woods to the farm, at which we arrived very quickly, but found none of
the family at home. We finally gained entrance to the little farm house
and sat in John's chair by his cheap desk. Afterwards we climbed on the
big rock now near his grave which seems to stand as a lone sentinel, in
the rocky wilds, silently calling the coming generations to the resting
place of the ashes of him who followed the dictates of conscience,
regardless of immediate results.
After enjoying hot cream biscuit with wild honey and crabapple jelly,
with a neighbor of the Browns, we started down the mountain, and
through the evening we sat before the crackling hickory flames in the
great fireplace while Mr. Thompson gave his experience with the Browns,
which were substantially as follows:
[Illustration: JOHN BROWN, 1850.
GOD CALLS EVERY MAN AND WOMAN TO DUTY AND REQUIRES A RESPONSE ACCORDING
TO THEIR INDIVIDUAL ABILITY.]
JOHN BROWN.
One evening in the summer of 1850, John Brown, whom I had known in
Springfield, Mass., as a successful wool merchant, surprised us by
calling, and relating his troubles.
"I," he said, "through misfortune or mismanagement, have lost the
fortune which I amassed in 25 years. In trying to retrieve, I shipped
my stock to Europe, but after staying there about four months I sold
it so low that my loss, including the expense of the trip, left me
stranded. My ardor for the slave has not in the least abated, and
through the assistance of Gerritt Smith I have taken up land and am
building a home over in North Elba, I am a sort of instructor to the
colored folks of Smith's Wild Wood Colony.
"I have several colored men working for me in clearing up and planting,
and they work well. I brought along some blooded cattle, pigs and hens,
and finding many hard maples on the place, which produce sap for sirup,
we feel quite independent. Two of our heifers have come in and we have
plenty of milk, so I tell my wife if we have not crossed the Jordan
into the land of milk and honey, we have crossed the Connecticut into
the land of milk and maple molasses. Now I must be going in order to
reach home before dark."
"Stay, Mr. Brown," I said, "why, we have not visited at all yet."
"I know, Mr. Thompson, but I came just to let you know where we are,
and if you will come to see us we will treat you to fried chicken,
boiled potatoes, hot corn bread and fresh butter. Will you come?"
"Surely; how far is it, John?"
"About 25 miles up the mountain, and 10 miles down; but I am still
good for four miles an hour. Say, Mrs. Thompson, set on something for
me to eat, the very best you have, for the Bible says, 'Be not slow
to entertain strangers for thereby you may be entertaining angels,
unaware.'"
Soon after, early one morning, we saddled our horses and rode over to
call on our new neighbors, when Brown would hear nothing but that we
must stop with them overnight, and although we all visited, cooked, ate
and slept in the same room, we did enjoy ourselves.
Before retiring, we all knelt in family worship, when Brown prayed
so clear and fervent that no one could doubt his faith in the loving
Father, who he believed was listening.
Ruth, Brown's eldest daughter, and her husband, Henry Thompson, were
with them, and several of the younger children. Oliver, one of those
killed at Harper's Ferry, recently, was then about 10 years old.
After supper, Brown and I climbed onto the great rock, beside where
his body now lies, when he revealed to me his disconnected plans of
venturing into a slave state and arming negroes who could fight for
their own liberty.
"But," said I, "the law gives those Southerners the right to hold
slaves."
"What law?" he exclaimed as he extended his lower jaw defiantly and
repeated, "What law? Jesus defined laws as the will or mandate of
Jehovah. If you call the conclusions of an assembly of men today
which another assembly of men tomorrow can prove to be felonious, law,
then John Brown is an outlaw; but if the Saviour's definition, 'Love
the Lord, thy God, with all thy mind and soul, and thy neighbor as
thyself,' is law, then John Brown is a law-abiding citizen, and will,
if needs be, die for those who are in bondage, who have committed no
crime."
Then raising his tall form and moving slowly to and fro in the
moonlight on the great rock, he continued in a soft tone.
"God calls every man and woman to duty and requires a response
according to their individual ability. I feel that I have had a call to
open the gate of freedom to the slaves in this, Columbia. This call is
not a direct communication from God, but more in the line of duty. I
am somehow impressed that I am the man to answer this call, for, when
I pray for guidance, the echo seems to come back, 'Your strength is
sufficient.' When you and I were boys, Dan, we read of famous persons
whose characters glittered before us, but we somehow overlooked the
fact that duty and praise do not travel hand in hand, but rather, that
duty treads the thorny way and fame creeps softly after.
