

But all at once his dreams were dashed to fragments—he was among
strangers—he had no money—he was ill and his doubts and difficulties
were all before him. Realizing these things, his native imperturbability
came over him. He sat up, drank the tea, and then ate a piece of bread.

“I’ll sleep for a little while, if you don’t mind,” he said.

“That’s right, lie down and rest—you must stay here until you feel all
right,” said the old man.

The woman adjusted the pillow under his head, the man covered him with a
blanket and they withdrew to the kitchen.

John cast his eyes around the little room, and he saw that it was plainly
furnished. He tried to weave a history for this funny old couple; they
had had a big family of children who were all grown up, got married and
moved away; he noticed that the old man was slightly hump-backed, and
that the woman wore brass-rimmed spectacles and had a mole on her cheek.

The tea-kettle hummed cheerily in the next room, and above the tones of
the singing kettle, he caught the voices of the man and his wife. They
were doing for him what he had done for them, _i. e._, weaving a history.

“He has come a long way—his horse is tired out!”

“I’m afraid he run away.”

“Perhaps he was abused!”

“It would be an awful wicked person who would wrong him. He’s a fine,
honest young fellow—he told me at once that he had no money.”

“But surely there is some secret back of it—he has ridden all night and I
fear his feet are frozen.”

“I hope he is not a criminal!”

“Never mind, we will not question him!”

“Not a word—it is none of our business—we will just take care of him,
that’s all.”

The voices sank to a monotonous, gentle ripple that chimed with the sound
of the singing kettle, and John sailed slowly away to the land of dreams.




CHAPTER XXIV

HOT HOPES FADE OFF INTO MIST


When John awoke it was noon and the table was set in the little kitchen
for three.

He hobbled out and made a show of eating. At once, after dinner, the
boy proposed to be off on his journey. But he found that although when
sitting still, he was comfortable, yet when he moved, there was pain in
every joint of his body. Besides that, one foot had been nipped by frost
and it was so swollen he could hardly get on his shoe. So he allowed the
counsel of his friends to prevail and decided to wait until morning.

In his resolution concerning what was best to do, there was no waver,
neither shadow of turning. Go back to Plainfield? He had not considered
it. Sometime, of course, he would return, but now duty lay elsewhere. And
let us not forget that down deep under all of our unconscious sophistry,
duty lies in the direction of desire: we succumb to the strongest
attraction.

That the slave hunters would take their prisoner straight back to
Zanesville he never doubted. From New York they would go by stage to
Philadelphia, thence to Pittsburg, then on to Zanesville. They would
go at the rate of at least sixty miles a day, and if they did not mind
traveling by night, with consequent loss of sleep, they might even go
faster. The stages changed horses every few miles, while his one poor old
horse must make the journey through.

He had started and he would make the trip; he would rescue Jim Slivers,
and he would help Margaret and her mother to move straight to Plainfield.
Margaret desired to do this, Doctor Melden approved the plan—it must be
carried out. Otherwise, slavery would be the fate of Jim and a condition
worse than death the lot of Margaret. John rose to the level of events.

But he was stealing a horse!—not stealing, appropriating. To take what
the exigencies of the case demand is not theft. If a man is starving, the
law against larceny is in abeyance. Jesus plucked the ears of corn on the
Sabbath day, thus breaking two laws, a quibbler might say. But man is
greater than law and ever will be, for the satisfaction of man’s wants is
God’s will. Thus did the boy silence conscience.

Faulty reasoning, does someone say? No; the prosperity of all Christian
nations is founded on the law of conquest, that is, the taking from
others the things that are needed, and in times of war certain
commandments are always waived.

The decalogue applies only to piping times of peace, for that bit of
portable wisdom, “All’s fair in love and war,” is firmly rooted in the
hearts of humanity.

Soon after breakfast the little hump-backed man shook John’s hand, and
the good old lady kissed him on the cheek, and he rode away. John knew
human nature well enough to be convinced that he could travel without
money. Foolish people do not know that a man can do the same even now,
if he is only frank and honest. The simple statement that one is hungry
and penniless will ever touch the heart of a live man and more especially
woman. We turn the beggar away only because we believe him unworthy. But
if he carried in his countenance the mark of innocence and the purity of
youth, we would not only give him our coat but our cloak also.

John timed his requests for food at meal-time, always making the frank
explanation that he had no money.

The answer usually was, “That’s all right, help yourself!” And so he was
fed and lodged and speeded on his way.

With ferry and toll-gate keepers it was not quite so easy; but the
statement made, without stopping, that he “would pay on the way back” was
usually sufficient. Others, being satisfied that he had no money, allowed
him to pass, and in several cases onlookers produced the change for him.
And the tall, straight, manly, serious youth won the shy sympathy of the
young women, the half pity of the older ones, and the confidence of the
men.

In spite of drifts and cold storms, thirty miles or more were turned off
each day. Often for long distances he would get chances to ride in wagons
or sleighs. Then he would lead the horse behind and this would rest them
both. New York was reached in three days; Philadelphia in three days
more; then came a monotonous stretch of fourteen days to Pittsburg, and
at sundown on the twenty-third day after leaving New Haven he stopped for
supper at a farmhouse, in front of which was a pointing arrow on a sign
board, and the token: _8 M. to Zanesville_.

It was his intention to ride straight on after supper, but the drizzling
rain that had fallen all day now turned to snow. The night was dark and
the old horse without shoes could make but slow headway over the stony
road. The young man’s intention was to find Margaret Silverton the first
thing; but, as she did not know of his coming, it seemed better that they
should meet in the daytime. And in truth, now that the whole grievous
journey through cold, and rain, and dark, over mountains, across wild
streams and past wilder woods, was over, he hesitated at meeting this
beautiful girl. What should he say? What would she say?

He ate little supper and the farmer’s wife asked him if he was ill. He
sat by the big fire-place and his teeth chattered as if he had a chill.
The woman insisted on giving him a dose of pepper tea, and on his soaking
his feet in mustard water; and when he started up and declared his
intention of going on to Zanesville at once, the good man and his wife
looked at each other knowingly, and thought their visitor daft.

His sleep that night was a wild, tossing delirium. He ate little
breakfast and, when he started away, he even forgot to thank his kind
entertainers.

In a half hour he saw the rising smoke from the city of Zanesville. Soon
the church spires came in sight; in a half hour more he looked down the
straight rows of streets with their prim rows of houses. He stopped his
horse at the top of the hill to get his bearings. It wasn’t the great
city that he had once known; it seemed to have contracted itself into a
mere village.

His eye ran around the rim of hills, and off to the north he saw the
winding road that led to Hudson—the same beaten track that his feet first
traversed when he had come here with his father’s cattle. He remembered
well how, on his second visit, he had stood on yonder hill and picked out
Silverside. Why, yes, it must be that Silverside was near where he then
stood. He cast his eye about on the houses near at hand.

Just below, not a hundred yards from him, was a large, newly-painted
house. He rubbed his eyes. Surely, yes, it must be Silverside. The cattle
pens were all removed, the big barn had been weather-boarded, and the
“quarters” in the rear had been torn down and carted away. What a change
in less than a year! and yet it was all for the better; but still John
had hoped for a sight of the stately residence, just as it was when he
first knew it. He had an affection for the old place, that before he had
never guessed. But now it was all so spick-span new; so clean and fresh
and modern—and uncomfortable, like a hard-boiled shirt.

An idea came to the youth; he would enquire here about Mrs. Silverton
and her daughter—surely, these people would be able to direct him to
their present abode! Then the place had a fascination for him, it lured
him on and he wanted once more to stand on that veranda and lean against
that same pillar that he had slid down at midnight, and against which a
fair-haired girl in blue had leaned and waved him a good-bye.

He rode in at the gate, straight up to the front steps, he dismounted and
tied his horse to a ring in the horse block.

He walked up on the veranda and touched the favorite pillar, “lest
offense be given”; then he rang the bell. It seemed a good while before
anyone answered, and he was on the point of ringing again when a colored
girl came to the door.

John started to ask her where Mrs. Silverton now lived, but the idea
came to him that he would rather ask his questions of a more intelligent
person: besides that, he had a little curiosity to see the new owner of
Silverside.

“Good-morning—I wished to ask—to see the gentleman who lives here.”

“I’ll tell him, sah, but then it am only eight o’clock. I’m afraid he is
not up. Will the Missus do?”

“Yes, the Missus will do.”

“Step right in dah, sah, an’ I’ll call her.”

The little room that he stepped into was just on the left of the hallway.
It was a reception or waiting room not more than ten feet square. John
noticed the lace curtains, the rich carpet, the sofa across the corner
and the dainty little writing desk. It was such a cozy little room!

And yet it lacked something; yes, it was cold. The dead ashes in the
little fire-place neutralized all the beauty; he did not sit down, but
stood hat in hand, looking out through the lace curtains and picturing
Margaret’s plain poverty with a cheerful fire, to this sumptuous
apartment with its dead ashes on the hearth. Ugh! nothing else is so dead
as a fire gone out!

A gentle swish of skirts—a faint odor of violets—he turned, and on the
threshold stood a slender, stately woman. A woman of thirty, perhaps,
wearing a loose flowing, trailing robe. Blue—light blue, the color was;
this dress was caught low at the neck by a clasp of two golden hearts,
and at the waist was a girdle that fell to one side and revealed a
suggestion of the graceful hip.

She stood in the doorway like an apparition of light. At a glance John
saw from peeping slippered toe to golden crown of fluffy hair. The hat
dropped from his hand; he tried to move, to speak; but he stood as one
transfixed.

The woman hesitated, as if about to flee; she leaned against the casing
for support; then she entered the room at one long step and closed the
door behind. An instant she stood, wringing her hands, and then her
arms were about the boy’s neck. She buried her face on his shoulder and
sobbed: “John Brown, my brave John Brown, my brave John Brown!”

His arms were about her, and she drew him backward until they stood
against the closed door.

“Don’t cry so, Margaret—I’m here—tell me what to do for you.”

But the only answer she gave was “John Brown, my brave John Brown!”
as her frame shook with deep wild sobs. She clutched him in a frantic
embrace—her fingers entwining, now behind his neck and then his waist.
Then these fingers stole through his hair; her hands touched his face;
she pressed her cheek against his, and their lips met in one long,
clinging kiss. She kissed his forehead, his eyes, his lips, his chin, his
neck, and then her face fell pillowed on his breast. His cheeks burned
fire and his frame was torn by curious pain—the exquisite torture of
delirium. Never, never had he guessed, or even faintly imagined what the
unrestrained passion of a woman might be. But what could all this torrent
mean?

There was a lull in the storm as her face pressed his bosom and the
perfume of her hair filled his nostrils. “Tell me, Margaret—you answered
my letter—didn’t you—tell me yes.”

“No, I did not answer it.”

He could feel the quiver of her warm flesh in his embrace, and he felt
the pain that he knew the words caused her.

“And the money to make Jim free—you received that safely, didn’t you?”

“My brothers took it the day it came—they went away with it!”

“Where did they go?”

“Straight to Plainfield to steal the boy—how could I stop them—how could
I notify you! They stole him and sent him south.”

“And you were left without money?”

“Yes, I was starved into marrying Captain Brydges.”

“And so you are married?”

“Yes.”

“And is hunger so hard to endure—you forgot the hunger of the heart?”

“Yes, but I know it now, mother was ill—oh, why did you not come a month
ago—my John Brown—my brave John Brown! I married him, John, I married
that old man a month ago!”

The woman’s sobs shook both as she stood there, with her back to the door.

The passion crept from the young man’s heart, and he tried to free
himself from her grasp. She clung closer and began kissing him again—he
turned his head to avoid her and his glance fell on the bleak fire-place.

“My heart is like those dead ashes,” he moaned.

“My husband is sleeping up-stairs—he will be down soon—you must go,
you must go. Come for me to-night and I will go with you, we will live
anywhere—in the woods—I can work, see these hands, I can work!”

She stripped the rings from her fingers and threw them on the floor; she
held up her two white delicate hands.

“Promise me that you will be back to-night for me—at midnight!”

“I have no money—I could not care for you a day.”

From her bosom she took a silken purse and forced it into his hands.
Still she stood, back to the door. He tried to push past her—she barred
the way: “Promise to come for me to-night!”

“No, no, no, it cannot be!”

“You think I am forward—but how would you know if I did not tell you?
There is no time for coquetry—besides, I’m honest, you must know my love!”

“Ah! but you are married—your husband is now under this roof.”

“My legal husband—yes, but you are my husband before God! I love you,
will you not understand?”

“But marriage—is it not sacred?”

“Nothing but love is sacred. A month ago I was married—legal marriage may
be pollution—no, when I last saw you, I could not have spoken thus. But I
have lived in hell—promise me—to-night at midnight!”

“Were you not the wife of another, yes; as it is, no.”

She reached out her arms in supplication, and fell forward clasping his
knees. He picked her up, and half carried the limp form to the little
sofa, and laid it gently down; dropped the purse on the writing desk;
turned quickly and passed out into the hall, out of the front door, down
the steps.

He untied his horse, mounted and rode slowly down the hill.




CHAPTER XXV

MUCH EFFORT WITH NOTHING BUT EXPERIENCE AS A NET RESULT


Zanesville held nothing but horror now for young Brown. It seemed as
though the place was pestilence-ridden; he hastened away, casting
frightened looks behind. Had he been born in France this might not have
been, but generation after generation of Puritan ancestry had bred in his
mind very sturdy ideas of right and wrong.

We have seen that the Puritan has a flexible conscience in matters of
property—that in times of revolution the Law of Moses is suspended, and
following the personal example of Moses, even life might be taken. But
Puritanism does not reckon on an insurrection of the heart; hence the
scarlet letter.

When John Brown arrived in Hudson after four days’ journeying, he was
greeted with the greeting that was the Prodigal Son’s. His father kissed
him, something that had not happened since his babyhood. Nothing was too
good for him; he was told to sit in the big rocking chair, others took
care of his horse, neighbors were called in and there was merry feasting.

When we get home after a journey we look about at all the little
furnishings to see what changes have taken place; everything interests us.

In the warmth of the home-getting John noticed a black-bordered card
protruding from the lids of the family Bible. He took it out and read:
_Died, suddenly, Doctor Silas Melden, at Plainfield, Connecticut, Feb.
3d, 1818_. Then followed a set of eulogistic resolutions that had been
adopted by the Hartford Presbytery, and signed by the pastor of the
church at Plainfield as secretary.

John put the card back, making no sign. He inwardly computed that Doctor
Melden had died just two weeks after he had left. He was not surprised
nor shocked, for his heart had reached that stage which comes to every
living mortal, be it early or be it late, when no earthly event can
agitate.

“We only got that card yesterday,” said Deacon Brown, “only yesterday—I
s’pose you sent it—was it a glorious death-bed? We thought you would be
back—hardly so soon though! Hasn’t he grown, though, Ruth.”

Yes, Ruth was sure he had grown. And he had changed, changed more than
she dared mention. When she heard that he was at his father’s house, she
put a shawl over her head and ran over with little Rachel tagging behind.
But when Ruth saw the boy’s face she was shocked. Instead of kissing him
she only put out her hand. She hesitated, and embarrassment covered her
handsome face. A wondrous change had come over her blithe lad—some awful
sorrow had touched him—like an apple too much loved of the sun, he was
ready to drop. His face was seamed, dark lines were under his eyes, and
the marks of deep feeling were upon him.

No one saw this but Ruth—her subtle intuition and delicate womanly
perception, untrammeled by much child-bearing, gave her an insight that
the other women of her age who stood about did not possess. They thought
him merely tired from his long ride; but Ruth knew there was tragedy
behind it all, for boys do not turn into men in a year, nor girls into
women, unless by chance they are placed in the fires of experience. But
to little Rachel, pretty, petite and joyous little Rachel, he was the
same John Brown. She sat on his knee and ran her hands through his coarse
hair and made fun of his clothes, and asked him if it was so, that he was
to preach in their church next Sunday.

And John smiled, a smile that tore Ruth’s heart, but all the rest laughed
at Rachel’s little joke, and all were very merry; for brave, manly John
Brown had come back to Hudson and was going to stay.

“His eyes troubled him—how can such as he, used to being out of doors,
read books all the time! I tell you ’taint nature—he’s come back here to
help me.”

The thrifty Squire was delighted to get the boy back. Really, he needed
him and now that he was here all things should be made pleasant for
him—he would himself make all explanations. And so the Squire repeated
the tale about inflammation of the eyes, and the death of Doctor Melden,
and incidentally hinted at the depths of book knowledge that John had
acquired: always winding up by the announcement that the boy was going
to stay and take care of his father’s tannery business. Evening came and
John proposed going over to Ruth’s to his own little room in the attic.
His father pulled him by the sleeve and whispered:

“No, John, you can’t.”

“Can’t do what?”

“Stay at Ruth’s!”

“Why not, pray?”

“You are too old, don’t you know—too big.”

John was mystified. But he did as his father requested and packed himself
away with a whole half dozen little boy Browns that slept in two beds in
a little side room.

There was a goodly lot of these Browns, sisters and brothers,
half-sisters, half-brothers, step-brothers, and step-sisters. It is not
necessary that we should inventory them here, for they have little to do
with our narrative. They were strong, healthy, quarreling youngsters;
cross in the morning, busy all day, tired at night. They had mumps and
measles and chicken-pox, stone bruises on their feet in spring, bee
stings in summer, sore throat in the fall, chilblains in the winter, and
ague between times.

Up in the little village grave-yard there was a row of mounds in varying
lengths, all marked Brown, but the name did not die. And whether the
fittest survived is not for us to answer, but a goodly half score grew
to maturity and lived out honorable lives of useful labor. They ate and
worked and slept; they were married and given in marriage; they lived and
died, and their good deeds live after them. We leave these sisters and
brothers for the statistician to group, for the moralist to speculate
upon, and for the economist to figure over. Shakespeare’s seven brothers
and sisters interest us but little! so we turn the page and give our
attention once more to the only one of the Browns who departed from the
common type.

Squire Owen Brown’s tannery was not a very great affair, excepting in
the eyes of Hudsonites. It supplied leather to various cobblers in the
neighborhood, and rumor had it that one shoemaker had come fifty miles
for a side of Brown’s sole leather. Then there was trapping going on all
the time among the farmers’ boys, and skins had to be tanned to make caps
and mittens, and even overcoats; for the spinning wheel and loom had not
quite driven buckskin out of fashion.

Skill, industry and good judgment were required in the tanning business,
and John had all three. “This one thing I do.” The young man was sober,
grave, dignified; he lived within himself, and sought by hard work to
down the sorrow that brooded in his heart.

A letter had been written to Walter Warren of Plainfield, requesting him
to forward certain books that Doctor Melden had presented to John. On the
fly leaf of each, the young man’s name was written in the good old man’s
large, plain hand.

After several weeks the books came. John had long been anticipating them
and planning all by himself how he would read and study and write out his
best thoughts.

The books arrived and he eagerly sought out a _Plutarch’s Lives_ that
was in the package. He touched it with trembling fingers and then put it
down. He tried to read, but the heroes were all so very far, far away; he
doubted whether they had ever really lived. He closed the book, and tied
it up in a piece of blue cloth that he had surreptitiously bought at the
store, and then hid it away.

He tried to read _Æsop’s Fables_, and the _Life of Franklin_ and
_Pilgrim’s Progress_, all of which had interested him greatly, when at
Plainfield. But then he read because he was going to tell someone about
it, and now there was no one to tell, no one to listen, no one to whom
he could write. He tried reading aloud to Ruth and Rachel. The Widow
Crosby had the brightest mind of any woman in the village, but books had
been denied her, and intellectual companionship she had never known. She
listened and encouraged the boy to read, but there was no glow in her
listening—no sighs of feeling or smothered exclamations of pleasure. She
listened because John wished her to, that was all.

And, as for little Rachel, she would leave her chair after five minutes
and go sit on John’s knee. She would take the book from his hand to look
at the pictures, and then ask him to “tell a story instead of reading
from the ugly book that sounded just like a sermon.”

And so he would tell a story, and as he told, Rachel would gently pull
his ears, or comb his hair, parting it first on one side, then on the
other, then in the middle, and call on her mother to look at his changed
appearance.

“Rachel, you are too forward—don’t you know that you are a young lady?”
said her mother severely after one more than usually hilarious frolic.

“Of course I’m a young lady and John is my big brother, ar’n’t you, John?”

“Of course.”

“No, he is not—you must be more dignified.”

“So I must.”

And the girl went over and placed her arms about “her big brother’s” neck
and pressed her cheek to his and laughed aloud, and shook her brown curls
in innocent glee.

“You grieve me Rachel—a girl of your age acting so—go to bed at once!”

Rachel whimpered a little and after being told three times, climbed the
ladder into the garret and in ten minutes the rhythmic sound of long
breaths told that she was fast asleep.

“Don’t go, John,” said Ruth, with a sudden determination, “don’t go—stay
and tell me what it is—you will feel better.”

“Tell you what, Ruth?”

“What it is that is troubling you. Some great sorrow has come to you.
Boys of eighteen should not have dark lines beneath their eyes, and be so
restless and miserable as you are—tell me what it is! Perhaps I can help
you.”

“Oh, it is nothing.”

“No, something happened to you—you met someone when you were away.”

“Yes, I did!”

The young man sat down, and Ruth laid aside her knitting, and her big,
open, kindly eyes looked into his and invited the confession which every
good woman knows is good for the soul.

And John Brown told his tale of love, omitting nothing save that scene in
the little reception room. This he had no right to breathe—no one could
understand but God. He merely said that when he reached Zanesville he
found Margaret Silverton married to an old man; that she was unhappy, and
that, fearing he might do that which he ought not to, he hurried away,
and came straight to Hudson.

“And you did just right, John. When a woman marries it is for better or
worse. She must make the best of it.”

“But Margaret is so miserable—I dream of her unhappiness every night—it
seems as if I must go and see her.”

“Never, never, John; you must put her out of your mind. When she married
another, she forsook you.”

“But suppose she is sorry and desires me to come to her?”

“If she is a good woman she cannot wish now to see you!”

“Do you think so?”

“I surely do. Besides that, you are young—there is no haste—you must save
your heart, save your heart for—for Rachel.”

The woman smiled, reached over and took both his hands in hers.

“For whom?”

“Why, for Rachel; it has been the dream of my life ever since she was
born, aye, and before.”

John withdrew his hands from hers, stood up, passed his hands across his
forehead and after an instant said:

“But Rachel—Rachel is a child—she is my sister.”

“She is nearly fourteen—she is a woman, in fact, but does not know it—yet
you are but children in one sense—if you marry in four or five years,
it will be time enough. Tell me now, John, you will forget that married
woman; it is wicked for you to think of her. Fix your heart on Rachel,
just see how she loves you!”

“Yes, yes, she does love me.”

John said a hurried good-night and hastened away.

Once out in the night air, he tried to get hold of the situation. He
thought of how, only an hour before, this innocent, rollicking little
girl, who knew nothing of life or its responsibilities, had sat on his
knee and pressed her cheek to his, of how she had stroked his hair and
clasped his face in her hands. In it all there was not the slightest
trace of passion; she was a child and these things gave him no thrill.
He thought of the quivering touch of Margaret, and the delirious,
delicious effect of her warm kisses, and the idea of a marriage with this
thoughtless child stood out before him as a crime.

His wild, restless spirit said, “Flee this unhappy situation—go back and
claim Margaret at once. She is miserable. Together you will be happy.
Do this and you escape the wrong that you may inflict on this child by
staying here.”

He went to the barn and felt his way into the stall where the brown horse
stood quietly eating hay. He reached for the saddle on the well-known
peg; he put the saddle on the horse and drew the girth tight; the halter
was slipped off and the bridle rein over the horse’s head—

“Is that you, John?”

It was his father’s voice.

“Yes.”

“You’re out late—been for a ride? The baby’s got croup, I’m ’fraid—here,
I’ll take the saddle off for you, just run over and tell the Widow Crosby
that your mother wants her to come over right away!”




CHAPTER XXVI

IN THE GRASP OF FATE


In the little tannery, business was increasing, and the legend concerning
the shoemaker, who came fifty miles for a side of the Brown sole leather,
was transformed into a fact. Not only did one shoemaker come a long
distance, but several came.

A commission was sent to Walter Warren to call on the farmer who owned
the brown horse and enter into an arrangement whereby John could pay
for the animal in semi-yearly installments. The elder Warren, being
consulted by his son, took matters into his own hands, paid for the
horse, and ordered his son to send “the young horse-thief” the receipted
bill of sale for a birthday present.

John accepted the bill of sale without a word of thanks, and in six
months when he had saved a hundred dollars, he sent the money to Mr.
Warren, firmly declining the present.

Nearly a year had passed since John had returned from Plainfield. He
had grown stronger. The burdened, restless mind did not subdue material
nature; so hard work, good digestion and sound sleep bore fruit in animal
vigor.

He had been a professed Christian, but he now turned to religion with
renewed zeal, as men do when earthly ties are severed and hearts are
breaking. He sought to find the peace in religion that love had denied.

Sundays he usually took dinner at Ruth’s. It had grown into a habit. And
during the long, quiet Sabbath afternoons these three would sing and read
and talk. At such times the young man’s spirit would almost break into
flame and the ominous cloud of care that brooded over him would take
wing. But soon the thought of Margaret and of the black depths of misery
that she was enduring would come surging back.

With Ruth and Rachel his mind led—he had to talk down to them—but with
Margaret the position would be reversed. Rachel held him back; but
Margaret could lead him on.

Rachel was blossoming into a beautiful young woman. Bright, animated,
joyous; innocent of the world and its strife, she seemed the embodiment
of bird-like song and simple mirth. No word of serious love had passed
between them, neither had her mother mentioned the subject to the young
man since that night he had made his confession. Yet he knew that the
mother’s ambition was still the same; she loved these children with a
high, holy and unselfish love; she knew the worth and the merit of each;
she knew, too, the pitfalls into which youth are apt to stumble, and she
believed that if they would give to each other the love that each was
capable of, all would be secure. Girls must marry! what better then that
her daughter should wed this noble young man! If this pure mother-heart
lapsed in her logic anywhere, it was in not appreciating the depths
of emotion possible in the soul of John Brown. But Ruth reasoned that
marriage with Rachel would benefit the boy, as tending to restrain his
undefined ambition. And perhaps she was right. To this end she encouraged
them to read together, sing duets, and when they went to the woods for
berries, Ruth managed to let John and Rachel carry one basket, and to
wander away by themselves.

Those were days of early marriages. John had seen all this and he felt
that the plan was working: his regard for this charming little creature
was taking on a different character. Yet each Sunday night when he would
take up his hat to start for home, the girl would hold up her pretty,
dimpled face, and in that harmless little peck that passed for a kiss,
John knew there was not the slightest passion.

He knew the strength of the mother’s will, he knew somewhat of his own
force, and he knew that when the question of marriage was presented
to Rachel, that the two stronger minds would at once prevail and the
blooming little rosebud would not, could not, interpose a single
objection to being clipped by cruel shears from the parent stem.

Love gives wisdom, and although John Brown was moving straight forward to
his union with this girl, and while there was an attractive side to it
all, in his more sober moments he felt there was an inhuman side as well.
The young man knew what he was doing; the young woman had no conception
of it. She was a blind, passive party to a plan. Fate was pushing her
forward, and she in her innocence and ignorance knew not where. But some
day there would be an awakening—a rude, cruel awakening. Rachel was
capable of love, but John had not awakened her to it; to wed her would be
a sin.

Besides all this, when the warmth of young blood ran quiet, John
knew that Rachel’s spirit did not match his. He had suffered, been
disappointed; sorrow and care had come to him in varied forms; he
felt deeply. Concerning these things she knew nothing, and could not
comprehend should he explain. So all their conversation was quite in the
minor key and on trivial topics. He knew down deep in his heart that no
man should attach himself for life to a woman who could not sympathize
with his every mood. To marry outside of one’s mental sphere was to curb
and stifle and hold in check one’s highest thought. John knew all this,
for love of Margaret had made him wise.

Three ways seemed to open before him.

The first and easiest was to drift, and in a year marry Rachel Crosby; he
need do scarcely a thing, all would be planned for him. All he had to do
would be to hold her in his arms just an instant some Sunday night when
she gave him that little parting peck, and kiss her in earnest, right
before her mother. Then say a few words and all would be arranged as a
matter of course, and he would move over and take up his abode at the
Crosby cottage just as he used to—only different.

The second plan was to go straight to Zanesville and claim the woman he
loved; claim her in the name of an exalted and all-absorbing passion, and
then fight it out with the world, the flesh, and the devil.

The third plan was to marry just as nine-tenths of all the men in
the world marry; pick the girl that pleases, and provided she seems
good-natured and strong and can work and will look up to you, pop the
question some moonlight night, and have it over with. If she says yes,
all right, and should she say no, don’t forget there’s just as good fish
in the sea as ever were caught—fol de rol dol, la la la, la te da! And as
for talk about affinities, it’s all in your eye. People who are willing
to cultivate the two bears can get along all right—pish!

But in certain moods it is very easy to dispose of great questions. In
the mellow light of evening, for instance as the soft music plays, life
and fate present no serious difficulties. On the morrow when we start
off to our day’s work and alone face the cold realities, things appear
different.

The very best friend John Brown had ever known was Ruth Crosby. From his
very babyhood her affection had nourished his soul: and his mind could
go back to times when in all the big jostling world all seemed to have
forgotten him save Ruth.

That he should go contrary to her wishes now seemed the basest of
ingratitude. And why should he not love little Rachel? There was
not a reason in the world. Rachel was winsome in her dainty beauty,
intelligent, honest, happy in disposition and graceful in manner.

John loved her—of course he loved her. But if she would only cease to
kiss him, if she would only avoid him so he could woo her! If she would
be agitated just a little bit when they met, or if her cheek would
color when he took her hand! But no, she was absolutely unconscious
and unrestrained in all of her relations with him; and she still tried
experiments in combing his unruly shock of hair.

In the midst of his inward agitations a letter came from Walter Warren.
He was coming to Hudson—at last he was coming. His health was not the
best, he had been studying too hard, and the doctor had advised a change.

In a week he came, having been duly heralded by John. Of course he would
preach to the good people of Hudson on Sunday—all visiting preachers
were expected to give the people a taste of their quality. This was an
agreeable change for both pastor and people.

Warren was a handsome young fellow, tall, slender and pale. He was
used to the ways of polite society, and was quite of a different type
from that which the people of Hudson were used to. The men thought him
effeminate, but the women did not mind.

After church that first Sunday morning, John and Walter dined at the
Widow Crosby’s.

For the first time Rachel had lost her free, girlish, unrestrained
manner. She was becomingly awkward, and quite blushed and stammered when
the Rev. Walter Warren asked her if she liked music. She upset a cup of
tea at table, for which she was gently reproved by her mother, and John
very ungraciously laughed at the accident, but Walter never saw it.

The next Sunday the young men again dined at Mrs. Crosby’s. This time the
petite Rachel was not quite so shy. In fact, she and the Rev. Mr. Warren
had a nice little conversation on the subject of music, and she explained
that she was passionately fond of singing.

Then they sang—did these four—hymns and songs of praise: the quartette
was a success. Then they read a little and talked some more. The young
men did not stay late—work in the tannery was pressing and John had to
be up betimes. When they took their hats and said good-night, Rachel
sidled up to John and put her face up to be kissed, just as had been her
custom for years and years. But John noticed that it was not the usual
meaningless little peck—the girl’s breath was warm and her face suffused.
Was this agitation for him? John half doubted it, and a feeling of
dislike toward the Rev. Walter Warren came over him. He was sorry he had
ever invited him to come to Hudson.

“What a charming little creature she is!” said Walter.

“Who?” asked John.

“Why, Rachel Crosby, of course.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, if she was not yours, I would just up and tumble head over ears in
love with her—let me congratulate you, old man! I saw you kiss her—don’t
deny it—it’s all right!”

“If you want to see pretty girls, you will see them at the husking-bee
to-morrow night at Farmer Lusk’s,” answered John grumpily.




CHAPTER XXVII

A PROPOSAL


“Bear and forbear—that’s what!”

The speaker was a fine, buxom, young woman of twenty: strong and healthy
and hearty. She had run until she was all out of breath; her cheeks were
aglow and the wholesome perspiration was pungent and peculiar to the
nostrils of the young man who had just caught her after a hard chase.

It was at the husking-bee at Farmer Lusk’s. Twenty women and as many men
filled the big barn, and the golden pile of ears was assuming goodly
proportions. Behind the busy workers were great piles of stalks.

Overhead the smoky lanterns gave out shadowy gleams and dripping tallow.
The cattle in the stalls looked on with big open eyes and chewed their
cuds in wondering peace, while the horses gave little snorts of alarm at
the wild tumult of talk and clatter of merry tongues.

Suddenly a rustic beauty in linsey-woolsey held up a red ear. She glanced
in the direction of a swarthy, tall young man who sat directly opposite,
on the other side of the big pile of corn. It was a challenge: both
sprang to their feet amid a loud burst of laughter. There was a quick
swish of skirts and the nimble girl sprang over the manger—ran past the
line of cows, and on out the door. Close behind her footed the young
man, cheered on by merry cries from the group of huskers. Twice around
the barn they ran, once around the granary, then out by the house and
down the road. The snow lay smooth and white, and over all glistened the
splendid mid-winter moon.

No woman can outrun a man, even if she wants to.

A hundred yards down the road the young man caught her.

“Let’s not be foolish, John!”

The panting girl gave the red ear of corn a careless toss out into the
night.

“That’s so—such silly business is not becoming!”

The girl was not o’er wise, but this time she guessed the mind of her
man. She gave him her hand and they started back slowly toward the
merry-makers.

They were alone.

“Did you see that Mary Bowers, how she spoke to her husband—and only
married a year—think of it!” said the girl.

“Well, he was cross to her.”

“Bear and forbear, that’s what!”

“You mean we should always be patient with each other?”

“Of course; when I get married—that is, if I ever do—I’ll never say a
cross word to my husband!”

“You say, ‘if you ever get married’?”

“Yes, I never expect to marry.”

“Why not?”

“No one will ever want a poor, ignorant, homely thing like me.”

The words came out with a half whimper as if the girl was about bursting
into tears. Both stopped there in the roadway.

“I want you, Dianthe.”

“You, John Brown?”

“Yes, Dianthe Lusk, will you be my wife?”

“Why, yes, if mother don’t care, and I know she won’t!”

There was a great big resounding smack that might have been heard by the
corn huskers over in the barn had they been listening. But they were not
listening.

“And when shall we get married?” asked the youth as they walked slowly
along, his arm around her ample waist.

“In six weeks,” said the girl.

“No, a year from to-night. I will have to build a house!”

“Very well, but aint it funny? We haven’t ever kept company!”

Yet it suddenly came over them that the marriage of a man and woman was
not so funny after all.

They approached the barn and took their places among the busy workers—but
they did not laugh or joke. Over the growing pile of yellow ears they now
and again stole sober glances at each other; sober, serious glances that
spoke of subdued joy and anchored hope.

After all the corn had been husked, and the feast in the kitchen was
over, and the barn locked and the last laughing merry-maker had departed,
Dianthe Lusk told her father and mother of what had occurred.

The next day several neighbors knew of it—in a week, everybody. It was
looked upon as a good match, and the Browns and the Lusks being prominent
people in the vicinity, of course the event supplied food for much
harmless gossip.

But it was quite overshadowed when early the following month, the
engagement was announced of the Rev. Walter Warren and Miss Rachel Crosby.




BOOK THREE




CHAPTER I

SO RUNS THE WORLD AWAY—A LETTER


Until yesterday, when a dissecting school of tale-tellers arose, it
was the fashion to close the story at the church door. Beyond this the
romancer dared not pass. And this is well. In tragedy we take our leave
of the hero when he is given over to the undertaker; and in romance,
usually, all is over when the priest arrives.

John Brown was married. He built a little house, on a corner of his
father’s land. His wife was a good housekeeper—active, industrious,
honest. She cooked, scrubbed, sewed and on Sunday they went to church.
They talked together—did John Brown and his wife—talked of the weather
and the crops and the price of wool; of the neighbors, and this
one’s bonnet and that one’s horse. They read the Bible—a chapter a
day—beginning at Exodus and going straight through, skipping not a
pedigree, omitting nothing.

The dreams and hopes and aspirations of youth were buried deep down in
John Brown’s heart.

New views of truth no longer opened out to him; high and holy impulses no
longer warmed his blood like wine; the sunsets now never brought tears to
his eyes from well-springs of undefined emotion—never.

He worked in the tannery from morning until night, six days a week; and
on Sundays he wore stiff, uncomfortable clothes and listened to sermons
that he accepted without comment. He was religious. The Jehovah of the
Jews to him was God, and the torn and bleeding thorn-crowned Christ meant
only a cog in a “scheme” of salvation.

He had “settled down”—or was making a heroic inward struggle to do so.
Patient, persistent labor always brings its reward. John Brown was making
money; the little house was paid for; he had several hundred dollars to
loan; he now owned an interest in the tannery. And then the neighbors
respected him, for they had elected him District Surveyor.

Ten years had passed since his marriage. There was a dog’s-eared
_Plutarch_ hidden away in the bottom of an oaken chest. Possibly once
a year—at night-time—when there was sickness and he sat up with the
stricken ones, he had taken out the book, turned the pages aimlessly,
sighed and put the volume back.

John Brown was thirty years of age. His face was seamed, his stiff,
straight hair was slightly tinged with gray. The roundness had gone from
his wife’s face, and the bearing and nursing of six children had taken
the lines of beauty from her form. She worked hard, and tended her little
flock well, and if she scolded a bit at times, who is there so perfect
that he dares blame? Her eyes were hollow, her cheeks yellow, her hands
red, calloused and coarse.

