by Jeff Shaara
Lee glanced at Lieutenant Green, who saluted, and put the men into motion, then Lee walked down and away from the platform, toward the dim lamplights of the bridge.
THERE WERE several dozen citizens armed with old muskets, some with pickaxes and shovels. As Lee approached, the crowds moved aside, cheering the troops. They had made a makeshift barricade around the engine house, overturned wagons and broken barrels. He saw a man point a rifle, fire blindly into the dark, then an answering shot came from the engine house, and the civilians ducked behind their crude wall.
Lee halted the men behind the barricade, and Green and Stuart began to move the people back. There were shouts, mostly toward the engine house—curses, taunts of what they were going to get now.
Colonel Shriver walked up beside Lee, said, “It’s been like this all day, Colonel. Potshots back and forth. There was a good scrap earlier, before they holed up. A couple of their men didn’t make it inside, killed by civilians. The hostages are mostly workers, Arsenal workers who walked right into the fight.”
A woman suddenly appeared out of the dark, older, bent, head wrapped in an old scarf. She looked at Lee, then Shriver.
“Who’s in charge, one of you?”
“I am Lieutenant Colonel Lee, madam, in command.”
“Well, Lieutenant Colonel Lee, one of the men inside that building is my good friend, and a distinguished gentleman. He tried to stop this, wanted to talk to them, and they kept him! Took him prisoner! He’s kin to President Washington, he is. Lewis Washington. You take care with him in there, Lieutenant Colonel Lee.”
Lee knew Lewis Washington well, his wife’s cousin, the President’s grandnephew. He sagged, looked at the engine house. Putting a familiar face on the hostages should not have made a difference, but he could not help it. His first plan had been to storm the building immediately, but in the dark and in the confusion it was likely that there would be more blood than necessary. He turned to the young marine.
“Lieutenant Green, have your men take up position here, spread behind these barricades. Colonel Shriver, would you please deploy your men in a wide circle around the building. I want it perfectly clear to these people they are surrounded. Make some noise, be obvious about it, but keep your heads down. And Colonel Shriver, before you go—we will be moving in at daylight. Would your men like the honor of capturing these troublemakers?”
“Thank you for the offer. I am honored, sir. But, well, these men are volunteers, they have wives . . . families. Your soldiers here . . . the marines . . . are paid for this sort of thing, are they not?”
Lee looked at the fat face, lit by dim firelight. “Of course, Colonel. The marines will handle this.”
Lee saw Green placing his men, waited until he had completed the job, then motioned to Stuart to join him with the young marine.
“Lieutenant Green, I want you to pick out a dozen men, good men. They will be the assault team. Lieutenant Stuart, I will prepare a message to the insurrectionists, which you will deliver. It will say that they are surrounded, and I will guarantee their safety, and so forth. When they accept the terms, the marines will move in quickly and subdue the men, removing their weapons. Once they understand the hopelessness of their situation, this should end quickly. Now, post guards, Mr. Green. Let the others get some sleep. We will talk again at daylight.”
There was a commotion down the line, a marine guard held a man roughly by the arm, brought him toward the officers.
“Excuse me, Colonel, Lieutenant. This man claims to have information.”
Green excused his man, and Lee watched the civilian in lamplight, adjusting himself from the gruff treatment by the marine.
“Colonel, my name is Fulton, I’m a newspaperman, from Philadelphia. I know who your man is, there.” He pointed toward the engine house.
“How do you know, Mr. Fulton?” Lee asked. He looked the man over, saw a good suit, dark gray wool, like his own.
“I’ve been in Kansas, covering the trouble there. I have interviewed many of the insurrectionists, Colonel, they seem to favor reporters. I suppose we provide them a soapbox, if you will. Colonel, I have no doubt that the man you are facing is Mr. John Brown.”
It was a name faintly familiar to Lee, did not carry great weight. But Stuart said, “John Brown? Here?”
Lee looked at Stuart, heard the pitch in his voice. “What do you know of the man, Lieutenant?”
