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CATCHING OLD JOHN BROWN.

TWENTY-SEVEN years ago the border war "I believe,” said he, in a company of friends broke out in Kansas over the question of assembled to prescribe for the sick Territory slavery. Congress had referred the whole "I believe in hard knocks, and plenty of matter to the people of the Territory-to the them." He advised the hitting of all borderso-called squatters upon its soil-for settle- ruffian heads in sight, and if some of them ment. They were to take it under advise- were broken it would not in the least disment-reflect, talk, discuss, hold conventions, turb his cheerfulness. His principles and cast votes, and what not-then come to some practice were inconvenient for the other side. conclusion, which, so far as the Territory was The swearing about him in that quarter is concerned, should be final. When the sit- said to have been of the strongest stamp. uation came to be generally understood, "Anything to catch Old Brown," came to be a lively strife had sprung up between the a pro-slavery watchword. More than one North and South, each vying to outdo the border brave struggled with the problem of other in colonizing the debatable ground his capture-lavished upon it an infinite with its own partisans. Emigrant aid soci- deal of stratagem and prowess-with what eties were organized among the abolitionists success we shall see. of New England; while Louisiana and the Carolinas sent on delegations of fire-eating chivalry. That a board of arbitration selected on this plan-gathered promiscuously from Moosehead Lake to the Rio Grande, comprising patriots, fanatics, doughfaces, reformers of numerous stripes, as well as a sprinkling of rogues and "boys" who came to see the fun--would disagree hopelessly and explosively, was plain from the first. The discussion swiftly passed from words to blows even that fearful and wonderful sort of talk styled stump-oratory proving too tame and limp for the occasion. So the squatters fell to fighting, after a guerrilla, bush-whacking fashion, and the whole nation watched the struggle with a feverish interest.

The splutter of rifles on the border caught the listening ear of old John Brown. Years before he had taken a solemn vow against slavery. The long-prayed-for opportunity to strike an effective blow had come at last. Every other interest bent before it like the long grass of a prairie before wind-storms. Never was a man less swayed by motives of selfishness, or of what we call ambition. He went to Kansas to put slavery down, but it was not in order to put himself up.

One bright September morning, in the year 1856, a company of United States troops, under the command of Captain Samuel Walker, happened to be drilling on the open prairie just west of Lawrence. The gruff-voiced military orders-shoulderings of arms, markings of time, right and left dressings-were suddenly arrested by the appearance of a courier, riding at a break-neck pace. He dashed up to Walker and handed him a letter. The messenger proved to be from Lecompton, and the bearer of dispatches from Territorial Governor Geary to the Captain-then almost the sole officer of outspoken free-state sentiments in the local Federal service-which ran somewhat thus:

"I understand that Captain Brown and his band are encamped near Lawrence. The United States marshal is in my office at this moment with papers for his arrest. I shall be obliged to furnish him with orders for a detachment of soldiers from your company to act as his escort in the attempt. But I wouldn't have him captured for anything. Should he fall into the marshal's hands, I couldn't possibly save his life. If you know where he is, get him out of the way, for heaven's sake. I need not say that this note

John Brown was prodigiously full of fight. is confidential."

There

The Captain shrugged his shoulders. rid of him did not grow a whit less. Something must be done, and that quickly. A stranger, meanwhile, had quietly ridden up, and having dismounted, stood at a little distance leisurely taking observations. struck Walker that he had seen him before. "Did I not meet you in John Brown's camp a few weeks ago?"

was still opportunity for somebody to distinguish himself in this line. The lists remained open.

"Yes."

"Do you know where he is?" "I suppose I do.”

"Then get word to him as soon as you can that a Federal marshal is coming down from Lecompton to arrest him; that he had better make tracks."

The stranger, who, by the way, proved to be one of Brown's scouts, jumped upon his horse and was off in a flash.