So the days passed, and in the thirteenth year of her marriage she died.
The neighbor women robed her in her wedding dress. It had been packed
away in lavender all these years in the oaken chest with the dog’s-eared
_Plutarch_. Pillowed on her arm, they placed her baby boy—tired with
three days of life. And so they slept.

Five children were left—one had died when four years old—five healthy,
hearty, romping children. Their father was postmaster, farmer, tanner,
surveyor, and rich for those days. He could not care for those children
any more than he could personally look after his herds. And so he cast
about for a wife.

What sort of a wife did he desire? Why, bless your soul, he wanted just
such a wife as he had lost! a capable, honest, earnest, Christian woman
who could care for the household and keep things in order when he was at
home and look after matters when he was away. He was a man of affairs and
things must be attended to. A widower with means can take his pick of
marriageable women, just as a man with money buys the horse he fancies.

Fathers, mothers and kinsmen all plead his cause and press his suit.
What chance has naked little Cupid, shivering in the chill, against such
advocates as these!

John Brown cast about for a woman who looked just as Dianthe Lusk did
before she had borne seven children.

He found one—Mary Anne Day. He proposed to her father, then her mother,
and the subject was broached to Mary herself.

She was willing—nay more—she was pleased.

And right here, let us nail to the barn door of obliquity the pelt of
that flaunting falsehood that women sell themselves for a home. According
to our peculiar social code a woman marries (or refuses) the man who
seeks her hand. She waits for the man to come to her. Nine times out of
ten she accepts the first that comes—and the fact that he is willing to
make her his wife is proof of his love, and further is sufficient reason
why she should love him, and she does. We are not lilies of the field,
and there are no ravens that can be relied upon to bring us food. A woman
must be clothed and fed, and what more natural than that she should love
the man who promises as much?

Widower Brown hitched up the mules to a spring wagon and drove over to
Farmer Day’s, and a preacher was there who married John and Mary. And
then the couple drove back to John’s house and Mary was mother to the
motherless children; the faithful, loyal, patient wife of John Brown.

In this chapter we have treated thirteen years as men measure time. Only
one chapter to a heaping dozen years? Yes, that is all. The historical
romance has for its theme the evolution of a soul. Material things are
only touched upon as they influence for good or ill.

In crossing the United States there are great stretches of arid space
where the sun beats down hot and stifling; where only cacti, sage brush
and the dried up beds of streams are seen, and where, over all is the
shining alkali dust—aye, and the whitening bones of animals and men. So
there are stretches in the life of mortals where the soul travels through
arid districts of uneventful time, victim of “arrested development.”

All savages are prey to this law; an Indian at forty knows no more than
an Indian at thirty; there is no advancement; the soul stands still.
The average man of fifty is no better, no wiser, than he was at forty.
John Brown at thirty-two was no nearer to God than he was at twenty—and
possibly he had drifted—who knows?

Three years went by and Mary Anne Day added three sons to the house of
Brown.

Brown ruled his family like one of the patriarchs of old. They obeyed
without question. He was stern, dignified, sober and withal prosperous
and religious. Had he continued to focus his efforts on business, he
might have become very rich and left a fortune to found a theological
seminary.

But a letter came to him one day. He received many letters now; but he
picked this one out from a half-dozen others and it gave him a thrill—a
start. And there flashed over his memory the thought of the first
letter that he had ever received. He was ashamed to think that he—John
Brown—a man happily married to his second wife, the father of eight fine
children—practical, virtuous, sensible, should tremble at the sight of
his name written in a certain chirography—pshaw!

He put the letter in a left hand vest pocket and read the others.

That afternoon he rode to his farm four miles out of town. Passing
through a grove he reined in, dismounted, sat down on a stump, looked
carefully about and took the letter out of his pocket.

He broke the wafers and read:

                                       COVINGTON, KY., June 2, 1835.

    JOHN BROWN:

    SIR—You have not forgotten me, although you may be surprised to
    receive this letter. My husband died eight years ago and left
    me an ample competence. I have one child, a son seventeen years
    old. He is now in college, but is in full sympathy with my
    work. I am using my time and money, endeavoring to ameliorate
    the condition of the slaves and slave owners. For the slave
    owner is the greatest sufferer from this thing which John
    Wesley called “the sum of all human villainies.”

    Doubtless you will think I am a fanatic and have been moved
    to act in this matter from a spirit of revenge, and I cannot
    wholly absolve myself from such a charge.

    Slavery teaches the slave owner and his family that labor is
    degrading and thus it breeds a pride that is akin to vice. My
    brothers are gamblers and outcasts, and my father is in a
    suicide’s grave, all through the false idea that men should be
    owned by other men. And had my brothers been different men,
    your fate and mine might have been different; but that is all
    behind. Then that men should traffic in their own children is
    one of the concomitants of the condition. These things have
    come close home to me and if you think I feel o’er deeply,
    pardon me my intemperance and hear me when I say that my years
    on earth are few and I would leave the earth better than I
    found it.

    When you assisted Jim Slivers to escape, you gave me a hint
    that has never left me. Of course, the running away of slaves
    will not in itself break up the institution, but it will cause
    a fermentation that must make men take sides, and some day this
    will break into revolution and the end of slavery will come in
    a day. In the meantime, we are preparing the way.

    In a week or less there will arrive at your house by night four
    blacks, guided by a white man, James Golden by name. This man
    you knew in your boyhood. For reasons that I need not detail he
    is dear to me. He is guiding these black men to Conneaut, O.,
    where a small schooner is in waiting to carry them to Canada.
    You must secrete them and feed them and not start them forward
    on their perilous journey until they are rested.

    Remember I do not encourage slaves to run away except they are
    to be separated, man from wife, or mother from child. In which
    case I do what I can.

    I have heard of your prosperity and am glad to know that you
    are happily married.

    In this letter I have confided in you entirely, and although I
    do not know your present attitude on the Negro question, I yet
    ask you to do that which I have asked in remembrance of what
    has gone before.

                           Respectfully Yours,

                                                   MARGARET BRYDGES.




CHAPTER II

THE UNDERGROUND RAILWAY


Tannery, farm, sheep, cattle—all fell into abeyance. This sober,
stern-faced man, whom no one had ever accused of possessing a particle
of sentiment, suddenly forgot the practical things of earth and was all
aflame to do the bidding of a woman—a woman whom he had not seen for
years.

Misty rumors had come to him from time to time of the “underground
railway,” but he had never believed that there was such a thing in
existence. Long years before, in the days of his callow youth, he had
accidentally been mixed up in getting a slave away, but the scheme had
failed. And it was just as well, for it was only a boyish freak at best.

Of course John Brown had no sympathy with the “peculiar institution”; he
believed that it must eventually be done away with; and in a scrap book
that he had begun fifteen years before, and which had not since received
a new clipping, was this quotation from Jefferson:

    The whole commerce between master and man is an exercise of the
    most boisterous passions, the most unremitting despotism on
    the one hand, and the most degrading submissions on the other.
    Our children see these things and imitate them. The man must
    be a prodigy who can contain his morals and manners undepraved
    under such circumstances. And with what execration should that
    statesman be loaded who, permitting one half the citizens to
    trample on the rights of others, transforms these into despots
    and those into enemies; destroys the morals of the one and the
    liberty of the other! And can the liberties of a nation be
    secure when we have removed their only firm basis—a conviction
    in the minds of the people that these liberties are the gift
    of God, and that they cannot be violated without His wrath?
    Indeed, I tremble for my country, when I reflect that God is
    just; that His justice cannot sleep forever; that, considering
    numbers, nature, and natural means only, a revolution of the
    wheel of fortunes is among possible events; that it may become
    probable by supernatural interference. The Almighty has no
    attribute that can take sides with us in such a contest.

Owen Brown had taught his children by words dropped here and there,
that slavery was wrong; and as children are heir to the religious and
political opinions of their parents, they all believed that some day the
bondsmen would be made free. They believed this just as they believed in
the “Resurrection of the body,” the coming of “Judgment Day,” and the
approach of the “Millennium.” As to bringing about the Millennium, that
was none of their affair—they had other work to do.

John Brown sat there on the stump and read that letter the second time.
A wild tumult of emotion swept through his heart. She was alive! She was
alive! Not a word had he heard from Margaret for eighteen years. He had
mourned her as dead, for how was it possible that such a frail, delicate
creature could exist under the conditions that surrounded her when last
they met!

She was alive—she had a son—she was living for a purpose!

His own life stretched out into a flat, desert waste. Where now were
all his proud possessions? He, too, had a son, yes, several of them,
and daughters as well. He loved them, of course—it was a father’s duty
to love his children. Two of them had died and over their graves grew a
tangle of blackberry bushes and trailing vines.

Margaret’s years had doubled since he had seen her. Was her hair still
wavy and golden? Had age touched her lightly and had she in these
eighteen fleeting years often thought of him? Or had he dropped out of
her life entirely, until now someone had mentioned his name? And her
son—did he look like her?

The horse began to paw; the man mounted and instead of going on to his
farm rode back to town. He went straight home and showed the letter to
his wife.

She read the missive with an air of impatience; and then went on
industriously rolling pie-crust.

“Well?” said Mrs. Brown.

“Where shall we stow them?—that’s the question!”

“But who is this Margaret Bulge that writes so as a matter of course and
never even says ‘by your leave’?”

“Margaret Brydges? why, don’t you know—she was Margaret Silverton—I have
told you of those rich people in Zanesville that I got acquainted with
when I was a boy!”

“Oh, seems to me I heard you tell the children some story about going to
Zanesville with cattle!”

“Why, yes, now you have it—but these runaways—we may have to keep them
several days. The neighbors must not know and the children must not
know——”

“But both will know and you will be arrested and sent off to prison!”

“No, Mary, these negroes are human beings and we must give our mite and
help them to a place of freedom.”

“Well, if you are bound to risk your neck, I s’pose the cave is the best
place!”

Mrs. Brown always at first opposed her husband’s plans—not seriously,
perhaps, but just through habit. Such a will as his could not be
successfully opposed, and on all points, his opinions soon became hers.
It is much easier to accept the views of a strong mind than to controvert
them; we move in the line of least resistance.

The “cave” was simply an outside cellar; a contrivance very common
in those days and plentiful yet in the West, where they are known as
“dug-outs.” By digging down two or three feet and then building a low
log house, with a pitched roof, made also of logs, and the whole banked
up and covered with earth, the cave was complete. It was frost proof in
winter, heat proof in summer, and wind proof the whole year round.

This cave was twenty feet long and ten wide; and the thrifty John Brown
usually had packed away there enough provisions to keep his family a year.

“The cave! that’s so, it’s the only place where the children do not play
and the neighbors don’t go. It takes a woman to think of things!”

Mary was pleased, and now in full accord with her husband’s wishes. She
looked carefully around—all of the children were off in the woods save
the three little ones who were too small to tell.

Husband and wife went to the cave to make arrangements for visitors.
Boxes and barrels were piled up snugly and clean, dry straw was brought
from the barn. Over this were thrown blankets; extra quilts were brought
from the house and several beds were robbed of pillows in order that the
weary runaways might rest. A new hasp was put on the cave door, closed
with a padlock, and as Mr. Brown held up the key, Mrs. Brown smiled, as
much as to say, “now we have ’em.”

John Brown slept with one eye open that night, but the Scotch collie did
not bark once the whole night through. Neither did he the next night, nor
the next, and a full week passed with no change in the monotonous round
of existence.

Mrs. Brown was feeling quite sure the whole matter was a hoax, and Mr.
Brown feared that the fugitives had been recaptured.

It was near two weeks before, one night, a clatter of sand tossed against
the side of the house awoke John Brown. He jumped out of bed and hurrying
on his clothes, went to the door.

“Do you want to race horses?” came a voice out of the darkness. Eighteen
years had passed since the vibration of sound waves from that throat had
fallen on his tympanum. It was the same Jim Slivers.

“Yes, Jim, I’ll race you—wait till I get a lantern.”

“No, no, we don’t need a light.”

The men shook hands as though they had parted but the week before.

“And your—your runaways?” asked Brown.

“They are here, where will you keep them—in the clock?”

“No, in the cave yonder.”

“Just the place, I knew you had sense!”

The two men walked down the road a hundred yards, and in the shadows
of the bushes were six crouching figures. At a sign from Jim they came
trooping out into the road and followed their leader straight to the
cave. The mellow moonlight revealed the long straw bed. A blanket was
given to each of the six dark figures and without a word they lay down to
rest.

“Is there grub here to last until to-morrow night?” asked Jim.

“Yes, a boiled ham, cold potatoes and seven loaves of bread.”

Brown brought a two-gallon can of milk from the spring house, and then
the cave door was shut and locked and the key given to Jim.

The first faint pink streaks were coloring the east, and the loud twitter
of birds in the bushes told of coming day.

“I’ve been to Hudson before, you know—will any o’ my friends recognize
me?” asked Jim.

“After all these years? no. We are men now: when you were here last, you
were but a boy.”

The men sat down on a log at the wood-pile.

“And Margaret—tell me of Margaret—is she well?”

“Oh, you mean the Missus?”

“Yes, when did you see her last?”

“A month ago—she lives in Cincinnati.”

“And how did you ever get back to her?”

“Well, I’ll tell you—it was like this—”

And Jim told.




CHAPTER III

JIM SLIVERS RECOUNTS HISTORY


All of our acts merge so, one into the other, that in our own minds, life
with its tragic tumults comes all as a matter of course. Lightning never
strikes out of a clear sky, the storm clouds gradually gather; so to
every crisis there is a gradual approach. Jim’s experience, to him, did
not seem extraordinary.

When he was seized by the two legal kidnappers at Plainfield, he soon
saw the uselessness of struggle. One of the men was George Silverton,
the other was a professional detective. Jim was handcuffed to the
officer, and George looked after them both, treating one just as well as
the other. They went by boat from New Haven to New York, and then took
passage on a schooner direct to Savannah. There was much eating, drinking
and making merry on the way, in all of which Jim had his share.

He was a valuable piece of property and the men were not at all inclined
to maltreat him. A live, good-natured nigger was worth six hundred
dollars; a sick, dispirited nigger might be worth half as much, and a
dead nigger was not worth anything.

From scraps of conversation and the bilge of boozy talk eked out during
the ten days’ time, Jim surmised that someone had sent money to Margaret
to purchase his freedom. And, moreover, he discovered that a bargain had
been entered into between George and James Silverton; James taking the
money and George the slave—provided he could catch him, and catch him he
surely did; of this Jim was sure.

At Savannah, Jim was sold at auction, and sent to Mississippi. He did not
deem this any special hardship—dozens of other slaves were sold too; what
about it!

He had to work hard, but after a year, being intelligent and willing,
he was given charge of a cotton-gin, and then in another year he was
given charge of a mulatto girl and they were married after the manner of
the times. They had their own little house and were living happily—he
attending to the cotton-gin and she acting as laundress.

About this time a certain New Orleans cotton buyer appeared upon the
scene and took a great fancy to Mrs. Jim Slivers. In fact, he bought her,
and as salve for his broken heart, Jim was given his pick of five black
wenches. But Jim had a streak of white man’s sentiment in his heart, a
very inconvenient thing to possess, and he pined for his lost mulatto
girl, and was even so unreasonable as to refuse to look upon the dusky
wenches. His master took his melancholy for a case of grumps and duly
gave him twenty lashes on the bare back. He was ordered to take to his
bosom one of the brunette belles and be happy, and if he still refused,
there were the rice swamp and the cotton fields for him and all other
rebellious ingrates.

A month before this alternative was offered, Jim had dispatched a letter
to Margaret Silverton at Zanesville, telling her of his condition. Now it
was a very serious offense for a slave to send a letter that had not on
it the master’s seal, and slaves were not allowed to receive letters.

Jim did not expect an answer, and in fact he had no well defined reasons
for writing to Margaret at all, save perhaps to show her that he had
not forgotten how to write, for she it was who had taught him this
accomplishment—much against her father’s will.

But one day Jim was hastily hustled out of the ginnery by his master and
ordered to run to the creek, take a swim, dress himself in a new suit of
white duck and hurry up to the City Tavern.

He was occasionally loaned out, or hired out, to act as waiter when there
were banquets at the hotel; so he promptly obeyed as a matter of course.

But on getting to the tavern, great was his astonishment on being met by
a tall, slender, handsome, lovely, angelic lady, in pale blue, who wished
to purchase a house servant.

“Ah, and I know who the lady was,” sighed John Brown.

“And who was it?” said James Golden, who was telling the story with much
needless circumlocution, that out of regard for the dear reader we have
omitted.

“Why, Margaret Silverton!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, John, ’twasn’t Miss Margaret, no such
thing—you couldn’t guess in a month of Sundays!”

“Well, who was it?” asked John in a disappointed tone.

“Why, it was Missus Brydges—Madam Brydges she called herself—wife of old
Cap Brydges!”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, her name used to be Margaret Silverton, but ’twasn’t then!” And Jim
laughed a loud peal of merriment at his joke.

John Brown did not laugh; he groaned.

“Now what you think that tall, graceful, angelic, lovely, sorrowful lady
she do?”

“I don’t know: what did she do?”

“Just look me over as if she never saw me; feel o’ my arms; jab me with
her fan; look at my teeth; test my eyesight, an’ then run me up three
flights of stairs with a big carpet bag balanced on my head to see if my
wind was good. ‘Look pleasant, you dam rascal,’ said my master, an’ he
up and gives me a kick behind when no one was lookin’. I was that near
bustin’ with laugh that I ’spect I was lookin’ solemn, for all the while
I knew the Missus was just makin’ b’lieve and that she was goin’ to buy
me, whether or no. ‘What’s your price,’ says she.

“‘Fifteen hundred,’ says he.

“‘I’ll give you a thousand,’ says she.

“‘I’ll split the difference,’ says he.

“‘Very well, I’ll take him,’ says she.

“So when she had paid over the money, she ordered me to go to her room
to strap her trunks. When I got there she just locked the door, and up
and bust out cryin’ and took on awful, but after a while she sobered down
an’ says, ‘Where is John Brown?’ How did I know where John Brown was? But
she made me tell all ’bout you—go back to the very day I run away from
Zanesville—when you met me at the Gulch—and then I had to follow clear
through to Plainfield. If I skipped anything, that woman she made me
go back an’ tell ’bout it. And then I had to tell all ’bout Ole Doctor
Melden and what you done when you got her letters, an’ who read ’em,
an’ what you said, an’ what Ole Doctor Melden he said, an’ what you both
said. Then I told her how George and the other fellow stole me.”

“‘And who sent me that money to pay for you,’ she asked.

“‘John Brown,’ says I.

“‘And did he earn it all,’ says she.

“‘Yes,’ says I. You see I didn’t know, but only guessed.

“‘Well,’ says she, ‘I’ve bought you now an’ am goin’ to make you free,
just because John Brown wanted it so.’”

“And was she very miserable?”

“What for should she be?”

“With that man who was not her mate!”

“They say she was mis’ble at first, but soon learned how to manage him,
an’ then he was mis’ble.”

John did not know that in that most unhappy of all unhappy things, an
unhappy marriage, the grewsomeness of the condition slinks away when
bravely fronted; just as close acquaintanceship with crime removes its
repulsiveness. Abstract complications and unseen terrors are the only
things that really agitate. We can cope with the known.

From Natchez they took Jim to New Orleans and there he found his wife,
Jennie.

Once back at Covington, Jim got an inkling that there was strife on hand
as to the advisability of making him and his wife free, Mrs. Brydges
insisting on manumission papers being made out immediately; but Captain
Brydges had his way this time, and it was provided that on his death the
slaves were to have their freedom.

There was not long to wait—in a year Captain Brydges’s death set them
free. Margaret moved from Covington, across the river to Cincinnati. Jim
and his wife still lived with Mrs. Brydges as servants.

Runaway slaves came to her house from time to time, from unknown places,
brought by unknown men. The house was a large, old-fashioned mansion on
the river bank, and often fugitives were landed from row boats. Sometimes
they were brought in trunks, or boxes, or barrels, and after being kept
for a day or a month, as the case might be, they were aided to go on
North.

Jim was not sure about the number that Margaret assisted to escape in
this way—he thought it might amount to twenty-five or more a year. He
himself had made two trips between Toledo and Cincinnati, within six
months, with fugitives, traveling by night. If the moon was bright they
kept to the fields, but if it was dark they went by the road. There were
friends along the way where they stopped, and if no “stations” were near,
they simply slept out of doors and depended for food on berries and what
they could pick up.

Constables and all officers were alert to capture fugitives, for it
meant big rewards: so the “conductor” must know the country thoroughly,
otherwise his party would fall into a trap.

The free-and-easy, matter-of-fact way that Jim discussed the question
surprised Brown. Jim seemed to have no conscience in the matter at
all—sentiment did not enter. The danger and excitement were much more
satisfactory to him than steady work, and he chuckled to think of the
discomfiture of the rich owners at the loss of their property. His
pleasure was of the same sort that is shown by the mob when a rich man’s
house burns. We like to see the successful man undone. Yet back of this
John could see a steady, determined effort on the part of Margaret
Brydges; she was working with a purpose.

“How long has Mrs. Brydges been helping slaves to run away?”

“Oh, since the Cap got short of breath!”

“For ten years?”

“Yes, she was through this very town herself eight years ago!”

“Not through Hudson?”

“Yes, that’s a fack, through Hudson,” chuckled Jim. “I was with her.
We had a peddler’s cart, she wore a ragged dress an’ browned up like a
gypsy. Our cart had a covered box with a lock on the side, a false bottom
an’ a trap-door below, where our two runaways rode. We saw you, an’ the
Missus she tried to sell you a tin pail, an’ she was going to tell you
who she was, but you was so busy an’ you had so many babies to look
after, an’ your wife was sick, so we just drove right along!”

John was astonished at this revelation. He could not help thinking that
the woman was insane.

“And does Mrs. Brydges go on such trips now?”

“Oh, no, she just stays to home and supplies the money, and teaches the
black young ’uns to read and write.”

“And does she use all of her time and money in that way?”

“Of course—she has ever so many thousand dollars every year from the
steamboats she owns, and all of her money goes for niggers,” said Jim
as he refilled his pipe. “You see,” he continued, “she calls it a holy
warfare, an’ she thinks that if slaves now and then give their masters
the slip, it will teach the owners to treat them well. For if a slave
is used right he never thinks of freedom. But when you begin to use the
black-snake, an’ take away his wife or sells his children, then he gets
full o’ hell, and wants to run away. Well, the Missus has friends around
here and there, and if they see a case like this an’ they can do it easy,
they helps the nigger to scoot. An’ the Missus she thinks that some day,
oh, in a hundred years, all the slaves will get educated to a pint where
they will all just get up an’ declare themselves free, an’ then the white
folks who don’t like slavery will stand by ’em an’ that will be all
there’ll be about it—see?”

John Brown did not see, but the thought of this earnest woman working
straight along on one idea impressed him most strangely; and that she
should now select him to help her in this work gratified him.

“You see,” said Jim, examining the stem of his pipe intently, “the Missus
and me had the same father—no use denyin’ it, an’ I am bound to help her.”

“And God is the Father of us all, and so I’m bound to help her,”
exclaimed Brown with a sudden determination.

“I say now—haint you two men comin’ to breckfuss, sometime!” called a
sharp feminine voice from the back stoop. “Here I’ve called you three
times!”

While the men had sat there on the log the shadows of the night had flown
away, the sun had come up from behind the hills and Mrs. Brown with the
help of the children had prepared breakfast.

Still the master of the house sat there listening to the stranger’s tale.
The two men now arose and went forward to the house. They washed in a
basin on the stoop at the back door where a gourd of soft soap stood;
then wiped their hands on the roller towel and took seats at the table.

Strangers often dined at Brown’s, so the new-comer attracted little
attention from the younger generation. Mr. Brown asked the blessing.

A glimpse of a woman’s form was seen coming around the corner of the
house.

“It’s the Widow Judson,” said Mrs. Brown to her husband. “I told her
she could have some gooseberries if she would pick ’em herself. Oh,
good-morning, Liza Ann, won’t you have some breckfuss?”

“No, thankee, I’ve just et, I come for the gooseberries—”

She did not finish the sentence. She caught sight of Jim Slivers as he
sat there at the table.

Her face turned to stone.

She raised her hands above her head, gave a wild scream, and exclaiming,
“My Jedediah! my Jedediah!” fell to the floor in a dead faint.




CHAPTER IV

A NIGHT-RIDE TO FREEDOM


“You better not risk yourself too much,” explained Jim Slivers. “We’ll
light out ’bout ’leven o’clock—the sky is dark so we can keep to the road
and make fully fifteen miles!”

“And if I take you in a wagon we can go through to-night—it’s only thirty
miles!”

“But it won’t do—someone may flash a lantern on us.”

“Let ’em flash. My scheme is this—you see that wagon box there is full
two feet deep—now we’ll just lay boards across the top, and put on that
hay rack and load up with half a ton or more of good honest hay. With a
keyhole saw we can make a trap-door in the bottom of the wagon box and
let the darkies crawl up in and lay down—with some hay to burrow in it
will be comfortable enough. Then you and I can climb up on top and away
we go.”

“I guess you be a Yankee,” drawled Jim through his nose.

“Well, at any rate, I can invent!”

“Is it patented?”

“Not yet.”

“Brown’s Patent Adjustable Nigger Carriage! I will be agent for it.”

At nine o’clock when the children were all in bed, Brown and his visitor
repaired to the barn. It did not take long to scuttle the wagon box and
get on the hay rack. Then the hay was loaded, the colored freight duly
packed away, two strong horses hitched on and the drive was begun.

“And who is your confidential helper at Conneaut—you did not tell me.”

“I tell nothin’,” answered Jim as he lay on his back looking up at the
stars.

“But you told me about Margaret.”

“I wouldn’t have, only she said I must.”

“But where am I to go in Conneaut?”

“You mean where are you to deliver the goods?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll show you when we get there—you see in this business we do no
gossipin’, an’ the less one knows about other folks, the better.
You might be called on in court to answer questions an’ it’s mighty
convenient to know nothin’ at such times.”

“I see!”

“That’s why the Missus an’ me didn’t stop to visit with you years ago
when we came through with our tin-ware. ‘He’s happy,’ said the Missus,
‘he’s married an’ happy—we’ll not break in on his peace—the world can
only be reformed by restless, mis’ble people.’”

“Did Margaret say that?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s true, but why should she have sent you to me now?”

“I’m blamed if I know. Only she says to me ’bout a year ago—‘If John
Brown wasn’t rich and prosperous he’d be a great man—great as Cæsar or
Demosthenes; but when a man is happy he is content, and if he’s content
he lets well-enough alone. He’s like a fly stuck in ’lasses—for the first
time in his life he’s got all the ’lasses he wants an’ he just stays
there till he dies.’”

“And that’s a rich man, is it?”

“For sure—a rich man is a blue-bottle stuck in treacle; treacle is good,
but it gets away with a heap o’ flies.”

“Then for blue-bottles the love of treacle is the root of all evil?”

“I ’spect it is!”

“But you said the work of reforming the world is done by unhappy men. How
about yourself?”

“Me? I’m not reformin’ the world—I’m working for the Widow
Brydges—twenty-five dollars a month an’ expenses—I do just what I’m told,
that’s all.”

“But you seem to be quite a philosopher—I’d never have thought it of you.”

“A man who travels nights, does a heap o’ thinkin’.”

“I guess that is so; shepherds were the first philosophers, for they
tended their flocks by night.”

“Yes, the night sort o’ shuts everything out—leaves you alone with God!”

“Why, Jim, you never used to talk like that.”

“Didn’t I? Well, I’m near forty years old, John Brown, an’ so are you.”

“That’s so,” said Brown, shifting his position uneasily. He flicked the
off horse with the whip, and the team responded, moving forward at a
brisk trot.

At about one o’clock they drew into a wood at one side of the road. Brown
crawled under the wagon, pushed up the trap-door, and the “goods” climbed
out to stretch their tired limbs. Mrs. Brown had put up a big basket of
lunch, and as the fugitives ate they were inclined to be jolly, in view
of their near approach of freedom.

Jim ordered silence. It was a curious thing to Brown to see a touch of
arrogance in Jim’s manner towards his subjects. But he remembered that
the occupation makes the man, and the overseer is perforce a bully.
Slavery breeds tyrants. John talked to these unfortunate colored people
in a sympathetic way as they stood there in the shadows, eating the bread
and meat and hard-boiled eggs. They answered his questions in a manner
that showed their gratification at being treated as equals. But Jim took
the words out of their mouths and answered for them, explaining in a very
cold-blooded, matter-of-fact style, that “this one is the wife of that
man, and this of that one yonder, and t’other of him.”

As he spoke he touched the respective persons with his cane.

Further than this, only intelligent niggers were helped to run away;
there were lazy niggers, and brutal niggers, and just plain, ornery
niggers, and these could all go to the rice swamps and be blanked; but
the Missus, she never lifted a finger ’cept where wife was to be taken
from husband, or pickaninny from its mammy.

Jim had gotten so acclimated to the slave mart, that he still regarded
negroes as chattles and not as human beings; and John could not help but
note how his manner tallied with that of the genuine slave-trader, for
he talked before these people as if they were both sexless and senseless.

Again the load of hay moved on towards Lake Erie. In two hours the
village of Conneaut was reached. Dogs barked, cats sputtered, cocks crew,
but the silent streets gave no other sign of life.

In a certain cove of the harbor Jim expected to see the red and green
lights of a little schooner, but the cove was devoid of a single spar.

Jim was disappointed. He turned and followed up the long village street,
motioning that John should follow with the team. By the side of a big,
box-like church, that stood out square and cheerless in its coat of white
paint, Jim stopped. He shoved back the sliding gate, followed on to the
barn that stood behind the house, and opening the doors, John drove his
team with the load of hay inside. It was now nearly daylight.

Again the trap-door was opened, out slid the six refugees, and at a sign
from their master, shinned up the ladder into the haymow. He followed
them, pulling the ladder up after, explaining to John that when the folks
in the house were up and astir, that he should go in and he would be
properly entertained—that was all understood. But as for himself, being
known in Conneaut, he had to lie low.

Brown unhitched his horses, put them in stalls and fed them.

Had John Brown been asked at this time of his life “what is God’s best
gift to man?” he would probably have replied, “a horse.” The love-lorn
adorer of some fair maid is apt to reach a point where he finds balm in
solitude; but the horse-lover knows neither surfeit nor bitter pang of
affection unrequited.

John caressed his sleek Morgans, and rubbed their sweaty coats with wisps
of straw. Ere long he heard sounds of stirring life about the house.

Looking through a crack in the side of the barn he saw a tall, bearded
man in a dressing gown at the wood-pile, splitting kindling to make the
kitchen fire; the man’s face looked strangely familiar. Soon a dumpy
little woman came out on the back steps and began to peel potatoes from a
pan that she held in her lap.

This well-to-do merchant and land-owner peeking out of the crack of a
barn at this man and his wife was a funny proceeding! The man in the barn
was not given to o’ermuch mirth, but he laughed aloud, and then walked
out into the daylight, still smiling.

The woman with the potatoes in her lap gave a little scream, and the tall
man in the dressing gown stopped splitting wood and looked around:

“I swan, if it isn’t John Brown, or else his ghost!”

“And I swan, if it isn’t Walter Warren and his wife!”

The little woman wiped her hands on her apron and gave John Brown the
heartiest kind of a handshake (but no kiss) and Walter Warren shook both
his hands and pounded him on the back in fond delight.

There was a quick explanation in an undertone and remarks of “Oh! ho!” “I
see!” “Yes, yes,” and then the conversation turned to matters domestic.
Walter and Rachel had six children, but John’s score was far ahead.

The Rev. Warren had held pastorates at Cleveland and Toledo. One year
before he had moved to Conneaut. John had heard of his successful
preaching from time to time, and he had probably heard too of his living
at Conneaut, but a busy man like Brown could not keep track of everyone
in his head, and the fact that Rachel and Walter lived in “New Plymouth”
had entirely slipped his mind.

There was much “visiting” and many questions to ask and answer.

The young Warrens were brought out one by one and sent through their
paces for the visitor’s benefit, and John did not fail to inwardly note
and outwardly acknowledge that they were a remarkably fine brood. The
eldest boy was sixteen. He was then teaching his first term of school and
expected some day to be a preacher. The second child was a girl nearly
fifteen. Her name was Miriam, and Brown noticed that she was a fine lass
and a full two inches taller than her mother.

John’s eyes followed Rachel as she moved about at her work, and he saw
that the matronly little woman was supremely happy and all bound up
in the love of her husband and the care of her children. John noted,
too, that husband and wife consulted on all manner of little domestic
arrangements and took a quiet satisfaction in each other’s companionship;
and he could not but compare his life with theirs. His wife did her work
and he did his. He could go or stay—she cared little. Her confidantes
were among the neighbor women, and as for his own affairs, he kept them
to himself. They did not quarrel, for John Brown was not a quibbling,
quarrelsome man; he ordered certain things done and they were done.

As the day wore on and old acquaintances had all been well discussed,
conversation lagged a little. Brown had discovered that neither Mr. nor
Mrs. Warren was vitally interested in his specialty. They did not believe
in slavery, but they were first led to harbor fugitives out of pure
philanthropy; the negroes were cold and a’ hungered, and on Jim Slivers’s
request, they had taken them in and warmed and fed them. Jim had no
great amount of cerebral gray matter, but he had the nose of a detective,
and in some way had made the discovery that the Rev. Walter Warren was
a son of Thomas Warren at Plainfield. And as he had worked in Thomas
Warren’s saw-mill, he had a sort of claim on Thomas Warren’s son, and he
presented the matter in a way that caused the Rev. Warren and his wife to
accede to his request and care for his runaways. Besides this Mr. James
Golden explained that they were not really fugitives, but only colored
people going to Canada for their health; and to preserve them from unjust
suspicions, their presence must not be revealed.

John could not help imagining the result to each, had he followed her
mother’s wishes and married Rachel. In several ways she was superior
to both his former and present wife, yet in his heart he congratulated
himself that he had allowed this worthy minister to wed her. She was
happy and content; with him she could not have been, for he could not
have entered into pattypan emotions, and his aspirations were of a
character that could neither be kept from her nor explained. As it was
now, he lived within himself, and no one was hurt.

That night there were lights hanging from the main mast of a fishing
smack down in the cove.

At midnight, seven persons were rowed out to the anchored boat, and
climbed aboard.

“In six weeks I will see you—in six weeks!” Jim had said to John as they
parted.

Brown went back up the hill and presented the Rev. Walter Warren with
half a ton of good, honest hay. He backed his wagon out of the barn and
started on his night-ride for Hudson.




CHAPTER V

TROUBLE IN THE CHURCH


That a lone woman, ill much of the time and weak, should use her time and
money in an endeavor to make bondsmen free, seemed stranger and stranger
the more Brown thought about it. And he thought about it a good deal.

There were nearly three million slaves in the United States, and this
woman, at the most, only gave freedom to fifty a year—it would take sixty
thousand years for her to accomplish her purpose. It was like baling out
the ocean with a teaspoon.

And why did she do it? Only for this: that husband and wife should not be
separated, nor child taken from mother. In the name of love—the love of
man for woman, of parent for child. She would hold love inviolate. And
therefore she sought to banish traffic in men and to make them free.

Brown thought about it. He thought about it at work, thought about it
as he walked and rode, dreamed of it at night. Soon he began to talk
about the subject of slavery; he discussed it with his father, with his
neighbors, and at prayer-meetings when he exhorted the brethren, he spoke
of slavery as “the one blot on our boasted Christian civilization.” That
we should affect to believe in the suffering, unselfish Christ and yet
buy and sell men and women in the market place, was the basest hypocrisy.

After Brown had spoken on the subject in prayer-meetings twice in
succession, the pastor thought it time to say something, too, which he
did about as follows:

“My Christian brethren: You have heard what our dear brother, Deacon
Brown, has said to-night on the subject of slavery. It is a great theme,
just as emigration and commerce are great themes, but why it should be
brought in and discussed at a meeting set apart for prayer and praise, I
cannot understand. We are here to worship God, not to talk about property
in Kentucky, and if black people are God’s children as Deacon Brown has
said four times this one evening, why let God take care of ’em—we will
sing from page two sixty two—‘Oh, how happy are we, who in Jesus agree,
And expect his return from above’—all sing.”

“Not yet—you can sing when I’m done—”

The hymn was started with intent to sing Brown down.

“Silence!” he ordered in a voice that flashed out like a sword leaping
from its scabbard.

The singing abruptly ceased. Even the pastor’s voice failed him. There
was a silence so intense that it could be heard. Brown left his pew and
walked out in front of the dozen expectant people. His gray eyes gleamed
and the stiff, bristling hair stood up on his head.

The people knew that Brown had temper and courage. They were sure that
there would be a burst of invective if not something worse. The preacher
cast a hurried look around and calculated the height of the open window.
But the storm-cloud had passed and when after an instant Brown spoke, it
was in a mild, low voice:

“My friends, I’m sorry that we have gotten so warm over this subject, and
I only wish now to say that I stand by all I have said on this matter of
slavery. The black man is God’s free child and should be free to worship
God, but as long as he is a slave he is not allowed to do so. I wish to
say before you all that from this time on I propose to do all that I can
to do away with human slavery in my country.”

Brown sat down. There was another silence; no one was in haste to sing.

“Is the brother all through?” asked the pastor in his blandest,
meetin’-house tone. “Because if he’s not, we want to hear all he has to
say of this foreign subject, now!”

There was another pause and then the hymn was sung and the congregation
dismissed. The preacher made great show of shaking hands with the Deacon
and thanked him for his “manly apology.”

“But I didn’t apologize,” said Brown.

“Why, you said you were sorry—didn’t he, Sister Jenkins?”

