The Insurrectionist Page 6

  Redpath then told of his frustration with the Free State politicians he’d met and interviewed in Lawrence and Topeka. “There is much jealousy, selfishness, and unprincipled ambition,” he said. He was beginning to doubt whether there were men in Kansas who were true champions of freedom.

  The old man reached for Redpath’s hand, a signal that it was time for him to be on his way. But first Brown summoned the men.

  They gathered around him as he bowed his head and again gave thanks to the Lord for the meal they shared. He added a blessing for the young journalist in their midst, whom he hoped would be faithful to the truth when telling readers of the struggle for freedom in Kansas.

  Before Redpath left the camp, he was moved to say a few words about Brown’s soldiers. He admired their loyalty and obedience, how they earnestly went about their chores and seemed in good spirits despite their meager circumstances. They exhibited none of the swaggering, bullying traits of the whiskey-guzzling, tobacco-spitting border ruffians who roamed the countryside with no purpose other than to terrorize Northern immigrants and, more recently, to plunder and burn Free State settlements.

  Brown’s eyes gleamed. “Sir,” he said, “I would rather have the smallpox, yellow fever, and cholera all together in my camp, than a man without principles. It is a mistake to assume bullies are the best fighters.” He went on to explain that his men fought with a single purpose in mind: to oppose slavery. His underlying principles, he said, could be found in Holy Scripture and the Declaration of Independence. “We will succeed,” he said, “if our purpose is such as to deserve the blessing of God.”

  Redpath was buoyed by Brown’s words. As for the old man, he was confident he’d sown seeds that might one day yield a bountiful harvest.

  The following evening Samuel Shore returned. He said the Missouri militiamen were bivouacked near Black Jack Springs, a three-hour ride from Brown’s encampment. Some of the Missourians had ambushed a group of Free State settlers in the village of Palmyra. The settlers were afraid to fight back.

  Shore said he was tired of being intimidated and that he was able to muster a group of volunteers. Were Brown and his men willing to fight the Missourians alongside his people?

  Brown responded emphatically: “We are with you!”

  Though Shore admitted his recruits were mostly boys in their late teens, he said they were eager to serve. With Shore’s volunteers, the combined force now stood at eighteen. The enemy was presumed to be at least twice that number.

  Shore departed, but not before making it clear that Brown was in charge. They agreed to rendezvous the following day at Palmyra.

  During the ride to Palmyra, Brown learned of a prayer meeting in progress in a log cabin off the trail. When he was told the congregation was made up of Free State settlers, he expressed a desire to attend. His men waited outside the cabin while he dismounted and introduced himself to the preacher.

  The old man was about to take a seat when Owen burst through the door and shouted a warning. Three horsemen were approaching the cabin, rifles braced against their saddles. The congregation spilled out the door—armed and ready to fight. Seeing they were outnumbered, the riders wheeled and fled. Brown’s men pursued and eventually captured two, the third managing to escape.

  Both captives confessed to being part of the Missouri militia camped at Black Jack Springs. When informed they were prisoners of the man accused of the Pottawatomie killings, they became exceedingly cooperative, disclosing the number of men in their company, the location of their encampment, and the name of their leader, and finally—though not asked—they recited a tale of interest to the old man. It seems the Missourians had raided the Free State village of Osawatomie. Their leader, Captain Henry Clay Pate, arrested two men outside the village who were believed to be members of the gang involved in the Pottawatomie affair.

  With some trepidation, one of the captives said, “We was told they was the sons of Old John Brown.”

  As inscrutable as ever, Brown said nothing. He knew it was inevitable that his married sons, John Jr. and Jason, would be implicated in the killings. He’d even sent Owen to Osawatomie to warn them of possible recriminations.

  Owen spoke up, his voice betraying some anxiety. “And what about the wives? My brothers had wives, and there were children.”

  “Hain’t nobody seen no women, nor little ones neither. Reckon they hiding out somewheres.”

  The interrogation ended on a disturbing note. The captives told Brown that John Jr. and Jason were no longer prisoners of Pate. They had been turned over to the commander of a troop of federal cavalry bound for the proslavery capital of Lecompton.

