I spoke for Father in all matters, except when he chose to speak for himself, which occasions were rare and made all the more impressive by their rarity. Even my brothers Salmon and Fred and Oliver and my brother-in-law Henry Thompson addressed Father through me, and it was through me that he spoke back to them and to the other men. To the journalists, of course, he spoke for himself, for no one, certainly not I, was as articulate and clear and poetical as he when it came to defining and justifying his grand strategy. With his actions in Kansas, Father wished to inspire a similar set of actions by other men all along the thousand-mile border between the North and the South, from Maryland to Missouri: by his and our example, he wished to make warriors of abolitionists and freedmen, and insurrectionists of slaves.
Your researches must have made known to you by now that after the night of the Pottawatomie Massacre, as it quickly came to be called, my elder brothers, John and Jason, were no longer with us. They were not purged from our band by Father, however; they took themselves from it. And it was just as well for them and for us, for they were not cold enough.
When, on that morning in May, we had finally washed all the blood from our hands and faces and had cleaned our broadswords in the waters of the Pottawatomie, we then came somberly, silently away from Dutch Sherman’s place, ascending from the dark, gloomy river-bottom in the wagon and on horseback along the winding, northerly trail to the grassy plateau above. Swaths of ground-fog hovered over the trees in the distance, where the Marais des Cygnes meandered eastward towards the town of Osawatomie, and the tall grasses glistened in the morning sunlight. We came over into the open, newly green meadows and leafy copses outside the settlement and after a while arrived at the crossroads where John and Jason and the Osawatomie Rifles still lay encamped, waiting for instructions from their superiors in Lawrence.
The men of John’s outfit were mostly young fellows, husbands and sons, Osawatomie homesteaders mustered abruptly into a militia company to defend and protect their homes against the Missouri marauders. Thus they could not have joined us in our work anyhow and still retained their commission under Colonel Lane and Mr. Robinson. It was not that Father had mistrusted them, especially John and Jason; it was merely that he respected their charge and mission and knew its difference from ours.
Our arrival at their encampment that morning, however, was met with grim silence by them, which puzzled us. They were mostly standing together near their low, smoky breakfast fire, and as we drew near, they watched us and said nothing and did not even raise a hand in greeting. It was as if we were a painting of six travelers, three on horseback and three in a wagon, being hung on a wall in a museum, and they were a group of silent, thoughtful observers standing ready to examine it. I remember, as we neared the fire and dismounted, that it was Jason who first separated himself from the men and came forward, while John looked on woefully, and the others merely gazed coolly in our direction as if from a great distance.
Jason glanced over the horses and saddles we had taken from Mr. Wilkinson, then abruptly took Father’s hand in his and led him a short ways off. I followed, while the other boys stayed in an isolated knot by the wagon.
Jason said to Father, “Did you have anything to do with that killing over to Dutch Henry’s Crossing?”
Father looked surprised by the question. “What’ve you heard?”
“A few hours ago, just after sunup, one of the boys from over there rode through, all distraught and weeping in a panic,” he said. “We got out of him that his father and two brothers and some other men had been savagely murdered. He said they’d all been chopped down by swords and cut horribly. It was an uncalled-for, wicked act!” he pronounced. Then he looked down at the broadsword I wore on my belt and was briefly silent. “The lad was pretty confused,” he went on, turning back to Father. “But he claimed it was the Browns that did it. He was clear on that. Then he rode on to Osawatomie. To raise the alarm.”
We were all three silent then. At last, Jason said, “Did you do it, Father?”
“I slew no one,” Father declared. “But I do approve of it.”
“I’ll go the route for you, Father, if you’re innocent. But if you did this, you know I can’t defend you. It’s a despicable act. I must know where you and the boys have been all night.”
Father said simply, “No, Jason, you don’t.”
Jason looked at me then. “Do you know who did this?”
I hardened my face and showed him its side. “Yes, I do. But I shan’t tell you.”
His voice lowered almost to a whisper, Jason said, “This is mad.” Then, harshly, he shouted towards the wagon, “Fred, come over here!”
Fred obeyed and came forward and stood beside me with his head hung low, and at once he said to Jason, “I didn’t do it, but I can’t tell you who did. When I came to see what manner of work it was, I couldn’t do it, Jason!” Tears were streaming down his face.
“You realize that now we’re all going to suffer!” Jason said to Father. “Do you realize that?”
“No, you’re wrong” said Father. “Those men were the enemies of the Lord, and they deserved to die, no matter who did it. For without the shedding of blood, there is no remission of sins. I will tell you this much, son: I myself killed no one. But if the slavers think I killed their kith and kin, that’s fine by me. All the better. Now they will know our extremity. Now they will know what they’re up against,” he said.
But Jason was no longer listening. He had stepped unsteadily away a few paces, and he turned and, nearly staggering, walked off from us and the men of the militia.
The sight of him, shocked and clearly appalled, pointedly separating himself from Father and me and Fred and making his way along a zig-zag path over the rise and down the ravine towards the river, told the others that the boy’s dawn account had been true, and it seemed to release the men. At once, they busied themselves with breaking camp and bridling and saddling their horses. A few seconds later, John was left standing alone by the fire — a captain overthrown and abandoned.
He looked first at us and then at his men, then back at us again, as if torn and dismayed by the choice that had been forced upon him. Finally, he called out to his men, who were mostly already on horseback by now and were clearly prepared to depart: “Wait up! Hold up a minute! This business isn’t settled yet. You fellows are still under my command.”
Henry Williams, a storekeeper in Osawatomie, a big-shouldered man with a dark, rubbishy beard, said, “No, we’re electing us a new captain, John. We ain’t riding under no Brown.” The others nodded and murmured agreement, and Mr. Williams turned in his saddle and said to them, “Who d’ you boys want for a captain? Any nominations?”
One of them said, “You’d do fine, Henry.”
Another man, a tall, raw-boned man in a canvas duster, said, “My vote’s for Williams. He’s got sense. And he’s got family and his store to protect. He ain’t going to do anything so stupid as killing off folks at random,” and he glared first at Father and me and then directly at John.