"Not only is this God's law, but it coincides with experience.
Disappointment mingled with failure seems to be the earthly lot of man,
and yet it is not failure. When the morn of eternity dawns, and you and
I shall stand to be judged according to our past records, what will be
more glorious than that we meet failure in trying to accomplish good? I
know that slavery is a sin, and, if needs be, I will die for the cause."
Of course, I saw Brown occasionally during the next nine years, but I
have no time this evening to relate his wildcat crusades in Kansas and
Missouri, so we will pass over to the closing days of his life.
Oliver, Brown's youngest son, grew up on the North Elba farm, and
through him I was kept informed concerning Brown's border free-booters
until Brown came and took him to the Kennedy Farm near Harper's Ferry.
NEAR HARPER'S FERRY.
Anna, Brown's oldest daughter by his second wife, returned from
Maryland about the last of October, 1859, when at her father's request
she sent for me and gave me all the particulars concerning their
rendezvous at the Kennedy Farm and their contemplated raid on Hall's
Rifle Works at Harper's Ferry.
The next day, after promising my pets, my wife and Vida, that I
would not join the mutineers, as Vida liked to call them, I left for
Washington, and was soon in consultation with John Brown in the attic
of the little house on the Kennedy Farm, where Anna had, as Brown said,
acted as his watchdog, entertaining and detaining all strangers until
he or his men could disperse or prepare.
I soon discovered that his attitude toward universal freedom had not
abated, and that all his men, including three sons, had become much
like him, as, at the prayer meeting in the little church nearby and
the family altar, they often chimed in "Amen." As I think of them now
I can truthfully say I never saw a band of men more Christianized in
their expressions than those, for John had instilled into their minds
his theory that the world was to be benefited by the struggle they were
about to begin.
One day Oliver, his father and I walked down to Harper's Ferry, and
while returning in the evening, Oliver and I pressed him for an
explanation of the course he would pursue when he had taken possession
of the arms at the Rifle Works, as the slaves would be useless at
first, but he had none--he seemed to rely implicitly upon God and the
Northern abolitionists to see him through.
Suddenly stopping us under the dark shadowy trees, and laying one hand
on Oliver's shoulder and the other on mine, he said low and earnestly:
"I do not know where I shall be when that beautiful moon has made
its journey around this world once more, but one thing I do know
and that is this: through my ceaseless efforts I have corralled the
slave holders until now I have them in a trap. If my efforts are not
impeded the slave will eventually free himself. If they are, and I am
destroyed, the North, through sympathy for me and justice to the slave,
will continue my cause until the bondmen are free. So you see I have
them in a trap, but my aim is to avoid a bloody war, for the families
in the South are as dear to me as those in the North, but slavery is a
sin and must cease. Soon this generation will be passed, other men our
lands will till and other men our streets will fill. When we are all
gone the South as well as the North will speak kindly of him who dared
to oppose his country's unjust laws."
All of Brown's men as well as myself considered the Harper's Ferry raid
an unwise move, but to Brown, human life seemed a secondary matter, as
compared to the continuation of national sin.
The last evening I stayed at the Kennedy Farm. After a supper of corn
cake and molasses, Stephens and Tidd, who had melodious voices, sang
"All the Dear Folks at Home Have Gone" and "Faded Flowers." Their
voices echoing softly down the glens where the tree of freedom was
about to appear rooted and nourished in the blood of those brave
helpless invaders. Oliver Brown, noticing my emotion, gave me a
friendly slap on the shoulder, saying, "Now we will all join in with
father, 'Nearer my God to Thee,'" which we did before kneeling together
for the last time at that strange family altar.
When I left for the North next day, the understanding was that the raid
would not take place until about November 1st, but condition made it
expedient for them to move at once, which they did.
I arrived home the 17th of October, and after supper I saddled the
horses, when my wife, Vida and myself ran up the mountains at a
spirited canter, arriving at the Brown Farm in the dark. In the small
frame house we found his wife, Mary, and three of his daughters, Anna,
Sarah and Ellen; Mary, the wife of Oliver; Henry and Ruth Thompson and
several neighbors.