An hour later, Federal Marshal Fainea tall, lank, black-mustached Southerner from Georgia or Alabama-arrived in camp. He was in fine spirits, and evidently anticipated a certain and easy success in his expedition-pictured himself as returning to Lecompton in triumph, with troublesome Old John Brown bagged. The epistolary governor had also furnished him forth with a letter quite contrary in tenor to that which the smoking courier brought: "To Captain Walker: Furnish Marshal Faine with an officer and twenty-five men to aid him in arresting John Brown. I shall hold you personally responsible for his capture."

Crumpling the order to do it into the same waistcoat pocket with the order not to do it, the Captain proceeded to detail the escort. Twenty-five bronzed veterans buckled on knapsacks, shouldered muskets, tramped out six miles to the Wakarusa River, and gallantly captured the smoldering. remains of a deserted camp-fire. John Brown, warned by his faithful henchman, who was, by the way, none other than the afterwards famous Jayhawker Montgomery, scrambled out of the way in no time.

The valiant Marshal Faine failed, but his misfortunes did not dishearten other ambitious spirits. John Brown continued to lay about him in the most uncomfortable manner, and the anxiety on the other side to be

One chilly, dullish, depressing November day, somewhat more than a year after the marshal's exploits, two travelers, whose costumes challenged immediate and curious attention, stopped at Lawrence for dinner. One sported the loudest military style. He was decorated with the full-dress uniformsash, sword, epaulets, and feathers-of a Federal lieutenant. The other—a territorial deputy-affected citizen's clothes, but his wardrobe was far from uninteresting and-commonplace. It was lined, broidered, stitched with deadly weapons. A Sharp's rifle was slung jauntily across his shoulders; numerous pistol-stocks and bowie-knife handles protruded ominously from beneath his belt -even his long Wellington boot-legs were converted into a magazine, and filled with revolvers.

The much-clothed pair dined, and then called upon Captain Walker, who had recently been commissioned United States Marshal.

"Well, gentlemen," said the Captain, "what's in the wind now? Something to pay, I reckon. A mighty stylish rig, Lieutenant, for these diggin's. Most of us in this part of the country haven't time to keep up with the fashions. Your man here has shooting-irons enough about him to set up a small arsenal. Where are you bound? Hunting anybody?"

"We are on our way to Sugar Creek,” said the gorgeous, befeathered lieutenant, "for the purpose of arresting Old Brown."

The captain, who had seen as much fighting as any other man in the Territory, and whose courage was of the most pronounced, unquestioned type, stared at the confident couple in utter astonishment.

"You'd better let that job out," he remonstrated. "You are crazy to think of any such thing. I know him: a braver man never trod on sole-leather. He's not the chap to fool with. He's on the alerthas eyes and ears everywhere. I know the

crowd, too, he has about him-Kagi, Pat Develan, Whipple, young Pickles, and preacher Steward. They've no more respect for a man's life than for a dog's. A devilishly rash enterprise this that you have undertaken. Now, take my advice: don't meddle with Old John Brown; you'll certainly get into trouble."

"We'll see," was the careless, laughing reply.

"You will see," retorted the Captain. The gay pair rode away, almost dying to get a chance at the pestilent abolitionist down on Sugar Creek; chuckling at the thought of what they would do when that happy moment should come.

It might have been a week after this incident, when Walker received a communication from the Governor, ordering him to report at Lecompton immediately, as he wished to see him on pressing business. The business referred to our men of valor, whose eyes were so red with eagerness to overhaul John Brown.

"The old fellow swooped down upon them," said the governor, "and took them prisoners. I hear he threatens to string them up one of these days. I hardly think he means to do it, but he has scared the fellows badly. Now, I wish you to go down to Sugar Creek and say to Brown that he must release the prisoners at once. Say to him, further, that he is carrying things with too high a hand; that my patience is completely exhausted; that if he doesn't leave the Territory with his infernal gang, I'll put the militia into the field and drive him out."

A

"I'm glad you spoke. I was just about to pull on you."