“He is trouble, Colonel. He led some of the radical antislavery people out West. Slipped through our fingers more than once.”
Fulton said, “He is a violent man, Colonel, a man who will not hesitate to kill himself and everyone around him for his cause.”
“He’s right, Colonel. Brown is . . . well, I think he’s crazy. Wants the slaves to rise up, thinks he can start a revolution. I saw a paper, something he spread all over Kansas, telling the white people, his own people . . . they were all going to die.”
Lee stared at Stuart, let it sink in. “Mr. Fulton,” he said, “how can you be so certain?”
“Colonel, I’ve been following Brown for some time, written a few stories about him. He didn’t seem to mind me snooping around. I knew he was headed this way, might try for the Arsenal.”
Stuart’s voice rose. “You knew he was coming here, and you didn’t warn anybody?”
Lee put a hand on Stuart’s arm, said, “We’re here now, gentlemen, let’s work on solving our situation here. Mr. Fulton, thank you, you are excused.”
“Thank you, Colonel. Best of luck.” Then the man slid away, was gone in the dark.
Lee thought of the hostages. His mind began to work, he absorbed the new information, the uncertainty of a man like Brown. His simple plan might result in a bloodbath. He felt his stomach tighten, a chill in the cool night.
“Gentlemen, this is a new situation. Our priority is the safety of the hostages. Lieutenant Stuart, if Mr. Brown rejects the terms, and I suspect he will, you are not to negotiate. The marines must storm the entrance immediately.”
Both men nodded approval, and Green said, “Sir. Begging your pardon, sir, but we need a signal, something to tell us when to move.”
Lee looked at Stuart, who touched his hat.
“If they . . . if Brown rejects the surrender,” Stuart said, “I will remove my hat, drop it downward. That will be the signal to move in.”
“Very well,” Lee said. “Mr. Stuart, I will have the message ready for you shortly. Mr. Green, we must use the bayonet. We do not know the situation in there—we cannot have your men firing at will.”
“I understand, sir. It will be bayonets. I will have the men prepare a battering ram. We will make good work of it, sir.”
“Very well. Get some rest, Lieutenant, I will speak with you at dawn.”
“Sir!”
Lee found a wooden box, sat down. Stuart grabbed a lantern, a careless target left sitting on top of the barricade. He brought it closer, out of sight of the engine house, and Lee pulled a pen from his pocket, the same pen he had used that morning to figure his list of lumber, and wrote out the terms of surrender.
IT WAS just daylight, a cold, thick morning, fog rolling off the river into the small town. Lee climbed up a small hill, a short distance behind the barricade, to find a clear view, and was suddenly aware that the hills around him were covered with people. In the night, the town had poured from its homes, and now everyone, Lee guessed a thousand, maybe more, was watching the proceedings. He looked back to the engine house, saw the militia stirring, forming into line all around, a toothless presence that might at least intimidate Brown into surrender. Through the mist he saw the blue form of Lieutenant Green, moving up the hill toward him.
“Colonel. Good morning. We are ready when you are, sir. We await the order.”
Below, Stuart was tying a white handkerchief to a short pole with quick, nervous motions, and then he turned, saw Lee and ran up the hill. “All set, Colonel!” Stuart was breathless, shivering.
Lee looked at Green, gave him a no
d, and the young marine went toward a small group of men, his handpicked troops. Lee waited for him to leave, out of earshot. Then he put a hand on Stuart’s arm, a brief clench from his cold fingers. “Lieutenant,” he said, “it would please me if you would use some caution this morning. We have no way of knowing how this man Brown will respond.”
“Colonel . . .” But there were no words, both men knew it was just duty. “I await your order, sir. Let’s take these people out.”
Lee nodded. “You may proceed, Lieutenant.”
Stuart ran back down, picked up his flag of truce, pulled Lee’s message from his pocket, and, with a glance toward the waiting marines, walked past the barricade, across the open ground, to the engine house door.
Lee heard Stuart’s voice, firm and unshaking, and he held his breath, said to God, Please, let there be reason, protect him from harm. Suddenly, the door opened, a slight movement, and Lee could only see a dark, faceless crack.
