The Widow's War

Cicadas humming in a steady drone, trembling poplars, the sheen of moonlight on white gravel and water, a large, dead tree arched like a bridge. John Brown reaches out, puts his hand on the trunk, feels the soft, decaying bark. Using the tree to steady himself, he crosses Pottawatomie Creek. Behind him, he can hear his sons and the volunteers splashing through the water. He turns and puts his fingers to his lips. Silently, he says with gestures. Revenge must begin silently.

He thinks of Sumner bleeding on the floor of the Senate, of the Free State Hotel burned, of Lawrence looted, of the unspeakable evils of slavery and the cowardice of men who refuse to act on what they believe. Suddenly, he comes to an abrupt halt, overtaken by an anger so great he can taste it.

Up ahead is a clump of maples and beyond them a cabin sitting cold and quiet in the darkness. In that cabin, the pro-slavers are asleep. He and his men must do nothing to alarm or wake them. This is war. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

One by one, his sons cross the creek and come to stand beside him. Each carries one of the broadswords he brought to Kansas. Freshly sharpened, he thinks, edges ground so fine a man could shave with them. He looks at his sons, strong around him, brave warriors all, righteous in their lives, righteous in their dedication to ending slavery. God granted him such sons because of this night and the nights to follow. They are soldiers in the Army of the North, a small army perhaps, but one that will grow until the Lord’s work is done.

He lowers his head, in prayer and feels the power of God fill him with certainty. When he has finished praying, they walk on toward the cabin. The only sign of their presence is the moonlight glinting off the edges of their swords.

John Brown lifts his hands over his head, drawing down the Holy Ghost and bringing them all to a stop. Straightening his leather tie as if about to pay a social call, he starts toward the cabin alone. He will be the one to knock on the door and sound the trumpet of judgment. If the pro-slavers do not fight him, perhaps he will even give them time to repent. Not that they deserve anything but hellfire.

He has almost reached the cabin when two bulldogs come hurtling out of the darkness, barking and snarling. The dogs run on either side of him as if they cannot smell him or see him and hurl themselves on his sons, but before they can do any damage, Frederick beheads one with his sword, and Salmon stabs the other and sends it howling into the forest.

No need for silence now. John Brown approaches the cabin again and knocks. He expects to be greeted with a rifle barrel and has steeled himself to be shot or even to die a martyr, but instead the pro-slaver opens up. As soon as the door swings back, Brown charges in, and his sons follow, guns drawn, swords ready. They knock over a table, and a china pitcher and washbasin hurtle to the floor.

A man in a nightshirt faces him, dazed and uncomprehending. A woman stands behind him, her face still creased with sleep. A small girl clings to the woman’s nightgown. On the other side of the cabin, three young men rise from their pallets.

“Madam,” John Brown says, “I cannot spare them. They have committed unpardonable crimes against the African people.”

“My son, John,” Mrs. Doyle begins to sob, “dear God, he’s only fourteen! Please, Mr. Brown, leave me my boy!”

John Brown looks at John Doyle. He’s slight, thin, short, fresh-faced, and crying. It’s the crying that does it. Only a coward or a child would shed tears.

“Leave the boy,” he orders. Owen Brown throws John Doyle toward his mother, who catches him. The two fall to their knees dragging the little girl down with them and kneel there weeping, but John Brown has had enough. In time of war, mercy has limits.

The Browns shove Doyle and his two older sons out into the night. The wind has risen and the trees are thrashing. For a moment, John Brown feels as if he is being touched by the breath of God, but it’s only a storm coming in.

They walk down the road that leads from the cabin, pushing the Doyles ahead of them with the barrels of their guns and the tips of their swords, catching them when they stumble. John Brown thinks of the sheep he has herded to slaughter, how the terror in the eyes of these men is like the terror in the eyes of those sheep. He stops in a patch of moonlight.

“Here,” he says. “Now!” As his sons raise their swords, he turns away and looks off into the darkness. He hears the sound of screaming and pleading, the sound of metal blades cutting through flesh and bone, the thud of falling bodies.

When he turns back again to the scene of the execution, he sees Doyle and Doyle’s oldest son lying dead in the road. A little farther on, the other son lies half-hidden in the grass, his arms severed from his body. Salmon and Owen stand near the bodies, splashed with blood that looks black in the moonlight.

“So let all thine enemies perish, O Lord,” John Brown says. He stares at the bodies and waits for some sign that he has done the right thing, but the taste of anger remains in his mouth, so bitter he feels as if he’s choking on it.

Pulling his pistol out of his pocket, he walks over to Doyle, bends down, and shoots him in the forehead. When he straightens up, Owen and Salmon are still there, drenched in the blood of the enemies of human freedom. Beside them stand the rest of the soldiers of the Army of the North.