The Insurrectionist

by Herb Karl

  Foreman of the jury: “Guilty.”

  Clerk: “Guilty of treason and conspiring with slaves and others to rebel and to commit murder in the first degree?”

  Foreman: “Yes.”

  The spectators sat in stony silence. The reporters scribbled away on their notepads. The old man opened his eyes, exposed his arms in order to make a small adjustment to his blanket, pulling it closer to his chin. The expression on his face never changed.

  The defense attorneys came to the bench to motion for an arrest of judgment based on certain irregularities in the original indictments and in the verdict itself. Judge Parker said he would consider the motion, then told the attorneys it had been an exhausting trial and he would announce his decision in due course.

  Twenty-four hours later the judge called for the resumption of proceedings.

  Brown had had a full day to think about his fate. He anticipated that the motion entered by his attorneys would be summarily denied, and it was. The only other piece of business remaining was his sentencing, and Brown had no doubts about that either.

  The courtroom was once again filled to capacity as Brown lay on his cot before the bar. His attorneys stood beside him; they listened to Judge Parker overrule all objections. The clerk then came forward and asked Brown if he had anything to say before his sentence was pronounced.

  All eyes were on the old man as he got up from his cot, the leg irons seeming nothing more than an inconvenience. “I have, may it please the court, a few words to say.”

  Two hundred fifty miles away—in his office on Printing House Square in Lower Manhattan—Horace Greeley, the forty-eight-year-old editor of the New York Tribune, was waiting for a copyboy to hand him the latest transcripts of telegraphed reports from Charles Town. It was the day Brown was to be sentenced, and Greeley was eager to read the transcripts. He knew the old man was to be given an opportunity to speak.

  In accordance with Greeley’s instructions, the reports were handed to him as quickly as his wire editor was able to transcribe them. The copyboys delivered the reports one page at a time. Greeley had paper and pencil ready. He wanted to make notes while reading.

  The first transcript—an observation by the Tribune correspondent in Charles Town—arrived. Greeley picked it up, adjusted his spectacles, and read: “When Brown was asked by the Clerk of the Court if there was anything he would like to say, his voice remained steady and did not waver as he spoke calmly with supreme confidence. The voice with the metallic timbre silenced the murmuring spectators.”

  Then came the first page of Brown’s speech:

  “In the first place, I deny everything but what I have all along admitted, of a design on my part to free the slaves. I intended certainly to have made a clean thing of that matter, as I did last winter when I went into Missouri and there took slaves without the snapping of a gun on either side, moving them through the country and finally leaving them in Canada. I designed to have done the same thing again on a larger scale. That was all I intended. I never did intend murder or treason or the destruction of property or to excite or incite slaves to rebellion or to make insurrection.”

  Greeley picked up his pencil and made notes:

  Words of a man convinced he fought for a just cause. Believes so strongly in his cause he bends the truth to make a point. Missouri raid not conducted “without the snapping of a gun”—a man was shot, died from wounds. Could have said the killing was justifiable under the circumstances but that would have intruded on message he wants to send.

  No useful purpose served by admitting to making an “insurrection,” even though his invasion fits definition of “a rising against civil or political authority.”

  As Greeley finished, a copyboy appeared with another page of transcript. Greeley nodded and continued reading:

  “I have another objection, and that is that it is unjust that I should suffer such a penalty. Had I interfered in the manner which I admit, and which I admit has been fairly proved—for I admire the truthfulness and candor of the greater portion of the witnesses who have testified in this case—had I so interfered in behalf of the rich, the powerful, the intelligent, the so-called great, or in behalf of any of their friends, either father, mother, brother, sister, wife or children, or any of that class and suffered and sacrificed what I have in this interference, it would have been all right. Every man in this court would have deemed it an act worthy of reward rather than punishment.”

  Greeley made more notes:

  Spoken like a true revolutionary. Came to Virginia to free the slaves. Had he done the same for a dispossessed privileged class, he would have been rewarded rather than punished.

  Another page of transcript landed on Greeley’s desk:

  “This court acknowledges, as I suppose, the validity of the law of God. I see a book kissed here which I suppose to be the Bible, or at least the New Testament, which teaches me that all things whatsoever I would that men should do to me, I should do even so to them. It teaches me further to remember them that are in bonds as bound with them. I endeavored to act up to that instruction. I believe that to have interfered as I have done—in behalf of the despised poor—was not wrong, but right. Now, if it is deemed necessary that I should forfeit my life for the furtherance of the ends of justice and mingle my blood further with the blood of my children and with the blood of millions in this slave country whose rights are disregarded by wicked, cruel, and unjust enactments—I say let it be done.”

  By now Greeley recognized the power of Brown’s words and their potential to further polarize some readers while unifying others. The editor’s notes were becoming more stylized, sounding more like the radical abolitionist he was:

  The revolutionary argues the validity of his actions, and—in so doing—reveals the hypocrisy of his adversaries. And, by implication, he holds all Southerners who do nothing to expunge the evils of slavery—whether slaveholders or not—in violation of their Christian duty. Says he is ready to perform a Christ-like act and sacrifice his life for those held in bondage.