  Before leaving, Brown handed over the two captives to the preacher and his congregation.

  The old man had wanted war. He’d gotten what he wanted—along with its unintended consequences. His married sons had nothing to do with Pottawatomie, yet they were now in the hands of the enemy. And Brown could do nothing about it.

  Meanwhile, Shore and his volunteers were waiting to be led into battle. The attack on Pate’s camp was supposed to begin the following day in the predawn hours.

  Brown untied his horse, hoisted himself into the saddle. A sharp kick to the animal’s flanks sent it galloping down the Santa Fe Trail toward Palmyra. The others followed, strung out in a line. The old man didn’t see Weiner take a long pull on a jug of whiskey, then hand it to Townsley. He was absorbed in thoughts of fulfilling a destiny he believed was foreordained.

  Brown finally reached the crest of the ridge. He’d crawled through the wet grass until his clothes were soaked. Below him lay the encampment of Pate’s Missourians. In the gray dawn, the old man could see wagons. Horses were grazing. Otherwise, all was still. He was breathing hard as he laid his pistol aside, removed a brass spyglass from his coat pocket, and extended it to the maximum length. The first full rays of the sun were still minutes away.

  He was eager to test his theories of guerrilla warfare. Only those closest to him knew of his ideas on wars of resistance, wars pitting small bands of revolutionary fighters against sovereign states. Not only did he admire Toussaint-Louverture, liberator of the slaves of Haiti, but he’d read about Javier Mina, leader of the Spanish resistance against Napoleon. He felt he had much in common with Schamyl, champion of the Muslim Caucasians who fought the Russians for thirty years, believing a small army of disciplined, God-fearing warriors could defeat a large army of well-armed combatants.

  And Brown had his own ideas on how to wage a war requiring unconventional tactics. After visiting battlefields in Europe during an unsuccessful attempt to sell American wool abroad in 1849, he concluded that Napoleon and other commanders were wrong in believing high ground was necessarily a strong position in battle.

  As he peered through his spyglass, he saw that Pate’s encampment was situated at the base of a gentle slope that leveled off near the edge of a ravine. Pate had placed four supply wagons end to end in front of the ravine. A scattering of tents was visible behind the wagons. The horses and mules were tethered among the blackjack oaks, a stunted and spindly species that bordered the ravine.

  Brown rolled onto his back, pressed steadily on the eyepiece of the spyglass until the brass tubes collapsed, then returned it to his coat pocket. He gazed at the brightening sky, pondering all the elements of Pate’s position. Lying in a swale behind him, the men from his company—along with Shore’s volunteers—awaited orders. They had come on foot, leaving their horses a few hundred yards to the rear in the care of one of Shore’s boys and Brown’s son Frederick, the latter suffering from another of his painful headaches.

  The old man crawled to the swale and presented his plan. He’d already allowed for the element of surprise by beginning the attack when most of Pate’s men would be asleep, some of them probably groggy from swilling whiskey the night before. He wanted Shore’s company to proceed as speedily as possible to the left of Pate’s wagons. At the same time Brown’s men would rush to the right. If fired upon, Shore’s boys we
re to dive into the tall grass, wait for the shooting to ease, then continue forward, crawling on their bellies. There was to be no engagement with the enemy until the ravine was reached. In effect Brown and Shore would be executing a pincer movement, the object being to fire into Pate’s men from opposite ends of the ravine.

  As ordered, Shore’s boys dashed down the slope toward Pate’s left. Within a hundred yards of the ravine, however, the discharge of a sentry’s musket sent a ball scudding over their heads. For the next two hours, Brown and his men—having reached the shelter of the ravine to Pate’s right—listened to the exchange of gunfire between Shore’s volunteers and the Missourians.

  Shore’s boys had failed to reach the ravine. In fact their only movement, Brown learned later, was to seek safety in the rear. Fortunately, a considerable number of Pate’s men were also quitting the fight, leaping onto the backs of their unsaddled horses and spurring them toward Missouri.