Walker found himself in the clutches of Brown's scouts. It was young Pickles, whom he had once befriended, that thought of pulling on him. Next morning he was taken into the Sugar Creek camp. It was a rude, extemporized fort. A stone wall ran across the mouth of a ravine, on which a small cannon had been mounted. Sentinels paced about here and there. Half a dozen army tents could be seen within the inclosure, lending to the place a sort of semi-military air. Near the head of the ravine a log cabin had been built, in which Walker found the redoubtable commander of Fort Sugar Creek, sitting at a rough table covered with maps.

"Good morning, Captain," said he, cheerfully-the two men knew each other well, and were good friends; "come here and see what I'm doing."

Brown was busy planning an expedition into the South. The maps were dotted with lines of projected forts, reaching from Kansas to the Gulf of Mexico.

"I'm blocking out a campaign southward," he continued. "This fort will be my base of operations. I mean to cut through to the Gulf. I shall liberate and arm the negroes as I advance. They will flock to me by thousands when they fairly understand what I'm about. It will be the death of slavery this blow I am preparing to strike. came here to do what I could toward making Kansas a free State; but I've never lost sight of that larger, grander work-the work of rescuing our millions of bondmen and of giving them freedom. My purposes are more than local: they are national."

Walker undertook the commission. solitary horseback ride of forty or fifty miles. brought him into the vicinity of Sugar Creek. It was after nightfall, and the trip had been almost accomplished, when suddenly three men, ambushed in thickets which skirted the road, leaped in front of him with drawn pistols. "Halt!" shouted the leader, in the tone much offended by your course. and accent of a brigand.

A brilliant, almost unearthly light shone in the eyes of the gray, thin-faced, decisive enthusiast, as visions of a redeemed, glorious future rose before him.

"Halt, yourself!" was the defiant response. "My God, Captain,” said one of the trio,

"I've come down," said Walker in a halfapologetic tone-"I've come down with a message from the Governor. He's very

He says

that you must leave the Territory, and threatens, if you remain here, to arm the militia and put you out."

The message grated on the ears of the commander of Fort Sugar Creek like laughter at a funeral.

"Will the militia obey the Governor ?"
"I think they will."
"Would you turn out?"

"I would. Captain Brown, we're friends. We both came to this country for the purpose of making a free State out of Kansas; but I must say that I'm afraid of your violent methods. They are unwise, it seems to me. I do not think that circumstances at present justify them. There is another matter, Captain, which I am obliged to mention. Aren't there a couple of young fellows shut up here in your camp as prisoners? I hear they undertook to arrest you, and made a bad mess of it. You must let them go."

Brown was silent for some moments, his mouth firmly shut, "his eye withdrawn, as if seeing things that were invisible."

They can't go back in this shape. You should spare their feelings."

"Evidently they would hardly have spared mine," retorted Brown, glancing in a halfamused way at the warriors, who going out for wool were badly sheared themselves, "if their plans hadn't miscarried. In my opinion, the young men are fortunate in getting out of this business with a whole skin."

"Boys," said Walker, turning toward his plucked, melancholy, tag-shag-and-bobtail companions when they were fairly outside of Fort Sugar Creek—a twelve miles' tramp before them to reach the nearest town"Boys, what do you think now about catching Old Brown?" Neither the lieutenant nor the deputy found it easy to converse on this point.

There was one more effort to lay hands on Brown, and put him where he could do no further mischief. It was during the last year

"Bring out the prisoners," he finally said of his Kansas life. The wretched border to an orderly.

The prisoners were produced. Good heavens, what a change! Walker scarcely recognized them as they sidled into the cabin. The mighty braves who cut so fine and impressive a figure in Lawrence had shrunk into a remarkably sheepish and crestfallen pair. They looked like spaniels thrice whipped. Not only had Brown nabbed them and heartlessly cut short their career of glory, but also he had appropriated their clothes, and substituted for them refuse garments picked up among fugitive negroes about the camp-garments coarse and hempy in material; outlandish in cut; rent, frayed, tattered by long service; odorous with ancient and unblessed smells. Half a dozen darkies posed and strutted in spoils from the exquisite lieutenant's suit. The deputy, too, had not escaped pillage, in spite of his grim appearance. Somebody took the trouble to pull off his long-legged boots, to empty out the revolvers, and furnish him with number eleven, hob-nailed, plantation shoes, that had unmistakably come down from former generations.

