served to secure successful avoidance of the enemy on these journeys
will not be asserted; but this interesting fact can be affirmed,
namely, that, happily for the lone teamster and for the settlers whose
property, whether money or purchases, was intrusted to his care, not
once were dangerous foes encountered on these trips, and only in one
instance was there a near approach to it.
One day three horsemen appeared on the horizon in the rear, bearing
down upon me. When we have not strength sufficient, we are prone to
resort to strategy for protection or to extricate ourselves from
difficulty. On board my wagon, the usual large "prairie-schooner,"
covered with canvas, was a box of firearms which, with foolhardiness, I
had undertaken to deliver in Osawatomie. For one to transport arms was
to invite the services of the executioner.
I had reason that day, however, to thank my foolhardiness. At first
sight of the approaching horsemen I sprang into the cart, forced off
the box-cover, and stuck several of the gun-muzzles out under the sides
of the wagon-canopy.
And another reason I had for thankfulness that day. It had been my good
fortune that summer, while lying ill of the ague, to learn a little of
the ventriloquist's art from a half-breed Indian. The accomplishment
served me well now. As the strange horsemen closely approached, I was
busy carrying on a conversation, ventriloquist-wise, with my imaginary
companions inside the covered wagon.
"Lie still and make up your sleep. Lie still. No danger."
"Who is it?" (from the wagon.)
"They are travelers," was answered; "friendly, no doubt. Lie still and
get your sleep."
(From inside the wagon) "Whistle if you want us."
Answer: "O yes, I will. Lie still. No danger,—they're friends."
By this time the troopers were alongside. They looked hard at me, but
harder at the gun-muzzles, made the usual "good-day" greeting, asked a
few questions, and rode on. My little artifice had worked like a charm.
My visitors, I felt little doubt, had planned and meant mischief; had
probably been in search of my team, possibly for days, incited by hope
of rich plunder.
This record of personal experiences will serve the main purpose for
which it is written if it lays bare to the reader in some degree the
difficulties and dangers, the trials and sacrifices, of the Free State
settlers whom John Brown led at last to victory in the Kansas struggle
for freedom.
In closing this chapter, I will give my readers the only explanation
I am able to proffer of the strange faculty of localization which has
been mentioned. No voice is heard, nothing like an impression is felt,
there is no experience of any occult power of vision. Indeed, I have
already stated all that I am conscious of, in the words, "it seems to
me" that the object of quest, or the locality sought, lies in a certain
direction or place, whenever this faculty is brought into play to find
it.
[Illustration]
XVI
The Osawatomie Battle
[Illustration]
The engagement at Sugar Mound (also called Middle Creek) took place on
Monday, the 25th of August. Five days later, on Saturday, August 30th,
was fought the really famous battle of Osawatomie, the Bunker Hill of
the Kansas struggle.
In the early dawn of that day some four hundred of the enemy, well
mounted and equipped,—with their bayonets glistening in the morning
sun,—bore down upon the devoted town and its stanch defenders. There,
in that day's notable battle, John Brown showed that he possessed
real military talent. In this case he was acting on the defensive, and
manifested coolness and caution equal in effectiveness to the dash and
daring displayed on other occasions.
To our settlement on the South Pottawatomie, the same thing occurred
on this memorable occasion as on the earlier one already described. A
rider came up the creek twenty miles, asking for our aid.
This time the messenger was sent by Brown himself, and there was a
similar ready and willing response to the call, even though we had
so lately arrived home. There was the same eager hurrying to and
fro to get our force together, the same quick preparations, hasty
leave-taking, setting out at dusk, and the like night-march. We made
all possible haste to the rescue.
Before midnight, however, when we had covered only half the distance to
our friends in distress, a scout met us with unwelcome news, which, to
our dismay, ran: "Battle at Osawatomie, John Brown killed, Free State
men defeated, and the town burned to ashes." Moreover, our informant
thought it probable that the victors were on their way to lay waste our
settlement.