Sister Jenkins was sure he did, so were several others. They tried to
laugh it off, but Brown did not smile.

“Now, Brother Brown,” said the minister, affectionately taking him by the
button-hole, “I’ll show you fifty places in the Bible where slavery is
justified.”

“And I’ll show you sixty where polygamy is justified!”

“There, there! you know those ignorant black men could not take care of
themselves even if they were free—the ideal condition is where the strong
care for the weak!”

“But what if the strong degrade the weak?”

“Now, dear Brother, just give me your hand—we’ll say no more. I’ll
overlook all your harsh words if you will agree never to mention this
subject in prayer-meeting—come, that’s fair!”

The preacher held out his hand. Brown refused to take it. “Your terms do
not suit,” said Brown. He turned and passed out of the church.

The people standing about were plainly with the pastor. He was a stout
man of fifty or more—a man of some education and considerable tact. And
while he did not expect to convince Brown of his folly, yet he had done
better; he had won the sympathy of his people. He had offered to shake
hands with Deacon Brown; Deacon Brown had refused. The next day it was
the talk of the town that John Brown had publicly refused to shake hands
with his pastor.

The sermon the following Sunday was a powerful one. The text was: “Let
every man build over against his own house.” It was not a written sermon,
and there were no notes. The pastor was full of his theme, and his strong
point was that if we attended to things near at hand, we did well; but to
trouble ourselves about distant matters or meddle in questions that did
not directly affect us, was the direst folly.

In fact, it was a general reminder that everyone should attend to his
own business. To care for one’s wife and children and those directly
connected with him, was all that a man could possibly do, and to go
gallivantin’ all over creation for something to find fault with was
pesky foolish. Slavery, for instance, was wrong when viewed from certain
standpoints. So it was wrong to kill a cow, but we had to kill cattle in
order that we might live. God had permitted slavery through thousands
of years, and He was gradually doing away with it; and if we would only
give God time, He would smooth out all the crooked places. “And finally,
brethren, let each man build over against his own house.”

It was a powerful sermon. Much of it was delivered straight at Deacon
Brown’s head, and there was considerable craning of necks to see how the
Deacon took his medicine; but he never flinched.

But the sermon did not silence John Brown. At the grocery, the
post-office, or on the street corners he would discuss the question of
slavery with anyone who cared to talk about it. In all of the Southern,
and several of the Northern States, it was a crime to teach a negro
to read, and a bill was before the Ohio legislature making it a penal
offense “to hire, harbor, feed or encourage in anyway any negro or any
person in whose veins there is supposed to be negro blood, until such
negro had proven before the nearest magistrate that he or she is not a
fugitive.”

Brown protested strongly against this law, which he claimed was against
the American maxim, that a man must be considered innocent until he is
proven guilty. But the preacher retorted that “a negro was not a man, but
a nigger,” and so the argument moved in a circle.

Had Brown been willing to let the matter drop, his neighbors would have
taken him back into full fellowship and said no more. But he was one of
that kind of men who, when they harbor a thought, are taken captive by
it. An idea possessed him.

Seven weeks had come and gone since he bade good-bye to Jim Slivers, and
now Jim had come again. Not by night this time, but in daytime and alone.

Jim carried a stout stick over his shoulder and a handkerchief knotted
up, in way of baggage. He was dusty and begrimed, having evidently come
on a long journey; yet there was a half grin lurking around his mouth as
he walked into the tannery yard where Brown was alone.

“An’ how’s my wife?” asked Jim the first thing.

“Who?”

“My darling—fifty years old last May and my darling still!”

“Oh, you mean that woman who took you for the ghost of her husband?”

“Of course; go tell her I’ve come for her at last—at last!”

“Don’t be foolish, Jim. What’s the news—have you seen Margaret?”

“Call her the Madam, please.”

“Well, then, have you seen the Madam?”

“I reckon; else how’d I fetch this letter to you from her?”

Jim reached into the inside of his vest and brought out a letter, folded,
sealed, and directed to “John Smith.”

“Is it for me?” asked Brown as he looked at the superscription.

“I ’spect, leastwise ’taint for me.”

Brown broke the seal and read:

    DEAR JOHN SMITH:

    The bearer has told me of your great kindness and the manly
    assistance you rendered in getting his freight through. Your
    helping me, thus endorsing my work, has given me renewed
    courage and zeal.

    The present case is a very pathetic one; Jim will tell you of
    it.

    May Heaven bless you.

                         Sincerely your friend,

                                                                M.

There was no date, no signature and his own name was replaced by another,
but the very omissions were precious to Brown; it left something to the
imagination—there was an understanding.

To love and to have an understanding! no happier fate can come to a man
than this.

Still, Brown had no idea that he loved this woman—far from it. She was
simply an old acquaintance and he was interested in her—that’s all.
Besides that, he was a married man and had no right to love any woman
but his wife.

He read the letter twice, standing there in the tannery yard. Jim picked
up a stick and began whittling on it carelessly as if time were no object.

“She says ‘the present case is a very pathetic one,’—what does she
mean—your freight?”

“She says it’s what?”

“Pathetic.”

“What’s that?”

“Sorrowful.”

“Lordy, she’s right. I’ve walked eighteen mile since sun-up to tell you
’bout it.”

“Well, go on!”

“One buck nigger, one wench, and three pickaninnies!”

“You mean a man, his wife and their three children?”

“Yes.”

“Well, where are they? Speak up quick!”

“Eighteen miles back, I told you—two pickaninnies sick and the wench
she’s plum tuckered out and wants to die—all were sold an’ to be
separated—Missus up and bribes Sheriff an’ he lets ’em run away to
river—I meets ’em in a skiff, gets ’em ’cross—been three weeks on way—all
hands tuckered and camped in woods—babies sick—that’s all there is ’bout
it.”

Jim spat out this explanation all at one mouthful. He stopped as suddenly
as he had begun, and went on with his whittling.

“And you have walked on ahead and now want me to go back with you?”

“Well, I reckon!”

“How shall we go?”

“The load of hay is all right.”

It was near noon and the children were playing around the house. To load
up hay and cart it away would excite their curiosity, for hay was hauled
to the barn, not away from it. Then the neighbors might ask questions,
too, for Brown’s teaming was usually done by hired men, so all things
considered, it was resolved best to wait until night.

This was accordingly done. After the children were all abed, Brown and
Jim adjusted the hay rack on the wagon bed, laying all the boards on
top so there would be “plenty of space in the hold for storage,” as Jim
expressed it. Mrs. Brown held the lantern and the two men piled on a
goodly load and bound it down with the boom pole. They hitched on a stout
team of young horses, and drove away, promising to return by daylight.
Mrs. Brown slept with one eye open and listened with both ears for the
rattle of the returning wagon, but she did not hear it.

Daylight came and the children were up earlier than usual. Mrs. Brown
sent them back to bed, but it was no use, they were thoroughly wide
awake. They had breakfast without the master of the house and the good
mother had to deal in white lies to stop the questionings—children are so
very curious.

It was near nine o’clock before a boy came running up the hill, to tell
Mrs. Brown that her husband was down by the tannery badly hurt.




CHAPTER VI

NOTHING CAN BE CONCEALED LONG


The night was dark, but Brown knew his road and sent the horses along at
a good stiff pace.

Ten miles were turned off—fifteen: it was so dark that Jim could not see
the stones he had placed in the road to mark the spot where they should
sheer off into the forest. In an hour it became evident that they had
missed the place; so they cramped, backed up, turned around and headed
back. Jim walked slowly ahead, peering with his eyes and feeling with his
feet for the little pyramid of stones. An hour went by in anxious search
when a joyous little whistle from Jim announced that the lost was found.

The horses were tied securely to a clump of stout saplings and the two
men moved off into the blackness of the wood. A peculiar chucking call
from Jim was soon answered by a similar sound, and under the drooping
boughs of a protecting pine were the refugees.

Brown assured the unseen fugitives that they were among friends as he put
his hands down on two woolly heads. He lifted a baby form in each strong
arm and started back for the wagon, the others following.

The fevered faces of the children pillowed themselves on the man’s neck,
and he knew that hunger, sleeplessness and damp had done their work, and
if the children could not be given good care and that quickly, their
earthly troubles would soon be over.

Reaching the load of hay the trap-door in the bottom of the wagon was
pushed up and the black man and his wife crawled in, and the three
children were passed in after. The horses were unhitched and the
northward drive begun.

Brown restrained the impatient steeds, as the road in places was rough
and in the darkness the ruts could not be avoided, for he was mindful
that the wagon had no springs, and the thought of the aching heads below
made him lessen each possible jolt and jar.

Jim lay on his back, looking up at the sky, where the stars now began
to twinkle, and chanted a wild, weird song that had been passed down
through the generations from some Congo jungle. Melody got the better of
his spirit and the hum nearly grew into song, when John ordered silence.
Then there was only the patter of unshod hoofs on the hard road and the
monotonous rumble of the heavy wagon.

Daylight was beginning to gleam in the east, with Hudson still ten miles
away.

It was very evident that to push straight on would reveal to the curious
villagers that the drive had been a long one.

Two hours earlier would have placed the “goods” safely in the cave while
all Hudson was abed; as it was now, all Hudson would be astir.

What was to be done?

To wait until friendly night came again meant possible death to the sick
children, for the food they had was insufficient and not of the right
kind. To drive straight ahead now meant a buzz of idle talk that might
not be so idle after all; to wait an hour, rub the horses dry and go in
slowly, would attract little attention, as it would be thought that Brown
was merely drawing hay from his farm. Then a chance could be taken when
no one was around to transfer the fugitives from the wagon to the cave.

This latter plan seemed the best, so they adopted it.

It was near nine o’clock when John Brown’s gray team was seen coming
down the hill into Hudson. There was a load of hay on the wagon, and, of
course, the driver could not apply his brake. Yet the team was strong and
able to hold the load by the neck-yoke, anyway.

But suddenly an accident occurred. It was the worst kind of an accident
than can possibly befall a man driving two nervous horses. If a wheel
comes off, the axle only drops and drags; should a rein break, you
simply pull on one line until your horses are in the ditch or against the
fence; should the breeching give way, you keep your running steeds in
the middle of the road and trust to luck; if your horses kick, lean back
so you will not get hit and let them kick; if they shy and lunge to one
side, they can only tip you over.

But if you are driving a spirited team hitched to a wagon, down a steep
hill, and you have no brake, and suddenly the neck-yoke gives way, and
the wagon tongue drops to the ground, you had better take a last flashing
look at this beautiful world and commend your soul to God.

For quicker than the flash of thought, the horses will lunge forward
and no man born of woman can hold them. At such an instant the frantic
strength of the mad brutes is in league with the law of gravitation, and
Death crouches near and laughs.

When that wagon tongue dropped and began plowing a furrow in the dust,
Brown made one heroic effort to pull the horses into the ditch, but the
wagon was on their heels, and they shot forward straight for the entrance
to the bridge. They were going like a comet, when the point of the tongue
struck a stone, and the tongue, acting as a fulcrum, lifted the wagon
straight ten feet into the air. The load of hay, boomed fast to the rack,
shot forward, fell to one side and turned bottom side up as it slipped
over the embankment. The horses, with the wheels of the wagon, dashed
through the bridge like the wind, and up the village street. Half the
town rushed down to the bridge where lay the toppled load of hay. But
where was the driver? A score of people looked on with staring eyes, all
talking at once. A peculiar voice was heard! where did it come from?

Someone looked up at the top of the old wood covered bridge. There on
the roof of the bridge, resting as if it had been placed there by giant
hands, was a wagon box. Standing up in this box were a very black negro,
a negro woman, and clinging to them, too frightened to cry, three little
black children.

“Was you driving this team?” called a voice from the crowd.

“No,” answered the black man.

“Then who was?”

“Two white men.”

“Where are they?”

“Under that pile of hay!”




CHAPTER VII

DISGRACE FACED BY FRANKNESS


When John Brown and Jim Slivers were dug out from under that pile of
hay—good, honest hay—they were insensible. But they did not die; destiny
had reserved them for a different fate, so a few dashes of cold water
brought them to. Mrs. Brown arrived on the scene very much frightened,
but quite relieved to find that she was not a widow. Her husband had just
opened his eyes and requested that no more water be flung at him.

A ladder had been brought from the saw-mill and the family of unhappy
blacks were assisted from their elevated position. But with that cruel
sense of humor that rustics often possess, the wagon bed was left on its
perch as a monument to the infamy of its owner.

Mrs. Brown wept, and seeing the five trembling colored mortals, fell
a-scolding.

“You’re a fool, John Brown, I told you not to do it!” And seeing the
gaping crowd around, she addressed her remarks to them and absolved
herself from all responsibility in the matter. There was a slight scalp
wound on Brown’s head and as he sat up the red drops slowly trickled down
his face. The sight of blood brought back the wifely sympathy and Mrs.
Brown tied up the shaggy head with a handkerchief.

Jim still smoked. He expected one of two things would surely occur; they
would all be arrested or they would have to fight. He was ready to accept
whichever horn of the dilemma came, but neither was in store.

Brown was still slightly dazed. He put his hand to his head in apparent
helplessness and tried to stand on his feet. The crowd were inclined to
laugh; Brown had been caught in the very act of nigger stealing—ha, ha,
ha!

Suddenly a white-haired woman appeared on the scene; a strong woman whose
only mark of age was her white hair. She had come across the bridge and
having pushed her way through the crowd, gave a quick glance about and
seemed to comprehend the situation. She saw the trembling negroes, she
saw that Brown was injured, she guessed that Brown was the cause of the
negroes being there and that the people standing about considered the
situation funny, and moreover she saw that they had no intention of
giving succor or aid to these refugees.

“The jail’s the place for them!” shouted a blatant voice.

Ruth Crosby had no very fixed ideas on the subject of human rights—she
was too busy doing good to formulate a creed—but she had a great,
generous, motherly heart.

She took the sick baby out of the colored woman’s arms, and whispered to
her black sister that no harm should come to her or the babes.

“Come,” said Ruth, “we will go!”

Brown got his strength back, and going over took the second child.

The crowd, now silent, parted and Ruth led the way through the bridge,
carrying the black baby. Brown followed with baby Number Two, then came
Mrs. Brown leading Number Three, the negro man and his wife next, while
in the rear came Jim Slivers calmly smoking; behind all trooped half a
hundred villagers of both sexes, all ages, and all sorts and conditions.

“To my house, not yours!” said John to Ruth. So Ruth turned to the left
and the procession passed up the little slope to the residence of John
Brown, on the outskirts of the town. The villagers fell off by twos or
threes and went home to talk it over, so when Brown’s front gate was
reached, Jim Slivers was the tail of the kite.

The fugitives were not put in the cave this time; they were given the
best rooms the house afforded. Ruth’s sole occupation for many years had
been nursing the sick; she was an expert. She remained and took sole
charge of the children, and they were ill—no mistake.

Brown loaded a long, squirrel rifle that hung over the kitchen door, and
set it in the corner. Then he busied himself at the wood-pile, fully
determined that he would allow no neighbors, officer, sheriff or whatnot
to enter the yard.

It’s a serious thing to arrest a man in a rural district; and especially
so in a pioneer country. If a citizen has property, a fair name, and
chief of all the reputation of being able to fight, he might commit
almost any crime, even to murder, and still go free.

No constable nor sheriff came to Brown’s. They knew better. The majesty
of the law can wait when there is a strong chance of its agent being
perforated with lead. Brown was not a quarrelsome man, but he had a moral
dignity which, added to his physical strength, made him respected. Only
a year before he had trounced the town bully with a hickory gad, and on
several occasions he had gone alone to objectionable persons and told
them to leave town, and they went.

When night came the baby was no better. Through stress of hardship and
excitement, the mother’s milk had failed and the little sufferer had
actually been starved. The second child was about two years old and the
baby only six months; they were too ill to go on—what was to be done?

“Leave them here,” said Ruth. “The father, mother, and the four-year-old
girl can go on ahead, and when the babies get strong we will send them
forward.”

So that night Jim Slivers took the three and started for Conneaut on
foot. It was the best thing to do—get them to a place of safety at once.
And as for the babies, Brown promised that they would be safely handed
over to their parents as soon as they were well and strong.

Hudson now fairly bubbled with excitement. How long had Deacon Brown
been in this business? Some said for ten years and they even gave the
exact number of thousand slaves he had stolen. He had grown rich at
it, they were sure. It was hinted that when a goodly lot of negroes
were gotten together in Canada, they were pounced upon and sent by the
ship-load around the St. Lawrence River to the Atlantic and then down to
Charleston, S. C., where they were sold at auction.

Nobody mentioned these rumors to Brown—they knew better. People avoided
him on the street; if he approached a group, they would instantly
disperse; when he entered the post-office, all conversation would
suddenly cease; some treated him with awkward politeness, and were
evidently afraid of him, but when his back was turned, they winked at
their neighbors, and smiled.

Even John Brown’s father shook his head and said that the laws of the
land should be respected. In the whole village he had but one staunch
supporter, and that was Ruth Crosby; and it must be owned that it was
largely accident that landed her on his side and not on the other.

Women are more heroic than men; in surgical operations their chances
of recovery are better; in spite of the pains of childbirth they live
longer than men; when worst comes to worst they are braver. Just as a
tigress can whip a lion, or the she-wolf with cubs is more than a match
for a bear, so does a true woman rise to the level of events. In times of
disgrace the woman clings to the man, where, too often, if the man can
escape he does so, and allows his mate to face the pack alone.

Ruth Crosby had been touched by the sight of those suffering blacks;
she saw that the crowd was against them and straightway her indignation
joined hands with her mother-love, and casting a look of defiance on the
mob, she stood sponsor for the friendless. It was a very womanly act on
the part of Ruth, as those who have seen women in war-time know full well.

And once having committed herself to the side of the slave, and
espoused John Brown’s cause, the sense of loyalty in her heart, and the
“stubbornness” in her nature would not allow her to retreat. When petty
persecution followed, it only cemented the bond, for it is injustice
that makes martyrs. An attempt to make a woman give up either a man or a
sentiment only makes her cling the closer. Thus do time and chance push
us like pawns upon this chess-board of life.

People looked askance at the Widow Crosby as she walked on the street,
and the neighbor women ceased to run in and chat. She was left quite
alone—the hint having been given out that “she was not all that she
should be.”

The two colored babies got well and strong; the product of John Brown’s
dairy seemed to agree with them. Children know no caste; they never draw
the color line, and the Brown children thought the negro babies very
charming additions to the family. And one Sunday when the Browns filed
into church to fill three pews, there was a shiny black youngster, well
dressed and clean, among the little flock.

Many in the audience tittered, one man guffawed aloud, several snorted
with indignation and a full half dozen tramped out. Altogether, though,
the sight of the colored baby was rather amusing to the audience than
otherwise; just as a cat on the stage makes a laugh, or a dog sniffing
up the aisle takes all attention away from the preacher. The minister
noticing the commotion, arose from behind his high pulpit, and, adjusting
his brass-rimmed spectacles, looked rebukingly around for the cause
of the trouble. At last his glance fell on the black baby, and the
storm-cloud in his serious visage grew denser.

He tried to catch Deacon Brown’s eye; at last he thought he had, and he
pantomimed that Brown should remove the black baby. But Brown did not
take the hint. Then the preacher, realizing that he could not compete as
an attraction against the wee darling, cleared his throat and in a solemn
voice said: “Brother Brown, oblige me by removing that object which you
have wrongfully brought into this sacred place.”

But Brother Brown was both blind and deaf.

The hymn was announced, the Scripture read, the long prayer gone through
with, and the sermon begun. And all during the sermon the black baby
slept with its head in John Brown’s lap.

It was certainly a very presumptuous thing for Brown to do—take a negro
to meetin’. For there was a question whether negroes had souls; indeed
several books had been written, proving that they had not.

Perhaps when Brown got home that day after church he congratulated
himself that he had won in the little game of bluff, but his satisfaction
was slightly cooled the next day when he received an official notice to
present himself in ten days and show cause why he should not be expelled
from church.

Ruth Crosby was also presented with a similar notice.

The day of the examination came, and the defendants were both present.

The indictment recited how Ruth Crosby and John Brown had harbored
runaway slaves, against the peace and good order of the community, and
against the laws of God and the State. Further than this, they had taught
negroes to read.

This last accusation was quite gratuitous, but the intent was to make the
charge as damning as possible.

The minister had the clerk read the charges, and then the senior Deacon
of the church got up and proposed that if the defendants would simply
plead guilty to the charges and ask the forgiveness of the brethren
assembled, promising not to repeat the offense, the meeting could then
be turned into one of prayer and praise. The good old man expressed his
love for the Widow Crosby and John Brown and spoke of his high regard for
their characters; he recited how even David had fallen, but the Lord had
reinstated him in favor—why should they not do the same by these erring
ones?

The preacher endorsed this conciliatory appeal, he showed how it
contained the true Christian spirit—a slowness to condemn and a readiness
to forgive. He sat down and there was a breathless silence when Brown
arose to reply.

He simply plead guilty to the charges as made: he had done nothing but
what he thought was right—that is, he believed he had done the will of
God.

“Do you think it is the will of God that you should harbor runaway
slaves?” severely asked the preacher.

“I do,” said John Brown.

“And you, Widow Crosby?” said the preacher, facing the woman.

“I do,” said Ruth Crosby.

The accused were asked to withdraw. They did so and the session was
continued behind locked doors.

The next day John Brown and Ruth Crosby were notified that their names
were stricken from the church books “on account of conduct unbecoming to
professing Christians.”




CHAPTER VIII

“NIGGER STEALER! NIGGER STEALER!”


Church trials often afford considerable satisfaction to church members.
Spite and a spirit of revenge are never absent on such occasions and
the opportunities for pokes under the fifth rib are readily embraced.
Feuds sometimes find vent in church trials, and it must be admitted that
a church trial is not so bad as a vendetta. But when there is a church
trial the devil laughs, and so do the infidels. In fact, the village
infidel—the corner grocery atheist—is usually more interested in the
issue than the average church member.

The scoffers were jubilant when John Brown was “turned out o’ church.”
They were all unmindful of the inconsistency of their position, which
assumed that all church members were hypocrites, anyway, and failed
to see the logical sequence that the man turned out must at least be
different from those who discarded him.

Then to be turned out of church in those days, before heresy was popular,
meant disgrace; it was not many years before, that all criminals were
tried by the church, and people had a fixed idea that if a jury of
Christian people said a man was bad, it must be so.

Children ever adopt the opinions of their elders, and when the grown
folks in a community cease to respect a man, the youngsters tell him
so. The growing boys of civilized parents are always cruel, and the
weak-minded, the drunken, the friendless, are legitimate targets in any
village for mud balls and decayed vegetables. The victim of the stocks
was ever the butt of all the cruel pranks that youth could invent, and no
sooner is the best of men bound with cords than we scourge him, spit upon
him and crown him with thorns.

The night after that church trial at Hudson, merry havoc was played with
Ruth Crosby’s flower-beds, the front door of her house was smeared with
tar, and in the morning several dead cats adorned the little porch.

The next day she locked the cottage where she had lived so many busy,
useful years and took up her residence with the family of John Brown.

There was no intention of retreating from the position they had taken on
the subject of human rights. The more they studied the theme of slavery,
the plainer it was to them that their course was right. The more they
thought of slavery, the firmer were their ideas concerning its iniquity.

A letter was sent to Margaret Brydges telling her of the mishap to the
load of hay, and how they had been turned out of church simply because
the load upset. The whole matter was treated lightly, but Mrs. Brydges
had had a little experience herself in ostracism and she knew what it
meant.

Margaret sent a prompt reply expressing her sympathy, and quoting the
beatitude, “Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute
you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for My sake.
Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven; for
so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.”

The letter further explained that a negro who could read and write was a
factor in freedom’s cause and that the education of the negro meant the
honey-combing of the “peculiar institution.” So the rabid fear on the
part of slave-holders about the blacks being taught had a basis in fact;
and from their standpoint the placing of a penalty on the three R’s was a
perfectly justifiable move. Men who wish to hold other men in leash have
good reason for preferring mental darkness rather than light.

So a part of Margaret Brydges’s plan of campaign was to educate.
Teaching blacks to read and write was paving the way for emancipation.
Vast numbers of slaves were sunk so low that they did not realize their
condition and had no conception of what freedom meant. But to teach a man
to read was to supply him the tools for further progress.

Through Margaret’s influence, and by the help of certain funds which she
had collected and given, the college at Oberlin now received colored
people on exactly the same footing as whites. Her ambition was to start
a school that would be a feeder for Oberlin.

To this end Margaret had turned her house into a school. The scholars
ranged in years from five to fifty; and after explaining this in her
letter she ended with a strong appeal that Ruth Crosby should leave
Hudson at once, meet her in Cincinnati and assist in this plan of
conducting a school for colored pupils.

Ruth had lived in Hudson for thirty-two years. In all that time she had
not been more than a few miles away. She was now fifty years old, and to
go away and leave home behind seemed like leaving the earth for another
world.

She hesitated about accepting, and really questioned her own ability
to do the work successfully, and further than this she half felt that
this rich Mrs. Brydges was endeavoring to do good by indirection in
putting forth the invitation; and, of all things, she shrank from being a
dependent.

Ruth resolved to stay in Hudson and fight it out—live down the disgrace;
and, if possible, gradually win the town over to her way of thinking.
This she would do by the integrity of her life: and through love and
gentleness she believed that the harshness and the prejudice would melt
away.

So she wrote to Mrs. Brydges thanking her for her kind offer of a home
and a position as teacher, and telling her that much as she sympathized
with the mission of giving education to colored people and whites alike,
yet she felt her duty lay in Hudson. She directed and sealed the letter
and took it down to the post-office. After posting the missive and making
a few small purchases, she started back towards John Brown’s.

Some noisy children making mud pies in the street called after her; the
cry was taken up by a bigger boy on the sidewalk, and as she hastened her
walk the urchins in the street followed her, shouting, “Nigger stealer!
Nigger stealer!” She suddenly grew nervous and started to run, when a
stone went whizzing past her head.

Just then the mother of one of the youngsters appeared on the scene,
and grabbing her own particular hopeful, cuffed his ears vigorously
as punishment for his insolence, and at this the embryo mob suddenly
scattered.

But the deed was done—the die was cast!

Hudson was no longer home to Ruth Crosby. She packed up a few necessary
articles and the stage that went southward the following day carrying a
letter for Mrs. Margaret Brydges at Cincinnati, also carried the woman
who wrote it.




CHAPTER IX

RESULTS OF MIXING SENTIMENT AND BUSINESS


When a man concentrates all of his energies on one business he may
succeed and he may not. If he divides his time and talent among several
enterprises, his chances of success are much lessened; yet if he has a
single eye for “number one,” he still may arrive.

But should he allow religion, politics, philanthropy, love of art to
creep into his waking hours, so as to become a passion, his financial
doom is sealed.

When John Brown took philanthropy into his life, he signed an application
for bankruptcy. His time was now divided between thoughts of Margaret,
education of black people and business. Business is a jealous god, and
says to its votary, “Thou shalt have no other gods before me.” So
commerce was wroth with John Brown and fortune ceased to smile upon him.

He had lost favor with his neighbors; and many people who owed him, no
longer thought it necessary to pay. Some of these people had borrowed
funds from him. And all those whom he owed wanted their money at once.
Had he been able to pay, his creditors would not have cared for the
money, but now they refused to accept notes, where such obligations were
always before accepted in settlement.

Two years before Brown had signed security for a friend—just a matter of
form, you know. The holder of the note now demanded immediate payment
from the endorser. The amount was twelve hundred dollars—not much in our
time, but a large sum then for a country merchant to meet off-hand. Brown
could not pay it, and the sheriff appeared with many apologies and a writ
of attachment against the tannery.

Then the small creditors became frantic for their money; and the debtors
increased in indifference according to the square of the difficulties
into which their creditor was plunged.

A singleness of purpose is the prime requisite in commerce—the whole
structure is founded on selfishness; and had Brown been willing to avail
himself of a technicality and repudiate the claim of twelve hundred
dollars, he could have pulled through. But he scorned any action that
savored of duplicity—he had agreed to pay this amount if his friend did
not, and he would do it.

Besides this, there were other schemes and other ambitions in his head.
By nature he was a pioneer; he loved the wildness of the woods, and the
sense of power that comes to all men who are able to cope with untamed
nature, was to him a delight.

Civilization hates individuality. Its desire and tendency is to iron men
out to one common level. It prescribes and proscribes; it limits and
sets bounds; and it has ever been ready to apply the thumb-screws to
him who will not conform to its edicts. For the man ahead of his time,
civilization has the rack. Society had said to John Brown: “Be one of us,
conform to our ways, accept our opinions, do as we do, and we will hold
fellowship with you; but if you persist in being better or worse than
your neighbors, we will scourge and spit upon you.”

Brown heard the voice—it spoke in no uncertain tone. He longed for the
solitude of the forest, and the sufficing majesty of the mountains. As
wounded animals go away to the woods to be healed (or to die), and as the
Indian woman feeling the pains of approaching childbirth hides away under
the friendly boughs, so do stricken souls turn to Nature.

But there was a trinity of powers brought to bear on Brown, all
counseling a move. There was the restless spirit of the pioneer; the two
penny persecution by neighbors; and the desire to be in a place where
he could shelter fleeing slaves, and teach them to read and write and
worship God.

Where to go? that was the question. Emigration was pushing through to the
West, and to go to the frontier would be out of line of communication
with Cincinnati. But Pennsylvania was not far away—Pennsylvania with its
rich valleys, its dense forests and mountain fastnesses.

An arrangement was entered into with the creditors whereby Brown gave
over into their hands the tannery, store, residence and farm. He was
allowed to keep his live stock and three hundred dollars in money. With
his two oldest sons he counted the sheep—there were nearly four hundred
of them, forty head of cattle and a dozen horses. The subject was laid
before his wife and children. Youngsters always want to move and Mrs.
Brown was sick and weary from the trouble that had come to them. They
were all eager and hungry to get away.

There were nine children in the family. As they are to play important
parts in our story, their names in order of ages are given here: John,
Jr., Jason, Owen, Ruth, Frederick, Sarah, Watson, Salmon and Oliver. The
first five on the list were children of Dianthe Lusk.

They were a healthy, rollicking lot of youngsters as one ever saw; wild
young barbarians all, as children should be, for the first requisite in
the making of a man is that he should be a good animal.

John, Jr., was seventeen and Oliver was less than a year old. It was
certainly a brood to be proud of, and like the Roman mother of old, John
and Mary Brown counted their children as jewels. So they were rich, and
why not? Is a man poor with all these flocks and herds, these wagon loads
of household goods, and, besides that, a loyal wife and nine hearty
children? Far from it; the Browns were happy now and rich. They had
everything that they needed and they were going away to find breathing
room.

Joy is seldom found pure except in times of transition. These were joyous
moments.

And yet it was a little come-down from Deacon and general First Citizen
of the town, to an emigrant who had been turned out of the church and
whose exodus caused no regret. Then as to the children, a captious
observer might have noted that none had the clear-cut facial lines of
their father—they lacked his individuality.

But they were a happy lot as they moved away from Hudson that fine
September day, driving their flocks and herds before them.

The father had cautioned the boys to restrain their glee, but he had
hard work to keep down the cheers, and as they passed by houses where
objectionable neighbors lived, John, Jr., and Jason sent stones flying as
a last good-bye, and Owen even offered to fight certain boys who sat on
the fence watching the procession. Once well away from the village the
father called a halt. He gathered the family together, read a chapter of
Scripture and then prayed to God to bless them in the new undertaking; a
hymn was sung, and then they moved forward—eagerly, merrily, hopefully
forward. All of their troubles lay behind.




BOOK IV




CHAPTER I

KANSAS IN THE FIFTIES


Eastern Kansas is as fair a land as ever the sun looked down upon. It
has splendid sweeps of rolling land that need but to be tickled with a
plow to laugh with a harvest; and across these rich prairies are streams
whose banks are lined with beautiful groves that gladden the heart of the
traveler.

The diversity of treeless plain and wooded slope, of open space and
running stream, of protecting hill and sunny outlook, was first a
paradise for the hunter, and then a refuge and delight to the stock
raiser and agriculturist.

In 1854, when the United States Government opened up the Territory for
settlement, there was an instant rush of immigrants. Any citizen could
pre-empt one hundred and sixty acres of land, and by living on it a
certain length of time and making certain improvements, he was given a
full title to his homestead.

From the Northern States came the “prairie schooners” of New Englanders
and their hardy sons who had settled in Ohio, Pennsylvania, Indiana, or
Illinois, now pushing on to this new Eldorado.

And from across the sister State of Missouri poured another tide of
restless wealth seekers from the South.

For the first time in the history of our country Jamestown and Plymouth
Rock came into serious collision. Differing in temperament, differing
in religion, differing in taste and tradition, each with virtues that
the other did not appreciate and faults that the other could not
understand,—is it any wonder that they clashed? Besides all this, those
were times of mad rivalry; everyone desired to secure the best place and
the man who first drove down his stakes was the man who owned the land.
Under such conditions, of course, disputes would occur. Two men might
claim the same corner of God’s earth and there would have to be much
readjusting and patient endurance or else—fight.

It is needless to say that when disputes occurred between Yankee and
Southron, South sided with South and North with North. Yet even then all
might have simmered down, and the young Romeos married the fair Juliets
and peace and plenty come to the houses of Montague and Capulet, were it
not for slavery.

Slave labor and free cannot exist side by side and each retain its
individuality. The free labor becomes enervated or the slave restless
and discontented. Furthermore, there was a vast political question at
issue—it was whether Kansas should send to Washington representatives
who would champion the Southern cause or whether should they be men with
Yankee proclivities.

In October, 1854, four sons of John Brown moved to Kansas, and took
up claims ten miles from the village of Osawatomie. John, Jr., and
Jason were married; Owen and Frederick bachelors; but Frederick had a
sweetheart in the East whom he expected to send for.

Each of these four men had one hundred and sixty acres of land; that is,
they owned just a section, or a square mile between them. Where the four
corners of their claims came together they built four log houses. Three
of these houses were small, with dirt roofs—a bare shelter from the
storm—the other was quite a respectable edifice as log houses go.

Owen established a store and post-office, and they called their embryo
city Brownsville. Running through their land was a beautiful stream and
near at hand was plenty of wood. They had a few sheep, a dozen head of
cattle, and as many horses.

They were happy, were these pioneers, happy and full of hope. All that
winter they worked, building their houses and barns. Sundays Yankee
neighbors would come from miles away and they would hold “meetin’” and
make the rafters ring with sounds of praise. Game was plentiful; for
while the buffaloes had pushed on to the West, deer, wild turkeys,
prairie chickens and water fowl were to be had in abundance. So they
feasted, and worked and sang; and when a fifth brother, Salmon, came on
a few months later, they had much to relate in way of harmless adventure
and amusing incident.

These Browns were not rich, but they had enough so that they could live
comfortably until a crop could be produced. They brought with them
garden, farm and flower seeds, grape vines and several hundred fruit
trees; and the last of February had scarcely melted the winter’s snow
before they were planting their orchards. On March 30th, an election was
to occur at which representatives were to be chosen for the Territorial
Legislature. There was much feeling on the subject of whether Kansas
should be a slave State or not, and at this election the matter would be
practically decided.

The Browns were too busy attending to their farming to take a very active
interest in the matter, but when travelers came to their cabins from
time to time, they expressed themselves vigorously upon the subject. The
New England spirit was strong in their veins; town meetin’ day with the
right of a freeman’s franchise was the most glorious day in the year; and
early in the morning of the 30th day of March, the five Brown brothers
started afoot for the polling place ten miles away.

On every little knoll the prairie chickens drummed and strutted, great
flocks of plover went whirring past, and at all the ponds were green-head
ducks and dancing cranes. Here and there across the prairie could be seen
the curling smoke rising from some settler’s cabin and at long intervals
teams were plowing straight furrows across the virgin sod. The blackness
of the burnt grass was giving way to greenest green; and to men raised in
a country that could only be farmed after a long, painful cutting down
of trees, pulling out of stumps, and piling up of stones, this beautiful
land seemed an Eden indeed.

The five stalwart brothers whistled and sang and shouted as they walked.
The bright sunshine magnified objects across the rolling mounds and
played strange tricks with visual senses. Houses miles away could be seen
turned upside down against the horizon and for several minutes there was
a vision suspended in mid-air of a great mob of men on horseback and in
wagons miles and miles away. Even the tropical seas cannot compete with a
sun-lit plain in optical illusions.

At several cabins they were joined by other men, also going to vote. All
were walking, for horses must be saved for the plow. In two hours there
was a full dozen men in the party.

“Hello!” suddenly cried Jason Brown, “why, here’s old man Blanton, he
should be at the polls, for he showed me only yesterday his certificate
as Judge of Election, signed by Governor Reeder.”

A buckboard drawn by an old white horse was just coming up out of the
little valley that wound around a low hummock.

“What’s this, neighbor Blanton, are we off in our date—we thought it was
’lection day?”

“And so ’tis, gentlemen, but you’d better go back.”

“Why?”

“Why? What a question! Is it possible you haven’t heard? Every ravine for
twenty-five miles has been filled for two days with Missourians, and they
are votin’. Go back, for if they know you are Anti-Slavery men your lives
won’t be safe—lots of them are fighting drunk!”

“But you are a Judge of Election—did you accept their votes?”

“Did I? No, that’s the trouble. When I refused, they put in a man of
their own, and I’ve barely escaped with my life. Go back, or there’ll be
bloodshed!”

“We’re not the kind that go back!” shouted Owen Brown, “forward march,
boys!” And forward they went.

