That rousted the Old Man, who came out his spell grumbling, “Course you would interrupt my reckonings to our dear departed Savior upon Whose blood our lives rest,” he said, “but I reckon He understands the impatience of children and is partial to their youth and recklessness. C’mon, men.”
They gathered in a wagon with horses tied to follow, and I hoisted myself aboard. There was but eight souls left aboard now from the original Pottawatomie Rifles, and only on the wagon as we rolled did I come to the knowledge that five of those was the Old Man’s sons: Owen and Fred, course, then Salmon, Jason, and John Jr., plus one son-in-law, Henry Thompson. The other two were James Townsley and Theo Weiner, the Jew.
We stayed off the California Trail, the main trail which runs clear through Kansas, and rode an old logging path for about an hour, then veered off to a trail that led toward a group of houses. Not a one of them fellers lost a breath or showed any hesitation as we moved, but I overheard them fussin’ about where Dutch lived, them guessing he wanted to attack Dutch’s, and there was some confusion about where it was, for it was dark, and there weren’t much of a moon, and new settlements was popping up along the California Trail every day, changing the look of things. Course I knowed Dutch’s place and everything within a mile of it, but I weren’t quite sure of where we was, either. I know we wasn’t in his country just yet. Wherever we was, we was off the California Trail, clear on the other side of Mosquite Creek. I believe we would’a ended up in Nebraska if the Old Man allowed it, for he didn’t know where he was, either.
I didn’t say a word while they rode back and forth, trying to figure it, and after a while when I looked over at the Old Captain to hear his word on it, I seen he’d fallen asleep in the wagon. I reckon they didn’t want to wake him. He lay there snoring as the others led us ’round in circles for about an hour. I was happy he was asleep, and thought he’d sleep through the whole business and forget it. I was to learn later Old John Brown could stay up for days at a time without eating a crumb, then shut down and sleep for five minutes before waking up to do any kind of task under God’s sun, including killing man or beast.
He awoke in good time sure enough, sat up, and barked out, “Stop near that cabin in clearing yonder. Our work is here.”
Now he was as lost as the rest of us, and didn’t know his way out of the particular patch of woods and that homestead any more than a bird knows his way out of a privy with the door closed, but he was the leader, and he had found what he wanted.
He stared at the cabin in the dim moonlight. It weren’t Dutch’s place at all, but no one, not even Owen or Frederick, said a wrong thing about it, for no one wanted to back-talk him. Truth be told, Brown’s Station, the farmstead where he and his boys stayed, was within ten miles of Dutch’s place, and some of his boys had to know we was at the wrong spot, but none said a word. They was afraid to cross their father. Most of ’em would speak up against Jesus Christ Himself before they took on the Old Man, except Owen, who was the least religious of all his boys and the most sure of hisself. But Owen too looked unsure, at the moment, for this whole conundrum attack and warring in the middle of the night was his Pa’s idea, not his, and he followed his Pa like the rest, right to the brink.
The Old Man was sure, he spoke with the strength of a man who knowed hisself. “To the cause,” he whispered. “Dismount and tie off the two trailing horses.” The men done it.
It was dark but clear. The Old Man leaped out the back of the wagon and led us behind some thickets, peering at the cabin.
“I do believe we’ll catch him by surprise,” he said.
“Are you sure this is Dutch’s?” Owen asked.
The Old Man ignored that. “I can smell slavery within it,” he declared. “Let us strike quickly with the Lord’s vengeance. Broadswords only. No guns.”
He turned to me and said, “Little Onion, you are a courageous child, and while I knows you wants to strike a blow for freedom yourself, tonight is not the time. Stay here. We’ll be back shortly.”
Well, he didn’t have to tell me twice. I weren’t going nowhere. I stood by the wagon and watched them go.
The moon peeked from behind the clouds and it allowed me to see them approach the cabins, spread out in a line. Several switched to guns, despite what the Old Man told ’em, as they approached the front door.
When they were almost on the front door, and a good thirty yards from me, I turned around and ran.
I got no more than five steps and runned right into two four-legged mongrels who jumped at me. One knocked me down and the other barked holy hell and would’a tore me apart had not something dropped on him and he fell. The other mutt ran off howling into the woods.
I looked up to see Fred standing over the slain dog with his broadsword and the Old Man and the rest standing over me. The Old Man looked grim, and the sight of them tight, gray eyes boring into me made me want to shrivel up to the size of a peanut. I thought he was going to chastise me, but instead he turned and glared at the others. “It’s Lucky Onion here had the mind to look out for watchdogs behind us, which none of you had the mind to consider. I reckon you can’t prevent someone from fighting for their freedom. So come on, Little Onion. I knows you want to come. Stay back from us, and be very quick and quiet.”
Well, he done me a worse service, but I done as he said. They trotted toward the cabin. I followed at a safe distance.
Owen and Fred stepped up to the front door, guns bared, and knocked politely, while the Old Man stood back.
A voice inside said, “Who’s there?”
“Trying to get to Dutch’s Tavern,” Old Man Brown called out. “We’re lost.”
The door opened and Owen and Fred cold-kicked the man inside the house and stepped in behind him. The rest tumbled inside.
I went to a side window and watched. The cabin was but a room, lit by a dim candle. The Old Man and his sons stood over none other than James Doyle, who had been in the tavern and held his .45 Colt on the Old Man, and Doyle’s three sons and his wife. Doyle and his boys were pressed to the wall, facing it, while the Old Man’s boys held Sharps rifles and swords at their necks. The Old Man stood over them, shuffling one foot to the other, his face twitching, searching in his pockets for something.
I don’t reckon he knowed what to do at first, for he had never taken nobody prisoner before. He dug in his pockets a good five minutes before he finally pulled out a piece of yellowed, rumpled paper and read from it in a high, thin voice: “I’m Captain Brown of the Northern Army. We come here from back east to free the enslaved people of this territory under the laws of our Redeemer the Lord Jesus Christ Who spilt His blood for you and me.” Then he balled up the paper, stuck it in his pocket, and said to Doyle, “Which one of you is Dutch Henry?”
Doyle was white-faced. “He don’t live here.”
“I know that,” the Old Man said, though he didn’t know it. He had just learnt it. “Is you related to him?”
“None of us here is.”
“Is you Pro Slavers or against?”
“I don’t own no slaves myself.”
“I ain’t ask that. Ain’t I seen you at Dutch Henry’s?”