Stuart looked into the slight gap, saw a short barrel of a rusty carbine pushing out through the opening, pointing at his head. He focused on the small black hole, the end of the barrel, stood without motion, said quietly, “I have a message . . . a request from Colonel Robert E. Lee. Please allow me to read it.”
There was noise from inside, hushed sounds. Stuart could hear people moving, and from behind the rifle came a face, smeared black dirt in a wild mass of tangled beard, and Stuart recognized the glare of the deep black eyes, the face of John Brown.
Stuart showed the paper, held it up, could not look away from the eyes, and Brown said with a quick burst, “Read it!”
Stuart began, emphasized the part about their safe passage, the impossible nature of their position. Lee’s words were brief, to the point, and as Stuart read, he glanced at Brown, at the small black hole pointing at his head, wished the message had been shorter.
Brown began to make a sound, a hissing grunt. The barrel of the rifle stuck farther out, closer to Stuart’s face, and Brown began to speak, a quick stream of words, his own terms, his version of the day’s fighting, a flurry of talking that Stuart tried to follow. Behind Brown there were other voices, joining in, and Stuart knew the situation was falling apart, felt the tightening in his body like a coiled spring, and said, “Colonel Lee will hear no discussion. . . .” and Brown began again, made demands for safe conduct, mentioned the hostages. The voices became louder behind Brown, hostages were calling out, pleading for help, the voices blending together in a dull roar, and Stuart began to feel overwhelmed, stared into the barrel of the rifle. Then one voice, clearer, older, yelled out, and even Lee heard the words, the voice of Lewis Washington.
“Never mind us, fire!”
Stuart backed away one step from the rifle, said, “Colonel Lee will not discuss your demands,” and suddenly the rifle was gone, back into the dark, and the door closed with a loud thump. Stuart stared at the door, then turned, looked at the marines, took a deep breath, reached his hand up, a slight quiver, and removed his hat.
From the barricade the marines rushed forward, and men in sharp blue uniforms began to pound on the thick wooden door. After several heavy blows the door splintered and a hole was punched through. Green threw himself into the hole. Behind him, his men lined up, pushing their way in one at a time.
Lee saw the marines disappear inside, a painfully slow assault. Then there were shots, and Lee knew it would not be the marines.
Inside, Green was frantic, he had only a sword, and he saw the face of the man who had spoken to Stuart, focused on him, saw the rifle, and hurled himself in a screaming rush. He brought the sword down and knocked the rifle away. Brown lunged at the young man, tried to grab him around the neck, and Green raised the sword again, brought it down heavily on Brown’s head. The sword hit sideways, the blade bent at a useless angle, and Brown tried again, grabbed for Green’s neck, but the young man turned the sword, swung the heavy handle against Brown’s head, and with a cry of pain Brown went down.
Behind their lieutenant the marines made use of their bayonets. The shooting stopped and men lay wounded all around the inside of the building. Green turned, saw the hostages huddled in a group against one wall, then looked back to the door, daylight through the ragged opening, and he saw blue coats, two of his men on the ground. They had just made it through, were shot down just inside the door, and Green went to the men, saw the blood and yelled out. They were dragged aside, the door was pulled open, and the rising sun flooded the dark space. It was over.
BROWN WAS held in a secure room in the arsenal, and now the politicians came, to see for themselves how the great rebellion had been crushed. Lee stood aside, performed his official duties, while Brown was questioned by anyone who had the influence to see him.
Lee and Stuart went about the business of identifying Brown’s cohorts, dead and alive, captured a small store of arms Brown had accumulated, but to Lee, his work was done. He notified Secretary Floyd that the matter was concluded, that in his opinion there was little for Washington to be concerned about.
The marines and Lieutenant Green remained in Harper’s Ferry as security, and served as escort when Brown was moved to Charlestown for trial. Despite wild rumors of new riots elsewhere and threats of attempts to free him, Brown was tried and convicted without incident, and was sentenced to be hanged.