Another half mile brought them to a ridge, whence they could look across
at the little settlement two miles away. A dozen huts looking like
dolls’ houses dotted the plain; one straight white steeple pointed to
the zenith, and a little to one side the polling place could be plainly
noted. Around it was a dark moving blot of black on the green of the
prairie. As they approached this dark blot, it turned to rusty gray and
separated into parts; and horses, wagons, and men stood out plainly.

From several of the wagons flags and banners were flying. One of the
flag-poles was ornamented with a long string of waving hemp, another had
a white flag with a skull and crossbones rudely daubed upon it. A whiskey
keg upside down was carried on another pole.

The Browns noticed with a little alarm that these men were armed with
knives, scythes on poles, pitchforks, and guns of every period of
antiquity.

They were evidently organized, for there was a commissary wagon in charge
of a sober man, while everybody else seemed to be rearing-tearing drunk.

“Here they come! here they come, all good honest Pros, every one,”
shouted a blatant Missourian. On his black slouch hat was fastened a
bunch of hemp and over his shoulder was a double-barreled shotgun.

“Whiskey first, then vote. It’s a matter of conscience—no man needs to
keep slaves if he don’t want, but he shall not deny the privilege to
anyone else—whoop!”

The newcomers were cheered and offered whiskey and hardtack. Around the
shanty was a dense crowd, and Owen soon saw that if his party voted
the “Pro” ticket they would be allowed to get through to the window to
cast their ballots, but if they attempted to vote “Anti” there would be
trouble. The Yankees scattered through the crowd and Jason picked out a
Pro who was talkative, and who had not been drinking so long that he was
ill-natured.

“You’re a settler here, I s’pose,” remarked Jason.

“Hell, no, I’m from Mizzoory!”

“All your crowd from over the line?”

“Wall, I reckon—a dollar a day with licker and grub haint so bad!”

“No, indeed.”

“We’ll vote the dam Yanks to hell and then fight ’em, or we’ll fight
’em and vote arterwards—two hunderd of us here—two comp’nies—there’s a
comp’ny at every votin’ place in Kansas, an’ if that’s not nuff we vote
at two places! whoop la! No free niggers in ourn—free whiskey’s the only
thing for we!”

A horseman in semi-uniform came galloping across the prairie and handed
a message to the captain of one of the companies. It was an order that
more voters were needed at Ballou, twelve miles away. An order was given
for one of the companies to go. The men tumbled pell-mell into wagons and
onto the horses, and with wild cheers and yells, they drove away followed
by their four-horse commissary wagon.

Jason and Owen quickly consulted and thought this a good time to vote.
They got their little company together, gave each man an Anti-Slavery
ballot and began pushing up to the polling window.

“Less see your ballots, boys. I’m here to see that all is done on the
squar!” said a big fellow in butternut. Evidently this man was a joker,
for the crowd laughed at his sally.

“I’m commissioned by Congress to see that only honest men vote—show up
the paper, pardner.”

“I show my ballot to nobody,” replied Jason firmly.

The man jostled against Owen and began crowding him out of the line,
others crowded against him and the man in butternut swore at them
roundly, ordering them back, yelling, “Quit your pushin’, you dam
galoots!”

And the more cries of “quit pushin’” were uttered, the more pushing was
done.

In five minutes the little company of a dozen men were pushed clear past
the building. They stood well together, though, and began now to crowd
back. Backward and forward they surged, and gradually they were allowed
to work their way up to the building. They reached it, but they were
on the wrong side from the window; in the scramble they had lost their
bearings. A big laugh went up at their expense, as the mob watched their
discomfiture.

“We are actual settlers, all of us, we are Anti-Slavery men, and we are
going to vote!” shouted Jason.

“Hear him—just as if anyone had interfered!” answered the big man.

“You have interfered—you are armed and we are not, yet my brother, here,
only a boy, can whip you in a fair fight—will you fight him, Salmon?”

“I guess I will,” answered Salmon, as he shed his coat.

The crowd fell back. This sudden move had surprised them. There was a
brief lull in the yells, and then the crowd called on the big man to go
in an kill the Yank. There was no backing out—the big joker must fight or
stand convicted of cowardice.

He blanched perceptibly, hesitated, pulled at his dirty yellow beard,
sighed, and slipped his coat. A ring was made, and it looked as if the
tall, slender lad of nineteen had more than met his match in the big
Missourian.

The big man made a rush like a mad bull. Salmon stepped lightly aside,
but as the fellow turned to come back he got a stinging blow in the ear;
his hands dropped, and before he could guard, Salmon gave him a swinging
left-handed blow on the nose which sent him stumbling face to earth.

The crowd rushed forward with roars of “Kill the dam Yanks, kill ’em!”
but quicker than thought a full half-dozen of the Pros stretched their
lengths on the grass with blood starting from their noses, eyes and ears.

All men who go armed have a wholesome dread of a brawny fist. To get
knocked down means a jar that is a headache for a week, a black eye for a
month, and disgrace forever.

The crowd fell back, but the cries of “Kill ’em, hang ’em, hang the
Yanks” increased, as the little group of unarmed men stood backed up
against the shanty. Guns were fired in the air, and the threat to kill
them might have been carried out, had not a little, light-haired man
sprang out of the covered commissary wagon with a pistol in each hand. He
slipped through the mob and in a twinkling stood with the Yankees.

“Keep back, gentlemen, I’ll plug the first man that touches these men!
Open up there, and let them out!”

“But we haven’t voted,” said Jason.

“Good God, what of it! These men are drunk. I can only hold ’em off for a
minute—you must go now, please go now—they will kill you all—one taste of
blood and they snuff you out. Go!”

The little man’s pistols looked out straight in front and the crowd
parted. He walked out and the Yankees followed. In a minute they were
outside of the ring and a hundred feet from the polling place.

“Git, now!” shouted the little man, and he fired one of his pistols in
the air.

Whether it was a case of hypnotic suggestion is not for us to say. But
the Yankees, now thoroughly frightened when the worst danger was over,
broke into a run. It was a race for life, although nothing worse than
yells, curses, and loud laughter followed them, backed up with a few
random shots. It was a complete panic—a rout.

When the five worthy Browns reached Brownsville, they were tired, worn
and hungry. They had started hopeful, gay and buoyant; they returned
dishevelled, dejected and undone. The two women came out to meet them,
each carrying a baby, and sundry little Browns, sucking their thumbs,
tugged at their skirts. Gracious, womanly women that they were, they
smiled a greeting to their husbands and brothers.

“How I wish I could vote”—called Wealthy, “yet I know the Anti-Slaveries
will win, now won’t they?”

“I didn’t vote—I’m not twenty-one yet, you know!” said Salmon.




CHAPTER II

POLITICS AND STRIFE


One month before the election Governor Reeder had caused a census to
be taken, and the actual number of voters in the Territory was found
to be 2905. At the election 6113 votes were cast; 1400 of these were
Anti-Slavery. But before the news reached the Browns other exciting
events had occurred.

The big man whom Salmon had so punished, proved to be one Scott
Carver, or “Cap” Carver, as he was called, a man of some property and
considerable influence. His ranch was just across the Missouri River,
thirty-five miles east from Brownsville. The place was a general
rendezvous for all the ruffians and rogues in that section.

When Captain Carver returned to his home that night after election,
he drove off, with the help of his friends, fourteen head of cattle
that belonged to the Browns, as salve for his broken nose and wounded
feelings. In the morning the Browns discovered that their choice blooded
stock, brought clear from Ohio, were gone. It was not difficult to follow
the trail across the prairie. Owen and John tracked the drove straight
to “Cap” Carver’s ranch and there at sundown found the cattle mixed in a
herd of several hundred others.

They demanded their property. Carver declared that he had bought the
cattle in Illinois, and that he himself had never been in Kansas at all.
There was a full score of men around the place, and they intimated that
if the two visitors did not get back to the other side of the river and
stay there, it might go hard with them. The Browns returned home and
invoked the law. But the sheriff and county judge claimed that they had
no jurisdiction in Missouri. It was practically a foreign country and
extradition was a thing entirely unheard of.

Then the Browns tried to organize a posse to go over and forcibly take
possession of their own, but the difficulty of cutting out fourteen head
of cattle from a herd of two hundred, and making a fight against odds,
was too great for the neighbors to think of. More than that, the Devons
had probably been driven further away by this time. So spring opened, and
the Brown babies had no milk, and coffee was drunk with sugar only.

Plowing was begun and crops of corn, wheat and oats planted.

The fact that the Territory had gone in favor of slavery by a big
majority did not banish the sunshine and spring showers; the grain was
growing, the flowers blooming, and the vegetables in the garden were a
delight to the eyes of the women. Yet the men had not forgotten that
their votes had not been counted at the last election, and the thought
that the same scene would probably be played over again in the fall was
galling in the extreme.

In June, John, Jr., and Jason made a trip to Lawrence for supplies.
Lawrence was the State capital, and while there the Browns made a plea to
the Governor, asking for help in getting their cattle back. The Governor
treated them with great courtesy, was very sorry indeed; he would look
into the matter personally and would write Captain Carver to return the
stock. The cattle must have been taken accidentally—stock was continually
straying away, and Captain Carver’s herdsmen had only made a mistake.

The Browns saw that they had small hope from this direction, so they
talked with others and talked freely. On the subject of slavery they
expressed themselves plainly, and tried to get a promise from various
citizens that if, at the November election, the ruffians from Missouri
returned, they would fight.

In fact, they made a canvass of the town and got the promise of over a
hundred men that they would not stand idly by and see their State overrun
by a lawless element. An effort had already been made to organize militia
companies, and from the encouragement they received, they felt sure that
the disgraceful scenes of the previous March would not be repeated.

Enthusiasm soon fans itself into a glow; it is so much pleasanter to
agree with an enthusiastic man than to dispute him, that easy converts
are made.

On the way home the Browns called at every settler’s cabin and only one
theme was discussed. Very little opposition was made to their plan, which
was just this and nothing more: the actual settlers of Kansas must arm
themselves, organize and repel any invasion that might occur on election
day. A good bold stand, once for all, would do the business.

All they talked with agreed to this; some were a bit luke-warm; two
or three had never heard that Missourians had marched over and voted
illegally—was it not a mistake? But, of course, only residents of Kansas
should vote—they promised to use their influence on the side of right.

The two men reached home with their wagon-load of provisions. Besides
provisions they brought powder and lead for melting up into bullets; and
besides the powder and lead they brought glowing news of how everywhere
men were arming, and of how in November a fair election would be held.

Even the women caught the enthusiasm, and at odd times the next day
Jason’s wife molded bullets as she sang a lullaby to her babe.

On the third night after the travelers had returned a rap was heard at
the door of the long log house where John and Jason lived with their
families.

“Who’s there?” called John.

“We’re movers and my wife here is sick—can’t you take us in till morning?”

John got up, unbarred the door, and—looked into the muzzle of a
double-barreled shotgun.

“Stand still, or I’ll blow you to hell!” said a hoarse voice. The shotgun
was held straight at his breast as four other men pushed into the house.
They flashed a dark lantern on the row of bunks and threatened to kill
the first person that moved.

“We won’t hurt you if you’re decent, we want nothin’ but your guns and
ammunition,” said the spokesman of the party.

John hesitated.

“Tell us quick—we want no foolin’—your wimmen won’t be safe a minute if I
whistle twice!”

John pointed to a chest and to the guns in the corner.

Two of the ruffians carried out the chest, and another took the guns.
They then backed out of the door, after threatening to kill the first
person who appeared outside.

Soon there was a firing and the “phit, phit” of bullets could be heard
as they struck against the house. When the firing ceased the rumble of
a wagon could be heard. John shoved open the sliding window and in the
bright moonlight could see a wagon and a dozen horsemen disappearing
across the prairie.

Jason was up and dressed by this time. He ran across to awaken Salmon and
Frederick who slept in the shanty opposite. It was not necessary; they
were already very wide awake. They had the same tale to tell as he, and
Owen the same. Doubtless they had all been awakened at the same moment.
Only their guns, pistols and ammunition were taken. The whole plot had
been carefully planned and carried out without a hitch. All the marauders
wore black masks, and they had talked but little.

Jason, Frederick, and Owen at once started for Lawrence to report the
affair to the Governor and secure more arms. On the way they found that
several other well-known settlers had been served in the same way.

The Governor received them kindly. He was very sorry to hear how they had
been treated; he would investigate the matter personally and see what
could be done. He had no authority to supply them more arms: there was no
precedent for such action, but, of course, they could buy guns if they
chose.

But they had no money.

They used their last dime to buy paper, an envelope and a postage stamp.
They wrote to their father telling him of what had happened and asking
him to send them arms so that they could protect themselves.

Then they hitched up their horse to the wagon and started for home.

They had been gone three days, and the tidings they brought were not
inspiring. But it was nothing to what the Browns of Brownsville had to
tell them.

The night they went away, every horse the brothers owned (save the one
they drove) had been stolen.




CHAPTER III

CAUGHT IN A TRAP!


“Here we are—like pigs in a sty—we can’t fight, for we have no arms—”

“But I’ll tell you what we can do!”

“What is it, then?”

“Starve!”

This one word seemed to rumble through the long low room of the log cabin
like a grim spirit of evil. It put a quietus on further discussion,
and the group of five men and two women sat there in silence. Outside
in every direction stretched the blackness of the plain over which the
prairie fires had so recently run.

The sun had gone down and twilight seemed to come up out of the earth
with the night dews. It was the last of September and the scudding clouds
that flew southward were a fit backing for the V-shaped flocks of wild
geese that went screaming before the wind.

Across the little gulch that ran near came the bark of a prairie wolf,
and this was soon answered by another only a little way off.

“There’s no chickens here—they might as well go ’way,” said one of the
women who sat hand in hand with her husband in the open doorway.

“Not a feather.”

“That’s nothing to the pigs.”

“But what are pigs to cows when there are babies to feed?”

“And what are cows to horses when there is land to plow?”

“But you have a horse!”

“Surely—and nothing to feed him!”

There in one end of the room stood the patient, bony old horse, nibbling
at the bark on the branches of cotton-wood that were thrown down in front
of him.

“I say we have the horse,” repeated the woman, disregarding the man’s
remark, “and we have the wagon. The wagon will hold a camping outfit,
and the children and the rest of us can walk. We are only wasting time
here—we must get back to God’s country before the snow flies!”

“But you know father wrote us that the arms were on the way!” mildly
protested her husband.

“How many times must I hear that? If they had started in July they would
have been here a month ago.”

“Well, if help does not show up in three days we will sing the doxology
and retreat—are all agreed?”

“And all get killed on the way?”

“Pshaw! You know that the ruffians want us to go. If they see we are
going they will offer no objections. It is our staying here that
aggravates ’em.”

“Well, it’s getting chilly. Let’s be extravagant and start a fire to
cheer things up a bit, and we will decide on something and then do it!”

A crackling fire of brushwood was made in the big, mud-chinked
fire-place. The dancing gleams of light sent out strange, cavorting
shadows among the rafters overhead and filled the room with a luminous
glow.

Ranged along the wall was a row of bunks. Piles of soft upland prairie
grass, with buffalo robes laid on top, made comfortable beds. In these
bunks could be seen various tow-colored heads, and the regular, deep
breathing of healthy children could be heard. Tin pans and skillets hung
on the wall; across one corner was a cupboard with a calico curtain
before it. The only furniture in the house was a long pine table and
several hickory chairs. Stretched across the rafters overhead were
strings of dried pumpkin, several pieces of jerked venison, and bunches
of catnip and sage.

For a hunter’s camp it would have been just right. If there had been a
few guns in the corner and these five men there alone, each supplied with
a pipe, and one man with heels on a chair, playing an accordeon, the
sight would have gladdened our town-weary souls.

But not one of these five men used tobacco, they had no accordeon,
and worse—they had no guns. And the presence of the two women and the
children and the old horse tied in the corner, gave a semi-tragic setting
to the scene.

They were handsome fellows, these five tall, lithe young men, handsome in
their ragged raiment, and undismayed in their youthful strength.

“Go on, Jason, read the letter—we’ll imagine it has just come and that we
do not know a word of what it contains.”

The man addressed went to the cupboard in the corner and took out a
letter that seemed soiled and worn from much handling. He read:

                                   NORTH ELBA, N. Y., June 26, 1855.

    MY DEAR CHILDREN:

    Your letter telling of the outrages that have been inflicted
    upon you by the Pro-Slavery men has been received. I showed
    the letter to Mr. Gerritt Smith at Syracuse and also to others
    who are interested in Kansas affairs. They have placed in my
    hands upward of four hundred dollars to be used in supplying
    arms whereby you can protect yourselves and your families. I
    have purchased forty rifles and several thousand rounds of
    ammunition and will start them forward without delay by two
    trusty messengers. One of these messengers is your brother
    Oliver, who, although only sixteen years old, is very handy
    with a rifle. The other man I have known some years and I think
    you can depend on him in case of an emergency.

    You have settled on your land in legal manner and complied with
    all the requirements, and you must not be driven out simply
    because you prefer to have Kansas a free State. There are
    enough arms for yourselves and neighbors. These arms are to
    be used for your self protection, and should any force of men
    march against you to drive off your stock, or fire your wheat
    fields and hay stacks, you are to fight.

    Your mother and all of the children are quite well and join me
    in sending love. May God bless you ever, is the prayer of your
    father.

                              Yours truly,

                                                         JOHN BROWN.

When the letter was finished there was a silence broken only by the
neighing of the horse and the snoring of the children.

“If they run off our stock, we are to shoot! Oho, I see!”

“When aside from old Joe we haven’t a jack rabbit to call our own.”

“And all of the wheat has been burned.”

“And so has the hay.”

“Now read us what Vice-President David B. Atchison said in his address to
the Missourians—you have the clipping, Owen?”

“Yes, I have it, it is such pleasant reading, I did not care to throw it
away.”

“Read it then, we need something cheerful.”

“Well, here she goes:

    “‘The people of Kansas in their first election will decide for
    themselves whether slavery shall exist there or not. Now if
    a set of religious fanatics and demagogues a thousand miles
    away wish to give their money to abolitionize Kansas, it is
    your duty to counteract their knavish purpose: you who live
    but a day’s journey from the Territory. If you allow Kansas to
    be settled by these Puritans, they will run away your slaves
    and make you continual trouble. We are men of peace, and peace
    we will have, by God, even if we have to fight for it. Now,
    Missourians, do your duty, and decide this question. If any
    fool abolitionist gets in the way, so much the worse for him.’”

The young man ceased to read and again there was a silence.

“Is that all?” asked Jason after a pause.

“It’s enough, isn’t it?”

“Now, give us that manifesto.”

“The Missouri Governor’s?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, here it is”:

    “‘By consent of the parties, the present contest in Kansas
    is made the turning point in the destinies of slavery. If
    the North triumphs, abolitionism will grow more insolent and
    aggressive, until the utter ruin of the South is accomplished.
    If the South secures Kansas, she will extend slavery into all
    territory south of the fortieth parallel to the Rio Grande, and
    this, of course, will secure the pent-up institution of slavery
    a proper outlet and make a market for the rapidly increasing
    number of slaves. It will also restore the power of the South
    in Congress—giving us the Legislature and Senate. But if the
    North secures Kansas, the power of the South will gradually
    diminish, and the slave population will become valueless, for
    there will be too many slaves to the acre, so to speak. All
    depends upon prompt action at the present moment.’”

“Now, folks, you know the situation. What shall we do?” said the elder of
the young men.

“We will retreat with honor.”

“Yes, with honor, ’tis all we have.”

“But if the messengers with arms come after we’re gone?”

“No danger, they have been captured and killed, or else turned back.”

“And the post-office—shall we make one more trip to see if there’s any
word for us?”

“It’s too risky, if there were letters for us, ’tisn’t likely the
postmaster would give them to us, anyway.”

“Then we are to retreat?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“To-morrow night.”

“You have heard the motion, all ready for the question: All who favor a
Northward retreat under cover of darkness to-morrow night, hold up their
hands. Owen, Fred, Wealthy, John, Salmon, in favor, and Ellen won’t vote.
Women can vote here, sister Ellen, what do you say?”

“Wait three more days and three nights, and if help does not then come we
will go,” replied the young woman.

“Now what do you say to the last motion?”

“What’s the use!”

“We’ve already waited too long!”

“We’re nearly to the bottom of the meal barrel.”

“Well,” continued the self-appointed chairman, “whatever we do should be
unanimous. Ellen has got four babies and a good level head—she has as
much at stake as any of us, let’s follow her advice just this once. On
the third night after this we take up the march! Are you agreed?”

Two women and four men voted a reluctant aye. The old horse in the corner
pawed assent and the sleeping babies in the bunks made no protest.




CHAPTER IV

JOHN BROWN TO THE RESCUE


When John Brown received that letter from his sons, asking that he send
them weapons, did he comply with their request and send them arms? No, he
carried them arms.

Three nights had passed to the anxious watchers since they had made their
resolution to depart. They had packed just what was necessary for them
to take and no more; the rest of their belongings were to be abandoned.
A beacon light had been burned out on the prairie; only wolves and night
birds had answered to its friendly gleams, but now on the evening of
the fourth night there was a wild tumult of delight, for Oliver and the
“trusty messenger” had come.

“But we hardly expected you?” said Ellen, as she seated the old man in a
chair and they all crowded around him.

“You only said you’d send ‘a trusty messenger!’”

“And why not, pray?”

“And who is so trusty as he?” called Jason.

The children crowded around their grandfather, and he held a whole armful
on his knee, while several who could not reach the coveted haven of his
arms begged that he would show them the inside of his silver watch, and
others still demanded a bear story.

The two women busied themselves getting supper, and talked together
in great good-nature; the five brothers went in and out of the house
carrying boxes and bundles and bags that had been brought in the
one-horse spring wagon. They paused now and then, listening to the jolly
voice of Oliver as he stood in the wagon passing out the load. Oliver
was only a boy, barely sixteen, big, strong, and good-natured.

“You drove from Chicago?”

“Yes, shipped the guns by boat to Chicago—there we bought the horse and
wagon, loaded ’er up and made straight for Iowa; then into Nebraska and
down here.”

“Did anyone know that you had a wagon-load of guns?”

“Nary—why should they? You see the surveying instruments were sticking
out behind and people took us for surveyors. We made twenty miles a
day—walked all the way to make it easy for the horse—did you see my
shotgun?”

“No, where is it?”

“Under the seat there—double-barreled, stub and twist. We feasted on
prairie chickens the whole way. You oughter see me drop ’em on the wing.”

“When did you leave Chicago?”

“Oh, two months ago. You see father had to skirmish around for
money—Sharpe’s rifles cost like tarnation! Mrs. Brydges sent him two
hundred dollars, Gerritt Smith a hundred, and half a dozen other folks
fifty apiece. Oh, I tell you the North is with us. Kansas is the battle
ground, they say, and if we carry the Territory Anti it just means death
to Slavery. That’s what Frederick Douglass says, anyway—he was at our
house for a week—he’s a darkey himself and oughter know if anybody does.
Carry that powder a little careful, Salmon—what in the mischief! You aint
taking our horse in the house, are you?”

“Well, I guess so; horses aint safe outside, here.”

“Goodness me, what nice neighbors you’ve got, for sure! I must show you
how to shoot a Sharpe’s rifle to-morrow!”

And all this time old John Brown sat before the fire-place with four
babies on his knee and three on the floor at his feet, telling them bear
stories.

It’s been quite a while since we saw him last—nearly twenty years. Time
has not been o’er gentle with him, for although he is now only fifty-five
years of age, he looks sixty or more. He seems thinner; his smooth-shaven
face is brown and bronzed, and the strong jaw and sharp chin stand out in
bony outline. The dark blue eyes—wide set—have not lost their lustre, nor
has the stiff bristling hair grown thin, but it has turned to iron gray.
The strong face is seamed and scarred by life’s rough weather.

“Supper’s ready,” calls Wealthy. “Here, let me take the baby!”

But the baby clings to grandfather’s neck, and grandfather explains that
he has been the father of only twenty babies of his own, and that he
knows just how to take care of ’em. As the man arises we perceive that he
is not so tall as anyone of the six sons who stand waiting for him to say
grace. His shoulders droop, his neck is long, and his lithe form gives
him a look of height which he does not possess. He is not over five feet
ten; and his weight is under a hundred and fifty pounds, rather than over.

The burdens of life have robbed him of an inch in height; and care, with
hard work and manly abstinence, has made him a bundle of bone and wiry
sinews. As he sits at the table with the baby on his lap, now and then
giving the youngster a bite and talking to the chubby rogue in foolish
baby prattle, your heart goes out to him as you look on his strange, sad
countenance. Then you see that massive jaw and catch the gleam of those
threatening eyes and you draw back—you do not understand him.

This is a disappointed man we see: that is certain. He is in perfect
health and, therefore, not nervous, but he has a couchant look at times.
The face shows disappointment; it speaks of hopes too high for earth,
ambitions unrealized, and aspirations that cannot be gratified this side
of the grave.

Failure had followed John Brown for twenty years with dogged steps. In
Pennsylvania, wolves, bears, and wild-cats had thinned his pretty flocks
of sheep. The dense woods were not adapted for pasturage and he soon
saw that to save his sheep he must return them to the open. So with the
help of the two oldest boys the herds were driven back to “the Western
Reserve.”

For a time the sheep prospered in Ohio and large fleeces brought fair
prices; but it soon became evident that the mill-owners of the East, to
whom the farmers of the Western Reserve sent their wool, did not treat
them honestly. In fact, the farmers were being fleeced as well as their
flocks.

They held meetings and discussed the question of what was best to do; and
it was decided that if they had a responsible agent in the East to whom
they could ship, he would see that the wool was properly graded and sold
for what it was worth, and the proceeds, less a fair commission, could be
returned to them. But who should go?

There seemed to be only one man who had the confidence of the
wool-growers in all that section of country, and that was John Brown.
Many people did not like him; they thought him stubborn and fanatical,
but he knew how to grade wool, he had some education, and he was honest.
No one ever doubted his integrity and even his open enemies would have
trusted him.

So he sold out his herds and went to Springfield, Mass., to act as agent
for the wool-growers. But the mill-owners did not like John Brown. When
they bought wool of him and asked him to put No. 2 wool in No. 1 sacks
and label it No. 1, shipping it to certain places for them, he perversely
declined to do it. They could not manipulate him, and they soon invented
a plan by which they could do without him. They sent agents of their own
straight to Brown’s clients in Ohio and they represented that John Brown
was paying a deal more attention to educating negroes than to selling
wool. More than this, he had actually secreted runaway slaves in his
warehouse; and on one occasion when officers were close upon the track of
a fugitive, the black man had been sewn up in a sack of wool and shipped
off by freight.

The worst about these accusations was they were founded on fact; and so
plausibly was the plea put forth that John Brown was not trustworthy,
that the farmers—ever suspicious—ceased to have faith in him, and sold
their wool to those wily agents who paid such good prices for it.

In short, the mill-owners set about to ruin Brown’s business, and they
succeeded. They had no hazy ventures on hand for assisting fugitives, and
were guiltless of any attempt to educate either white or black folks;
they attended strictly to their own affairs, and against them Brown, with
his limited capital and divided mind, could not compete.

But the restless years had brought Brown into acquaintanceship with some
strong men. Abolition instincts took him to Boston occasionally, and
there he met a young man by the name of F. B. Sanborn who presented him
to Theodore Parker, Wendell Phillips, and Dr. Cabot.

Gerritt Smith had been introduced to him by letter from Mrs. Brydges,
and when it became certain that he would have to give up his business at
Springfield, Smith offered to turn over to him a large tract of land in
the Adirondack Mountains to be parceled out to colored men. And Brown’s
business was to show these refugees how to farm and to teach them in
various ways.

Very gladly did Brown accept the offer. He moved to North Elba, N. Y.,
and the old pioneer life that he knew so well was again taken up. There
were many discouragements, for the ignorant blacks, used to the soft
ways of the cities where they had acted as coachmen, barbers and house
servants, could not quickly adapt themselves to the rough, outdoor life
of the mountains, and very often they left their would-be helper and
returned to voluntary bondage.

John Jr., Jason and Owen had moved back to the Western Reserve and were
engaged in farming and stock raising. Part of the time their father was
with them, and part of the time he was at North Elba.

And all these years Margaret Brydges held fast to her one idea that the
slaves must be made free. She had not only used the income from her
fortune, but had encroached on the principal. Her house was a refuge and
a school, and Ruth Crosby was her faithful friend and coadjutor. But
never once in all these years had John Brown and Margaret met.

So the years went hurrying by—years of constant endeavor, contracting
finances, of disappointment, of sorrow and defeat.

But the battle for principle ever has its compensation, and the bond of
friendship that held these faithful workers in freedom’s cause was of
a kind unsullied by any selfish taint. It was a friendship noble and
sincere; and the weekly letter from Margaret Brydges to John Brown was
to him a consolation and a solace for all the ills and stings of fortune.
As we have already seen, five of John Brown’s sons had followed the tide
of emigration to Kansas. Difficulty had come to them; they had written to
their old poverty-stricken father at North Elba for help. He was poorer
than they, yet he had friends who believed in him, and the friends one
makes in adversity can always be relied upon.

He made six copies of that appeal from his sons, and sent these six
copies to six friends. It was not long before he had arms for fifty men
and over a thousand dollars in cash.

Leaving his wife and family of five children at North Elba, he took
Oliver, his oldest boy then at home, and started for Kansas.

And now we see him at his destination seated at the supper table with the
baby on his knee.

“And so you have no cattle at all?” mused the old man.

“Not a horn!” answered Jason.

“And no horses, I believe you said?”

“Not a hoof, save that one old horse there.”

“And you are quite sure that this Carver you have been telling me of is
the man who ran them off?”

“Yes, we are sure of it.”

“Ah, well, I will go and see Captain Carver to-morrow.”




CHAPTER V

A LITTLE MATTER OF DIPLOMACY


Whenever two men meet for the first time there is usually a swift,
unspoken understanding, and one acknowledges the other master.

Captain Carver was large, stout, good-natured, glib of tongue, sociable,
and ready. But now his wit did not seem to fit, his jokes fell flat, and
his loud, easy ways were out of keeping. He sat on the porch and tilted
nervously on one leg of the chair: “So you are from York State, be you?”

“Yes,” said the visitor.

“What part o’ York State?”

“The northern.”

“Been here long? ’Scuse my askin’.”

“I have just arrived. I came purposely to see you.”

Then there was a pause. Captain Carver coughed, spat, removed a big chew
of tobacco and replaced it with a larger one. He handed the pouch of
tobacco towards the visitor, who refused it with a half smile.

“Hem—ah—a’ purpose to see me?”

“Yes.”

“And where hev I saw you before—your face is familiar!”

“You never saw me before.”

“And you said, I b’lieve, that you did not care to—talk about your errand
till after dinner.”

“That is what I said.”

“Wall, the horn has blowed, less go in.”

The visitor was a smooth-shaven, elderly man. He wore a seedy suit of
black and a black stock. He carried a cotton umbrella, and about his neck
was a black tape, fastened to a silver watch.

Captain Carver felt strangely uneasy in the presence of this
self-contained stranger; he would have liked to throttle him on the spot;
he half believed the visitor was a preacher, so he dared not swear; his
language had to be curtailed, and was awkward in the extreme. After
dinner the guest and host again moved out on the veranda.

“Stranger, you are a perfect gent, but your manner is dam queer—leastways
peculiar, that is, see? no ’fense. Now tell me what you want!”

“Have you a room where we can talk together by ourselves?”

“’Taint necessary, is it?”

“Yes.”

Carver now evidently thought he had a lunatic to deal with and deemed it
best to humor him. He led the way into a little musty parlor and threw
open the window. The visitor followed and closed the door.

“My name is Brown. Five of my sons live across the line in Kansas, and as
you drove away their cattle, I have come to see about getting them back.”

“Who drove away their cattle?”

“You.”

“It’s a lie.”

“Sit down, please, we had better be calm about this matter.”

“Did you say I stole those cattle?”

“Yes.”

“If you wasn’t an old man, I’d kill you.”

“You need not mind my age!”

Carver sat down, visibly agitated, and very much at a disadvantage in
parleying with John Brown.

“Now, you took fourteen head of cattle and twelve head of horses
belonging to my sons—”

“You are a liar, and a sneaking, miserable Yankee lawyer—I see through
you—now, I’ll give you five minutes to climb out o’ here!”

“But I’m not going!”

“Then I’ll kill you.”

“That will prevent my being back on the other side of the river at three
o’clock!”

“What of it, old Yank?”

“Why, if I’m not back there at three o’clock, my men will come across and
hang you!”

“Ha, ha, hang me, will they! why I’ve full twenty men about this ranch,
all armed!”

“And if you had twice twenty, my posse could scatter them all, release
every slave you have, burn your buildings and hang you beside—all before
sundown.”

“You say you have to git back by three o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“Wall, go now!”

“Will you return those cattle and horses you took?”

“Old man, let’s be decent now—’fore God, I’ve took no stock from no one.”

“But you have thousands of acres of land here. You have hundreds of
cattle in these valleys and hills, and you have whole herds of horses. It
will be no hardship for you to return this stock!”

“Wall now, Brown—it’s jest possible—jest barely possible that some o’
your stock got accidentally mixed with ourn—and if you air sure of it,
dead sure, why, as an honest man, I’m bound to return ’em. Does that
satisfy you?”

“That is satisfactory.”

“Wall, shake then.”

So they shook hands. And the free and easy banter of Captain Carver came
back.

The two men walked out on the veranda, and the Captain said he supposed
there was no need of offering Mr. Brown whiskey and Mr. Brown said there
was no need. Then Captain Carver called to a colored man, who was working
in the yard and ordered him to saddle a couple of horses.

“You see, Parson Brown, your stock is all mixed in and scattered
hell-west and crooked ways, so you’ll jest have to pick out what’s handy.
Is that all right?”

“Yes, that’s all right.”

“Now you air a perfect gent—it’s a pleasure to do business with a man
like you—we’ve all got to give and take a little in this world. Am I
right, Elder Brown?”

“Yes, you are surely right.”

They mounted the horses and rode up the valley for two or three miles,
followed by three negro boys on mustangs. Brown picked out fourteen head
of cattle and twelve horses, and the boys were ordered to cut the stock
out from the herd and corral them.

“You’ve got to git back by three, I b’lieve,” said the Captain with a
forced smile.

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t have you miss it for a good deal—now, Brown, you really did
not think you scared me?”

“No, you are a man not easily frightened!”

“Right you air—put ’er thar.”

They shook hands, as their horses trotted along side by side.

“And the stock—will you come for ’em?”

“I would like you to deliver the horses and cattle at the grove across
the river to-morrow morning at eight o’clock.”

“Wall, for old ’quaintance sake, I’ll do it. To-morrow at eight?”

“Yes.”

By this time they were back at the house. They dismounted, again shook
hands, and the old man took his umbrella and departed; promising on the
other’s request to call whenever he happened that way.

The next morning at eight o’clock, Owen and Jason found the fourteen
head of cattle and the twelve horses at the grove, all exactly as
promised.




CHAPTER VI

A SHERIFF INTERVIEWED


There was a great jubilee when the cattle and horses came trooping back
to Brownsville. To be sure, the cattle were not quite so good as the ones
that had been lost, but the horses were better. These were all unbroken
steeds and there was quite a time taming them, but this only served for
sport to the hardy young men.

Plowing was begun at once for fall wheat. Seed and implements and
provisions had to be bought, so two of the brothers started for Lawrence,
each duly armed with a Sharpe’s rifle, two pistols and a dirk. The father
insisted that these arms should be carried in plain view “for the moral
effect.”

The young men were everywhere treated with great respect, and the
storekeepers of Lawrence welcomed them as old friends as soon as they saw
that there was money to pay for their purchases.

A corral was built of strong poles and every night the stock was driven
in and a man placed on watch; a double bar was placed on the door, and
loop holes arranged in the house that commanded every direction. But no
one came near to molest them.

Politically, the Territory was in the hands of the Pro-Slavery men, for
the March election had placed them in power. And wherever the authorities
were called upon to decide disputes between two men, if one happened
to be a Free-State man, he surely got the worst of it. The threat was
continually being made that the Territory would soon be so hot that no
Abolitionist could stay there. Several Free-State men had been arrested
on the charge of attending Abolitionist meetings, this act having been
made a crime by the bogus legislature. These men had been flogged and
ordered to leave the territory at once; and a good many had complied. It
is a noteworthy fact, however, that the men who were thus molested were
inoffensive individuals and were always taken at a disadvantage. Life is
sweet, and the Missourians, who made up the Sheriff’s posse, did not care
to run up against men who might kill.

Hearing of these arrests that were being made near him, John Brown wrote
a letter to Sheriff Jones, who lived at Westport, Missouri—where he was
also postmaster—stating that the writer had attended Abolition meetings
at Osawatomie, and if his act was against the law, the Sheriff was
invited to come out and arrest him.

To this letter, the Sheriff, with a fine sense of humor, replied that if
Brown considered himself guilty of breaking the laws he would better come
in and give himself up. The Sheriff then added a P. S. to the effect that
he had his eye on the Browns and would look after their case later.

Within a week after this Jason was out on the prairie only a mile from
home and was fired at by someone secreted in the slough grass. The bullet
passed through his hat and he dropped to the ground, which act probably
saved his life, for had he started to run, other shots would probably
have been fired.

That same day three other Anti-Slavery men in the neighborhood were fired
on. Two of these men were killed outright by the unseen foes, but the
third man, Charles Dow by name, who was at work in a field, started to
run for his wagon which was near. In this wagon was a Sharpe’s rifle,
and the assailants doubtless knew the fact; and they knew further that if
Dow got that rifle in his hands, he would at once go gunning for them.