All listened in silence, while I related the incidents of my visit
at the Kennedy Farm, but, of course, none of us knew that Brown had
already taken possession of Harper's Ferry, that Oliver and Watson had
been killed, and that the old man was holding out so grimly in the
engine house.
About ten days later the exaggerated telegrams concerning Harper's
Ferry were afloat which set us all agog, but not until Friday the 21st
did we get a copy of the New York Times, of the 18th, which I took up
to the Elba home, and we all listened while Annie read it through, then
for several moments all remained silent, as we thought father and all
were dead.
Later we learned that the father was alive, but Watson and Oliver were
dead, and that Owen was missing, which was considered equivalent to
being dead.
John Brown's trial ended October 21st. On November 2d he was sentenced
to be hanged, which execution was carried out December 2, 1859.
Of those missing, Cook and Haslet were captured, and we took it for
granted that Owen and the other three for whom there was a reward
offered had been killed at the Ferry, but not reported.
THE DEAD APPEAR
Near the time set for the execution of Mr. Brown we were all nervous,
especially our Vida and Sarah Brown; they were about ready to fly, and
what happened, Vida must tell it herself.
"Oh, no, papa; you're telling the story; keep right on."
Well, as I have said, we knew that the three Brown boys, Watson, Owen
and Oliver, were dead and the father was to be executed December 2d,
and we were running back and forth to the Elba Farm all the time,
trying to help the women to bear up under this trying ordeal.
One dark evening, the last of November, two neighboring girls came in
and stayed until after 10 o'clock, when Vida and my wife accompanied
them to the gate. When she returned, as we were sitting before the fire
in this big fireplace, a soft rap came on the door, which we seldom
use, and as I rose up Vida said: "That is Flossy, let me go."
The door being in the entry, from where we sat Mary and I could not see
Vida when she opened it, but listened if we might recognize the voice.
The voice being inaudible, I started to go just as Vida uttered a low
moan, staggered backwards to where I could see her, and fell in a dead
faint.
I sprang to the open door and called out, but could see nor hear no
one. Then I closed and locked it, and Mary brought the camphor, but we
could not bring her back, so as to tell whom she had seen for a long
time. When she recovered she said it was one of the Browns, but she
thought he was dead. I instantly decided it was John Brown, who had
escaped from Charlestown jail, which was a feasible conclusion, as all
the news we were receiving in the Adirondacks was nearly a week old and
unreliable.
Rushing out I ran down into the road, calling John by name, when I
heard a voice near the house, and turning back, discovered it was Owen
Brown, who had been reported missing, and we supposed he was dead.
When in out of the cold and before the big fireplace with Mary washing
his hands and face, Vida trying to untangle his unkempt hair and I
getting off his shoes, which had not been removed in weeks, he covered
his face with his hands and wept, but did not speak.
After supper he listened to our reports from Harper's Ferry and North
Elba as we had gained them, and then inquired if I thought it was
imprudent for him to try to visit those at home, to which I assured him
that he would be more safe in Washington than he was in the Adirondacks.
"Then," said he, "it is better that they never know you have seen me."
Then turning to Vida said: "You can keep a secret?" Vida put her hand
on his head saying, "Try me and see."
It was soon arranged that Mary should spend the next day cleaning and
fixing his clothes, Vida would run Fleet Foot Jim up to the Elba Farm
and without revealing anything bring back all the news, while I was to
borrow what money he might require, and the following night he and I
were to run, on saddle, to Robert Doan, a staunch abolitionist, from
which place he would make his way to his brother at Dorsett, Ohio.
VIDA'S DARING EXPLOIT
We were unable to get Owen ready for the night ride until the second
evening, when Vida declared her intention to accompany us as far as
Jobe's Hill, seventeen miles down the mountain. "For," said she, "when
Mr. Brown is clear from the Adirondack region, he can make his way in
comparative safety to Utica, or if he is going to Ohio, he can follow
the lake shore to Rochester. Now do not say no, Papa, for I am not
afraid; they will never catch Old Jim while I am on his back. Besides,
a lady riding with two men might fool even a shrewd detective, if
such a thing might be that any of our mountain greenhorns have turned
detectives for the sake of the reward which is out for Owen."
"Why, Vida," said Owen.
"Please do not object, Mr. Brown. I am an Adirondack lassie who used
to go barefoot in summer, and I know as much about these backwood
aspirants as anyone."