  No sooner had Greeley finished making his notes when another page of Brown’s transcribed remarks was laid on the desk:

  “Let me say one word further. I feel entirely satisfied with the treatment I have received during my trial. Considering all the circumstances, it has been more generous than I expected. But I feel no consciousness of guilt. I have stated from the first what was my intention and what was not. I never had any design against the liberty of any person, nor any disposition to commit treason or incite slaves to rebel or make any general insurrection. I never encouraged any man to do so but always discouraged any idea of that kind.”

  Greeley smiled and wrote:

  The revolutionary completes the Christ-like image: “Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.”

  The last page Greeley was handed seemed to the editor like an afterthought:

  “Let me say, also, a word in regard to the statements made by some of those connected with me. I hear it has been stated by some of them that I have induced them to join me. But the contrary is true. I do not state this to injure them but as regretting their weakness. There is not one of them but joined me of his own accord, and the greater part of them at their own expense. A number of them I never saw and never had a word of conversation with till the day they came to me, and that was for the purpose I have stated. Now I have done.”

  Greeley thought for a time before writing a question:

  Did he think he’d been betrayed by Cook or one of the others?

  Greeley knew of the capture of John Cook and Albert Hazlett, and there were rumors that Cook—and possibly one of the men confined in a cell adjacent to Brown’s—had made statements indicating they had been coerced into joining the old man. Greeley speculated that Brown was trying to address such rumors before anyone else got hold of them and that the old man wouldn’t want anything to spoil the message he wished to send the nation.

  The editor called for a copyboy, handed him the p
ages he’d been reading. “Take these to the typesetters,” he said. “We’ll run the story in tomorrow’s edition.”

  When Brown finished his speech, Judge Parker waited a few seconds, cleared his throat. The old man stood motionless before the bar. The judge announced that there existed no reasonable doubt of guilt. He turned away from Brown’s gaze and looked to the crowd that filled the courtroom.

  “The prisoner shall be hanged by the neck until dead,” he said, then paused before adding, “in a public place on the second of December next.”

  So saying, the judge gaveled the trial to a close.

  With the exception of the journalists whose pencils could be heard scratching out words on their notepads, the courtroom remained subdued. Then—disrupting the church-like solemnity—came the sound of someone applauding. The man was immediately censured by the judge and removed by the bailiffs. Judge Parker would later apologize for the outburst, claiming the offender wasn’t a resident of Jefferson County. The judge didn’t want the trial to end with a breach in decorum. The nation needed to know that the citizens of Charles Town and the Commonwealth of Virginia behaved with dignity and respect when John Brown was sentenced to death.

  While reporters speculated about what was going on in Brown’s head, he returned to his cot. He seemed neither shocked nor depressed nor bitter about the verdict and the sentence he received. The reporters would have been surprised to know that as he lay with his eyes shut he was calculating the number of days until his execution. Since it was now November 2, he had exactly thirty days left. He would make good use of every minute that remained to him.

  It was early afternoon when Brown was returned to jail by his guards. In anticipation of his arrival, Stevens had forced himself to get up and stoke the fire; he wanted to make sure his captain would find some comfort in the warmth it provided. The flames blazed brightly by the time the guards set the cot on the floor and left the cell.

  Standing with his back to the fireplace, Stevens waited for Brown to speak first.

  The old man swung his shackled legs onto the floor and said matter-of-factly, “Well, my good friend, it is as I have expected all along. They will murder me on the second of December.”

  Though he wasn’t surprised, Stevens felt compelled to say something—even though whatever he might say would be of little consequence and might even trivialize the flood of events that had carried his leader to this moment. He said, “Surely the Massachusetts men will steal you away from this prison by then, Captain.”

  “No,” Brown responded. “I have no intention of allowing the Massachusetts men to get up a plan for my rescue. I have already given my word to Captain Avis that I shan’t attempt an escape.” He stroked his beard, then looked down and said, “Besides, Aaron, I now believe I am worth infinitely more to my cause if I die on the gallows here in Virginia.”

  Even though Stevens had challenged some of Brown’s decisions in the past, he didn’t question this one. After all, it was Brown’s cause that had drawn Stevens and the others to the old man. And most of them were just as willing as he to sacrifice their lives.

  Brown then told Stevens that throughout the ordeal of his trial, he suffered pain from his wounds but hadn’t experienced a single episode of his chronic illness—for which he was most grateful. Furthermore, his appetite was good, and he was quite looking forward to whatever Mrs. Avis had prepared for their evening meal.

  Later, as the two men sat down to bowls of Mrs. Avis’s stew, Brown said he was eager to get started writing letters. So little time remained to him and he had much he wanted to say. “The Lord may have taken away my Sharps carbine,” he said, “but he has replaced it with the sword of the spirit. And I hope it proves mighty to the pulling down of strongholds.”

  Stevens’s head still throbbed from his wounds, but he couldn’t help smiling. He’d had a feeling Brown would punctuate his thoughts with a passage from the Bible.

