From an old log farmhouse on the hills of Maryland,--overlooking thetown of Harper\'s Ferry, the panther was crouching to spring.
For four months in various disguises Brown had reconnoitered themountains around the gorge of the two rivers. He had climbed thepeak and looked into the county of Fauquier with its swarming slavepopulation. Each week he piloted his wagon to the town of Chambersburg,Pennsylvania, thirty-five miles back in the hills.
The Humanitarians through their agents were shipping there, day by day,the powder, lead, guns, knives, torches and iron pikes the Chosen Onehad asked.
These pious men met him for a final conference in the home of GerritSmith, the preacher philanthropist of Peterboro.
The canny old huntsman revealed to them just enough to excite theunconscious archaic impulse beneath the skin of culture. He told themthat he was going to make a daring raid into the heart of the Old Southand rescue as many of the "oppressed" as possible. They knew that theraid into Missouri had resulted in murder and that he rode back intoKansas with the red stains on his hands.
Brown gained their support by this carefully concealed appeal to theirsubconscious natures. As the crowd of eager faces bent close to catch,the details of his scheme, the burning eyes of the leader were suddenlyhalf closed. Silence followed and they watched the two pin points oflight in vain.
Each pious man present caught the smell of human blood. Yet each piousman carefully concealed this from himself and his neighbor until itwould be approved by all. Had the bald facts behind the enterprise beentold in plain English, religion and culture would have called ahalt. The elemental impulse of the Beast must therefore be carefullyconcealed.
Every man present knew that they were sending Brown on a man-hunt. Theyknew that the results might mean bloodshed. They knew, as individuals,exactly what was being said and what was being planned. Its detailsthey did not wish to know. The moral significance--the _big_ moralsignificance of the deed was something apart from the bloody details.
The Great Deed could be justified by the Higher Law, the Greater Gloryof God. They were twisting the moral universe into accord with theelemental impulse of the brute that sleeps beneath every human skin.
The Great Deed about to be done would be glorious, its actors heroes andmartyrs of a Divine Cause. They knelt in prayer and their Chosen Leaderinvoked the blessings of the Lord of Hosts upon them and upon hisdisciples in the Divine Cause.
The hour of Action was now swiftly approaching. Cook had become a bookagent. With his pretty Virginia wife his figure became familiar to everyfarm, in the county. He visited every house where a slave was to befound. He sold maps as well as books. He also sketched maps in secretwhen he reached the quiet of his home while his happy little bride sangat her work.
He carefully compiled a census of slaves at the Ferry and in thesurrounding country. So sure had he become of the success of the blowwhen it should fall, that he begged his Chief to permit him to beginto whisper the promise of the uprising to a few chosen men among theslaves.
The old man\'s eyes; flamed with anger.
"You have not done this already?" he growled.
"No--no.""You swear it?"Brown had seized Cook by both arms and searched his eyes for the truth.
The younger man was amazed at the volcanic outburst of anger.
"A hundred times I\'ve told you, Cook, that you talk too much," he wenton tensely. "You mean well, boy, but your marriage may prove a tragedyin more ways than one.""It has proven my greatest weapon.""If you\'re careful, if you\'re discreet, if you can control your foolishimpulses. I\'ve warned you again and again and yet you\'ve been writingletters--"Cook\'s eyes wavered.
"I only wrote one to an old girl friend in Tabor.""Exactly. You told of your marriage, your happiness, your hopes of agreat career--and I got a copy of the letter.""How?""No matter. If I got it, somebody else could get one. Now will you swearto me again to obey my orders?"The burning eyes pierced his soul and he was wax.
"Yes. I swear!""Good. I want a report from you daily from now on. Stop your excursionsinto the country, except to meet me in broad daylight in the woods thisside of our headquarters. You understand?""Yes. You can depend on me."Brown watched him with grave misgivings. He was the one man on whomhe depended least and yet his life and the life of every one in hisenterprise was in his hands. There were more reasons than one why hemust hasten the final preparations for the Deed.
The suspicions of the neighbors had been roused in spite of the utmostvigilance. He had increased his disciples to twenty men. He had inducedhis younger son, Watson, to leave North Elba and join them. His owndaughter, Annie, and Oliver\'s wife had come with Watson, and the twowomen were doing the work for his band--cooking, washing, and scrubbingwithout a murmur.
The men were becoming restless in their close confinement. Five of themwere negroes. Brown\'s disciples made no objections to living, eatingand sleeping with these blacks. Such equality was one of the cardinalprinciples of their creed.
But the danger of the discovery of the presence of freed negroesliving in this farmhouse with two white women and a group of white menincreased each day.
The headquarters had a garrulous old woman for a neighbor. Gradually,Mrs. Huffmeister became curious about the doings at the farm. She beganto invent daily excuses for a visit. They might be real, of course, butthe old man\'s daughter became uneasy. As she cleaned the table, washedthe dishes and swept the floors of the rooms and the porch, she wasconstantly on the lookout for this woman.
The thing that had fascinated her was the man whom this girl calledfather. His name was "Smith," but it didn\'t seem to fit him. She was anilliterate German and knew nothing of the stirring events in Kansas. Buther eyes followed the head huntsman with fascinated curiosity.
At this time his personal appearance was startling in its impressivepower, when not on guard or in disguise. His brilliant eyes, his flowingwhite beard and stooped shoulders arrested attention instantly and heldit. He was sixty years old by the calendar and looked older. And yetalways the curious thing about him was that the impression of age was onthe surface. It was given only when he was still. The moment he movedin the quick, wiry, catlike way that was his habit, age vanished. Theobserver got the impression of a wild beast crouching to spring.
It was little wonder that Mrs. Huffmeister made excuses to catch aglimpse of his figure. It was little wonder that she had begun to talkto her friends about "Mr. Smith" and his curious ways.
She had talked to him only once. She was glad that he didn\'t talk much.
There was an expression to his set jaw and lips that was repulsive.
Especially there was something chill in the tones of his voice. Theynever suggested tenderness or love, or hope or happiness--only theimpersonal ring of metal. The agile and alert body of a man of his agewas an uncanny thing, too. The woman\'s curiosity was roused anew witheach glimpse she got of him until her coming at last became a terror tothe daughter.
She warned her father and he hastened his preparations. If the worldbelow once got a hint of what was going on behind those rough logs therewould be short shrift for the men who were stalking human game.
It became necessary for the entire party of twenty men to lie concealedin the low attic room the entire day. Not more than two of them could beseen at one time.
The strange assortment of ex-convicts, dreamers, theorists, adventurersand freed negroes were kept busy by their leader until the eve of theGreat Deed. They whittled into smooth shape the stout hi............