"Now, my dear child," I said.
"Papa," she continued, "will you, for once, allow your pet to have
her own way? If you should be caught, think of the consequences; and
you, Mamma and I would be ashamed to hold up our heads in church. Now,
Mamma, will you take my side?"
"You know, Papa," said Mrs. Thompson, "that all the girls are
accustomed to--"
"All right--all right," I said, for I felt that Vida's plan was
sensible.
[Illustration: ADIRONDACK MOUNTAINS.
VIDA THOMPSON ON HER WILD MIDNIGHT RIDE.]
At 10 o'clock, when we went out to saddle the horses, we were startled
by two strangers standing near the gate, but soon learned they were
wood choppers from the timberlands farther up the mountain, who had
become confused, thinking they might be on the wrong road.
Fleet Foot Jim, who was always proud when my wife or Vida was on his
back, pranced, nibbled his bit, paced and cantered until Vida patted
his neck and talked baby talk to him, when he steadied down and we went
on at a brisk trot, seldom speaking until we reached Jobe's Hill, where
Vida kissed me again, bidding me not to worry, shook hands good-bye
with Owen and she was off on a spirited run through the midnight gloom.
Brown and I listened to the klick of the horse's feet as they made the
turn down through the dark timber valley, then ascending the hill the
klicking grew fainter until they passed over the brow of the hill, when
it ceased altogether.
"Listen," said I to Brown, "the long wooden bridge we came over is not
more than two miles away," and as we waited the rumbling thunder from
old Jim's heels on the bridge assured us that Vida's lonely midnight
ride up the Adirondack Mountains would soon be over, and so it was, for
she left the hemlock grove on Jobe's Hill at just 11:30 and bounced
into her waiting mother's arms at home at 12:15, making the 17 miles in
45 minutes, which she always refers to as her glorious midnight ride.
OWEN BROWN'S STORY
"Soon after you left us at the Kennedy Farm we were startled by the
rumor that the authorities were about to come down upon us, so we
decided to seize the arsenal Sunday night.
"Father routed us out earlier than usual for our family worship on
Sunday morning, and all of us knelt together for the last time.
"Now Oliver and Watson are dead, father is to be hanged tomorrow, I
am a fugitive with a large reward over me and most of the others are
either dead or soon will be.
"We left Kennedy Farm at dusk Sunday, October 16, 1859. In our party
there were, besides father; Watson, Oliver and I, Marriam, the two
Coppic boys, Cook, Tidd, Kagi, Taylor, Bill Thompson, Hazlett,
Copeland, Leary, Greene, Anderson and several other men.
"Father rode in the wagon and the others walked two by two, all but
Marriam, Cook, Barclay, Coppic and myself, who were left to guard the
arms and other effects until we heard from the raid.
"Tidd came out to us in the morning stating that the battle was going
on fiercely and that our men were being hemmed in on all sides. Then he
reported that more than fifty had been killed, the Mayor of Harper's
Ferry had been shot, and Watson and Oliver were dead; so, upon this
report we decided to flee from the scene and leave all behind.
"We hastily ate and fixed up as much lunch as we could carry, when
Marriam, Coppic, Cook, Tidd and myself ran across the country to
Maryland Heights, where we could view the scene but could not help.
"At first we saw no troops, but hundreds of men from behind trees,
rocks and buildings firing at our men, who, as yet, held the town.
We could see father, with sword in hand, walking about apparently
encouraging the men.
"Soon we saw a squad of more than a hundred soldiers leave the bridge
and march down the street towards father and his few men, and could see
father begin preparing for the onslaught.
"When they were about two hundred feet distant father apparently gave
the word to fire, and it was kept up until two of our men and more than
twenty of their troop lay dead in the street, while their live ones
retreated in confusion to the covered bridge from whence they came.
"Truly it was a strange sight to see father, an old man, with a handful
of mountaineers holding the town of Harper's Ferry against that company
of Maryland regulars, besides receiving an occasional shot from behind
buildings or other places of safety. He was facing odds of more than
fifty to one, who, not knowing what father's re-enforcements might be,
were really panic stricken.
"Through continuous firing, one after another of our few men were shot
down, until father abandoned the arsenal and seemed to be barricading
the engine house with his few men, probably not more than three or four
besides himself.