  For the next twenty-nine days, Brown would compose a steady stream of letters, many of which found their way into print. Along with the reports of journalists who covered the trial or had come to interview him in his jail cell, the letters served to ignite the abolitionist sentiments of Northern men and women, some of whom were so moved by his words that they strove to turn him into a heroic figure, someone who would restore the nation’s moral compass and whose example would lead to the ultimate eradication of slavery in the South.

  23

  Twenty-Nine Days Later

  December 1, 1859

  Charles Town, Virginia

  At three thirty in the afternoon on the day before Brown was to be hanged, his wife, Mary, arrived at the Charles Town jail. It had been a long journey by carriage and rail, and along the way she’d been invited to stay in the homes of well-respected abolitionists, among them Lucretia Mott, a leader of the women’s rights movement. Before crossing from the free to the slave states, Mary had to wait for Virginia’s Governor Wise to give final approval to her visit and to arrange for her care and safety.

  At first Brown was against the visit. He wanted to spare Mary the indignities of mobs of angry men taunting her. He also worried about the expense involved, writing her that she “would use up all the scanty means she has, or is likely to have, to make her and the children comfortable hereafter.”

  But Thomas Higginson—the Worcester minister and member of Brown’s secret committee—was determined that Mary should go to Charles Town despite her husband’s objections. Since the discovery of the letters in the old man’s carpetbag, many of his supporters had been lying low for fear of being charged with conspiracy; some, including Frederick Douglass, had even fled to Canada. But Higginson had no fear of the consequences of his actions, and his loyalty to Brown never diminished. He hoped Mary might persuade him to consent to a plan of escape. So he went to North Elba, where he discovered that Mary had just received word of Brown’s sentencing; she was more than willing to travel to Virginia. Higginson accompanied her to Boston and solicited the necessary funds before putting her on a train headed south.

  The journey had taken Mary away from the North Elba homestead for almost a month. She was concerned about the girls, even though she knew Annie was quite capable of caring for the younger ones. She completed the last leg of the journey—a three-hour carriage ride from Harpers Ferry to Charles Town—on a bleak and chilly day. For her protection, Governor Wise provided an escort of twenty mounted riflemen. She was surprised to find Charles Town bereft of ordinary citizens. Instead, the streets were swarming with militiamen clad in a variety of uniforms, the younger men loud and swaggering, many of them no doubt absent from their homes and families for the first time. The carriage came to a stop in front of the jail.

  When the jailer’s wife greeted her, Mary immediately felt at ease. Brown had written of the warm relationship he’d formed with the jailer and his wife. In the parlor of their apartment, the jailer’s wife introduced Mary to Captain Avis.

  “I know you are anxious to see Captain Brown,” Avis said. He was embarrassed at not having been made aware that Mary was much younger than her husband. She was in fact seventeen years his junior. Her hair was parted in the center and pulled back tightly behind her neck, and her high-collared dress was long and plain.

  “Why, yes, Captain Avis,” she said, “I am very much looking forward to seeing my husband.”

  “And you shall,” he replied, then rather sheepishly added, “but first you must see Mrs. Avis. It is the governor’s wish that all precautions be taken. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course, Captain,” she replied. “Although I’m sure you realize that if I had a weapon secreted on my person, my husband would refuse to accept it. He has already written me he would do nothing to betray the kindnesses you and your wife have shown him.”

  It was the jailer’s and not Mary’s eyes that reddened and grew moist. “Governor Wise be damned,” Avis sputtered. “Come, Mrs. Brown, your husband is waiting.”

  Avis unlocked the cell door.
Brown’s cellmate, Aaron Stevens, had been moved temporarily to an adjacent cell. Brown was standing beside the table on which lay the many newspapers he’d been allowed to acquire surreptitiously.

  Avis made a quick exit; he took a seat across the corridor, out of sight and earshot. The jailer decided to ignore instructions from Governor Wise that whatever activity took place inside the cell should be closely monitored.

  For a few seconds Brown and Mary were locked in each other’s gaze. He was wearing a black frock coat over a white cotton shirt; his trousers seemed too large, and they hung loosely from his hips. His beard had returned to its full length, as had his crown of thick, wavy hair. Mary expected to find her husband bruised and battered, but his facial wounds had healed.

  Brown opened his arms and Mary came to him. Neither spoke as she rested her head on his chest. They stood for some time until Brown whispered, “I am so glad to see you, my dear wife.”

  “And I am so glad to see you, my dear husband.”

  Brown took her by the hand and led her to a pair of plain ladder-back chairs that stood near the fireplace’s wide hearth.

  Mary saw that her husband’s gait was impeded by leg irons. He wore a pair of thick wool socks to ease the chafing to his ankles. They sat down in front of the fire.

  They spoke for almost three hours, mostly of practical concerns having to do with how Brown wished his meager possessions distributed to his surviving children, the education of their daughters, and Mary’s future. She in turn disclosed what little information she had of the whereabouts of Owen and the other members of Brown’s company who had managed to elude capture. She was fairly certain Owen had found refuge in Ohio—either with one of his brothers or with friends. She’d heard rumors that the others had gone to Canada.