The only thing now to be done was to return to our homes, and to make
ready, if the need came, to defend them. One prior thing it was decided
it would surely be well to do, namely: dispatch two scouts to our
friends at the scene of disaster and get accurate information of their
fate or fortune.
The choice fell upon the two brothers, the writer and his older
brother, and for the reason (comforting to them) that, being the
youngest men, with none dependent upon them, their loss, were they
killed, would be less to the community than the loss of older men. And
besides, one of them was good at "finding the way" and the other had
won a reputation for extra courage and trustiness in emergencies. We
were assigned, to say the least, a rather delicate and hazardous duty,
and probably there were few men in the company that night anxious or
willing to undertake it.
Bidding our comrades adieu, we mounted two of our best horses and
proceeded on through the night. Being obliged, for safety, to avoid
both the "open" and the main road, we could make our way but slowly,
and so did not reach the vicinity of Osawatomie till daylight. We kept
in hiding during the day, spying around the city of desolation and
trying to learn of the presence of foes or if any of our friends were
still alive. After nightfall we cautiously approached the log-cabin on
the outskirts of the town, where, if anywhere, we knew we should most
likely find friends. It was the home of the Adairs, relatives of John
Brown.
There we learned from them the story of recent events. Captain Brown
had not been killed, as was reported, though he was wounded; but there
in that humble cottage, folded in the embrace of death, lay one of his
sons, the tall, handsome Frederick Brown, as noble-looking as he was
noble of soul, the fourth of that now historic band of six hero-sons,
worthy scions of their hero-father.
As the Pro-slavery invaders were marching into Osawatomie, two
of their scouts, at some distance from the town, met this son of
Brown with a companion named Garrison, and in cold blood, without
provocation, shot down the unarmed men. Their whole force of four
hundred or more horsemen then trampled over the bodies, leaving them to
lie there all day in the hot August sun.
Late that same night, Sunday evening, as we lingered in conversation
with the family, the old father, having learned of the death of his
son, returned to take a last look at his remains. Here again, surely,
was a scene for a painter, in that lowly cabin that night. If a picture
of it, as those bright young eyes saw it in all its realistic setting
and color, could have been faithfully depicted on the artist's canvas,
and thus preserved for us to-day, it could not fail to be of more than
common historic interest.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE ADAIR LOG CABIN.]
As Brown bent over the lifeless form of his boy, there was not a word
of complaint from his lips, nor any look of revenge on his face,—only
deep, silent grief, and falling tears, and humble submission to the
Almighty will. Then he hurried away to the morrow's duty, after
expressing his wishes as to the disposal of the remains of his son.
Yes, one thing more, doubtless. He carried away in his heart that night
a deeper abhorrence of the institution which had virtually inspired the
blow and aimed the bullet that had ended that young life. The scene in
that lowly cabin that night was to remain, at any rate, ineffaceable in
the memory of the few who were witnesses to it.
On the opposite page is given an interior view of the Adair log-cabin,
taken while Mr. Adair was still living, and representing him sitting
in his accustomed chair in the main room of the house,—the room where
lay the body of Brown's son, Frederick, and where the father sadly
viewed it.
* * * * *
The battle of Osawatomie was surely a remarkable engagement. Brown,
with a handful of men hastily gathered together and placed in position,
kept long at bay more than ten times their number. The stand was made
in the edge of the timber, on the near bank of the river. "There,"
said Brown modestly in his account of the battle, "we had exceptional
opportunity to annoy the enemy."
The first onslaught of their foes, who marched gaily as if to sure
victory, was met by a steady, determined fire from Brown and his men,
so destructive as to make the ranks of their assailants reel, break,
and then hastily retreat. Again and yet again they re-formed their
broken lines, and renewed the attack, suffering terrible punishment
each time, till their leaders could rally them no longer.