"Colonel Robert E. Lee, with a company of United States Marines,
appeared just before dark but did not attempt to capture the enemy's
stronghold in the engine house, possibly because he had heard the rumor
that father had three or four thousand men in the mountains waiting his
command.
"Knowing that anything more on our part to help father would virtually
be suicide, we gathered up our effects and started on our night tramp
through the Blue Ridge Mountains in a northwesterly direction.
"We traveled in the roads strung out about ten rods apart, myself in
advance, so when I met anyone I would engage him in conversation until
the other boys were concealed from the view of the road. When passing
villages we climbed the fences and ran around.
"Soon our food was ear corn, which we pillaged from the farmers. This
we could not pop or roast, as we dare not build a fire. We could travel
in the rain nights, but we could not sleep days when it was wet and
cold, and we suffered terribly. After several days suffering, Cook
proposed to venture into the town for food, to which Tidd strongly
objected and I often had my hands full trying to quiet their quarrels.
"About the sixth day out we slept on a mountain which overlooked Ole
Forge, near Chambersburg, Pa., where Cook was determined to go down for
food, which he did, and never returned, and as you know, was captured
and will soon share the fate of others at Charlestown.
"Marriam was now so weak that he could go no further, and I at a great
risk, got him down to Chambersburg, where he boarded a train without
detection. Then we were but three."
"Fearing that Cook might be forced to reveal our whereabouts and
intentions, we traveled all that night back towards the hill from
whence we came, making our course as zigzag as possible, so detectives
would be unable to design our intentions or lay in wait for us.
"The third day after Cook's capture, an old lady hunting nuts in the
woods came spank upon us, while we were sleeping in the sun. We were
still near Chambersburg and from what she had heard she knew who we
were, and told us so. To kill her would be wrong, to let her go back
and report would be dangerous; but she soon put us at ease by telling
about her abolition friends in Massachusetts and how her son, with whom
she lived, and all her neighbors would help us on the way.
"We trusted her and at dark we found ourselves in her son's home eating
chicken-pie and drinking hot coffee, which we had not partaken of in
ten days. Soon another sympathizer came in and the two men arranged to
take us on our journey as far as they could before morning.
"When we were small, father used to tell us children about the
angels and I formed the idea that they were sweet, lovely and looked
beautiful, but oh, Mr. Thompson, that dear old lady, I wish you could
have seen her just as she looked to me that night, stepping around so
softly to make us comfortable. Why, Thompson, she seemed so handsome,
while looking through my tears I actually think she might have been an
angel which God sent to comfort us. When we were ready to start, she
put her arm around each of our necks and kissed us, saying, 'We will
play that I am your mother, just for tonight.'
"Acting on our host's guarantee, we rode boldly down through
Chambersburg, where Cook had just been taken, but all was well. At
break of day, when about forty-five miles away, we jumped out with our
luggage, eight loaves of bread and part of a boiled ham, and fled into
the woods.
"Now we found ourselves among the Quakers, who fed and protected us,
and in a few days we separated, I working my way to you, and here I am
tonight.
"Father taught his followers that the move on Harper's Ferry would
precipitate conditions which would free the slaves. If, as we believe,
God was leading him, it surely will, for dark as it appears to us
today, it may be all right when viewed by the coming generations."
Then in a voice, just like old John Brown himself, Owen softly sang
a verse of the hymn, "God Moves in a Mysterious Way His Wonders to
Perform." We rode a little way in silence and again he struck up:
"Let us love one another as long as we stay
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way."
[Illustration: NEAR JOHN BROWN'S ADIRONDACK HOME, 1911.]
AFTER THE MIST HAD CLEARED AWAY
Forty-six years have passed since the sixteen year old Vida played her
part so well in the strange drama of freedom's birth, and now, in an
automobile tour to the coast of Maine with my wife, Mary Prickett, and
our sixteen year old Vida, who to me, is a veritable imprint of the
afore-characterized Vida Thompson. I again travel the winding roads of
the old Adirondack Mountains.
We visit the John Brown farm, sit in his easy chair, and climb the
great rock which silently stands sentinel where, in turn, the cold
winter's blasts in their wild midnight ride howl weirdly, and the sweet
spring mornings awaken the forest song birds who shy their nests among
the wild flowers near the grace of the old Hero--John Brown.