5. JACKSON
November 1859
THE DIRT sifted through his fingers like fine brown sugar. Jackson sat, dug his hands into the soft soil again, held it up, watched it pour down. It was his, his dirt, his land. From where he sat, he could look across the twenty-acre patch, down the long straight rows, the newly planted winter crops. The green sprouts of the collards and turnips had broken the soil a few weeks before, and now the new life in the garden was stronger, ready for the coming cold. He slid along on the seat of his pants, between the thickening green lines, plucked out the intruders, the errant weeds. Winter was sliding across the mountains, and he looked up, toward the west, saw the cold gray line of thick clouds. There will be snow tonight, he thought, and frowned, looked out over the patch, concerned.
He stood up, stretched, raised both arms above his head, reached upward, felt the pressure in his back, scolded himself for sitting so long on the cold ground.
“Not healthy, not at all,” he said aloud.
These days his health seemed to come and go, the pains in his side, his poor vision. He had taken trips to the hot springs and water spas over the summer, but it was Anna who worried him. She had still not recovered from the baby’s death, and he missed her quick energy, her playfulness. She had taken the water treatments with him, had seen the same doctors, but seemed to be no better.
He stood stiffly, put his hands on his hips, made dirty handprints on his cotton trousers, looked out over the garden. Surely, this will please God, he thought, an offering, the labor of new life. He bent down, rubbed his fingers along a short green stem, prickly and rough. These are Your children too, he thought.
Townspeople had passed by throughout the day, small carriages and lone riders, and at midday he had seen the stage to Staunton. There were friendly greetings, and he had acknowledged them, returned waves. There was space behind his home, a fine spot for a small garden, but it was not enough, and so he had bought this piece of plain land, barely outside the expanding boundary of the town, a flat field hugged by the rolling hills, and people would stop just to admire, to point and wave at the major, this odd professor who so thoroughly groomed his small farm.
He looked again at the clouds, the dark movement, thought of home, the good smells of supper, wiped his hands on an old rag and began to step past the neat rows, toward the main road, when he heard a shout.
“Major! Major Jackson!”
It was a cadet. Jackson could see the uniform bouncing on the back of a horse, riding wildly toward him from the town. The boy was waving one arm, then had to use it to steady himself, then waved again. Jackson thought, Not a very good rider, something we should work on . . .
<
br /> “Major Jackson, sir!” The boy reined up, jumped from the saddle, stumbled sideways and landed in a heap of gray and white. The horse did not stop, ran on a short way, contemptuous.
The boy gathered himself, grimaced, felt a knee, then stood at attention and saluted. Jackson returned it, though, as the boy quickly noted, his ragged farming clothes did not present him as any kind of officer.
Jackson waited for the boy to catch his breath, then said, “You all right, cadet? Nasty fall.”
“Yes, sir. Not my horse, sir, had to grab the closest one, and well . . . Sir, I have been instructed by the commandant, by Colonel Smith himself, sir, to request in the strongest terms that you report to the colonel as soon as is possible, sir.”
Jackson straightened, wiped his hands again. “Now? Is there some problem?”
“Sir, I have only heard reports that we have been called to duty, sir. By the governor.”
“The governor? Well, all right, then. You return to Colonel Smith, report that I am right behind you. You are dismissed.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
The boy walked gingerly toward the horse and took the reins. The horse allowed him to mount, and with a quick yelp from the boy, it turned and carried its rider toward the town.
Jackson started down the road at a quick pace. His house was on the way to the institute, and it would not take him long to dress. Behind him, in the west, the thick clouds rolled forward, the unstoppable flow of the coming storm.
IT WAS dark when Jackson arrived at the commandant’s office. There were other officers there, small quiet talk, anxious whispers. Jackson closed the heavy door behind him, stood in the entranceway, nodded to the others, saw both dress and casual uniforms, a hasty assembly.
From down the hallway there was a voice. Cadets moved quickly by, saluting the officers. Jackson watched the young faces, tried to recall the names, as Colonel Smith stepped noisily into the room.