"Captain," said Walker, "I wish you would return their clothes to these men.

war had almost run its course; victory had been won-there should be no slaves in the new Commonwealth. But the bitterness against the troublesome old Puritan, who was as careful to keep his powder dry as to say his prayers, did not relent. He was still glowered at; still had a price set on his head. A man of law-one of President Buchanan's judges-undertook a final campaign to bring the long-winded foolishness to an end.

Some chance brought Brown to a farmhouse near Atchison for a few days. The judge, apprised of the fact, and unpleasantly anxious for the honor of capturing him, slyly put a warrant into his pocket, together with numerous pistols; secured an escort of four soldiers, all heavily armed, and set out on the expedition with hopes as buoyant as any of his predecessors. The judge, however, prefaced his exploits neither with noise nor with bluster. He crept toward his prey with the silence and stratagem of a catamount. Not a leaf rustled, not a twig crackled under his stealthy tread. The wily man of law reached the farm-house apparently unobserved, dismounted, and knocked at the door.

"Is John Brown in?" he asked in his

blandest tones of the woman who responded "you are my prisoner,” and stepped forward to make a formal arrest, when he felt a heavy

to his rap.

"Yes. Walk in, gentlemen. Please be hand laid ungently on his own shoulder. A seated. I will call him."

The judge and his four men of war walked in. In a few minutes Brown appeared, unconscious seemingly of the perils that thickened about him-it was certainly he, the grim and dreaded abolitionist, who had made so much trouble on the border.

"I've got him, I've got him; he's trapped at last," chuckled the judge all to himself. With the instinct of a cat that allows the doomed mouse a little seeming freedom, he chose to amuse himself by opening a general conversation. Brown was a capital talker when he chose to come out of his shell, which happened to be the case on this occasion. It was a delightful conversation, ranging over a great variety of topics. But the judge, tiring of the sport, and anxious to finish the business with dispatch, finally broke in with a growl: "Captain Brown, you are my prisoner. You must return with me to Atchison."

Brown appeared to be completely in the power of a mortal enemy. To go to Atchison-then a hot-bed of pro-slaveryism-was certain death. But not a muscle changed, not a shadow of surprise even flitted across his face. The tones of his voice lost nothing of their sweetness and charm as he resumed the conversation interrupted by our unhappy parenthesis. The man of law was astounded. For an instant he scarcely knew which to disbelieve his eyes or his ears. Was it possible that Brown did not understand what he had said-did not grasp the fatal import of his words? Or had his tongue played him false? Had he spoken other words than those he purposed to say? "Captain Brown," he repeated, in his gruffest tone,

soldier whom he never saw before stood behind him, holding a cocked pistol uncomfortably near his head. Indeed, a troop of strange men were crowding into the house from some near ambush. The trap sprung with an ugly snap, but whose fingers were in it?

"Gentlemen," said Brown, with no appearance of triumph in voice or look, "you are my prisoners."

Victory-the capture of the judge and his escort-brought with it a new responsibility. What disposition should he make of the prisoners? That question shot threads of sobriety into the elation that Brown might naturally have felt. "I believe," said he quietly, "that I must find out what to do with you all." He left the room, to consult with some confidant apparently. A moment later, one of the judge's soldiers plucked him by the sleeve, and pointing toward a corner of the piazza that shambled across the house front, whispered, "See there." Something could be seen. John Brown was on his knees, earnestly, reverently, filially asking for the wisdom that cometh down from above. The man of law looked andlaughed. The spectacle awoke no loftier emotion in his breast than a giggle.

Brown shortly returned. "The soldiers," said he, “I shall at once liberate. I shall not ask the Lord about you, Judge, for you laughed."

The judge was detained three days, and soundly lectured on the sin of irreverence. And then he went home with spirits scarcely gayer than the soberest of his predecessors in the business of catching Old John Brown.

Leverett W. Spring.

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