At that time the gallant little band of defenders, out of ammunition
and with their ranks sadly thinned, thought it wise to retire across
the river. Their foes, crippled and shattered, had no heart to follow,
and the battle ended. It only remained for spite and revenge to find
vent in the burning of the town.
We need not recite details here; they are matters of history. And yet
some uncertainty has hung over that engagement. The invaders, in the
chagrin and shame of their more than failure, proceeded to conceal
or falsify the facts. And never was there greater temptation to
falsification. The certainty of Brown's annihilation at their hands
they had loudly trumpeted beforehand, but their own defeat had occurred
instead.
The account of the battle written soon after by Brown to his family was
near to the truth, and is borne out by all reliable testimony. About
thirty of the assailants were killed, and the usual ratio of wounded
would be some seventy-five or eighty.
[Illustration]
XVII
Conclusion
[Illustration]
In concluding these reminiscences it only remains to be said, of the
subject of them, that in the writer's opinion John Brown was a great
man; and he believes that this will be the verdict of the future upon
him when misconceptions and prejudice are blown to the winds. John
Brown is one of the most unique characters in all our history. In a
way, he stands almost alone, and deserves, if only for that reason, a
place in the Hall of Fame far more than many a one who has been given a
niche therein.
John Brown was a hero. Our country has brought forth no greater one. He
was of the very substance and essence of self-sacrifice. What higher
can be said of any one of our humankind? Everything, possessions,
reputation, life, he was ready to throw into the scales against wrong
and for the cause of human liberty, human rights, and justice, which
were to him as sacred, as divine, as the God he worshiped. Love of them
was the consuming passion of his soul, and to fight for them, to live
and die for them, was to him the highest duty of man.
The ablest minds have been the most appreciative of the high qualities
of John Brown,—for example, Ralph Waldo Emerson, of our own country,
and Victor Hugo, of France. It is Edward Everett Hale who has
pronounced him "our great American martyr." Nothing could be finer
than Thomas Wentworth Higginson's tribute: "It must be conceded that
John Brown was the most eloquent of all our great Abolitionists, for
his was the eloquence of a life."
Let not our readers conclude that we are attempting to glorify Brown's
militant course, or that we would inspire the spirit of war. We
celebrate the great soul.
John A. Andrew said: "Whatever might be thought of John Brown's acts,
John Brown himself was right." That sentiment so touched the popular
heart at the time that it went far to make Andrew governor.
We may accept fully and wholly the man, though we approve not his
methods. Brown derived his ideal, in its spirit, so to speak, from
the New Testament; but his ideal of action was rooted in the Old
Dispensation. The one is wholly worthy our following, the other is not.
One can allow that this is true, though he hold that the old or past
was inevitable, and that Brown did the best possible at the time
and under the circumstances. That is no reason why we should go on
imitating his example; but we cannot be enough filled with his spirit.
The truth, we think, may be told in a word: John Brown belonged to the
"old order," which is passing away. Heaven speed its end! He was a man
of war, whatever else he might be; though it seems surely to be shown
that he was much besides. While we would do him full justice, while we
glorify the spirit he was of, we must turn to our higher ideal,—those
of the "new order," the men of peace. The spirit of both may be the
same, their methods are as opposite as the poles.
Tolstoi has given us the key that opens to us the coming ideal: "It is
better to suffer wrong, even without limit, than to do wrong even in
the least."
This represents the meaning of Tolstoi, though it may not be expressed
in just his words. That ideal is far in advance of mankind in general
to-day, but the world is moving surely if slowly toward it. The spirit
that actuated John Brown—that of self-sacrifice for what he believed
to be the good and true, and his entire devotion to liberty and
right—is to be more and more alive, and more truly than ever "marching
on."
The North will more and more appreciate and honor John Brown, as time
goes on; and we shall not wonder very much if even the South some day
builds a monument to his memory. For it is simple justice, and not
flattery, to say that no men ever lived who possessed higher courage or
had a finer sense of what is heroic than the true Southerner.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:
Text in italics is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from
the original.