Part 4

Quite a number of these trips I made alone, and in not one did I lose my way. On one occasion the guiding faculty was put to a severe test. At the end of a day's travel the oxen were freed as usual from the wagon for two or three hours, in order that they might graze. Meanwhile, strict watch of them was necessary, lest they should wander away. That night, through much exhaustion and lack of rest, it was my misfortune to fall asleep. When I awoke, long past midnight, the cattle were gone. The full moon shone brightly overhead, lighting up the horizon far away on all sides; but, far and wide as the eye could reach, no sight or sign of the animals was visible on that prairie ocean.

A serious state of things this appeared to be, at first thought, and it awakened serious apprehensions. Far from home, I was left with my valuables on the prairie, bereft of all means of taking them to their destination. But upon second thought, often the better, I calmly fell back, for rescue, on my humble psychic faculty. Humble and inconsequential I had held it, but, if it served me true this time, it never again should be lightly valued.

It proved as true as the needle to the pole.

It seemed to me that the cattle had gone in a certain direction; and in that direction I went, in a straight line over the prairie, three or four miles, directly to them. There they were, quietly feeding, close to a stream at which they had evidently quenched their thirst. They were led, doubtless, to find this water, in their need that night, by an instinct similar to, and equally as unerring as, that possessed by their owner which he had used to find them.

Whether the same instinct that "found the way" in the instances related 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.

XVI

The Osawatomie Battle

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.

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.

XVII

Conclusion

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.