  While attempting to shoot one of Pate’s fleeing Missourians, Henry Thompson took a ball in his side that lodged close to his spine. Still, he refused to leave his post, continuing to fire his revolver until his trembling hands were no longer able to cap and load cartridges. His eyes were fixed on a distant point in space when he told Brown, “I have taken a life, and if I’m obliged to surrender my own, I accept my fate.” Henry hadn’t been able to detach himself from the bloody work at Pottawatomie.

  Brown now realized his ability to prolong the fight was in doubt. His company had dwindled to eight men. Those who remained included his sons Owen, Salmon, and Oliver, as well as the wounded Henry Thompson. Frederick was still guarding the horses. James Townsley and Theodore Weiner had determined the outcome of the battle was hopeless and had chosen to walk away.

  The old man was surprised when Shore showed up with two of his volunteers. They had retreated to the ridge and circled back during a lull in the shooting. Shore expressed regret at his failure to occupy the ravine on Pate’s left. “This is all new to us,” he said, adding that some of his boys had been wounded.

  “You needn’t apologize, Mr. Shore. If there is a lesson here, your boys will be better for having learned it.”

  Brown was glad to have the additional soldiers—although he immediately sent Shore to seek reinforcements in Lawrence.

  Meanwhile, the two boys from Shore’s troop seemed to have little enthusiasm for rejoining the fight. No matter. Brown saw an opportunity to restore their will.

  “If you won’t kill the enemy,” he told them, “you can kill the enemy’s ordnance.” He ordered them to take a position on a nearby hillock, where they were to fire on Pate’s horses and mules across the ravine. In a matter of minutes, they sent a half dozen to the ground.

  As if this development weren’t enough to throw Pate’s remaining soldiers into a panic, a lone rider suddenly came charging down the slope. He waved a short broadsword as he rode back and forth in front of the wagons, somehow managing to avoid the guns for which he was the sole target.

  It was Frederick. He’d witnessed some of Shore’s boys retrieve their mounts and ride off and felt compelled to move closer to the fighting. When he heard the screams of the wounded and dying animals, he couldn’t turn away. Whatever his motivation, he held his life to be of little worth since the Pottawatomie killings. He’d always been racked with guilt for one reason or another, even believing his excruciatingly painful headaches were a form of divine punishment. Apparently Pottawatomie had become for him an atrocity of such magnitude that he now felt permanently connected to Kansas and its fate. Brown and his soldiers were aware of this and consequently weren’t nearly as shocked at Frederick’s behavior as were Captain Henry Clay Pate and his Missourians.

  “Come on, boys!” Frederick shouted. “We’ve got ’em surrounded! We’ve cut off their communications!”

  Pate took the brash horseman at his word. He feared Free State reinforcements actually had arrived. So he sent forward two men carrying a white handkerchief attached to a ramrod.

  Brown climbed out of the ravine to meet the men bearing the flag of truce. He asked, “Which of you is Captain Pate?”

  “We are speaking for him,” one of the men replied.

  “I will talk with no one but Captain Pate,” Brown said. “Go back and bring him out.”

  Brown knew he had the advantage and had no intention of relinquishing it.

  Pate came forward and immediately began scolding Brown. “I should warn you,” he said, “I am a deputy United States marshal under orders to search for persons for whom I have writs of arrest.”

  “Captain,” the old man replied, “I understand exactly what you are and don’t want to hear anything more about it.” He paused to study his young adversary. “Now . . . have you a proposition to make?”

  Pate ignored the question and continued to lecture Brown on the treasonous consequences of attacking a federal officer and a militia deputized by the government of the United States.

  Brown interrupted. “Very well then. If you have no proposition to make to me, I have one to make to you—your unconditional surrender.” He gestured toward the wagons, behind which the Missourians waited, weapons still at the ready. Then he turned to Pate and repeated the demand for unconditional surrender. “Tell your men to lay down their arms.”

  Pate grimaced, but he gave the order and his men complied, albeit reluctantly. Those who had remained at their posts were loyal proslavery men. Even though three of them were seriously wounded, they had little stomach for capitulating to a company of Yankees.