So, out of a gully arose one, Franklin Coleman, a well-known Pro-Slavery
bully, and he ran with gun in hand to head off Dow. It was a race for
life. They were approaching the wagon from nearly opposite directions,
but seeing that Dow would reach the wagon first, Coleman raised his
shotgun and from only fifty feet away, sent a charge of slugs into the
breast of young Dow, who fell dead without a groan.

From a hillock a hundred yards away, Dow’s partner, Jacob Branson,
witnessed the entire affair.

Dow and Branson lived together, and their house was about twelve miles
southeast of Brownsville. It was ten o’clock that night before news of
the murder reached the Browns, and then only accidentally, by a herdsman
who was looking for stray cattle.

Dow had been a universal favorite among the Anti-Slavery men. He was a
young man—barely twenty. He was frank, generous and good-natured to a
fault, and his death came to the Browns as a personal sorrow.

“And where is Branson?” asked John Brown of the man who brought the news.

“Why, at home, I s’pose.”

“Alone?”

“No, his wife and children are there.”

“No one else?”

“No one but the dead man. Branson and his wife carried the corpse to
the house, and I saw it there two hours ago, all laid out in his Sunday
clothes.”

“And you left Branson and his wife there alone?”

“Yes, they are going to bury Dow’s body to-morrow.”

“But they will never do it.”

“Why?”

“Branson himself will be dead.”

“What makes you say so?”

“He witnessed this murder—he saw Coleman do the deed, and the murderers
cannot afford to let him live. Another thing, the shooting to-day shows
that there is an organized effort to drive us out. If we go to Branson’s,
we may be in time to save him.”

“For his wife’s sake, go at once,” exclaimed Ellen.

“And leave you here?” asked Jason.

“We can fight,” said Ellen, “we will bar the door, and have a rifle at
every port-hole.”

“No, Jason and John must stay with you and the children—no doubt there
are enemies around the house now, watching our movements—the rest of us
will go—boys, saddle the horses!”

The ranchman who had brought the news, suddenly forgot his stray stock
and was in for the adventure.

In ten minutes’ time the six horsemen, each heavily armed, were riding at
a smart trot in the direction of Branson’s ranch.

It was the twenty-first of November and the night was dark and cold;
a slight drizzling rain was falling. An hour had passed and they were
nearing the house. Twinkling lights were seen and soon pistol shots could
be heard echoing like small cannon across the silent night.

The men dismounted and leaving the six horses in charge of Oliver, they
separated, twenty feet apart, and walked briskly forward.

On approaching the house they found it surrounded by a cordon of mounted
men, a full score in number. Salmon cocked his gun and drew a bead on
a horseman who stood out against the sky, not fifty yards away. In a
whisper he begged his father for permission to shoot, but he was ordered
to put down his gun. Then he wanted to kill the horse—it would create a
panic! But no, John Brown would not have it. The five men withdrew into a
thicket to consult.

“Let each one of us pick his man—that will drop five of them, and the
rest will likely scamper. Then as they run we can get a few more—it’s the
only way,” said Owen.

“No, if we shoot, they will kill Branson. It’s barely possible they only
want to arrest him, and scare him thoroughly, then order him out of the
country,” said Frederick.

“I think Fred is right,” said the father. “We must shed no blood unless
it is positively necessary. If they are taking Branson away we will
rescue him, and we may get him away alive; but if we begin to shoot now,
we spoil our one chance of saving him!”

“Fall in!” came a clear, ringing voice from the house a quarter of a mile
away.

The clouds went hurrying across the sky and for an instant the moon shone
through a rift. The horsemen had broken their circle and were coming
down the slope from the house in a bunch. Their horses were walking, and
there was no disorder or hilarity in their movements. This absence of
drunkenness convinced old man Brown that it was a Sheriff’s posse, acting
under the leadership of a cool head.

“Lay low, boys, cock your guns, and under no conditions shoot until they
do. At the first sign they give of fight, pour in the lead on ’em and
kill as many as you can!”

The place where they crouched was a hazel patch, not ten feet from
the roadway, that was here lined on both sides by the low bushes. The
approaching horsemen were only a hundred yards away—seventy-five—fifty—

Old man Brown had left his rifle in the bushes and crawled out and lain
flat down in the road.

As the gray horse of the leader of the party was almost upon him, he
arose like a shadow and called: “Halt!”

The horses evidently knew the word, for they halted with a jerk, and the
gray horse shied as his master attempted to draw a pistol.

“The first man who raises a gun dies—my men are lying all about here,
with cocked rifles drawn on you!”

“What do you want, anyway?” civilly asked the leader of the party, who
had now gotten his horse back into the road.

“Who are you?” asked Brown.

“Me? I’m Sheriff Jones on official business, and neighbor, I’ll tell you,
you are doing a mighty serious thing in stopping me—please step aside and
let us pass.”

“No sir, I do not let you pass—”

“Well, this is funny,” laughed the Sheriff, “but what do you want? are
you crazy, or a beggar or what! What the devil are you doing out at this
time of night, anyway?”

“I am not alone—my men can kill every one of you in ten seconds, if I
give the word—here, Salmon, hold your rifle on Mr. Jones, and move out in
the road!”

A tall form arose and the moon sent a gleam of light across the gun
barrel that was pointed straight at the breast of Jones.

“Don’t shoot! don’t shoot!” pleaded Jones, in a trembling voice.

“Now, where is Branson?” demanded John Brown.

“Here I am,” came a voice from the center of the group of horsemen.

“Ride forward, Branson.”

“I can’t—I’m tied and a man is leading my mule.”

“For Christ sake, back there, turn that mule loose and give the brute a
kick to send it forward, I am looking down a gun,” groaned Sheriff Jones.

There was a push, a kick, a “gee-up,” a damn, and forward came the mule.

“Hold your rifle on Jones, Salmon, and bore him through the heart if a
man in the line makes a move.”

Brown took hold of the lariat that was around the mule’s neck and led the
animal into the bushes.

“Hold your bead on him, Salmon! steady, boys, don’t shoot unless they try
it first! Now, Jones! Forward-d-d m-m-march!!”

The posse moved forward as one rider. The horses began to trot,—then
galloped and soon the sounds that came back on the night-wind told that
they had broken into a furious run. Old man Brown put his ear to the
ground: the fast receding hoof-beats were a mile away.




CHAPTER VII

THE BAPTISM OF BLOOD


Two men went back to bring up the horses, and they found Oliver full of
taunt because the Sheriff’s posse were allowed to escape whole.

Branson’s feet had been tied under the mule’s belly, and his hands
fastened behind his back. The thongs were quickly cut, and the party
returned to the house, where the man’s wife was found lying on the floor
in a dead faint, the four little children frantic with fear. When the
woman recovered her senses and found her husband alive, he seemed to her
like one raised from the dead.

Owen’s bachelor experiences had made him an expert cook, and putting on
an apron he proceeded to do the honors. A good fire was soon crackling
in the fire-place, and ere long bacon was sizzling in a spider and the
coffee pot sputtering.

Salmon set the table and the sly antics that he and Owen indulged in set
the hysterical Mrs. Branson into a laughing fit; the children looked on
with big, open, wondering eyes, while Mr. Branson forgot the deep red
marks about his wrists and smilingly begged everybody “to make themselves
to hum.”

When this midnight dinner was ready, John Brown offered a solemn prayer,
and all sat down. They ate with zest, and the young men were inclined to
joke and tell stories; for we never are so gay as after work well done.
The sudden change from direst calamity to security also had a peculiarly
stimulating effect on the man and his wife; gratitude to their rescuers
and joy for their deliverance filled their hearts; they thought not of
the morrow.

Bill, the ranchman, made awkward jokes and imitated the pleading voice of
Sheriff Jones when he begged, “Don’t shoot! don’t shoot!”

The meal being over, the hilarious Bill picked up an accordeon and
proceeded to do a double shuffle; his clinking spurs on the sanded floor
and the squeaky accordeon making music that was not classic but merry
withal.

Old man Brown arose and threw open a door that led into an adjoining
room. The room was dark, but the clouds having drifted away, the moon was
shining full and free through the open window. The pale rays fell on the
calm, white face of Charles Dow. There he lay, the stiff hands folded
across the breast, where the cold lead of hate had gone home. The music
stopped, the dancing ceased, and the dancer gasped, “My God! I forgot.”

“I think we’d better go,” said the old man.

“But you will not leave us—don’t, oh, please don’t!” cried the woman.

“No, you must go, too! Branson, hitch your team to the lumber wagon, you
must all go with us. They will be back for you, and there will yet be
blood shed—the trouble has just begun. Don’t stare so at me, Branson, go
hitch up that team—help him, Oliver; you too, Fred.”

The cover of the plain pine box was screwed down and the coffin carried
out and placed in the wagon.

Strong arms carried the children out, the fire was banked, the lights put
out, and the ten-mile march across the prairie begun.

It lacked an hour of daylight when Brownsville was reached.

The watchers were rejoiced to get their own back safe and sound—rejoiced,
too, to think that they had accomplished their errand and rescued the
imperiled Branson without bloodshed. Even that the dead had been made
safe from insult, and brought away to be given a decent burial, was a
cause for congratulation.

After the news had been given, and the first greetings were over, the old
man sought to repress the excess of exultation.

“But how we made them scamper,” said Salmon.

“Gently, my son! The issue is greater than any of you think, and before
peace comes, Kansas, if not the entire country, will be baptized with
blood!”

“What’s that?”

“Why, look you, my children, all of you; what have we done to-night? We
have resisted the power of the State! For the moment, through strategy,
we have achieved a small victory, but when men resist the law of the land
and appeal to a Higher Law, they must fight, aye, must fling away their
lives if necessary. Will you do that?”

“We will, we will!”

The answer came back clear and strong. Enthusiasm was in the air.

“Yes, my children—it is well that you should realize the situation. The
entire country—the world is now looking to Kansas! Shall slavery exist
or shall it not? Kansas must decide. If we make this a Free State there
will not be a slave in the United States in five years from to-day. If
we are defeated and Kansas remains as it is—a Slave State—the question
will sleep for a hundred years. We are doing God’s work, and if we falter
now, all the efforts of all men and women who have worked fifty years for
emancipation will go for naught! The whole question is focused right here
and it is for us to deal with! The time is ripe—we have struck the first
blow, and now we must fight!”

The old man was standing—his voice was raised—his eyes flashed fire: “We
must fight!” he repeated.

“But they have gone—can’t we go back to our work and live in peace,”
asked Mrs. Branson.

“No, we have only frightened a dozen men, and that just for a moment.
They started to take your husband and they will do it yet if they can.
We have only angered them, and I doubt not at this moment a force of two
hundred men is being collected to take him, and also to arrest us who
rescued him. This force will be here within twenty-four hours, and we
must get in all the Anti-Slavery neighbors and stand by Branson though
blood flows like water!”

There was no time for further talk. A horseman dashed in to give
information that Branson’s house and barn were burning “and the whole
family probably murdered.”

“Not exactly murdered—here we are, all safe!” remarked Branson, appearing
at the door.

“Thank God, but your house and barn have all gone in smoke.”

“And not mine alone, evidently!”

Across the prairie in various directions could be seen the dull
reflections of fires.

“You see,” continued the messenger, “I’ve never had anything to say on
this slavery matter, and the Pros think I’m with ’em, because I’m from
Tennessee. Sheriff Jones and a posse came to my house last night and said
they had been attacked by a hundred Yanks and a prisoner taken away from
them after a hard fight. They insisted that I go with ’em and rouse all
the Pros in the country; so they sent me and two other fellows off in one
direction and I slipped off here to you; messengers have been sent to
Missouri for help and they are going to drive all the Free-State men out
of the Territory, once for all.”

Old John Brown took this man’s excited statements with a grain of salt.
He knew full well that Sheriff Jones would organize a larger posse and
would also call on the “Kansas Militia” to help him if necessary. This
“Kansas Militia” was made up of Pro-Slavery men who lived in Kansas and
of all the Missourians that could be mustered. The arms and ammunition
were supplied at the expense of the Territory—this by order of Governor
Shannon who had recently been appointed.

It was now daylight and three of the young men went out to the little
grove near by to dig a grave. The women were busy preparing breakfast,
and as they worked the old man sat out on a log and sketched with a
pencil the words: “C. Dow—aged 20. Murdered, Nov. 21, 1855,” on a rough
oak slab and began carving them out with a jackknife. And as he bent
over the slab his mind was busy, and these were his thoughts:

“It will not do to secrete this man Branson—he must be brought out
boldly—everyone must know that he is in my keeping. The Pros must be
invited to take him if they can, and those who wish to enroll themselves
on the Lord’s side will now have an opportunity to do so! I’ll take the
man to Lawrence so everyone will understand—this whole affair must now
be conducted in daylight, and the people must know where we are on this
issue. We stand or fall!”

Two hours after this, the pine box containing the body of Charles Dow was
carried to its last resting-place in the little grove. The old man read
a chapter from the Bible, a solemn hymn was sung, a prayer was said, the
grave was filled up, mounded, and the oaken slab placed at the head.

The little company returned to the house and began carefully testing
their firearms.

All the young men were anxious to take part in the impending fight, and
in order to decide who should stay and protect the women and children,
lots were cast. Owen and Jason were destined to stay behind. They
accepted their lot with rather wry faces.

A week’s provisions were packed in one of the wagons and the men, mounted
on horseback, moved away across the cheerless plain. They zigzagged
this way and that, so as to stop at as many houses as possible. At each
place, regardless of whether the settler was a Southron or a Free-State
man, there was told the brief story of the murder of Dow, the arrest of
Branson and the fact of his rescue. And so they moved on, gathering force
as they traveled, and when Lawrence was reached, fully a hundred men
guarded the frightened Branson.

The Pro-Slavery capital had been moved from Lawrence to Lecompton, on
account of Lawrence being made up largely of Free-State men. There was
a rivalry between the two towns, and during the night previous to the
advent of the Browns, word had been brought that a plan was on foot to
march a force against the town of Lawrence and “wipe it off the face of
the earth.” This was principally on account of a newspaper published at
Lawrence, called the _Herald of Freedom_. The people were thoroughly
frightened, the stores were all closed and barricaded, and the hundred
and fifty men who made up the town were in doubt whether to fly, fight
or make peace with their enemies by agreeing to cease all Anti-Slavery
agitation.

The first effect of the advent of John Brown’s company was one of great
rejoicing—here was a body of men who could and would protect them. But
the enthusiasm soon turned to fear, and men came to Brown urging him to
withdraw at once and take Branson with him, for their presence would
surely bring down a mob on the place that would work mad ruin—a drunken,
howling mob that would spare neither man, woman nor child.

But old man Brown concluded he would stay. He practically took possession
of the place—he called upon the young editor—Holcomb by name, who had
brought the town into disrepute and ordered him to get out the “hottest
Abolition issue that ever was printed”; and the young editor cheerfully
began working paste-pot, shears and pen to that end. All people who did
not believe in the Free-State issue were asked to leave. None left, but
two men who had made speeches from the hotel veranda, disaffecting the
people, were drummed out of town.

Breastworks were thrown up on all sides, cattle driven inside, and
preparations made to withstand a siege. The Pro-Slavery men began to
arrive, but they did not attempt to enter town. They came over the
Missouri line on foot, in wagons, on horses and mules. They were armed
with shotguns, squirrel rifles, pitchforks, knives, and clubs. Evidently
they had whiskey, and to spare, for they were noisy in the extreme, but
always kept out of range of the Sharpe’s rifles at the breastworks. This
mob was made up of fully two thousand men. They formed a circle around
the town, where two hundred and fifty determined men were corraled.

The officers of the besieging party could not bring their half-drunken
men up to the sticking point where they would charge. A charge meant sure
and certain death, to a number, at least. The place could only be taken
by a determined assault, and as the Missourians would not charge, and
to starve the town out might take weeks, or even months, they adopted
another scheme.

A messenger was sent into town under flag of truce, with a letter from
Sheriff Jones, who now signed himself “General.” This letter was to the
effect that if Branson and the editor of the seditious newspaper were
immediately surrendered, amnesty would be granted to all others and the
besieging force withdrawn. But if these “liberal conditions” were not
accepted, one-half of the besieging army would remain and the other would
proceed to burn and destroy all property belonging to Free-State men in
Kansas, and the welfare of the wives and children of all Abolitionists
could not be vouched for. With this letter was a personal letter from
Governor Shannon to Brown, urging him to accept the terms, as the men
could not much longer be restrained.

It was a terrible threat; many of these men penned up there in Lawrence
had left their families unprotected, and now a fate might befall them
worse than death.

Brown thought of the three women and his own grandchildren out there on
the prairie. To be sure, two brave men guarded them, but at night hay
could easily be piled against the house and the place fired.

He read the terms of capitulation the second time. He read the threat,
and then he wrote a civil letter asking for a personal interview with
Governor Shannon.




CHAPTER VIII

DIPLOMACY SUPPLEMENTED BY FORTY-FOUR


Governor Shannon was a slave owner and in outspoken sympathy with all
things Southern. He was a lawyer by profession, a stump orator of no mean
repute, and as unscrupulous a politician as ever wormed himself into
office. But the natural cleverness of the man had suffered a partial
eclipse through “excessive use of stimulants,” as the Life Insurance
Companies would say. Yet the tone of authority was in his voice and it
was plain that he expected his wishes to be carried out. For when soft
diplomacy failed he resorted to a bulldozing manner that had made him
a power in the court room, where he not only ruled the jury but often
dictated to the judge.

Fully believing that the Yankee forces were ready to give up, he was
anxious to go in and add to his laurels by receiving their surrender.
Of course, an insignificant force of less than three hundred could not
successfully fight two thousand! Yet there might be bloodshed, and to
avert this and win without the shot of a gun would be a victory that the
entire world must needs applaud.

So reasoned Governor Shannon. He put on a clean shirt and a high,
starched collar; he stroked his high, white hat until the fur shone like
mica in the clear sunshine; his long, black broadcloth was caught at the
waist by a single button, and with one hand thrust into his waistcoat
and the other holding a gold-headed cane, he came jauntily across the
prairie, followed by a single small negro, tightly dressed in blue, with
rows on rows of brass buttons.

Like Goliath he strode forward in full sight of both armies. But unlike
Goliath, Governor Shannon was a gentleman—a perfect gentleman. He
proposed to show the Pro-Slavery men that “personal presence” was more
than a shotgun, and he would teach the Yankees that a true Southern
gentleman was neither a coward nor a ruffian.

Old man Brown in rusty jeans stood out on a rampart ready to receive His
Excellency. His Excellency made a sign that Brown should approach; Brown
did so, and out on the plain before the eyes of all they shook hands.

“You are in charge, I believe, of the—the rebel forces!”

“Yes, I am in charge.”

“And your name?”

“Brown.”

“Ah, now, friend Brown—or Captain Brown, should I say?—Captain Brown, you
see the futility of holding out longer. I am glad you are so sensible—we
must not shed blood, and you see I have been very patient in not allowing
my troops to rush in and overpower you. But now you surrender with honor,
shall we conclude arrangements right here in the presence of both armies?”

“I think, Your Excellency, we had better arrange matters in the privacy
of a room, where just you and I will be together—we have no writing
material here!”

“Very well, I am glad you are not inclined to be quarrelsome!”

The Governor patronizingly took the arm of the old man, and they walked
up over the earthworks and along the main street of the village. The
Governor bowed to right and left as they walked, lifting his hat to
the staring women who stood with babies in their arms, looking on in
astonishment.

The two men reached the hotel, walked up the steps, and Brown led the way
into a room that had been prepared. The little brass-buttoned nigger,
unconscious representative of all the trouble, remained in the hallway.
When the two men reached the room, the Governor removed his hat, set his
cane in a corner, and sat down at the table where pens and paper were
spread out. He began writing and for a minute nothing was heard but the
rapid scratching of a pen as it ran in great attorney scratches across,
again and again across, the paper.

“What are you writing?” asked Brown, after near a page of foolscap had
been covered.

“Don’t interrupt me, man—your terms of surrender, of course!”

And scratch, scratch, scratch went the lawyer’s pen.

“Hadn’t we better agree on terms first?”

“I thought we had!”

“Why did you think so?”

“I told you the terms and you made no objection to them—there is an extra
item I intend to put in, though!”

“What is it?”

“That every Yankee in Kansas sign an agreement not to discuss slavery in
any way, nor interfere, either by word or act, with the institution.”

“And you know all the Yankees?”

“I have a list here in my pocket of every Abolitionist in Kansas—this
is a Slave State, and people, who will not conform to our laws, will be
gently placed over the border—if nothing worse!”

“And beside this——”

“You must surrender Holcomb, the editor, and Branson, the murderer.”

“The murderer?”

“Yes, he killed his partner, Charles Dow. My Sheriff arrested Branson,
and you rescued him—but I will pardon you, provided you promptly give the
men up, and agree to leave the State, or give up all Abolition agitation.”

Scratch, scratch, scratch went the pen.

“But suppose I reject your terms!”

“You will not be so foolish.”

“Why?”

“Because if you do not accept my terms, one-half of this army that now
surrounds you will go burn your barns, ravish your women and kill your
children; the other half will stay here and hold you captive.”

“Governor Shannon!”

The Governor ceased writing with a start and looked up.

“Governor Shannon, I refuse your terms!”

“Very well, then I will go back and tell my men that you refuse to accept
pardon.”

“No, you do not leave this room!”

Brown stepped to a bureau, opened a drawer, and took out a long, navy
revolver. Shannon sank back into his chair, his teeth chattering with
fear.

“What—what—what are you doing!—don’t you know I am here under a flag of
truce, that I’m Governor of Kansas! That I am unarmed! Have you forgotten
all rules of war?”

“Yes, Mister Shannon, I have forgotten all rules of war—when the
Governor of Kansas talks of allowing a mob of ruffians to ravish women,
and kill children, I forget all rules of warfare. I intend to shoot you
through the head with this pistol.”

The click-click of the cocking pistol echoed through the silence.

“Hold on, for God’s sake, you would not murder me?”

“Yes, I will kill you! Order your entire mob to go to their homes, or I
will kill you, as sure as I stand here!”

“But they will not go!”

“Destroy those sheets you have written, and write as I dictate.”

The sheets were crumpled into balls, tossed aside, and Governor Shannon,
at the dictation of John Brown, wrote this message:

                                           LAWRENCE, Nov. 23d, 1855.

    TO GENERAL JONES, Commanding:

    Terms of peace fully agreed on. Order every Missourian and
    every man in your command, to return home at once. Under no
    conditions must the property of Free-State men be interfered
    with.

                                                  SHANNON, Governor.

Scratch, scratch, scratch went the pen—the message was duly directed, the
small, buttoned negro was called in and told to run with it straight to
General Jones. Two men were called in and ordered by John Brown to hold
Governor Shannon prisoner.

Old man Brown went down and stood on the earthworks, watching the colored
youth carrying the message across to the camp of the enemy. He saw the
boy disappear among the tents and wagons.

In five minutes there was a great shout and the whole camp was astir.

“The damn Yanks have accepted our terms—and we are off for home!”
arose the shouts. The camp was breaking up, and in half an hour, the
Missourians were streaming across towards the East—straight for home,
glad that the war was over and that their skins were whole. It was cold
and uncomfortable out there, anyway.

“Hurrah for Shannon! hip—hip—hurrah, hip—hip—hurrah! hip—hip—hurrah!!”

But Shannon was still a prisoner. He signed an agreement to recognize
all Abolition military companies as Kansas Militia, and he further
commissioned “J. Brown” as Captain. He also issued an order to Sheriff
Jones, not to interfere with Branson, Holcomb, or any Free-State man on
account of any offense that they were supposed to have committed.

A message was sent out with word that Governor Shannon wished to see
Sheriff Jones. The Sheriff came in with a single deputy—the rest of his
force having departed; but the Sheriff felt fully able to manage Branson
and Holcomb, provided that the Yanks did not interfere—and of course they
would not, now that they had surrendered.

Sheriff Jones decided he would just handcuff Branson and Holcomb
together, and march them off to the jail at Lecompton. He entered the
hotel, swinging the bracelets.

The Governor met him in the hallway and handed him his written orders.
Jones read the order with staring eyes and said:

“What in hell is this!”

“Don’t swear at me, Jones, God damn you!—have you no respect for the
Governor of Kansas? I’ve pardoned the men, that’s what I have done, and
no sneaking cur by the name of Jones can dictate to me—Let’s have a
drink!”

So they adjourned to the bar-room. But Governor Shannon’s gubernatorial
dignity did not allow him to make a confidant of a common sheriff—the
secrets of State were locked up in his own breast.

In the presence of Jones, he shook hands with old Brown, warning him that
in future he must go a little slow, or he would not get off so easy—in
fact, he could not promise Executive clemency for any further offenses.

And then Jones was sent out to hire a livery rig, and he and the Governor
rode out across the prairie—across the prairie to Lecompton.

Still this did not end the matter.




CHAPTER IX

MASKED PEACE AND SMOTHERED EMBERS


And so peace, white-winged peace settled down; a fall of snow came and
covered the prairies. The settlers busied themselves getting in wood from
the groves that lined the ravines; they builded houses and barns, and
made ready for the next year’s planting.

The Browns had not much to live on now—their cash was entirely gone, but
the long slough grass concealed numerous rabbits and prairie chickens,
and occasionally a deer was shot. Old John Brown was now known as Captain
Brown, and he showed himself a captain in carpentry and house building,
as well as in fighting the Lord’s battles. Whenever new settlers, for ten
miles around, needed assistance, he went with two of his sons and helped
at the building, making all secure against the weather.

Nothing was paid for such service: it was only the neighborly act of man
to man, and the kindness that always shows itself where population is
sparse and poverty pinches.

Owen and Jason went to Osawatomie and got work by the day, ditching and
bridge-building, and this served to get the wherewithal for sundry sacks
of meal and beans and sides of salt pork, that were carried on horseback
across the prairie to Brownsville.

And so the winter passed in peace, and the V-shaped flocks of wild geese
began to come “honking” from the south. The ice broke up in the creeks
and little rivulets ran down the gentle slopes, filling the ponds where
the wild ducks hovered. On the hillocks the prairie chickens drummed
and strutted; from the hazel patches came the whistle of “Bob White,”
calling for his mate, and great flocks of plover swirled through the
sunshine. Sand-hill cranes—blue and white—marshaled their forces out on
the sun-kissed plain, placing sentinels that watched intently for any
approaching foe.

But with the cranes and the geese, came other immigrants—dozens of
white-covered wagons from the north and east bringing Free-State men
and their families to people this Garden of the World. And this sight
gladdened the heart of Captain Brown—it meant Abolition votes at the
next November election. To this election Brown pinned his hopes; if the
actual settlers of Kansas could be left free from outside interference,
they would settle the question of slavery, for the Free-State settlers
outnumbered the Pros three to two. Governor Shannon had made a written
agreement to keep in future all Missourians away from the polls; and,
although Brown had not much faith in the pledge, he believed that the
settlers would not again allow such a flagrant piece of injustice to
occur as that which had placed the Pro-Slavery men in power.

Brown could muster nearly a hundred men in case of emergency, and these
could probably repel any force that might come into the immediate
vicinity. And if the other districts in Kansas did the same, the State
would be secure. So now there was nothing to do but wait—work and wait.
He still toiled away at the carpentry, often getting a dollar and a half
a day.

The farmers were busy plowing, and from the knolls one could see teams
busy in the fields in every direction.

But besides the blackbirds and the geese, and the cranes and the
emigrants came other excursionists—a company of armed men from Georgia.
They built a blockhouse near Osawatomie, threw up breastworks, and
planted cannon. Old man Brown went over to see them. He chewed a straw
and asked questions that were answered with half smiles of amusement and
contempt. They considered this Yankee a queer old farmer whose bump of
curiosity was abnormally developed.

But the old farmer got at the facts, which were these: The troops were
duly commissioned as a U. S. force, they were there “to keep the peace,”
which meant that they would back up the present Pro-Slavery Territorial
Government, and carry out the wishes of Governor Shannon.

Soon there came word that a similar company of men from Alabama, duly
armed, uniformed, and commissioned as U. S. troops, were encamped near
Lecompton. Governor Shannon was playing a waiting game—he would yet get
his revenge.

A grand jury at Lecompton met and found true indictments against
Branson, Holcomb, the “Free-State Hotel,” and the _Herald of Freedom_.

To indict individuals has been a custom since the days of Cain, but to
indict a hotel and a printery was a new departure. Branson and Holcomb
were kidnapped as quietly one night as a weasel captures a chicken. They
were carried off to the jail at Lecompton.

The next night the “Free-State Hotel” and the printing office were
captured by the Sheriff. Both buildings were burned to the ground, and
the houses of several leading Abolition citizens were searched for arms,
several stores were rifled and goods confiscated on the ground that they
were the property of law-breakers.

So quietly, thoroughly, and systematically were these plans carried out
that the citizens had no time to defend themselves.

Meantime, Captain Brown was at work in an out-of-the-way spot fifteen
miles from home, with Oliver, helping build a house for a newly arrived
settler, who was down sick with fever and ague. Fred, Owen, and Salmon
were earning a dollar a day and board, bridge-building near Hickory Point.

John, Jr., and Jason were at home farming. They had heard of the arrest
of Branson and Holcomb; of the burning and sacking at Lawrence; they had
also heard that warrants were out for their own arrest, and that of their
father, for rescuing Branson from the Sheriff. They did not know just
where their father was working, neither did they know the whereabouts of
their brothers; and even if they had they dared not leave their wives and
children; so they prayed hard that their father and brothers would soon
return, and meantime they prepared for a fight, in case that Jones should
pay them a visit.

And Jones came. He came in the daytime, when they had expected he would
only dare attack them by night. Jason was plowing, a half-mile from the
house, when off to the north he saw a cloud of dust. Running to a lone
hickory tree that stood near, he climbed up until his eyes could command
a distance of five miles or more. A party of full fifty horsemen was
approaching.

“They are coming, John, the Missourians are coming!”

“Very well, we have been expecting them.”

“But there are fifty!”

“But we can fight, too,” said Ellen, “I can shoot.

“No, we can only hold out for a few hours before such a force. You must
go to the woods.”

“Without you?”

“Yes, just you two women and the children.”

“And then—”

“Hide in the hazel bushes until night, and then make your way to
Osawatomie and give the alarm—we can hold the ruffians off for a day at
least! To the woods at once—to the woods!”

Jason helped the women and crying children to the ravine, and down
through brush and grass they went for the timber, half a mile to
the east. He got back and the brothers barred the door, just as the
Missourians appeared over the knoll two hundred yards away. The crack
of a Sharpe’s rifle brought them to a quick halt. They withdrew a short
distance, stopped, conferred, and dividing into two parts, they slowly
circled the little clump of houses and barns.

There was much sharp firing, and the balls pattered like hail against the
log house, but no flag of distress was sent up.

Darkness came. The firing ceased, and then was begun by the invaders
with renewed energy. No balls struck the house, and had the two men
inside been observing carefully, they would have seen that the streaks
of light from the rifles of the enemy went nearly straight into the air;
the firing was only to divert their attention while hay was being piled
against the house.

A little flicker was seen and the firing ceased; then a light crackle
was heard. The wind arose. In a minute the flames shot up as high as the
roof of the house. The shingles caught, and a crawling line of blaze went
creeping up to the ridge pole. The flames quickly spread. The house was
doomed.

John and Jason came out of the door, their hands above their heads, in
token of surrender.




CHAPTER X

WOMANHOOD AND CHILDHOOD NOT EXEMPT


Across that ten miles of space that separated Osawatomie and Brownsville,
the two women made their way. The tired children, bewildered by the
unusual experience, made piteous outcry, or else doggedly lay down on the
damp ground, and instantly falling sound asleep, declined to be waked,
either by coaxing or threats. With full stomachs it is possible that they
might have accepted the situation all as a part of life—so easily do the
young adapt themselves to environment—but in their fright the mothers had
forgotten all thought of food; and hungry children—like hungry men—are
rebellious, and ripe for revolution.

Three of the children were Ellen’s and four Wealthy’s; the eldest one of
the flock was six years old. Two were babies that could not walk. So the
mothers carried the youngest ahead and laid them down on the ground, and
then went back for the others; and by carrying, dragging, and urging
they made progress—slow indeed, but it was progress. And all the time
they could hear the echo of rifles and they knew that penned up in the
house their husbands were answering shot for shot. Could the men hold out
until help came? that was the question. The minutes were precious—it was
for these women to give the alarm, and every moment of delay meant just
so much longer for John and Jason to hold out against the enemy.

Four miles had been made and the crack of rifles had turned to a faint,
dull booming. Still the women toiled and struggled forward, now and again
looking back to where lay “home, sweet home,” and then forward to the
haven of refuge—yet miles away.

“What is the light we see back there, Ellen?” asked Wealthy.

“Do not ask, sister, it is our home.”

“What, have they fired the house!”

“It must be so!”

“Then our husbands are dead. Oh, why did we not go back and share their
fate!”

The woman sank on the ground; and the children, dropping down around
her, huddled up close to her body, trying to protect themselves from the
chilling night dews.

Ellen took off her shawl and spreading it over the stricken woman and
the heap of sleeping children, breathed a quick prayer for their safety
and started alone through the darkness towards the town from whence help
should come. Off to the north the sky was suffused with a rosy glow.




CHAPTER XI

SURVEYING THE TERRITORY


It was near nightfall of the next day before Fred, Salmon, and Owen were
found by the messenger that had been sent out for them. Their camp had
been shifted to a point some miles south, where a new bridge was to be
built.

They hastened to Osawatomie and found the two women and children in the
hands of kind friends. Wealthy was ill, delirious with fever, and three
of the children were also sick, the result of exposure. The townspeople
made no effort in the direction of rescuing Jason and John Brown. Why
should they? Such outrages were happening all about. Horses were stolen,
cattle stampeded, and the barns of Free-State men were being burned:
everyone must take care of himself.

The four houses which made the rising city of Brownsville were burned,
that was sure—certain citizens of the village had gone out to see. What
had become of John and Jason no one knew.

Salmon tried to raise a posse to go in search of his brothers, but to
leave home and spend time, provisions and horseflesh on a skirmish
of very uncertain result, with no reward but small honors, was not a
pleasant undertaking. In fact, the Free-State people were fast losing
heart, and they had nearly come to the conclusion that it was well to
accept the situation and lock their convictions up in their own breasts.

At daylight the next morning the three brothers started to find their
father. When other advice failed and the air was full of doubt and mist,
they had ever turned to him, grown men that they were.

Straight out to their old home they rode. They found the logs that
once made their dwelling, still smoldering. But all was burned—houses,
barns, sheds. Not one of their horses, not a cow was to be seen; not even
a chicken, nor a sheep, nor a pig. All was laid waste and where their
promising garden had been three days before, now was only a trampled mass
of vegetation, ground into the earth by the tramp of many hoofs.

The sight was too sad to linger over; they turned their horses to the
west.

They moved forward over the soft turf in silence, each man too full of
his own thought to talk. Riding over a rising knoll, a faint line of
rising smoke was seen coming out of a gully a mile away.

“It’s a camp,” said Owen. “Either Indians or Missourians. No one who did
not wish to hide would camp in such a place—hold my horse and I’ll crawl
up to the left through the tall grass and find out what it is.”

The men dismounted and Owen skirted the knoll and soon was lost to
view in the rank swale. In an hour he came back and reported that he
had crawled within fifty yards of the camp. They were armed men with
sentinels set—a motley lot and evidently on no good errand.

A ride of eight miles, and a cabin in process of erection was found.
Working away, getting the rafters in position for the roof, was their
father.

“Is it possible you have not heard the news?” called Salmon.

“Yes, I know the news,” answered the old man from his elevated perch.

“And you know that our houses are burned?”

“Yes.”

“And stock run off?”

“Yes.”

“And that the women and children are in Osawatomie?”

“Yes, such news travels fast—it was passed on from cabin to cabin and
reached me yesterday.”

“And did you know that John and Jason are dead?”

“They are not dead.”

“How do you know?”

“Read this letter.”

The old man reached into his bosom and brought forth a piece of brown
paper that he dropped fluttering to the ground. The paper was written
over both sides with a pencil; and it ran as follows:

                                            LECOMPTON, May 19, 1856.

    DEAR FATHER:

    The sheriff has John and me on charge of rescuing Branson.
    They handcuffed us together and drove us like cattle all the
    forty miles here. The jail is only a wooden building with iron
    rings in the floor, where the prisoners are chained by the
    feet. Everybody comes in and stares at us. Yesterday a party
    of Missourians amused themselves by standing off and spitting
    tobacco juice in our faces, but Governor Shannon came in the
    afternoon and ordered that we be given good treatment. He says
    if we will agree to get out of Kansas and never come back, that
    he will let us go. John has been out of his head, but is some
    better now; if we could only hear that the women and children
    got to Osawatomie safely, I think John would soon get all right.

    Do not attempt to rescue us—the whole town here is protected
    by soldiers. Don’t worry about us. There are seven other
    Free-State men prisoners here, and we all expect to be put over
    the border into Nebraska with a threat that we shall be killed
    if we come back. The intent is either to kill, drive out, or
    silence all Abolitionists. They will kill you if they can, so
    look out. If you think the odds are too great to fight against,
    let us all get out of the State soon. I send this secretly by
    a boy who offered to carry a message to you; he is a son of a
    Free-State man.

                                                              JASON.

“Well, what’s to be done?” asked Owen of the old man, who had now come
down and joined the group.

“Get the roof on this house the first thing.”

“And not try to rescue the boys?”

“Not now, you see that’s what the ruffians expect. If we should march our
little force on Lecompton now, they would swing in behind and bag us all.
Now just stake out your horses and give us a lift here. These people have
lived under a wagon long enough; we will finish one job at a time.”

“And if we finish this job we will be finished ourselves!”

“Why so?”

“There are at least forty Missourians hiding in Henderson’s Gulch!”

“Well, then, we must find what they are about. The section line runs near
here, don’t it, Salmon?”

“I believe so.”

This was an ancient joke and all smiled feebly. The old man was a
surveyor and always carried his flags, transit, chain-pins and stakes
with him. The instruments diverted suspicion, for only Pro-Slavery men
were allowed to do Government surveying.

And so, starting out with Salmon and Oliver in a one-horse wagon, leaving
all arms behind, the old man drove within a mile of the gully where the
Missourians were camped. Getting the line due east and west, he sighted
the transit straight through the enemy’s camp. Oliver went ahead and
planted the tall red flag. He motioned now right, now left, and finally
got the attention of the men in the ditch. Then he moved up nearer
and again set the flag—more waving to right and left, and then more
squinting through the transit.

Then the flag was carried up and placed right on the brow of the enemies’
camp. Several of the crowd came forward, looked on and tried to be
sociable with the young man. He barely explained that he belonged to the
United States Government Survey, and that he was sick of the job and
wished he was back in Kentucky; then he moved on through the gulch and
planted his flag on the opposite crest.

The transit moved on up, and the old man behind it squinted and motioned
first with one hand, then the other. Soon he, too, reached the camp, and
the loungers found him to be gruff and unsociable, also. He answered
their questions in monosyllables, and was too intent on his work to
pay much attention to them. He sat down on the ground, and figured and
figured in a blank book, and at last he seemed relieved. Evidently the
computation came out right, for he thawed out enough to allow a big,
hulking fellow to squint through the glass. The man could not see much,
but several others tried it, and when the old man took out of his pocket
a dark-colored piece of glass and fitted it over the face of the transit
and pointed the machine at the sun, the men flocked around and took turns
in looking through. They were greatly pleased, and to think that so high
an official as a Government Surveyor who got sixty dollars a month should
have paid them this deference, was gratifying.

The old man shouldered his instrument and started off, but seeing the
little brook that ran through the gulch, he took off his boots and
dabbled his feet in the water—so much walking had blistered his feet, he
explained.

And as he sat there on the grassy bank, he talked with the men and they
talked with him.

“Are you cattle men?” he asked.

“No, no, we are after bigger game than cattle.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Why, haven’t you heard of how the Yanks are raisin’ the devil here?”

“What do I care for the Yanks—I’m a surveyor.”

“Well, they are talking Abolition and getting the slaves restless. They
oppose the reg’lar government—up and take pris’ners from the Sheriff and
raise particular hell. We’re from Mizzoury and are over here to quietly
clean ’em out.”

“Won’t these Yanks obey the laws?”

“Won’t obey nothin’!”

“Well, surely they deserve punishment.”

“And they’ll get it, stranger, or else I’m a liar!”

“There’s an old fellow I’ve heard of by the name of Jones who you should
look after.”

“Brown, stranger, Brown—he’s one of ’em. We grabbed two of his sons, but
there is quite a nest of ’em besides the old ’un—we are going to do him
straight!”

“Oh, you mean hang him?”

“That’s it, string him up, that is, if we can catch him alive.”

“Well, why are you waiting here?”

“Oh, some of the settlers are locating the game for us! We are waitin’ so
we can do the whole job in one night. When we strike, we’re goin’ to hit
hard and then git.”

“Well, if these Northerners can’t obey the laws, of course you’ve got to
protect yourselves against them.”

“Now you’re talkin’ sense, stranger.”

Brown looked around at the motley crew. They were all armed, and men
who in a good cause might fight, and fight hard. Some were mere ragged
adventurers, but others were farmers who actually believed that they
were engaged in a good cause. The old man looked them over with mingled
contempt and pity.

His glance ran from one to another, and finally his eye rested on a man
lying at full length on his stomach about twenty feet away. It was a
homely face this man had, it was so homely as to be attractive; beside
that, the man was older than most of the others in the party and this
would naturally call one’s attention to him. The fellow’s chin rested on
his hands and as he lay there smoking a cob pipe he looked straight out
in front at Old Brown; a half-smile was on his face, and his grizzled red
whiskers and little sharp eyes gave him a fiendish look.

Brown looked again and gave a start of surprise as the fellow closed one
eye in a long wink, looking straight at him with the other.

“Well, boys,” said the surveyor, “I’ll have to be going if I make Hickory
Point for camp to-night. Good-bye and good luck to you.”

“Good-bye, sah, and same to you,” said several of the men civilly.

The man with the cob pipe was Jim Slivers.




CHAPTER XII

JIM SLIVERS AND DEATH WITHOUT WARNING


The little surveying party reached Hickory Point in time to camp, for
once out of sight of the Missourians, they made good time. Oliver got
the shotgun out from under the wagon-seat and they had broiled prairie
chicken for supper.

At nine o’clock in walked our old friend Jim Slivers, whistling “Yankee
Doodle.”

“Hungry as a woodchuck—nothin’ but sow-belly an’ pone for two
weeks—rogues’ feed it is! Lively now, an’ get an honest man a square
meal.”

Oliver stirred up the fire and began broiling the prairie chickens on
a spit. Jim Slivers squatted by the fire, and chuckled and chuckled to
think what a good joke he had played on John Brown by appearing in this
unexpected way. Brown had not seen him for five years and did not suppose
that he was within a thousand miles of Kansas.

“Where’d I come from? wait till I pick the bones of this here canary an’
I’ll tell—from Ohio, where’d you ’pose.”

“I know, but what was you doing with those cut-throats?”

“Eatin’ their bacon and finding out what they was goin’ to do!”

The years had left their marks on Jim Slivers, but he was still a boy in
disposition. He had the negro’s liking for fun and trifling, and nothing
pleased him so much as to give an air of mystery to his acts.

“And where did you join them?”

“At Westport—I came as a roustabout on a river boat, an’ when I got to
Westport they was callin’ for volunteers to go over into Kansas an’ clean
out the Yanks, an’ so I up an’ ’listed.”

“And now you’ve deserted!”

“Have I?”

“It looks like it.”

“Well, s’pose I hadn’t, what would become of you day after to-morrow
night?”

“I don’t know—what?”

“Hang you—for sure—hang you and Oliver there and Owen, and the whole
caboodle of you, ’sides killing Adair, Morrow, Hines, and Brockett!”

“Why, these are all settlers right around here—Free-State men!”

“I know, they’re all goin’ to die day after to-morrow night. Doyle,
Sherman, Coleman, Huson, an’ Wilkinson are spottin’ ’em all, an’ are
goin’ to lead my frens straight to ’em.”

“That Coleman is the man who shot Dow!”

“Yes, I heard him brag of it.”

“And were these men at the Missourians’ camp?”

“Yes, Doyle, Sherman, Coleman, Huson, an’ Wilkinson—I’ve been sayin’ the
names over to myself ’cause I was afraid I’d forget ’em.”

“And supposing I had not run my line through that camp and found you?”

“I knew where you was an’ would have found you to-night jest the same!
Oh, I ’most forgot Missus Brydges; she sent you a letter—it’s sewed up in
the linin’ of my vest, you’ll have to cut the thing open. An’ I’ll jest
take a snooze; I’ve been sleepin’ with one eye open so long that I’m nigh
done for.”

Jim rolled up in a blanket with feet to the fire; Owen and Oliver did
the same, and the old man read and re-read. It was a long letter and
evidently of importance, for it agitated the reader so that sleep was out
of the question.

Before daylight he called his three men. A hurried breakfast was prepared
and while they ate, the old man explained his plan. It was simply to
notify the Free-State men whose lives were threatened, collect as many
men as possible, turn the unfinished house into a fort by throwing up
earthworks, and then await the coming of the Missourians.

“Oh, if we only had the arms that were burned up in our house!” moaned
Owen.

“I guess they weren’t all burned. I buried a full dozen or more guns and
all of those short swords in the garden after you left,” replied the old
man.

“And they are there yet?”

“I rather guess!”

“We will need the swords if it comes to close quarters!”

“Well, let Oliver and Jim take the wagon and go dig them up, and you and
I will go around and quietly notify all the loyal settlers we can find.”

So they parted there on the prairie, just as the sun came up out of
the great ocean of waving grass that stretched away like a tideless,
changeless sea. Jim and Oliver made their way to the blackened ashes that
once had been a happy home, and the old man with his stalwart son trudged
off through the wild sunflowers that waved in the morning breeze, to tell
men that other men intended to murder them.

Jim and Oliver followed the directions given by the old man and found
the buried tools of war. Instead of obeying orders and waiting until
nightfall, they loaded them at once into the wagon. The swords were of a
very ancient pattern and had been given to Brown at Springfield, Mass.
They were heavy, short, and double-edged.

Jim took out one and flourished it in the air, making passes and thrusts
at an imaginary foe:

“Jeeminy Krismus! but I’d like to get a jab at that man Coleman with this
here toothpick!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Oliver and Jim did not reach Old Man Brown that night, as agreed. Their
absence caused much apprehension. It was well towards night of the
following day before the white horse hitched to their wagon was seen
coming at a weary trot across the prairie.

“We have just heard frightful news,” exclaimed Fred to Oliver, as the
wagon stopped and the young man stepped out on the ground.

“What is it?” asked Oliver.

“Last night someone went to the houses of Doyle and Sherman and several
other Pro-Slavery men, and calling them out, killed them with axes or
scythes or something—”

“Went from house to house?” asked Jim.

“Yes.”

“And called ’em out, you say?”

“Yes, on pretense of having a friendly message of some sort!”

“And when they showed up in the doorway, they got slashed?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we are the men who done the business!” said Jim Slivers. “One
night more an’ they would have slashed you; we took time by the forelock,
an’ killed five of ’em without the pop of a gun—Is supper ready?”




CHAPTER XIII

THE SOIL OF KANSAS FERTILIZED BY BLOOD


No attack was made by the Missourians that night. The men who were to
pilot them to victory were dead; a frightful, sudden death had come to
them, a death without warning, or time for preparation or parley.

Messages had been going back and forth from these men to the Missourians’
camp, and so the summons at the door was answered without thought of
harm. In fact, the Southrons up to this time had not been molested; on
the part of the Free-State men, the war had been purely on the defensive.

It was a terrible blow that had been struck—a frightful, savage blow.
It came in the night-time, like a swift and secret vengeance of God. No
uproar had been made, but the heavy two-edged swords had cleaved the
skulls of their victims at a single stroke.

It was the capricious work of reckless youth and hardened, unthinking
age. When there is murder to perform, and rough riders are wanted to go
out and cope with hell, only very young men should be picked; boys of
eighteen have neither caution nor conscience; they are possessed of a
foolish confidence in fate, and in their growing strength they believe
neither in God nor devil; and if they once taste blood, they are savages.

Practically Oliver and Jim were of one mind. Jim had lived many years,
but he had not learned discretion nor manly caution. His cool cunning had
served him in such stead that he had come to think that he bore a charmed
life, and like untried youth, he loved to dally with death and play at
skittles with the grave.

To do this fearful deed alone they thought was the height of bravery; it
was getting the start of others who might have been glad to do it; it was
prowess to be proud of, and what a joke! These men, whom they had run
through with steel, were about to go forth on deeds of murder, and the
doom that was to come to others had broken upon themselves.

But upon that midnight raid hinged the fate of Kansas, and the fate of
the Nation. The Free-State men in Kansas were discouraged, and were about
to accept the terms of amnesty offered; silence or retreat. The Missouri
River was closed to Northern immigrants going westward, but not east,
and the tide of home-seekers from the north had been turned back.

But now five of the chief defenders of Slavery had been struck down in
a single night. Not shot from a safe distance; but beheaded, slashed,
disemboweled, and their blood and brains spilt and scattered. An
impression had been made—a terrible lesson taught. The lesson had been
made plain that God slumbers not nor sleeps.

The Southrons placed the mangled bodies on display and men came from
many miles to look upon the shattered forms. The scene was frightful and
shocking, even to strong nerves, but the people that came knew that these
were the men who had stolen the horses, stampeded the cattle, and burned
the barns of Free-State settlers. These headless forms were once the men
who had painted skulls and crossbones on doors, who had frightened women,
had made threats, and then fulfilled them by shooting down Northern men
who had refused to leave. These were the men who had invited into the
Territory, and were acting as guides for, an armed force from a sister
State that was doing what they dared not.

The Free-State men were shocked, but horror gave way to confidence, and
Brown rallied a force of fifty men, where a few days before he could not
have raised twenty.

The Missourians still remained in camp, hesitating whether to go or stay.

Brown waited not for an attack, but marched his men upon them, in battle
array, out across the plains. The men entrenched in the gully prepared
for fight. The firing was fast and furious, and all the time the Yankee
forces were creeping closer.

Suddenly, on the crest of the hill behind the gulch, appeared a young man
wearing a cockade and bearing a banner. He waved his sword and called
back to an imaginary force behind, “Come on, boys, come on, all of you!!”

Thinking that a charge was being made upon them from two sides, the
Missourians became panic-stricken and rushed down the valley—the only way
open, and thence across the prairie to the east, in a frantic flight,
pursued by a force that gained in numbers as it moved.




CHAPTER XIV

JOHN BROWN AND UNCLE SAM PARLEY


Taking advantage of the fear that was cluttering the hearts of the
Southrons, Brown rode out with five men and captured two prominent
slave-holders who lived near the Missouri line. The men were seized
in their beds, before they had an opportunity to resist. A letter was
dispatched to Governor Shannon, offering to exchange these prisoners for
the two Browns. With Old Man Brown’s letter, each of the kidnapped men
sent an urgent personal appeal that Shannon should comply. And Shannon
complied—the exchange being affected the next day—Brown’s word of honor
being accepted to release his prisoners, if John and Jason were given
safe conduct to Hickory Point. They were taken there and released. The
next day the two well-frightened slave-holders were back in the bosom of
their families.

But who struck that murderous midnight blow? Old Man Brown, everyone
said. The Territorial Government offered a reward of a thousand dollars
for his capture. This was a good deal of money in those days, but it
was not enough to tempt any local officer to go after him. The fear
of meeting a fate similar to the five Pro-Slavery leaders had a most
wholesome and restraining influence. Where would lightning strike next?
Who could tell.

The Browns were homeless and were being hunted by an armed force.
Peaceful employment was now denied them—they must stick together and
sleep on their guns. They made their camps in the bluffs and woods that
lined the streams—moving from place to place. Provisions they must have,
and so they made short forays out among the Pro-Slavery settlers and
demanded what they wanted. Where they could locate a fine horse that
belonged to a slave-holder, they went out and took it—the enemy, that had
proscribed and ostracized them, must pay the expenses of the ostracism.
They were splendidly armed. Various adventurous young men among the
Free-State settlers joined them, so their force numbered about forty in
all—which included John Brown and seven sons, and a son-in-law—Henry
Thompson by name, who had come on from the East with Watson Brown, in
time to share the ignominy of their brothers.

Practically they were fugitives from justice—they had defied the
Territorial Government. Wilkinson, whom they had killed, was a member of
the Legislature—a sham Legislature to be sure, chosen through fraud—but,
nevertheless, the law-making power of the Territory, duly installed and
recognized by the General Government of the United States of America.

And so they lived houseless, homeless, hunted, yet not unhappy. They
fared on the best that the country afforded. The Free-State people had
no fear of them, of course, and in fact, aided and abetted them in many
ways, keeping them informed of the movements of the two hundred U. S.
troops that were out after them.

There were occasional skirmishes, but the troops were wary of coming in
contact with this fierce band of freebooters, whose fierceness, though
not their bravery was greatly over-estimated.

And so a month passed with several killed, on both sides; but confidence
was coming back to the Free-State settlers—Brown was at large and fear
kept the Southrons civil.

But now a new officer had been sent on by the Government to take charge
of the U. S. troops. This officer was instructed by his superiors at
Washington to avoid any collision with the insurrectionists, but if
possible, to get them to return to their farms. In fact, it was a
diplomatic move, for Congress had finally gotten awake to the fact that
this little prairie fire started away out in Kansas might possibly spread
and become a conflagration that would sweep the land. Yet Congress
sympathized with the slave interests; but to boldly join sides with the
Missourians and to use the army to put down the Free-State men was too
brazen a thing to undertake.

And so it came to pass that John Brown and his little band of fighters
held their own; and meantime the newspapers of the North issued notes of
warning that had echoed even through the legislative halls at Washington.

“It will not do to make war on any class of citizens—Massachusetts is
getting warm over this thing,” said the President to his Secretary of War.

“Very well, I’ll send a cool-headed man to Kansas to take charge of the
U. S. troops, and give him orders to act as a peace-maker and induce all
armed bodies to separate and return to their homes.”

The Secretary of War chose a Colonel by the name of Brydges—Richard
Brydges—for the delicate mission, and Colonel Brydges duly arrived on the
ground and took charge. His first act was to send a message to “Captain
Brown” asking for an interview.

The men met close out on the prairie, on horseback.

Colonel Brydges was tall, slender, in age something under forty. He
wore glasses and had the look of a student rather than a man of war.
His brilliant uniform and sword rather belied the bookish cast of his
features; and as Old Man Brown looked him over from under his shaggy
eyebrows, he rather liked the fellow.

The men dismounted and as they walked forward towards each other, their
hearts beat fast. The Colonel had expected to see a robber—booted,
spurred and armed to the teeth; he saw only a plain old farmer, whose
long white beard gave a patriarchial suggestion to the sober face. Brown
carried no arms.

Brydges had dreaded the interview—not through a sense of danger—but to
parley with stupidity and obstinate ignorance is never pleasant. These
men shook hands—looked each other square in the eyes and both heaved a
sigh of relief. Each saw that the other was sensitive, discerning and
honest. When men with equal intelligence and purity of motive meet,
subterfuge and formality can be laid aside. There need be no attempt to
impress, nor effort to conceal, nor struggle to make plain. They gauge
each other’s hearts as though they had lived under one roof.

“I know your mother,” were the first words of the old man—spoken quietly.
The other gave a look of surprise. “Yes, I know your mother. When I saw
your name—Richard Brydges—I could not think it possible it was you.”

“I—I do not understand,” said Colonel Brydges, taking off his glasses. He
half thought that these rumors he had heard of this old man’s insanity
might have basis in truth.

“When did you see my mother last, Captain Brown?”

The old man looked off across the prairie, smiled sadly and answered:
“Not since you were born!”

The Colonel shifted from one foot to the other; he now felt sure that
this beautiful calm on the face of the other was only the peace that
sometimes comes to the illusioned soul.

“Not for forty years? and yet you could see a resemblance between me and
her—you have a good memory, sir!”

“Too good, perhaps—”

“And not having seen my mother for forty years, you still say that you
know her?”

“Yes, here is a letter from her!”

Brown took from a pocket-book a soiled and creased letter and showed it
to the Colonel.

“Why—surely in Heaven’s name, yes! it is my mother’s writing. Let me see
the signature!”

“There is no signature. When she writes to me she does not sign her name.”

“And why not, pray?”

“You officers of the army might be sent to arrest her for treason!”

“And can it be possible that you are the Brown that used to live in the
Western Reserve?”

“The same.”

“Why, often have I heard my mother tell of you—but what are you doing
here?”

“Fighting for Freedom’s cause.”

“And my mother is encouraging you in this insurrection?”

“Yes.”

Colonel Brydges paused, bit his mustache, and then took off his glasses
and wiped them on a silk handkerchief.

“I see it all,” he said after a moment, “you have only shifted the
battleground and changed the methods a trifle. In other words, you have
been found out and now have to fight openly.”

“Yes, you have guessed it.”

“But what a little world it is! And to think that my mother should have
had an indirect hand in raising this rebellion that I am sent out here to
put down! She always was a fanatic on the subject, though.”

“Of slavery?”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

“Me? why I’m an army officer and have no opinions—I obey orders.”

“But you do not believe in human slavery?”

“Well, possibly not, although my grandfather was a slave-holder.”

“Yes, I’ve heard he was.”

“And you knew him, I should judge, by the way you speak?”

“Yes.”

“And did he not treat his slaves—that is, his people, well?”

“Undoubtedly; one of his sons is a member of my company over there in
that woods.”

“One of whose sons?”

“Your grandfather’s.”

“An uncle of mine in your robber band? You are joking, my uncles are both
dead.”

“This is a colored man.”

Colonel Brydges blanched, coughed, and answered after a pause:

“Captain Brown, we are digressing. My business here is to request you to
disband your company, and have all of your men return to their peaceful
occupations.”

“And the Missourians?”

“I have orders to scatter all armed and organized bodies of men in
Kansas. If the Missourians march into Kansas, I will send them back.”

“And after I lay down my arms, what then?”

“No one will molest you.”

“But the Territorial Legislature has offered a reward for my capture!”

“I know, but they will withdraw it if you will agree to leave the
Territory. In fact, they want no more bloodshed, and if you will say
quits, they will. Will you do it?”

“Yes, but you have no authority to speak for the local government?”

“No, but I will go with you to see the Governor—I am sure he will grant
you amnesty.”

“And if he does, will you use your force to keep back the invaders at
election time?”

“I surely will.”

“And you know what that means?”

“No, what?”

“It means that there are seven hundred more Free-State men in this
Territory than Pro-Slavery, and that Kansas will be a Free State. We have
won our fight.”

“All right! I congratulate you. I will see the Governor first, alone, and
make an appointment with him to receive you.”

“Very well.”

“Then that’s all for this time?”

“I believe so—good-day!”

They shook hands there on the prairie. One rode one way and one the other.




CHAPTER XV

LOVE EVER FIGHTS FOR FREEDOM


Three days afterward, following the road that skirted the ravine, they
went—Old Man Brown and Colonel Brydges. Brown in rusty jeans, rustier
than ever from much rough weather; on the pommel of his saddle a Sharpe’s
rifle and in the belt, buckled outside of his coat, two pistols and a
dirk—all dangling handy, worn for quick use and not for show.

Behind these two horsemen rode two more—Salmon Brown and the Colonel’s
orderly. Young Brown was arrayed like unto his father; he carried the
heavy rifle, with a jaunty touch, that seemed to match the solitary
eagle’s feather worn in his slouch hat—a sly bit of irony for the benefit
of the tightly, brightly buttoned orderly. But the orderly and Salmon
were soon on good terms; youth quickly makes friends, and Uncle Sam’s
soldier boy had a wholesome respect for a man who was one of forty to
hold at bay two hundred; and Salmon assumed that the other must be a
brave lad or the Colonel would not have chosen him for this office. They
laughed and joked, as young men will who are much under the heel of
discipline and are suddenly turned out to play with none to reprove. They
rode full fifty yards behind their superiors, and as Salmon chatted he
balanced the rifle with a single fore finger and ran his eye across the
prairie this way and that for any chance foe. There was a price on his
father’s head and a warrant of arrest out for himself.

And as the young men behind told tales of strife, the two men who rode
ahead conversed on more earnest themes.

“Yes, my mother is a regular fanatic on the subject of emancipation. When
I left home to go to West Point, I was nearly as bad as she—I suppose
I drank it in in babyhood, but once established in the army, I saw the
futility of her work and wrote her trying to dissuade her from the
fruitless task.”

“And did you succeed?”

“Succeed? Ha, she argued me into silence.”

“But you forget that I am engaged in exactly the same work!”

“Oh, no, you’re not—this business here is different. You only want home
rule for Kansas!”

“Yes, but the Southrons call me a slave-stealer.”

“I know, they think you are a robber, but brigands are often only exiled
saints. If law pushes a man too far, he loses respect for all law and
then is an anarchist. Now all you want is that settlers in Kansas should
make their own laws. You object to illegal elections—and the reason
you have defied the laws now is only because these laws were made by a
fraudulent Legislature. Am I right?”

“You certainly are.”

“Well, this is a private talk, mind you, not official; so I say
confidentially that in Washington they prefer Kansas should be a Southern
State, with all it implies. For one thing, it means two Southern
Senators. Now there are sixteen Free States and fifteen Slave States—two
more are needed to preserve the balance of power. But they cannot
afford to wink openly at a corrupted ballot box. ’Cause why? the whole
North might get right up and howl—no telling what might happen—it might
even come to civil war. Now you have kicked up such a row out here and
attracted so much attention that the Government is obliged to step in and
put you down, and if she puts you down she must keep Missouri out.”

“I see.”

“We do not want to fight you, for that would make all Yankeedom look on
you as a martyr; and on the other hand, if you should refuse to lay down
your arms, it makes treason of it. Now, my mother does not confide in me
very much since we disagreed on the slave issue some years ago, but I’m
quite positive that she would not encourage you to keep up this fight.”

“Wouldn’t she?”

“No.”

The old man took a letter out of his breast pocket and handing it to
Colonel Brydges, said: “Read it aloud.” The Colonel read:

    “When you strike for the right in Kansas, Public Opinion shakes
    off her lethargy, comes forward to stay your arm, and the
    South cowers. When you have done your work there, smuggle a
    small band of determined men into Virginia and strike slavery
    a sudden blow, then retreat to the friendly mountains. The
    South will be staggered, yet she will pursue. But instantly the
    North will awake and come to your rescue, and better still,
    the slaves will arise. The snow-ball will grow as it rolls. In
    a year, two, three, or four, the South will be free and the
    General Government will endorse by Legislative Enactment the
    work which you have begun.

    “Do you know that a few Spartans, flitting from point to point
    in the mountains, dictated a policy to all Greece? Do you
    know that Scotland was never subjugated, simply because a few
    clansmen who knew the crags could stand off regiments? Do you
    know that in the mountains that separate France from Spain are
    tribes that have for centuries successfully defied the armies
    of both countries? Do you know how Napoleon left Elba with a
    handful of men, and marched into Paris with a million at his
    back? Do you know how Schmeyl in Russia dictated to the Czar
    from a cave? and last, but not least, have you forgotten how
    Nat Turner, a black man, held out for six weeks against the
    State of Virginia?

    “When my beloved son was but a lad, it was my dream that
    he should be the leader who would ‘make my people free,’
    and I sent him to West Point to learn military tactics. It
    was a mistake, but I did not know then that army life means
    intellectual and moral stagnation. Like a University it often
    irons men out to one dead level and extinguishes all masterly
    individuality. My son is a worthy man, and I love him with a
    true mother’s love, but he is not great enough to dare all and
    win all. For his has been a happy and successful life—he has
    never received his baptism of fire.

    “And so I turn to you, the lover of my girlhood, and on you I
    fix my earnest gaze, for I know you are one raised by God to do
    this work. Moses was eighty when he led the Children of Israel
    out of bondage—do not tell me you are too old!

    “You and I have left romance far behind—what is this life to
    us—a breath—a vapor! We have nothing to lose; we have all to
    gain!

    “Remember the sword of Gideon!”

Brydges read the letter straight through in a voice that grew husky
towards the last. He handed the missive back and turned his face to hide
the unsoldierly emotion that was shaking him. They rode in silence for an
hour.

“The dear old mother!” at last broke out the officer abruptly, “the dear
old mother needs some one to care for her—I must resign so as to be near
her.”

“But is she right in those historical instances?”

“Yes, I suppose so, but that is neither here nor there. Why, she is such
a fanatic that if she were younger she might take the field herself!”

“And indeed, women have done it before.”

“I know—you refer to Joan of Arc, but she was crazy!”

“And successful!”

“Well, possibly.”

“And it was women who went out from Paris and captured the palace at
Versailles—women who precipitated the French Revolution.”

“How comes it you know anything about the palace at Versailles, Captain
Brown?” said the other with a smile, feeling that the conversation was
getting too serious.

“I’ve been there.”

“What, you’ve been to France?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Three years ago; I’ve carefully gone over most of the battlefields of
Europe.”

“Then my mother’s ideas are not new to you?”

“No.”

“And has she written them to you before?”

“No, but thought is in the air. Do you believe in thought transference?”

“Not I; still, minds dwelling on the same subjects will, of course, often
come to like conclusions. But do you know who that man is coming up over
the knoll?”

“Yes, I know him.”

“Well, who is he?”

“The newly appointed sheriff.”

“Right you are.”

Brydges smiled, but the old man did not change his expression in the
slightest. One hand went up to his pistol belt.

The sheriff stopped, saluted, rode up on one side of Brown and remarked
that he had thought best to come out and ride in with the little party
to avert any possible trouble that the citizens of Lecompton might make.
Brown thanked him for his thoughtfulness.

“By the way,” remarked the sheriff as they rode forward, “by the way,
Captain Brown, you of course know that the offer of a reward of a
thousand dollars for your arrest is still valid?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, I have the warrant now in my pocket.”

“You’d better keep it there, Mr. Sheriff!”

“Why?”

“If you take it out, I’ll kill you.”

“Oh, I was only joking.”

“You are unwise to joke with death.”

They reached the village of Lecompton, and were well stared at by the
citizens, but no incivility was offered.

Governor Geary, who had recently been appointed, came forward and greeted
Captain Brown as one gentleman greets another.

Shannon had been so dictatorial to the Northern immigrants, and so
hand-and-glove with the Southrons, that the relationship between the two
parties was growing very much strained. Neighbor did not trust neighbor,
and the whole Territory was a tinder box ready to explode at a touch.

Under these conditions Congress had wisely relieved Shannon and put a
more diplomatic man in his place.

Geary had a fairly just and judicial view of the situation. Personally,
he confessed to Brown that he sympathized with the slave-holder, but
he was there to act as Governor of the whole people; he wished to see
justice dealt impartially and hoped that prosperity would come to all.

But there was one condition he insisted on, and that was that John Brown
and all of his sons should leave the Territory. Their presence there, he
argued, was a continual reminder of what had gone before. In fact, the
Browns had struck such fear and hatred into the hearts of the Southrons
that there was danger that under the influence of some undue excitement,
whiskey—for instance—there would be a thirst for revenge and the flames
would burst forth afresh. If they would only go, he would issue a
proclamation, setting forth the facts and warning Missourians to keep
to their own side of the line, and cautioning all parties to maintain
the peace. This would be assuring to North and South alike and bring
confidence to all concerned.

Brown listened patiently to the strong and logical appeal. He smiled with
a half-smile of satisfaction when Governor Geary admitted that the Browns
had practically carried the State for freedom.

“And now will you consent to leave?”

“Yes, I will go, but my sons are land owners here—I want them to stay.”

So a compromise was effected, whereby Brown was to leave the Territory
within ten days; his men were to disband and return to their homes;
amnesty was to be granted for all past offenses; and none but actual
settlers who had been in the Territory three months should be allowed to
vote at future elections. This was put in the form of a stipulation and
duly signed.

That peace had been brought about on equitable terms was a matter of
congratulation to all concerned. A courier was sent out to carry the good
news; and Captain Brown and Colonel Brydges accepted Governor Geary’s
hospitality for the night.

The next day they started back for camp with much lighter hearts than
they had brought thitherward.

Near nightfall, when nearing Brown’s camp, they took a short cut across
the prairie. A woman came out of a cabin and called to them that there
was the dead body of a man lying in the road a half-mile to the north.
They turned back, and, on reaching the spot indicated, found the body
lying face down in a pool of blood.

Brown dismounted and turned the man over.

It was his son Fred. He was not dead, but a tearing wound in his side
from a charge of buckshot told that the moments of his life were few.




CHAPTER XVI

CAPTAIN CARVER HOLDS A RECEPTION


The man who had lain in wait and shot Fred Brown was Martin White, a
preacher of the Methodist Church, South, a member of the Territorial
Legislature and a citizen of considerable prominence. No arrest was made;
the sheriff putting forth the plea that White did not know that peace had
been concluded. White did not, however, accept any such excuse for his
act, but openly boasted that he “had done for one of the Browns.”

Not long after, White was found dead in his own door-yard; the ball from
a Sharpe’s rifle had struck him square between the eyes, and the light of
his life was snuffed out.

John Brown’s band had separated and gone to their homes. The old man was
at Osawatomie with Ellen, Wealthy, and his grandchildren, to bid them
good-bye before taking his departure for his old home at North Elba,
New York. While there, this letter reached him from Captain Carver of
Westport:

                                  WESTPORT, MISSOURI, Sep. 10, 1856.

    TO OLD MAN BROWN, King of the Kansas Yankees:

    So you have got to git at last! We feel so sorry you are going
    to leave us—but when the Governor says you have got to go, and
    the U. S. Army says so too, we can only say farewell, and may
    the Devil take you!

    But slavery is not dead in Missouri and it never will die, for
    we are not Puritans, but sensible folks. There is to be an
    auction of niggers here next Thursday, come over if you can—the
    boys will make it pleasant for you.

                              Yours truly,

                                                     CHARLES CARVER.

Brown smiled grimly at this insulting, exultant letter, and passed it
over for his children to read.

“I would like to accept his invitation,” he said, and then the matter was
put out of his mind.

That night a black man came to Osawatomie, and made his way to where Old
Man Brown was stopping. The negro was so awed on coming into the presence
of the man of whom he had heard so much that he could scarcely speak.

“Where did you come from?” asked Brown.

“Wes’port, sah!”

“And to whom do you belong?”

“Captain Carvah, sah.”

“And you say he’s going to sell you?”

“Yes, sah, on Thursday, sah, an’ my wife too, sah, an’ my chillern—we may
all go diff’rent ways, sah!”

“And why are you to be sold?”

“The Cap’n he say Kansas is to be a Free State, sah, an’ he’s too close
to the bordah, sah.”

Brown smiled: “Yes, Kansas is to be a Free State, and he is a leetle—just
a leetle too close to make slave-holding safe. So you are all to be sold
and sent back to Mississippi?”

“Yes, sah, there’s sev’ral spec’lators there now—it’s to be a big sale.
Can’t you help me to git my wife and chillern away, sah? We will b’long
to you an’ work for you till we die!”

“I think I’ll help you get away. Carver has invited me over, and if you
will just hide in this cellar until evening, we shall see what we shall
see.”

Night came.

Six men and the runaway negro were driven in a two-horse farm wagon out
of Osawatomie across the prairie towards the east. When within two miles
of Westport, the wagon and driver were sent back.

The men moved on in the darkness, piloted across the fields by the
negro, to the goodly residence of Captain Carver, planter, politician,
stock-raiser and slave owner. His house was a mile from the village, up
on the hillside, surrounded by its barns, granaries and slave quarters.

The negro went ahead to pacify the dogs, and notify the negroes to keep
to their cabins.

Old Man Brown had a diagram of the house in his pocket and a copy of it
in his head. He had located each room that must be looked after; and
his men in their stocking-feet, with dark lanterns, entered the doors,
open and unlocked, according to the custom of the times, and held the
prisoners safely in their beds by the argument of a cocked pistol.

It was a sleek, clean, quiet, gentlemanly piece of work. Not a shot was
fired—there was no violence. The inmates of the house, male and female,
pulled the bed-clothes over their heads, inwardly cursing or commending
their souls to God, as the case might be.

Meantime, the house was searched for money, and nearly five hundred
dollars found. The negroes had hitched a stout team to a spring wagon,
thrown hurriedly in quantities of hams, bacon, sacks of corn meal and
potatoes; the negro women and children were tumbled in, with all the
bed-clothes that were not pulled over the heads of the luckless white
folks; eight thoroughbred horses were saddled and bridled, so far as
saddles would go; and after a parting threat that no person should
venture his head out from under a quilt for a full hour under pain of
death, the cavalcade moved away—twelve negroes in all, ten valuable
horses, five hundred dollars in money, and provisions for a fortnight.

When the sun came up out of the eastern prairie, a great glowing red ball
of fire in the white mist, they were thirty miles from Westport, and in a
land of Free-State people—people who would have fought for them had the
pursuer pursued. The horses were given a slack rein. In forty-eight hours
the Nebraska line was reached. Two days more and they were in Iowa.

Here they stopped to rest for a space, and when camp was again broken,
only Old Man Brown and Jim Slivers accompanied the twelve negroes; the
sons must all remain in Kansas, for the “salutary effect” of their
presence. The other men turned back on foot and made their way into
Kansas to live the lives of honest and peaceful citizens.

And so Old Man Brown, with his negroes and his horses and his five
hundred dollars, moved on to the North and East. And the question
naturally arises how a conscientious man, as Brown surely was, could
justify himself in taking other people’s property in this way?

The answer is plain: as for the negroes, they were God’s children as much
as though they were white, and no man had a right to hold them in bondage
and give them stripes as legal tender for services rendered. Having
worked, they were entitled to wages; at the smallest calculation there
was due them a horse apiece, and the five hundred dollars in money was
simply to pay expenses.

Only three of the negroes were full-grown men; they were armed, and of
course, the old man and Jim Slivers were never without a rifle within
easy reach. As they marched, Brown did not try to conceal their identity.
And after a week he openly proclaimed it in every town, village and
hamlet as they passed.

“They were once slaves,” he would say. “I stole them away and am taking
them through to Canada.” And the crowd would send up a cheer for
“Brown—Osawatomie Brown.”

Across Iowa they moved, thence into Illinois. Northern Illinois was
settled largely with New England people, and here ovations were tendered
them, and often deputations of maidens in flowing white, carrying green
branches, came out to meet them in wagons, with men on horseback.
Provisions were tendered them without money and without price.

Indiana was reached, then Michigan, which was practically another New
England, and when the November winds began to blow chill, they had come
to Detroit, all without sickness or disaster, and the five hundred
dollars intact, for the gifts given them had exceeded the expenses.

The money was divided among the negroes. The team that drew the wagon,
with the entire camping outfit, was given to the black man who had
suggested the exodus. The eight horses were unanimously voted to be the
property of Old Man Brown and the jovial Jim Slivers, who had cracked
jokes from Kansas to Canada.

After the refugees had been ferried across and were safely in Windsor,
Canada, a solemn service of thanksgiving was held, and prayers ascended
to God for their deliverance out of the land of bondage.

And taking sorrowful leave of these black men and women with whom they
had lived as one happy family for full two months, John Brown and Jim
Slivers took the ferry back across to Detroit.