  Brown’s stern attitude belied the satisfaction he felt as he paraded the prisoners of war in front of his soldiers; they had lined up to meet him.

  It was shortly before noon, and the first regular battle of civil warfare in Kansas Territory had come to an end. A small force of Free State volunteers prevailed against a numerically superior militia from Missouri. In Kansas, in Missouri, and most particularly in the Northeast—where abolitionist sympathizers hungered for retribution for the caning of Charles Sumner and the sacking of Lawrence—people would soon be learning about what happened at Black Jack Springs.

  Brown intended to exchange Pate and the captured Missourians for Free State men held by the territorial government. He even drew up a surrender document in which he specifically called for the release of his sons John Jr. and Jason.

  It was late in the afternoon when the prisoners and their equipment were secured in Brown’s camp on Ottawa Creek. A visitor was waiting for him. Twenty-six-year-old John Cook was a handsome though somewhat diminutive young man with shoulder-length blond hair. He was part of a militia from Lawrence that Samuel Shore had rallied to Brown’s aid—even though Pate had already surrendered by the time the militia arrived. Brown had been introduced to Cook some weeks earlier and remembered him as an enthusiastic advocate of the Free State cause.

  Cook had studied law before coming to the territory. He was something of a lady’s man, and though he was in Kansas to fight the enemies of freedom, he also was aware of the notoriety that might accrue to someone engaged in such an endeavor. He saw in Brown the selfless, idealistic hero he’d like to emulate—especially now, what with the old man’s victory over the Missourians.

  Brown was glad to see Cook. The old man was witnessing the disintegration of his company. Son-in-law Henry Thompson needed medical attention. Salmon, Frederick, and Oliver were weary of the fighting; too much blood had been shed over the past two weeks. Townsley had returned to his family. Weiner’s store had been burned, and he’d soon leave Kansas permanently. Yet the old man knew the battle of Black Jack Springs had given him credibility as a guerrilla leader. And if he wanted to continue to fight he needed to rebuild his force. He needed someone who had access to young men imbued with the cause. He could use a man like John Cook.

  “Black Jack is only the beginning,” Brown told Cook. “There are more battles to be fought. The enemy is obstinate. He shan’t give in easily.”

  Cook agreed. “How can I be of servic
e, Captain?”

  “I need men,” Brown said. “Not just ordinary men. I need men who have a purpose in their lives and are willing to adhere to it in all trials, men who respect themselves, men who are temperate and fear God.”

  Brown went on to explain that his new company would be a model of efficiency and that he’d only accept volunteers who agreed to a set of written bylaws designed to ensure that the mistakes of Black Jack wouldn’t be repeated. The enlistees would have to vow to uphold moral principles and follow a rigid code of conduct.

  Cook left the camp impressed by the old man’s intentions. He’d pass the word and do what he could to find the kind of men Brown was looking for.

  Three days later, Colonel E. V. Sumner—a distant relative of the Massachusetts senator—converged on Brown’s encampment with fifty US cavalrymen. Sumner had orders from President Pierce and the territorial governor to liberate Pate’s militia. He was also authorized to disperse Brown’s company and arrest the old man for treason and suspicion of murder, but he was content to recover the prisoners and leave Brown and his men alone when he determined—after a casual inspection—that none of them fit the descriptions in his arrest warrants. One of Sumner’s officers, a young lieutenant named J. E. B. Stuart, found the colonel’s decision grossly negligent, but he kept his mouth shut.

  As Colonel Sumner led away Pate and his men, Brown grumbled that the action taken against him was another example of a corrupt federal government bent on supporting a corrupt and illegal territorial government.

  It was a bittersweet conclusion to an otherwise successful action. Brown had enhanced his reputation as a dangerous man, someone to be reckoned with. A tacit warning had been issued to all Missouri marauders and their Southern allies: Northern men were no longer to be trifled with; they could fight and fight well. Still, the old man was unable to negotiate the release of any Free State prisoners, not even his sons. And he was forced to give up the weapons, ammunition, wagons, mules, and horses he took from Pate.