Each riding a horse, and followed by the six other faithful steeds,
they rode down to Toledo and on to Cleveland. Here they were among old
friends—friends who knew them well and who had known them for many years.

In the two daily newspapers Brown advertised that on a certain day at
noon he would sell “eight horses taken from Missouri slave-holders by
force, as payment for wages due black men.” The sale was to occur in the
public square of the city of Cleveland. The announcement also set forth
that the money which the horses brought would be used to further the
cause of Emancipation.

The unprecedented boldness of the bulletin attracted a large crowd.

Seated on his thoroughbred stallion, Brown told, simply and plainly,
how he had gained possession of the horses. He cautioned prospective
buyers concerning the defect in title and also gave a short sketch of
his experiences in Kansas. The crowd cheered and when quiet was restored
the horses were sold to the highest bidder. And be it said, in token of
the temper of the bidders, that the animals brought nearly double their
actual worth.

“The Lord is on our side!” said Old Man Brown—Osawatomie Brown.




BOOK FIVE




CHAPTER I

FORCE, FANATICISM AND SENTIMENT


Kansas was still the scene of strife; Brown was willing it should be so.
Let the people look that way and let them view the inhumanities that
would spread over the entire North, like the plagues of Egypt, if slave
owners only dared! Another thing—so long as the public gaze was directed
to Kansas, it was diverted from other directions.

This shrewd old man knew that peace does not come in a day—it takes time
for wounds to heal, for revenge to die, for hate to sleep. Kansas was
free, yes, in name, but not in fact. Painful days of reconstruction must
follow; and in this interval there would be many men who “did not know
that peace had been declared,” and these men would again and again tear
open the bleeding wounds and some would pay the penalty. But freedom,
full, complete freedom would come! Brown’s faith faltered not, nor
blanched; his determination did not waver. Freedom would come to Kansas!
Aye, and to the entire country. Sixteen of the States were free: the
other fifteen soon would be. God had decreed it!

These sixteen Free States contained over three-fifths of the entire
population of the country, two-thirds of the wealth, nine-tenths of the
manufactories, four-fifths of the newspapers; the North printed all
the books. In the Free States, illiteracy among American-born was a
curiosity. In the South, for a black man to read and write was a crime,
and one-third of the white population were as ignorant as the negroes.

Only when out of reach of the clutch of the American eagle, and under the
protection of the British lion, was a black man safe in the New World.
And this in America, of all places! The United States of America, the
boasted birthplace of liberty, whose Constitution flatly states that “all
men are born free and equal,” America, the home of the oppressed, and
the place of refuge for the persecuted—that America should still retain
this relic of darkness, when even Europe had in shame discarded it, was
an affront to High Heaven. Cannibalism was gracious compared to slavery;
cannibalism fed on the dead, but slavery sucked the blood of the living.

A leader was needed! a leader who would sound the trumpet and cry aloud,
“Freedom, Freedom, in the name of the Lord!”

The sixteen Northern States would stand at his back and give their
young men and their treasure; the four million slaves would arise and
the one-third of the white population of the South, who were not slave
owners, would at least keep hands off; and Victory, glorious Victory
would come.

A leader was needed; a leader to sound the trumpet that would arouse the
sleeping North.

John Brown had pondered these things in his heart; for years he had
thought of scarcely aught else. He had listened for the Voice. It came,
and it said: “Thou art the man!” And surely it must be so. Destiny had
denied him peace at home, had robbed him of woman’s sweet companionship,
had wrecked his financial plans and played havoc with all his worldly
ambitions. Providence had been only fitting him for this great work
during all the long, restless, unhappy years.

And Brown knew this fact, that stands out against the dark background of
history like a star: Only through the poor, the outcast and the despised
can society ever be reconstructed. Ruskin states this truth, but John
Brown did not get his logic from John Ruskin. Faith! ’tis highly probable
he never heard of Ruskin, although Ruskin came to hear of him, and paid
to his memory a tribute, rich and rare.

The earth held nothing for Brown—he had been stripped of all, and the
holding of all worldly ties so loosely had given him an iron courage,
a bravery that knew no bounds. He had many times looked into the very
eyes of death there in the West, and he had never faltered. Standing out
on the prairie unprotected, he had answered shot for shot. Not once had
he been scathed, not once had he felt an impulse to turn back. In every
instance he had come off victorious when he had met the foe, face to
face. He believed in Fate.

In fair fight, with ten men, he had defeated a hundred. And he had left
Kansas simply because he had done all that his presence there could
do—time alone could work out the rest.

The God of Battles was with him!

The outdoor life, the healthful fare, the change from cheerless plain
and savage scenes to peace, plenty and applause, worked wonders in John
Brown. His eye took on the luster of youth, his step became elastic
instead of plodding, his form was strong and vigorous.

He had tasted success! what is so sanitary as success? It means quickened
pulse, deep breathing, good digestion, sound sleep. Brown felt younger
than for years. He gazed into the glass and saw with a slight shock the
long, white beard of a patriarch—it was not in keeping with his young
heart! He had the physical strength of youth, and he knew in his soul
that he could ride farther, shoot straighter, endure more and hit harder
than any man of thirty who could be found on the streets of Cleveland.
And this is what pure air, pure motives, and purity of life will do for a
man. He never touched tobacco, nor strong drink, and in eating he stopped
on this side, instead of going to that. He did not even drink tea and
coffee. His conscience was clear, his ambition high. And flavoring it all
was this feeling of power. He had looked into the muzzles of loaded guns
and had had them turned aside at his word of command; he had dictated to
governors; forced issues with sheriffs and parleyed successfully with
United States officers.

And does any man who is not ripe for the grave admit even in the sacred
silence of his closet that he has lost his “manly vigor?” No good woman
was ever so old but that she was sure she was still attractive to the
opposite sex. The man in whom the sense of chivalry is dead has passed to
a point where the undertaker should claim him. Sexuality is the law of
gravitation of the social world, and all noble, heroic actions, as well
as the fine courtesies of life, and the tendencies that make up the art
impulse, have their rise in this: the loves of men and women.

John Brown’s eye was clear, his breath sweet, his teeth white, his form
erect, but his beard—a year’s growth—was snowy white. He took a second
look in the glass and straightway hied him to a barber’s.

When he came forth he had lost his beard, but had gained ten years in
life—in looks, at least. The smooth-shaven face showed the firm mouth,
the strong jaw, and the lines of care were less deep than in the days
agone.

He bought a new suit of clothes, and felt an inclination to sneer at the
clerk who suggested “something modest for a gentleman getting along in
years.” The suit was gray, with brass buttons, after the manner of the
times.

The cartridge belt, the two trusty pistols, and the long, dangerous,
threatening dirk were wrapped up and placed in a valise. The rifle was
packed away and exchanged for a simple walking stick.

His appearance no longer caused people to turn and stare at him as he
passed along the streets; no small boys followed him, and he smiled
grimly to himself as he thought how easy it would be, if a little worldly
prosperity should come, to slip back into mere snug, smug, complacent
respectability.

But he had a purpose—a great, sublime and glorious purpose. He was
entering on the plans to carry this purpose to a successful conclusion.
Yet the plans were not quite clear in his own mind yet—all in a sort
of solution—he needed to discuss the details with some strong, clear,
sympathetic soul. The bare fact of explaining matters to a friend makes
them clear to one’s self. In truth, it requires two to generate an idea.

He resolved to go to Cincinnati and see Margaret Brydges.




CHAPTER II

THE PLANS ARE BEING PERFECTED


Jim Slivers was delighted to know that John Brown was going with him to
Cincinnati. They took the southward train that night.

“The Missus, she never know you in the new togs,” said Jim.

“Mrs. Brydges has not seen me since I was a boy,” said Brown, adjusting
his cravat.

“Lordy, is that so—why, she talks of you heaps!”

“That is simply because we ran the ‘underground’ together, and wrote
letters back and forth.”

“An’ yet never see each other?”

“No, I suggested going to see her once and she said it was hardly
necessary.”

“But you’re going now?”

“Yes, I have a great plan—a great plan, Jim—I have to talk it over with
her. I’m going to free all the slaves in the United States.”

“Lumety, dumety, dee—you don’t say!”

“Yes, I can’t explain it all to you—the scheme is not yet complete—but in
a year I will strike a blow that will shake the institution to its very
center!”

“Where do I come in?”

“Of course, you are going to help. You did splendid service in Kansas.”

“I ’spect I did—killed five men in one night, me and Oliver—even you
never done so well!”

“Jim, never you mention that night’s work again!”

“Why?”

“It is the one thing on our Kansas record I’m ashamed of.”

“But when folks said to you, face to face, that you done it, you never
denied it!”

“True, I did not.”

“If you was ashamed of it, why didn’t you say it was me?”

“That would not have relieved me of the blame.”

“But it would ha’ give me the credit.”

“No credit should be claimed for murder.”

“But you said yourself that it was the one thing that saved Kansas—it
made ev’ry ruffian shake in his boots.”

“And so it did—but it was inhuman just the same. Come, let us talk of
something else.”

“All right—we’ll talk of that money you got for the horses.”

“Yes, I got just fifteen hundred dollars; I’m going to use the money in
my plan.”

“Your plan to free all the niggers what is?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m a nigger, an’ some money will make me feel freer than I do
now!”

Brown turned and looked at the fellow. Jim was showing a selfish side of
his nature that he had never before revealed in Brown’s presence. Brown
thought a moment and it came over him that possibly Jim had rights which
he had not fully respected, and that he had hardly treated this dusty,
rusty, red-whiskered little man fairly. Jim had been loyalty itself, and
had shown a bravery under fire and elsewhere that was most admirable. He
had obeyed orders—worse than that, he had exceeded them! To be sure, his
intelligence was not far-reaching, and it was useless to explain to him
extended plans, but in an emergency he was invaluable. In short, it came
over Brown that if the whole car of forty men should at that moment turn
on him and try to bring about his arrest, Jim would spring up on a seat,
produce a pistol out of his boot, a knife out of his sleeve, and put the
whole crowd to flight.

“And about—about how much money do you think I should give you?”

“I won’t lie to you, John Brown——”

“Very well, state how much you expect!”

“I want a dollar and a half to buy a present for Jennie.”

“What?”

“A dollar and a half for a gold-plated ring for my old woman.”

“Here’s five—get a solid one!” said Brown.

Cincinnati was reached late in the evening. Cincinnati, worthily named
after Cincinnatus, who left his plow in the field to go fight in
freedom’s cause.

Perched high up on a bluff, commanding a view of the winding, muddy river
that divided the Slave State from the Free, was a large brick house.
Once a suburban mansion, but now without the many touches on grounds and
surroundings that mark the home of ease and wealth. Down in the valley,
factories—belching black smoke from tall chimneys—coal docks, machine
shops and engine houses marred the once quiet view.

And this big house—relic of slavocracy—was now a school, a school for
white and colored alike. And this being so, it was mostly a school for
colored. The pupils ranged from pickaninnies a year old, who were left
during the day while their mothers went out washing, to woolly preachers
of fifty, who had preached long years without knowing how to read, and
now became as little children that they might enter the supposed kingdom
of heaven where knowledge dwells. Hard and stony, these old scholars
found the path that leads to learning. Some of them after a year only
got as far as c-a-t and d-o-g, and there they stuck, victims of arrested
development. And yet these men could repeat chapter after chapter of
the Bible—with occasional improvements, of course—and line off hymns of
marvelous length, and if, perchance, memory lapsed, a ready wit supplied
the missing line and rhyme—a foot one way or the other, what of that! Yet
with tears they regretted their inability to read, not knowing that all
things in life are sold, never given; that the law of compensation never
rests and that with the ability to read things out of a book, Memory
would in jealousy flee and leave only the slattern, Recollection, in her
place.

In this big house were anywhere from five to forty pupils. The terms
began any time and never ended. There were no vacations and no tuition
fees. Those paid who could and those who could not, did not. No servants
were employed, save Jennie the housekeeper, and Jim Slivers, man of all
work. Jennie was Jim’s wife. All the rest of the work was done by the
helpful hands of scholars. Sometimes these scholars stayed but a single
night, packed away in barn, outhouse, cellar, or garret, carted off in
clothes-hamper like Sir John Falstaff—not dumped in river, but carried to
a place of safety, and then piloted by the Pleiades.

This old house, with its marks of decayed gentility, could be plainly
seen in the daylight from the Kentucky side; and each night, all the
night-time through, there burned, side by side, two lights in the attic
windows. What though angry clouds darkened the pole star, these lights
burned bright, a beacon beckoning onward, a promise of welcome! Every
evening at sundown for many years, the mistress of the house had trimmed
and lighted these lights; at day-break she put them out.

This house was a refuge to the oppressed, a home for the homeless. Here
were taught not only the three R’s, but the dignity of labor and the
excellence of cleanliness, and right, and truth, and all that makes for
righteousness.

And was it an effort thrown on the idle winds for these two white-haired
women thus to expend their time and substance? In ministering to a
barbaric people—a people of whom it was argued that they had no souls—was
it an attempt to bale out the ocean with a spoon, to try to educate
them? Small results came, very small indeed, for all those years of
patient endeavor. Society held its skirts close when these women passed
by, fearing contamination. Their money grew less and less as the years
passed; no honors came to them; in history their names are not known;
above their graves, now close side by side, no proud monument rears its
granite shaft.

They lived, they loved, they worked, they died, they sleep. Fanatics?
who dares say it! Heroes, rather, the Christ-Spirit working through the
loving mother-heart!

“See those two lights—that’s the place—Lordy, I’m glad to see it—what’ll
my Jennie say?—she never ’spects I’m coming!”

They had left the station and followed the railroad track. The early
winter night was gathering. The old man looked up at the lights. They
seemed to gleam no welcome for him—he fain would have turned back. He,
valiant man of war, undaunted even by death, now hesitated at thought of
meeting a woman. He had suddenly become a youth again.

They climbed the hill, and passed in at the alley gate behind the
house—straight in at the kitchen door without knocking. Jennie was there
busy at the table, washing dishes. Jim stepped up behind her, placed his
hands over her eyes and shouted, “Guess who it is?”

She “guessed” who it was, and turning quickly, applied the soapy
wash-cloth vigorously to his face, and then, as if to make amends, kissed
him three times with resounding Afri-American smacks. Brown stood still.

Jennie was a fine-looking mulatto woman, whose smooth, iron gray hair
gave a certain dignity to her dark face. The first surprise at seeing
her “man,” over, she glanced up and saw this tall stranger looking on
interestedly. Hastily pushing Jim to one side, she courtesied and stepped
forward to receive his bidding, not knowing that he had come with Jim.

“Guv’ner Brown, this is Missus Slivers—Missus Slivers, Gen’ral Brown of
Kansas.”

Jennie suddenly lost her assurance. She had heard much of Brown, and his
virtues as related by Jim were always multiplied by ten. In fact, all of
the heroic incidents that his imagination could invent were fixed on John
Brown, and numberless deeds of daring that rightly belonged to others
were transferred to his credit, when detailed by Jim.

This had gone on for so many years that Jennie had come to think of Brown
as a mythical being; and now that she was suddenly brought face to face
with him, it was like getting an introduction to the god Mercury—only
Jennie had never heard of Mercury.

So she blushed—invisibly, of course—stammered, hesitated, but was
soon put at ease by Brown’s taking her hand and saying in a very
matter-of-course way that he was glad to see her.

As soon as Jennie got her tongue, she began to chide her husband for
bringing the visitor into the kitchen instead of ushering him into
the parlor. But this reproof was cut short by the appearance of Mrs.
Brydges. And now it was Brown’s turn to blush, stammer and hesitate.
But he, too, was put at ease by Mrs. Brydges’s taking his hand in a
very matter-of-course way and saying she was pleased to see him. No
introduction was required; she saw Jim; she recognized Brown.

“My son is here, Captain Brown. He came yesterday.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, he told me of meeting you in Kansas, and that you had left there,
and so I half expected you would come to see us.”

Brown was getting hold of himself. Here were trouble and disappointment
to start with, but these were the things he thrived upon. This United
States officer, in brass buttons and dangling sword, gentleman though
he was, had ordered him out of Kansas. Now he was to be embarrassed by
meeting him here.

And then Margaret wore no blue dress. She was not a delicate, beautiful
young woman, nor even a sorrowful, middle-aged widow, but a woman of near
sixty with snow-white hair, strong and hearty, and quite self-sufficient
as a matronly widow should be.

There was no touch of sentiment in her voice or handshake; only good,
plain, frank friendship.

She called up the stairway: “Richard, Richard, Captain Brown is here!”

There was a sound of pleasure in her voice, and evidently Colonel Brydges
had given Brown a standing, for did she not say “Captain?” But it came
over Brown that tender romance does not live so long in a woman’s heart
as in a man’s, and he smiled just the faintest shadow of a cynical smile.

“Good-evening, sir—where is he—where is Captain Brown, Mother?”

Richard had come into the room, cast his eye around, and was out again in
the hall.

“Here he is, here! this is Captain Brown; why, there must be some
mistake—you said that you knew him.”

“I am John Brown. Colonel Brydges does not know me on account of my
wearing no beard.”

“Can it be possible?” exclaimed the Colonel. He turned the visitor around
twice and gave him a most cordial, yea, even affectionate greeting.

Then Ruth Crosby appeared—white-haired, but with the vigor that comes
with earnest purpose and systematic employment. The Colonel’s greeting
had thawed Captain Brown. Tears came to his eyes as he kissed Ruth’s
check—sentiment, after all, was not dead. And now the ice was all
thawed—they shook hands again all ’round.

“Can’t we have supper in here, Mother, say yes, please—just we four?”

And so the mother smiled on her big boy, and said: “Why, for this once,
of course—we don’t have Captain Brown with us often.”

A white spread was put over the center table, and a colored girl brought
in the tea and toast and the poached eggs and the hot biscuit, and they
drew up their chairs.

“I resigned my commission, Captain—resigned to come home and take care of
my fanatical mother!”

“Rather he resigned and came here so that the mother could take care of
her fanatical son,” laughingly said Mrs. Brydges.

“I hardly understand,” said Brown.

“Why, you converted him.”

“I—to what?”

“Abolitionism.”

“But we did not argue the question.”

“It was well you did not, or it would have only set Richard deeper in his
heresy—it was your life that did it!”

“You mystify me.”

“Why, Richard wrote me that he came near saying to you, ‘Almost thou
persuadest me to be a Christian,’ and now he is so over-zealous on the
subject of Emancipation that I have to restrain him.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt him.”

“We could not convert him—he thought us only silly women, but when he saw
you, your heroism won him,” said Ruth.

Brown did not hear what she said. He glanced at her and then at Margaret.
These two women looked much alike; beautiful faces they were; they shone
with the beauty that comes with years devoted to high thinking, that
subtle, feminine beauty that only is revealed where spiritual aspiration
keeps pace with intellect. Ruth’s contact with Margaret had worked a
wondrous change for good in both. Engaged in the same work, thinking the
same thoughts, living the same life, they had grown alike.

Brown’s successful work in Kansas and the fact that Richard had come over
to the Lord’s side, gave these women renewed courage.

For the time, they talked with the lightness of youth, and Richard added
the zest of witty repartee and allusion to the sparkling conversation.

“How peculiar it was to have Governor Geary beg you to leave,” said
Margaret.

“Yes, leave the country for the country’s good.”

“And thus allow both sides to think they had won. You won, in fact, but
the Pros have the satisfaction of saying you were banished!”

“It must have been glorious, going back to your men—to tell them that the
Governor had consented to your requests!”

Brown gave no reply—he remembered that going back.

The others remembered, too.

“John,” said Ruth, “what became of that man who killed Fred; was he
arrested?”

“He was not arrested, but he is dead,” was the quiet reply.

There was no more light talk now—the conversation became earnest.

“Mother, let’s remove the cloth and have our quadrangular conference at
once, right here.”

“We will, there’s much to discuss. Captain Brown has a definite plan of
action—let us consider it.”

The dishes were carried out, the cloth removed, the door was locked, and
John Brown laid before them the plan.




CHAPTER III

THE PLAN EXPLAINED


The plan was not peculiar nor complex; it was not even original. It was
an adaptation to America of what Schmeyl had done in Russia.

The proposal was to select some rocky, mountainous point on the border of
a Slave State and strike a hard, quick blow for freedom, just as Brown
had done in Missouri when he had run off twelve slaves. The raid would
be carefully planned and carried out with a boldness and swiftness that
would terrorize the slave interests. The policy was to strike and retire.
All great battles, even in pugilism, were won on just such tactics, and
in the world’s war history, time and again, small numbers have thus
defeated great. By withdrawing to fastnesses, where cavalry and artillery
could not follow, a few determined men could hold off regiments.

Slaves would be given their freedom and white prisoners occasionally
taken and then exchanged for blacks, man for man; for the black men
would make excellent and willing soldiers. Besides this, slaves would be
constantly coming over to them, when it was known that liberty was theirs
for the asking. Supplies were to come from foraging, and thus the enemy
would supply the sinews of war both for aggression and defense.

Unlike the raid of Brown into Missouri, this first bold stroke must
be severe enough to startle the entire land. To attack merely a few
plantations and run off the slaves would not be enough—it would be of too
local a character. The disease was virulent—it had taken hold of the very
nation—the treatment must be heroic. To that end the Federal Government
must be attacked—the demand for freedom to all must be made upon the
United States of America. The cry must be, “Give us liberty, or give us
death.”

The Constitution granted equality, the Executive refused it. These lovers
of liberty, loyal to their country, arose against their country for their
country’s good. They loved their native land too well to allow it to do a
disgraceful thing. Like Virginius, they would even strike to her death a
beloved daughter rather than see her become the prey of infamy. Nothing
held slavery in place but heredity and tradition—the cords must be cut.

When the first blow was struck, the bold band would fall back
to a place of safety. Their cry would be taken up by the entire
North, but the General Government having been attacked, troops—both
militia and regulars—would be sent in pursuit. These troops would be
repelled—sharpshooters from concealed and unlooked-for spots would teach
them caution. Meantime, another blow would be struck at some unexpected
point—struck in the night without warning, quick and severe, giving the
idea of numbers. This would give the slaves courage and there would be
uprisings all through the South, that would furnish each community all
it could do to look after its own affairs. No able fighting men could be
spared from any one point in the South to go in defense of another.

After three or four sharp raids, and as many uprisings—for the negroes
were already impatient and ripe for revolt—President Buchanan would issue
a call for volunteers to put down this spontaneous cry for liberty—which
he would call “internecine revolution.” This call would be answered by
several thousand young men of the South and a few adventurers of the
North. But the sentiment of the North being almost entirely Anti-Slavery,
the inhabitants would not, of course, think of leaving their homes to
fight for an institution they despised.

President Buchanan’s proclamation for troops would be followed by
another; a call would go forth from John Brown. To this the Anti-Slavery
people of the whole land would respond, and the young men of the North
and West would flock to his defense.

Two-thirds of the people being opposed to Slavery, Congress would
convene and the President would be compelled to issue an Emancipation
Proclamation. He would also grant amnesty to all engaged in the uprising,
and order all bodies of armed men to disperse.

Then laws would be passed for the better protection of the colored
people, and Time, the great healer, would do the rest.

It might take one year, it might take two or three. But all that was
needed was a leader—a bold leader, one who would “be bold, be bold, but
not too bold.” Once started and the country aroused, the conflagration
could no more be stopped than a prairie fire could be ordered back by
Congress. It was a natural law at work; the revolt of the human heart at
certain deeds, which must occur when civilization has reached a certain
stage.

But the fuse must be carefully laid ere the train be lighted.

The undisciplined blacks and whites that would flock over to them would
be a mob; they must be trained, whipped into shape and armed before they
could do effective service. Competent men should be ready for this work
of drilling, and arms must be secured ere a single shot be fired.

It would take time to secure these men to officer the blacks, it would
require effort to secure money to purchase arms, and all must be done
with the strictest secrecy; this was imperative.

“And where would you begin?” asked Ruth.

“There are many Anti-Slavery people in the mountains below Kentucky. To
strike the Blue Grass country and retreat into Tennessee is my plan.
The Louisiana Swamps are a good refuge, but I feel more at home in the
mountains.”

“The point to strike is Harper’s Ferry, Virginia—I’ve been there within a
month. The place has about four thousand people—it is in a valley and all
around are hills where no cavalry can go,” exclaimed Colonel Brydges.

“I’ve thought of that, too,” said Brown.

“And I believe that Mrs. Brydges suggested it to you both,” said Ruth.

“Very likely, but we will not scramble for honors now—wait until there
are spoils to divide.”

“Or blame to fix.”

“Possibly! The whole thing is an idea yet—every great reform was once an
unspoken word. But this one is assuming shape—I know military science
and I believe this thing is wholly feasible. The Bashi-Bazouks have
made a science of stampedes. It is the safest, cleanest, strongest plan
of warfare that exists—a return to first principles—and when backed by
public sympathy, as this will be, it’s bound to win. Captain Brown, you
shall be General-in-chief of this glorious crusade. Nature and Experience
have done for you what West Point and Scott’s _Manual_ have failed to do
for me. I will be second in command and will support and obey you.”

“It’s not the glory I desire—I simply wish to do my duty.”

“You have the power, and the ability is the call! Captain Brown, do you
not feel that God has pushed you out from your fellows to do this work?”
asked Mrs. Brydges.

“Yes, I’ve sometimes thought so.”

“The years have been preparing you for it. That Kansas warfare has made
your name known to all the leading Abolitionists of the North. Go and see
them personally and prepare them for the stroke you are to make. Secure
their promise to back you. You need not tell them where or just how you
will strike, but let it be thought that you will follow example, and
march into Missouri from Kansas and drain the South of her slaves in that
direction!”

“And as for men,” said Colonel Brydges, “we only want a few to start
with. Too many would be a disadvantage—they would attract attention to
the plot.”

“How many, think you?” asked Mrs. Brydges.

“Oh, not over a hundred, and these must be scattered so as not to excite
suspicion.”

“Well, it will take time to pick these men who will officer our raw
recruits. I’ll select them myself and you go prepare the North by quietly
seeing every leading Abolitionist.”

“I will do it—but your work is already partly done—I have six sons ready
for you now, and in Kansas there are at least five men, I know, who have
been tested under fire, who will join us.”

“Good, we want no one who has not faced fire. No man knows whether he has
courage or not until he has smelled powder.”

“Then we want a topographical map of every county, through the
Pennsylvania line at Harper’s Ferry to North Carolina.”

“Surely we do—that’s where the fight will be.”

“Well, go make the map.”

“I’ll do it!”

“And meantime we will pray and hold the rope, as the women did when St.
Paul was let over the wall in a basket,” said Ruth.

“Your prayers will mean much—when success comes the credit must go to
Margaret Brydges,” exclaimed John Brown.

“We will talk of that later—it’s past midnight—honest folks should be
abed.”

They shook hands and separated for the night.




CHAPTER IV

KINSMEN ONLY IN NAME


Brown left Cincinnati with a heart filled with hope. There was power and
purpose in his step, and steadfast faith in the glance of his eye.

Among his peers, could they have been found, his personal magnetism would
have swayed opinions as did the will of Cromwell, or Chatham, or Pope
Innocent. But the great of the earth are few; for the many, the horizon
shuts out all beyond—the bread and butter question is supreme.

At Hudson, Brown found his father hearty and vigorous as old men
go—nearly eighty years of age. He still had his watery eye on the
main chance. He felt a sincere pity for his favorite son who had gone
off after strange gods. Of course, old “Squire Owen” believed in
emancipation, but that his boy John had wrecked his life in futile
attempts to make men free was a source of grief to him; he fell on his
neck and wept.

He knew somewhat of all that his grandchildren had endured in Kansas, he
guessed at the hardships yet to be borne: “Oh, why did they not stay here
and be content!” he cried.

Neighbors came in, hearty and brusque; they had scarcely heard of Kansas.
Some confused it with Kansas City and thought it near Chicago. They read
but little and that only in the _Gospel Banner_, which came weekly, and
treated mostly of matters celestial, omitting the mundane as profane.
Then these worthy neighbors had crops to plant, harvests to gather, to
them babies were born, and occasionally death came—what did they know of
bleeding Kansas? They had troubles of their own.

John Brown had a brother two years older than himself by the name of
Jeremiah. We have not before mentioned Jeremiah, simply because he plays
no part in this history. He was an honest and prosperous farmer.

“Haint you mighty glad you be out of Kansas, John?” asked Jeremiah.

“Yes, but I’m going back.”

“Goin’ back, do tell! and what for?”

“To free the slaves in Missouri.”

“Jest hear him, Father! out of one scrape and right into another!

“Do you think I could rest with the small success I’ve had?”

“Small success? I didn’t know you had any!”

“I helped make Kansas a Free State.”

“Rubbish! who cares when it’s so far away.”

“From where?”

“Why—why, from Ohier.”

“But Ohio is not the world. There are thirty-one States in this
Union—fifteen of them are Slave States—I will not rest until all are
free!”

“Father, the feller is crazy—he never was just right, you know!”

“So you think I’m crazy?”

“Not think so! you surely be—you’ve got bees in your bonnet.”

And yet old Squire Owen did catch the infection just a little. He
believed in his son, as fathers will, but his belief was a faith mixed
with pity, and this is not good mortar. A prophet hath no honor in his
own country; Brown did not expect to enthuse Hudson—he could do no great
work there on account of the unbelief of the people. But his ardor was
slightly dampened by their dullness. He thought of a quotation he had
read in _Plutarch_ or somewhere: “In the presence of stupidity the gods
are dumb.”

Nearly two years had passed since he had seen his family. They were still
at North Elba—the patient wife and eight children. A baby had been born
shortly after he left—a girl whom they had named Annie. This was his
twentieth child, but he thought of her with all the tender solicitude
that the bridegroom of a year does of his first. From the dullness and
deadness of his old neighbors, he turned with anxious longing for the
chubby baby hands and the sweet baby breath, this baby of the evening of
his days. She would understand; yes, this laughing, dimpled baby Annie
would know. He would reveal to her his plan; she would coo a blessing
and kiss him damp baby kisses on nose and cheeks, and applaud his high
purpose in all the dainty ways that are universal to these little souls
fresh from God.

Then he would go forth and find the noble thinking men of the land who
had written and spoken on this great theme, so dear to his heart, and he
would speak, too.

At North Elba the thrifty wife had made everything spick-span, neat and
clean in anticipation of the coming of the great man, of whom all felt
a bit in awe. They had seen so little of him, they hardly knew him; yet
they believed in him through and through. The wife, Mary, no longer
chided him on account of his absence, for she felt a faith in the power
of the man; a power she could neither comprehend nor explain. She was
sure he would yet do a great work that would bring him honor and fame and
wealth. And in this would they not all share? So what was poverty and
privation, after all, in view of the glory yet to come!

This big family upon the rocky hillside at North Elba had little
money—scarcely any, in fact. They spun wool and flax, and made their own
clothing; they raised peas, beans and potatoes; each fall there was a
pig to kill, or if the pig had to be sold to pay taxes, the boys secured
game, and if there was no game for meat, why, they did without. So they
were hearty and happy; for happiness is a commodity that is given out by
Mother Nature to rich and poor alike, in equal portion.

The coming of their father was a great event to the juvenile Browns. They
were all anxiety for days and days, and walked out miles and miles on the
winding road to meet him. And when at last they saw him, sitting there in
the wagon that had gone across to Elizabethtown to meet him, they hid in
the bushes and fain would let him pass. But he spied them and sprang out
over the front wheel to greet them, and they were all taken in and went
jogging back, all talking at once, to the old log house, where Mrs. Brown
was waiting in her new calico dress and big check apron to receive her
lord.

There were presents brought for everyone—foolish little presents—but very
dear and much prized they were. Then there were useful things—sugar,
tea, dried fish, rice, bacon, and yards of white cloth and a ribbon or
two for the big girls—which the mother thought were not very useful, for
they tended to vanity, but the girls were willing to risk it.

Very happy was this home coming! What is better after all than to go
home? “We must go home, we must go home. For we have been away so long it
seems forever and a day. We must go home; the laughter of the world is
like a moan upon our tired hearing; we must go home!”

But John Brown could not stay long; he must be about his Father’s
business. He could tell his wife but little of his plans. Good woman that
she was, all of her days had been taken up with taking care of babies,
preparing meals, making clothes, caring for sick folks, and encouraging
discouraged well ones. To arise at five in the morning and toil steadily
until night; to cook, to sew, to plan, and piece and patch, and arrange
to make one dollar do the work of two, is the fate of ten thousand women,
their whole lives through. In such lives the absence of so-called culture
and bookish knowledge need not be mentioned—God knows.

Mrs. Brown hardly knew whether Illinois was this side of Kansas or the
other, and as for Harper’s Ferry—la me! she thought it was in Missouri,
so she did! But she was willing to do her work, look after the children,
run the farm, and spare the big boys and their father to do the Lord’s
errand, of course she was!

So old John Brown, Osawatomie Brown, kissed her very tenderly, and as he
did so the sternness of his strong face vanished, and the piercing eyes
grew soft and gentle as a youthful lover’s, and filled with tears. And he
went away again in the wagon that had brought him, out down the winding
valley, the children tagging behind and dropping off one by one, waving
hats and hands until he was lost to view in the never-ending gray-green
of the forest.




CHAPTER V

TRANSCENDENTALISM AND “BEECHER BIBLES”


In nearly all the larger towns and cities of the North were Abolition
Societies. These clubs or societies were not very popular; sometimes they
were frowned upon by the church organizations, which considered them
rather meddlesome and foolish institutions, whose only good was that they
allowed over-zealous people to work off their superfluous emotions in a
harmless way.

But occasionally these societies had as members the best men in the
place. Brown went from town to town and city to city, making acquaintance
with the men who composed these clubs. He was received everywhere with
courtesy and sometimes with genuine fervor.

In Boston he found many strong men who were earnest Abolitionists. He
met Theodore Parker, Edward Everett Hale, Thomas W. Higginson, Wendell
Phillips, F. B. Sanborn, E. B. Stearns, William Lloyd Garrison, and many
others equally sincere and outspoken.

A day was set for him to appear before the “General Court” and make
an appeal for an appropriation for the benefit of New England people
whose homes had been despoiled in Kansas. He gave his one simple little
address; it was received with profound attention. He was questioned
and catechized at length, and although he did not secure the official
appropriation which he asked for, yet his speech made so favorable an
impression that it won him both dollars and friends.

Many of the villages about Boston were visited. At Concord he spoke in
the Town Hall, and in the audience were Emerson, Thoreau, Bronson Alcott,
and Louisa M. Alcott. So greatly was Mr. Emerson impressed that he went
home and wrote in his diary: “I deem Brown of Kansas quite the manliest
man I ever saw,” and that very night he began the _Essay on John Brown_.
Mr. Alcott was visibly affected, and, having no handkerchief of his own,
was supplied by Louisa, who shared hers with him. Says Mr. Alcott in his
Journal: “He spoke of the distress his children had endured in Kansas and
of the death of his son, all with no outward show of feeling, but with a
pent-up reserve force and meaning that was ominous in its import.”

Yet in spite of these encouraging receptions from men of influence, Brown
saw that commercial Boston had its ears stopped with South Carolina
cotton so it could not hear the groans of the bondsmen. He was shrewd
and wise enough to note that the men who took him by the hand were
exceptional.

And even among the Abolitionists there were factions. William Lloyd
Garrison was an avowed non-combatant, and Wendell Phillips pinned his
faith to moral suasion. Brown spent several days at the home of “Wendell
and Ann,” and plainly told them that while “moral suasion” might answer
in Boston, he would as soon load a cannon with hot mush to fight an
Armada as rely on such a soft weapon as moral suasion in Missouri. In
fact, he begged Mr. Phillips to go with him and spend three months in
Kansas, so that he might properly diagnose the case, but Mr. Phillips
preferred the rostrum to breastworks. Yet be it known that the last time
Brown met Wendell Phillips, Phillips gave the old man a hundred dollars
and said, “Give it to them, John Brown—give it to them with a Sharpe’s
rifle! You fight in your way and I will in mine, and together, by the
help of God, we shall succeed!”

Brown had hoped for a general recognition, coming as he did in the name
of Freedom; instead of that it was only here and there that a strong man
came out, and often then looked furtively about and expressed himself in
whispers. Many Abolitionists were just a little afraid of being laughed
at, if not something worse. They would hold parlor meetings, calling in
the elect, and Brown would relate his simple tale of Kansas hardship;
he would tell, without boasting, what he had already done, and he would
tell also what he proposed to do, if but the people would sustain him.
Such was the power of his unpretentious eloquence that wherever he spoke,
tears would fill the eyes of those who listened to his recital of the
wrongs inflicted on Free-State people in Kansas. But when subscriptions
were called for, the responses would come in form of one-dollar bills
with an occasional five, and, at long intervals, ten. There was no
burning zeal in the matter; in fact, those who gave usually extracted a
promise that their names should not be mentioned.

In several instances, people were met who were so strong and earnest in
their faith, that Brown partially confided his plans to them, and asked
for their individual co-operation. Then it was that they halted and with
one consent began to make excuse. One had bought a piece of ground and
must go see it; another had bought five yoke of oxen and must go prove
them; another had married a wife.

The last named was the most common excuse—the wife would not allow. All
young men who had no wives seemed suddenly to have gotten themselves
engaged. And the universal way that men had of throwing the burden of
excuse on their wives and sweethearts struck Brown as peculiar, until
it came to him that man has ever laid the blame of his sins, both of
commission and omission, on woman.

He also thought of how Fred had a sweetheart in the East, and of how she
did not hold him back from what he considered his duty. And the next man
who dodged behind a woman, got the flat statement from old John Brown
that he was a coward, who, not being willing to fight for Freedom’s
cause, made his wife bear the brunt.

Of course, the accused man was indignant; he even cancelled his
subscription, and said that in future Abolitionism could go to the devil
for all of him.

But Brown was not discouraged. To be sure, he had slightly overrated the
enthusiasm of the North; he had forgotten that they were a commercial
people, and that slavery was a good way off to most of them; yet he
pressed onward and felt somehow that he was making headway.

“Never mind, it only means a little more time,” he said.

A year passed and instead of striking the great blow with the sword of
the Lord of Gideon, they met to talk it over. Colonel Brydges, being a
bachelor, considered Cincinnati home, and Brown agreed with him that his
mother’s counsel was valuable and safe.

So again, the two women and the two men met behind the locked doors of
Mrs. Brydges’s sitting-room and discussed ways and means. Brydges had a
better report to make than Brown. He had traveled on horseback and afoot
from Altoona, Pennsylvania, down through Chambersburg to Harper’s Ferry,
and then on through Virginia to Salisbury, North Carolina.

He had looked the ground over carefully and prepared a topographical map
of the country about Harper’s Ferry, and gave it as his opinion that
Nature had arranged things thereabouts purposely for their benefit.
“There are flat shelving rocks all through the mountains there, where one
man can hold off a regiment. The Pass at Thermopylæ is not a patch to a
shelving rock that is protected by another, one size larger, above it!”

But, in getting men, he had met with little encouragement. Army officers
sided with slavery or else were apathetic. Some were restless and ready
for adventure that offered victory, but having no deep feeling in the
real issue itself, Brydges could not confide in them. So, often, those
who would be willing to go he did not want. It was absolutely necessary
that he should move with great caution and not give his plans away to
an unworthy person; then Brown had insisted on only temperate men being
taken, and this was a hard condition.

As for Brown himself, he had collected nearly four thousand dollars in
money, and had aroused ardor to an unknown degree—small or large he
could not say. Instead of kindling enthusiasm, sometimes he had created
opposition. But the women were sure he had done much good, and as for
funds he had done remarkably well. But he did not think so. Ten thousand
dollars at least should be had; for arms and provisions must be bought,
and stored at various points in the mountains of Pennsylvania and
Virginia, so there would be no delay or slip in carrying on the war when
once begun.

However, in one sense the war was already on, for in Kansas the fire had
broken out afresh, on account of continual raids from Missourians, who it
seems were unable to give up Kansas with a goodly grace.

So it was decided that Brown should go to Kansas at once, for the double
purpose of “keeping things warm,” and of securing men for the Virginia
raid.

His presence in Kansas was a synonym for war. He appeared without
disguise, a rifle on his shoulder and belt full of pistols. The
Free-State settlers hailed him as deliverer, and tendered him welcomes
that might have turned the head of a younger man. The Southrons looked at
him askance, but offered no incivility—it was not safe.

He recruited a following of fifty young men, and threw up earthworks
about a log fort a few miles back from the Missouri line, near Paoli.
Spies were sent out to gather the names of all slave owners in counties
along the border, and then Brown went over and released the blacks. In
short, the border counties of Missouri were drained of their slaves.

Various Missourians, who had been active in despoiling the crops of
Free-State men, were visited and warned. There were several sharp fights
and a few men killed on both sides, but peace was secured even though it
had to be fought for.

But Kansas was secondary in Old Man Brown’s thoughts, and little did his
fighting band of hardy men know that he was leading them out, not so much
to fight the Southrons, as to study their qualities and learn who were
bomb proof and who not.

Brown had a theory that no man knew what he could do until he tried. Men
timid in a parlor often make the best sort of timber for guerillas. He
was culling the basswood from the hickory.

A year passed. Peace had come to Kansas—temporary peace—and Brown had
secured twenty men who were staunch as tempered steel. These men knew
no such thing as fear; they had intelligence, they had faith in their
leader, they were devoted to the cause. But they did not know military
science, and, as they were to act as officers, they must be drilled and
tutored.

These men were taken to Tabor, Iowa, and Brydges sent on a competent
officer to give this score of men a proper training for the duties
yet to come. And let it here be known, this town of Tabor was made up
of a colony from Oberlin, Ohio; and further that Tabor, Iowa, should
be remembered in history as giving more men and treasure in behalf of
Freedom, in proportion to population, than any other town in the United
States.

When summer came and flowers bloomed, the Browns had slipped out of
Kansas, one and all. Their presence was not missed. Fred, in his grave,
was quiet, and the two little graves near, of Jason’s children, attracted
no attention, for privation, exposure, and strife made graves common
there on the prairies, and the busy settlers had only time to think of
life.

John and Jason had moved back to Summit County, Ohio, with their families
and had rented farms. The intention was that they should stay there until
the Great Blow had been struck, when they would take advantage of the
enthusiasm, enlist a body of determined men and march to their father’s
defense, recruiting as they went.

Salmon had taken himself a wife and was now at North Elba, New York, also
awaiting the bugle blast, when he, too, would march southward with men at
his back.

These tides flowing to the South from various directions were counted on
as a strong scheme for furthering the cause. An armed force gathers power
like a tempest, and the hosts that would march from Canada, Ohio, New
York, and Boston would arouse the sleeping land as nothing else could.
The echo of the steady tramp of armed men—the glitter of bayonets, the
shrill shriek of fife, the roll of drums—ah, it means much! Arouse, ye
hosts of Freedom—the time is ripe!

The forty thousand negroes were preparing. Hundreds, aye, thousands,
of stern, uncompromising Abolitionists were ready. They knew not from
what point the call would come—they knew not where the blow would be
struck—but they were all ready, waiting, expectant!

Brown had ordered arms—rifles, pikes, swords, and revolvers—at Hartford,
Collinsville, and Springfield. These were being shipped in plain
boxes, marked “implements” or “hardware,” to various small stations in
Pennsylvania and Virginia. Brydges with a faithful twelve met the “goods”
and carted them back into the mountains, where they were carried on
mule-back and man-back to caves and caches. They were rolled in oil-cloth
and hidden away, with provisions to be called for when wanted. The twenty
picked men at Tabor were written to come on in squads of four. Brydges
had twice as many more ready to respond at a moment’s warning. Brown was
hurrying forward the arms and munitions. Money had come to him, and a
promise of more.

He hastened to North Elba to see that the wife and babies were provided
for. He remained but a day, and then with his sons, Oliver, Watson, Owen,
and his two sons-in-law, Henry and William Thompson, he started for
Harper’s Ferry.




CHAPTER VI

THE TIME IS SHORT!


It was midsummer. The blow must be struck before the harvest was
gathered—for then laborers were most needed, and could ill be spared.
The negroes would leave the crops to rot in the fields and flock to the
deliverers for freedom. This would cripple and tend to humble the proud
plutocratic dealer in human flesh, right at the start.

With Oliver and Watson, Brown entered Harper’s Ferry and stopped at a
modest tavern. They were unarmed and dressed as plain farmers from “York
State.” They wished to purchase several hundred acres of land where they
could make a home and pasture their flocks.

Various men, who owned large tracts of land thereabouts, came to them
and offered to deprive themselves of slices of the rocky hillside for a
consideration.

Some of these men were slave-holders. They were very courteous and
hospitable. They loaned their horses and carriages to “Mr. Smith” and his
sons, so that they might go and see how the land lay. The Smiths spent a
week in looking about, and, finally, instead of buying they decided to
rent, for a year at least, to see how they liked it.

Five miles south of the village of Harper’s Ferry, they found a farm that
suited them fairly well. They dickered over the rent, but finally came to
an arrangement with Dr. Kennedy, the owner, and paid him three months’
rent in advance.

The neighbors watched them closely, for country neighbors are always
inquisitive; they thought that there was not much furniture brought for
so big a house. They also noted the absence of women and children. And,
furthermore, the sheep raisers had no sheep; leastwise they had not heard
any bleat, and as for cows, there was not a horn to be seen. They had one
old horse and a wagon, but no plows nor harrows, nor rollers. Some of the
neighbors said that Old Man Smith—the one with the long white beard—had
two sons, and some said a dozen—for on a certain moonlight night full
twelve men were seen to come out of the house and go off toward the
mountains.

And the upshot of it was that Smith had found gold in the hills—they
always knew it was there—he had sent off for experts and they were now
prospecting. More men came, and every morning they went off to the hills
with picks and shovels.

They were a civil lot of men—those fellows that lived at the Kennedy
farm—but unsociable,—“they never neighbored with nobody,” said an old
farmer to his wife. Among them were several negroes, and they were just
as unsociable as the rest.

Ten miles back from Harper’s Ferry, well over into Pennsylvania, Colonel
Brydges had his camp of forty-seven picked men. All had been officers in
the regular army; several were veterans of the Mexican War. All had been
under fire, all were duelists in the best sense, and ready to give fight
single handed; for be it known that there are men who will fight well in
battle line, who cannot be tempted to pick their man and engage him to
the death with a dirk. These men were fighters every one, and yet with
intelligence and force enough to break a mob of raw recruits into files
of eight, and make them do systematic work.

Brydges and his men knew this country well. Grand, wild, terrible, yet
friendly it was. Ages and ages ago, nature had tossed up great masses
of earth-stuff and allowed it to drop as it would; massive ledges of
rock jutted out in fantastic shapes, and disordered, distorted strata
projected themselves this way and that. The valleys were narrow, the
steeps abrupt, and the whole effect was that of a stone-strewn maze
made to baffle and confuse. Over all grew a dense forest of hemlock,
interspersed here and there with pine, oak, chestnut, and maple. And
these leafy curtains concealed the entrance to many a friendly cave that
could only be entered like the sacred temples of Nyanza, on hands and
knees.

Here Colonel Brydges and his force were to remain until Brown and his
twenty Kansas rangers struck the first blow. Brown was to march into
Harper’s Ferry at two o’clock at night and quietly capture the Arsenal,
which was guarded by only a few men. He was then to take possession of
the railroad depot, cut the wires and destroy the railroad bridge. He
was also to capture at least forty white citizens as they appeared on
the streets at daylight. Of course, the town would be panic stricken, at
first, but by seven o’clock, at least, some of the citizens would recover
their wits and get out their guns ready to fight.

At this time, Colonel Brydges with his picked men would appear on the
scene, marching in from two sides, having left their camp just three
hours before. The distance had been walked by Brydges, so was properly
timed. This fresh force would at once throw the place into a new panic,
when all the prisoners that could be easily handled would be seized, and
both the Brown and Brydges forces would drop back into the hills.

The quick move of two assaults, one right after the other, would
terrorize and give the idea of numbers; and as Brydges would retreat
northward into Pennsylvania and Brown southward into Virginia, it would
require a double force to follow them.

The white prisoners would be exchanged man for man for able-bodied
blacks, who would be at once armed with pikes, and with rifles as soon as
they were taught how to handle them. All was ready.

But the summer was slipping past; fall had come and the big lot of
ammunition that had been bought and paid for had not arrived. The factory
in Hartford had had a fire—it took time to rebuild.

Brydges was getting nervous, Brown serious.

What was to be done? Brown must go on to the East and secure more
ammunition at once.

He promised not to be gone more than a week.




CHAPTER VII

AN OLD FRIEND WORKS A SPELL


One of the principal citizens of Harper’s Ferry was Colonel Washington.
His residence was two miles out of the village, on the road leading to
the Kennedy farm.

Back of Colonel Washington’s mansion, on the roadway that ran north and
south, was a row of a half-dozen whitewashed cottages—built right on the
street. Behind these houses was a stretch of well-tended garden, where
tall bean poles, covered with vines that grew lush and lusty, lifted
themselves clear above the flowering tobacco and gaudy sunflowers.

These houses were occupied by colored people. Such cabins, made out of
rough boards, plain battened and whitewashed, are a universal feature
of architecture throughout the South; and very dull is that person who
cannot distinguish, from the outside, the habitation of a negro from that
of a white man.

On his trips back and forth from town after mail or on errands, Jim
Slivers, body servant and own familiar friend of John Brown, had noted
that the second house from the end on this row of cabins had a sign
above the door. Above this sign was a horseshoe. But colored people are
given to hanging out signs, and they are also hopelessly given over to
horseshoes and other talismanic schemes for keeping witches away, and
bringing good luck.

Now there were two things that Jim Slivers prided himself upon; one that
he was not a negro and the other that he was not superstitious. Yet
he was a negro and also superstitious. For when a man begins to pride
himself on the absence of a thing, he usually has it,—else, forsooth! he
would be unconscious of it.

Each time that Jim passed by that row of cabins, he looked at that
horseshoe and read the sign. And once he had gone down by night just to
see how the horseshoe would look in the pale light of the moon.

The sign was a queer one, and queerer than all else (for it was a “darky”
sign), it was correctly spelled and properly punctuated:

    +------------------------+
    | JEDEDIAH, the PROPHET: |
    |         DOCTOR         |
    |          and           |
    |    FORTUNE TELLER.     |
    +------------------------+

Besides the pride that Jim took in his absence of superstition, was a
modest pride in his education. This man who united the high office of
“Doctor” and “Fortune Teller” was evidently a learned individual, for
could he not spell “prophet”? and prophet was a hard word. Indeed, few
white folks could spell it right. Jim would have bet on that.

One day Jim got a glimpse of the Prophet, at least he thought it
must be the Prophet. The great man was out back of his cabin, sitting
astride of a bench with a draw-shave in hand, making axe helves. Jim was
disappointed in his looks, for this man was small and round-shouldered,
and nearly white, whereas a sure-enough prophet should be large and very
black, or else all white with a beard that reached his waist.

On going closer to the pickets and peeking through, Jim saw that the
Prophet was old; and that surely was in his favor. But, as he turned his
wrinkled face, Jim was startled to see that, like himself, the man wore a
close-cropped beard, grizzly, red and white, and his face was freckled.
Jim trembled a little and pinched himself to see if he were awake; he
felt someway that he was looking at a picture of himself as he would
appear when he got old. As yet, of course he was only a youth, a wild,
giddy, reckless youth, sowing a small crop of wild oats.

Their eyes met:

“Come in, sah, come in, it’s a fine day, sah,” called the old man in the
pleasant accent of the Southern negro.

Jim opened the gate and walked in.

“Take a seat, sah! Sunflowah, a cheer for the gemmen! Doan you stand thar
starin’ as if we wasn’t used to white folks!”

An old mulatto woman brought out a splint-bottomed chair, and dusting it
with her apron placed it in the shade against the cabin.

“We’ve saw you go by, sah, sev’ral times, an’ ha! ha! ha! ha! we laughed
to see how much you looks like my ole man tharust to look fore he got the
rumatize, ha! ha! ha!”

“Go ’bout yo’ work, woman,” ordered the Prophet in a voice of wrath.

The Prophet’s wrath was feigned, but Jim was mad in earnest.

“I’m no nigger!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, yes, you be, sah! but you no better dan white folks on dat ’count.
I’m no niggah either, I’m white. I am!” chuckled the old man.

“So you are white an’ I’m a nigger, is that it?”

“Yes, dat’s a fack!” and the old man laughed again.

“I’d thrash you, old fool, if you was younger!”

“Go ’way chile—go ’way—how ol’ you think I am?”

The easy way the old man was taking things side-tracked Jim’s wrath
by piquing his curiosity. He dropped into the chair, leaned back, and
thinking to humor the old man answered:

“Oh, eighty!”

“Go way—I’m not seventy-five, and you’re near sixty.”

Jim felt that he was in the presence of a man just a little smarter
than himself. The guess at his age was so near the truth that it stung,
especially in view of the fact that Jim had insisted for years that he
was forty-two and no more.

“Oho, so you’re a prophet, are you?”

“Yes, I’m a prophet. You folks down dar be on no good errand!”

“Who do you mean, you old rascal?”

“You, at dat Kennedy farm!”

“Why?”

“First comes John Smith an’ his sons, then more sons, an’ then more. Now
fully twenty sons!”

“We’re hunting for gold in the mountains.”

“Is you though!”

“Yes, you’re a prophet, will we find it?”

“Less see your han’, man.”

Jim reached his hand forward and the Prophet studied it carefully,
mumbling to himself.

“No, you won’t find no gold—you might if I’d consult de Spirits for you
an’ show where it am. Bring yo’ Massa’ down, an’ for five dollars—good
money—I’ll work de spell!”

“Who shall I bring, did you say?”

“De man what owns you.”

“Fool, no man owns me, but I’ll bring Mr. Smith to see you.”

“All right—an’ so you is free, is you?”

“Yes.”

“An’ dem other niggers at your house—is dey free?”

“Of course, Mr. Smith does not believe in slav’ry—it’s wrong.”

“Lordy, I wish you’d convince my Massa’ ob dat fack, I do!”

“Well, pos’bly we will.”

Jim could fight on a square deal, where his enemy stood out in open; in
short, he was not afraid of anything that could be seen, but the Unknown
made him tremble. This old Prophet was a Voudou, and Jim felt a little
in awe of him; he had a wholesome respect for the Powers of the Air with
which this Prophet was in league. These Powers had brought people good
luck and they had brought them bad luck. He knew this—he had known of men
to fall down in a fit through charms worked over them by a Voudou.

If an enemy was after you, the Voudou could confound him; was your wife
estranged, the Voudou could bring her back; was luck against you, the
Voudou could reverse the spell and bring fortune your way.

But John Brown had no faith in Voudouism. He scoffed it; he prayed only
to one God and had no faith in the special influence of any one man or
woman—all men were equal before the Almighty. And as to all this, Jim was
sure that John Brown was wrong; but alas! Brown could not be reasoned
with.

And more’s the pity, for, by the help of the Powers, that ammunition
would have gotten through on time. Now there was a rasping delay—the men
were getting restless. And worse, the slave-holders might have their
suspicions aroused and prepare for defense.

Jim took a big chew of tobacco and went trudging off home, with the
inward avowal that he would have nothing to do with the miserable Voudou
Doctor. The man might be a rascal and work a spell that would bring ruin
on them all; such men were dangerous.

But, after walking a couple of miles farther, it came over him that a man
who was himself a slave would surely be very glad to have all the slaves
free. Now if this Prophet had power to do certain wonderful things, would
he not be glad to use this power in helping bring about his own freedom?

It must be so, and Jim wished that someone would have kicked him for
being so stupid as not to have seen this point before.

This Voudou Prophet could work a Spell that would bring good luck to
their project. Every force possible must be brought to bear to bring
about the desired result: had Brown not said it again and again?

Jim ground his teeth in impatient rage to think that Brown was not here
so he could ask his permission to make a confidant of the Prophet and
thus secure his help. Brown had been gone three days. In a week he would
be back.

But a week passed and he had not returned.

Jim called on the Prophet and studied him quietly and carefully, giving
nothing away in words or manner. The Voudou seemed like a man of ability.

Could he work a Spell that would bring success to a plan? Yes, he surely
could, but he must know what the desired plan was.

Jim hesitated—he demanded a test before divulging a single detail.

The Prophet suddenly swung his hands up, clapped them together; his
form stiffened, his eyes closed, he fell back in his chair as if dying.
Suddenly he began to struggle, his words came as if from the grave.

“I see—I see the inside of that Kennedy house—it is filled with armed
men—they have guns, and knives fastened on poles like spears—their
leader’s name is not Smith—I must have his true name before I can go on—”

“Brown,” answered Jim; he would tell this much and no more.

The Prophet’s eyes opened with a jerk, his senses were coming back—but
suddenly his head began to shake and he passed out again under the
“Influence.”

“Brown—his name is Brown, born in Connecticut, moved to Ohio, then to
Kansas, where he fought for Abolitionism and had to run away—and—and—”

The man’s head began to jerk, he sat up, his eyes opened, and he declared
that he did not know a single word of what he had said.

“Has the ’fluence give you anything, sah?” he asked innocently.

Jim had noticed that while under the “Influence” the man talked with
the force and accent of an educated man of the North, and when he was
“himself,” he was simply an ignorant mulatto.

The test was astounding. Jim was convinced.

He moved his chair up close to the Prophet, and in a hurried whisper told
him all, and begged for his co-operation. The Prophet gave a low whistle
of wonderment.

“You gwine to ’tack de Arsenal—to capture de armory at de Ferry?”

“Yes.”

“An’ when?”

“As soon as Brown gits back an’ the ’munition comes.”

“Judas Priest!!”

“Yes, will you work a Spell to give us luck?”

“In course I will, isn’t I a slave?—Come to me the night befo’ you
begins, an’ I’ll work the charm!”

“An’ why not now?”

“Can’t! must do it just before you start.”

“You are sure you can give us luck?”

“In course I can.”

“Well, work a Spell so Brown will get the ’munition and get back quick!”

“I’ll do it!”

“When?”

“To-night at midnight.”

Jim handed him a dollar—all the money he had, and shook his hand in
gratitude. The Prophet gave him a piece of snake-skin in which were
wrapped three black beans. This snake-skin was tied at each end with
the dried intestines of a bat. The charm was to be worn by Jim over the
heart—pinned to his shirt. Just before the blow was struck, the charm was
to be brought back, when the Prophet would bless it and this would make
victory certain.

The next evening John Brown came. Three days later the ammunition arrived.

There was virtue in the charm.




CHAPTER VIII

THE PLANS HASTENED


All was now ready. Only one thing deterred; that was that the negroes
in Canada, to the number of a thousand or more, had not received the
supplies that Brown had shipped them. They did not want the blow to be
struck until they were ready to march. The very day, aye! the very hour
that the wires brought the words, they would cross into the United States
and move southward like an avalanche, gaining in force as they swept
forward; but they must have provisions. By October 27th they would be in
perfect condition to move.

Brown wrote them that the blow would be struck on the night of the 26th
inst.

It was now Sunday evening—the night of the 26th was still ten days away.
It was ten o’clock and the men were all asleep on their straw beds in the
upper rooms. The lights were out.

Old John Brown sat alone in the darkness, musing—he seldom went to bed
until midnight—his system seemed to require but little sleep.

He arose, put on his hat, took a stout stick that stood in the corner,
and moved softly out into the night. He wished to go alone into the woods
and pray, as was his wont.

The rising October wind ran hissing through the swaying pine tops; it
rose and fell, and died away, and then came back with renewed force and
fury.

Dark clouds, with great outstretched wings like gigantic bats, chased
each other across the sky. Only now and again for an instant could the
moon be seen.

The wind increased, the clouds thickened and a few dashing rain drops
fell. Brown had walked a quarter of a mile down the road and now
withdrew under the protecting boughs of a great low pine that stood by
the roadside.

Muffled voices in low conversation could be heard coming up the road.
Sheet-lightning shone out and revealed three men; one short and stooped;
this one shuffled and limped in his walk as if old and infirm.

“Dar’s no haste—dey isn’t gwine to begin de fracas till a week yet,
anyway!”

“But are you sure?”

“Dead sartain! Dar’s only twenty men, all packed away like rats in a
hole—jest bring up de Charlestown militia and bag de whole bizness some
night, dat’s de way.”

The three men passed on. Brown followed, but he was too far behind to
catch their words, although as the lightning gleamed he saw that they
were gesticulating and conversing earnestly. They ceased talking and
cautiously approached the house. They moved slowly up to the windows and
tried to peer in.

“Ah, good-evening, gentlemen!” came the firm, clear voice of old John
Brown suddenly behind them.

The three men turned with a jump. They would have run, but Brown said,
“I’m glad to see you—neighbors, I s’pose?”

“Yes, sir, we was just goin’ by and thought we’d make you a friendly
visit.”

“I’ll call my son to bring a light—”

“Oh, don’t trouble, we’ll come over to-morrow—”

“No, but I wish to talk with you now.”

Brown opened the door and called, “Oliver, we have callers, bring a
light!” He then moved around so as to stand between the visitors and the
road.

It was only a moment before Oliver came down the stairs, half dressed,
carrying a lighted candle.

“Walk in, gentlemen, walk in!”

“Oh, we’d rather not to-night—some other time!”

“Walk in, I say, I’ve something important to tell you.”

The two men stepped inside the door.

“And that other man—the little man, where is he?”

“Why, there were only two of us!”

“Watson, take four of the boys and bring in that third visitor who is
skulking outside—be quick or he’ll get away!”

“You’re not going to kill us, neighbor, are you?” whined one of the men.

“No, you shall not be harmed in the least. You are my prisoners, though!”

The men from up-stairs were all astir. They tumbled down the stairway,
guns in hand, putting on clothing and buckling on belts as they came.

Brown turned to his men:

“Boys! the hour has arrived! To-night we strike the blow—two prisoners
are already ours!”

An involuntary cheer broke from the lips of the men who had been
penned up for so many monotonous, weary days. Joy! the hour had come!
Fight—fight, and victory was theirs!

Brown with a wave of his hand commanded silence.

“Jim Slivers, handcuff these two gentlemen together! I’m sorry, but we
will have to do it for safety. To-morrow you shall be exchanged for
negroes, and go free.”

“Is they ’quainted?” said Jim with a grin and a leer, as he came forward
and snapped a steel cuff around the wrist of each trembling man.

“Jim Slivers, I think you have had more experience in night work than any
man here—”

“I’ve cat’s eyes an’ can see in the dark.”

“Can you go to Camp Brydges in two hours?”

“Yes, or less!”

“You have walked it by night?”

“Four times—when the sky was blacker than black!”

“Jim Slivers, it is now half past ten. If you reach Camp Brydges in
three hours, it will do. Go to Colonel Brydges, and tell him that we are
discovered and must strike the blow to-night. My force will march in an
hour—his must move not later than four to reinforce us, all exactly as
arranged!”

“All as ’greed, ’cept he must move to-night—is that it?”

“You understand it—this night we strike the blow!”

“Good-bye, boys, I’ll meet you all at the Arsenal for
breckfuss—good-bye—I’m off!”

A half-smothered cheer followed Jim as he disappeared through the door
and the darkness swallowed him.

“We can’t find that man, Father—are you sure there was another?” said
Watson, entering the room.

“Yes, there were three. Prisoner, who was that other man with you?”

“A nigger, sir!”

“You mean a colored man!”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought so—and was he a slave?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how comes it he knew of our plans to free the slaves?”

“One of your men told him.”

“What! but never mind, it’s too late now. And how came it that this slave
should confide in you?—Speak up!”

“We forced him—we saw your man talking to him, then we went to him and
made him tell us!”

“Now you see my men about you here—which one of these men revealed our
secret?”

“None of these here—it was the one you just sent away!”

“And he gave our plans to a slave?”

“Yes.”

“And who else knows these plans save you two?”

“No one but the nigger who told us!”

“Well—well—you seem to speak the truth; and if no one but a slave knows
it, we are all right yet. The slave will side with us, that’s sure, when
not intimidated by such as you. Never mind hunting for him, Watson, he
got panic-stricken and crawled off in the grass. Boys, get ready for the
fight!”




CHAPTER IX

THE BLOW IS STRUCK


Two men were ordered to go with a lantern and hitch the horse to the
wagon. The single, solitary old steed was led blinking and winking out
into the darkness. Was ever before mortal horse bound on such momentous
errand!

Haversacks, axes, a sledge, and a crowbar were piled into the wagon. The
men had buckled on their cartridge belts, each containing forty rounds of
ammunition. Each man carried a Sharpe’s rifle, two pistols and a knife.

“We are ready to start!” said John Brown. “You will all kneel, while I
ask the blessing of God on our undertaking. And will the two gentlemen
who are providentially with us also kneel?”

All knelt, and John Brown offered a prayer of thanksgiving for the
guidance that had thus far been given them; he asked that the Spirit of
Almighty God would still be with them.

A man was detailed to remain and guard the house and the two prisoners.
At seven o’clock, this guard was to make for the hills to meet the main
force at a point indicated.

Then John Brown climbed up into the wagon and drove slowly off down
through the darkness toward the sleeping village.

The men dropped in behind, following silently, two by two. Not a word was
spoken.

If they should meet persons on the way, it was the intent to capture them
and send them back to the house, holding them prisoners. But the road was
deserted—not a team nor man was to be seen.

Arriving at the village, two men were instructed to go ahead and pass
down the two principal streets and extinguish the street lamps. Two
others were sent to destroy the telegraph line.

As they approached, the river watchman that patroled the bridge appeared.
At the muzzle of a rifle, he was arrested. Three men were left to guard
the bridge.

The rest of the company, with the prisoner, went with Brown at their head
straight to the Arsenal. Around this long, brick building was a high
iron fence. The gate was tried; it was locked. A sharp wrench with the
crowbar and the lock was broken. They passed in and quietly seized the
two watchmen, who were asleep.

By this time the two men, who had extinguished the street lamps, arrived
with three policemen—the entire police force of the place—as prisoners.

Soon the men who had gone to cut the telegraph wires appeared with the
station agent as a prisoner.

Ten of the men were now sent out by twos to bring in certain prominent
citizens, whose houses had been previously located.

By four o’clock they had returned, marching in front of them, in all,
fourteen prisoners. There was no disorder—no confusion—not a shot had
been fired on either side.

A passenger train had come in on the Maryland side at two o’clock. The
switch had been turned and spiked. The men at the bridge ordered the
passengers and trainmen to remain inside the cars on pain of death.
Thinking that a large armed force had captured the town, they were
willing enough to obey orders and lie quiet until daylight.

Day dawned, and Old Man Brown went across the bridge and had an interview
with the conductor.

“I am here to free the slaves. The Abolitionists of the land have at last
arisen, and in the name of God we declare all men free!” said Brown.

“And—and may we go on with this train?” asked the conductor.

“Yes, go! and carry the news to the City of Washington and to the world,
that the blow which will make all slaves in America free has been struck.
Go!”

The switch was quickly repaired. Brown walked across the bridge with the
conductor to assure him that all was safe.

The train started, it moved faster, then faster, it was going with
lightning speed for Washington, fifty-seven miles away.

Brown watched it disappear up the valley and grimly smiled.

Men began to appear on the streets—they were at once captured and marched
inside the iron gates.

It was six o’clock and the town was terror-stricken. People dared not
look out of their houses; dreadful rumors were about; the North had
marched upon them a force consisting of thousands of armed men. What
would be the awful result? Who could say!

Soon there was firing in the streets. Some of the citizens had gotten out
shotguns and rifles and were shooting at the Arsenal from long range.

Their shots were answered. Other shots were heard. It was Colonel Brydges
with his first detachment.

“Get ready for the retreat! March all prisoners ahead! Should any try to
escape, shoot!!” shouted John Brown.

To the huddled, trembling prisoners he made a speech, assuring them that
none should be harmed, provided they did not resist or try to escape;
they would all be exchanged within a few days for black men; there would
be no insult nor ill treatment.

Off to the northeast could be seen a cloud of dust. Brown climbed to an
upper window and scrutinized it carefully; it was the second detachment
of Colonel Brydges’s force. In an hour they would be safely in the
hills—leaving Virginia to recover from her fright as best she could, only
to be terrified again.

The firing in the streets increased. Bullets began to break the windows.

It was seven by the town clock, and Brydges had not come.

Brown climbed again to the window and looked out for the cloud of dust.
It was still there—but he was mistaken—it was not dust, it was only fog
rising from the river.

A bullet struck and splintered the sash a foot from his face. He
looked out across the street and saw a man firing from the windows of
a warehouse. Suddenly, the man who had shot at him stiffened, lunged
and plunged through the window headlong to the stone sidewalk, pierced
through the heart. One of Brown’s men had located him.

They were all ready to march. Would Brydges never come?

The crowd in the street increased. Men armed with every conceivable
weapon were coming in from the country. They made a circle clear around
the Arsenal, cutting off the two men who guarded the bridge. These two
brave men had been pressed upon until their ammunition was gone—every
moment they expected the force in the Arsenal would come marching out, or
that Colonel Brydges would appear.

The force inside the iron gates did not come forth, and Colonel Brydges
did not appear.

What was to be done!

Owen struck off alone, on the Maryland side, to meet Colonel Brydges.
Watson and his comrade made a bold rush to reach the Arsenal. Watson
fell, mortally wounded; his companion, William Thompson, was captured,
clutched and dragged by ravenous hands that sought to tear him limb from
limb.

This gave the crowd courage and they surged closer. The firing increased.

Oh! if only Brydges with his brave band should appear, how that mob would
melt away. They would scatter like grasshoppers.

Brown could have charged the crowd and gotten away. But Watson was
dead—he saw him fall—and Thompson a prisoner! To retreat now meant
leaving the prisoners behind. It would be too cumbersome to try to move
them. Indeed, it would be an impossible feat.

And to leave the prisoners behind meant failure—or at least partial
failure. But Brydges would come soon—then the work could be made
complete, all as planned—save for poor Watson—alas! who would break the
news to his wife?

But Brydges did not appear.

The flies came in swarms and covered the face of Watson where he lay all
stark and bleeding out on the stony street.

The better to protect his men, Brown withdrew into the engine house,
taking his prisoners with him. The doors were barricaded.

If a truce could be obtained for just an hour, the reinforcements would
arrive! Brown sent Henry Thompson, his son-in-law, out with a white flag.
Before Thompson had advanced ten feet he fell, pierced with a dozen
bullets.

All that forenoon the crowd was kept at bay. The Militia Company from
Charlestown—a hundred strong—dressed in shining uniform and well
equipped, arrived. But they could do nothing—to charge meant death, to
some at least.

A bullet struck Oliver as he stood at a port hole. He began to vomit
blood and tried to speak—to give a message that should be sent to his
young wife. He sank to the ground, and his old father, with rifle in one
hand, felt the dying boy’s pulse with the other.

Then he turned, took deliberate aim out through the port hole, fired and
turning again closed the young man’s eyes, for the boy was dead.

That evening a detachment of United States Marines arrived from
Washington in charge of Col. Robert E. Lee. Lee demanded an unconditional
surrender.

It was refused.

All that night the little force held out firm. Perhaps Brydges had
waited for night before coming to their rescue. Only six men were left,
and two of these badly wounded.

At daylight, the Marines charged the place—battered in the doors and
rushed in, sword in hand.

Old Man Brown fell, slashed and thrust through with swords and
bayonets—his face a mass of blood—unrecognizable.

The plan had failed!




CHAPTER X

“I AM READY!”


But the old man still breathed. The mob gathered about and sought to
finish him, but a strong voice from someone in the crowd went up, “Leave
him alone, boys, don’t you see he is dying, anyway?” And the same unknown
man placed an old coat under the gray head for a pillow, seeking to stop
the gaping wounds, and standing by, he protected the helpless form from
those who would have trampled upon it.

“And what brought you here?” bawled a bystander, when it was seen that he
was not dead.

“Duty, sir,” came the answer.

“And do you think it was your duty to invade this place with an armed
force, and make war on your country?”

“They tell me I am dying, sir, I cannot argue with you; I tried to free
the slaves, and am sorry I did not succeed. I did my duty as I saw it.”

Life still lingered in that iron frame, and in a blanket the old man was
carried to prison.

Governor Wise arrived the next day, and when the aristocratic Virginian
met Old Brown of Osawatomie, he recognized at once that he was in the
presence of one greater than himself. Governor Wise, who it seems had the
elements of nobility in his make-up to a rare degree, has given us an
account of that interview:

    “He is no madman, but the best bundle of nerves I ever saw;
    cut, bruised and battered, and chained beside, he showed
    himself to be a man of courage and fortitude. He is a fanatic,
    of course, beyond all reason, but he thinks himself a
    Christian, and believes honestly he is called of God to free
    the negroes. They say when one son was dead by his side, he
    held his rifle in one hand, and felt the pulse of another who
    was dying, all the time cautioning his men to be cool and sell
    their lives dearly.

    “While I was talking with him,” continued Governor Wise,
    “someone called out that he was a robber and a murderer. Brown
    replied, ‘You slave-holders are the robbers.’ I said to him,
    ‘Captain Brown, your hair is matted with blood, and you are
    speaking hard words. Perhaps you forget I am a slave-holder;
    you had better be thinking on eternity. Your wounds may be
    fatal, and if they are not, you will have to stand trial for
    treason, conspiracy and murder, and how can you hope to escape,
    when you admit your guilt?’

    “The old man leaned on his elbow, and beneath the bandages on
    his broken face I saw the blue eyes flash, and he answered me:
    ‘Governor Wise, you call me old, but after all I have only ten
    or fifteen years, at most, the start of you in that journey to
    eternity, of which you speak. I will leave this world first,
    but you must follow. I will meet you across Death’s border, and
    I tell you, Governor Wise, prepare for eternity. You admit you
    are a slave-holder. You have a responsibility weightier than
    mine. Prepare to meet your God!’”

Forty-one days passed. The physician reported to the authorities that
the prisoner’s wounds were partially healed.

John Brown wrote to Margaret Brydges: “I am happy, happier than ever
before in my life. I die to-morrow, and my only regret is that in this
life I cannot repay you even in part for all you have done for me.
Farewell!”

The morrow came with cloudless sky—a splendid southern winter day. The
blue hills stretched off in every direction, with woods upon woods, and
lazily ran the great placid river between.

The prisoner, still heavily chained, was helped into a wagon. Surrounded
by an armed force of over two thousand men, with cavalry and loaded
cannon, the line of march was taken up for the place of execution, two
miles away.

The old man refused aid in getting out of the wagon, and walking up to
the gallows steps, the strength of his youth seemed to have returned. He
looked up at the sky, at the sun in the heavens, at the rolling river and
the miles upon miles of woods. His lips moved for a moment in prayer; and
then he said to the guards:

“I am ready!”


THE END.




_Katherine Day_


  _BY
  ANNA FULLER
  Author of “A Literary Courtship,”
  “A Venetian June,” “Pratt
  Portraits,” etc._

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THE FOREST SCHOOLMASTER


By PETER ROSEGGER

_Authorized Translation by Frances E. Skinner_

    [Illustration]

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Our European Neighbours


EDITED BY WILLIAM HARBUTT DAWSON

A series of books descriptive of the Home and Social Life of Continental
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*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79783 ***