My arrival seemed to pound things up higher, for after a few minutes of tellin’ this feller to do this and that feller to do that and giving a few orders that didn’t have no sense to them, for the thing was done, the Old Man stopped and looked ’bout and said gravely, “Men! We are, for the moment, in control of a hundred thousand guns. That is more than enough for our new army, when they come.”
The men cheered again, and when all the cheering died down, the Old Man turned around and looked for Oliver, who had come into the Engine Works with me. “Where’s Oliver?” he asked.
“Gone back to guard the train,” Taylor said.
“Oh, yes!” the Old Man said. He turned to me. “Did you see the Rail Man?”
Well, I didn’t have the courage to break the bad news to him. Just couldn’t do it in a hard way. So I said, “In a fashion.”
“Where is he?”
“Oliver took care of him.”
“Did the Rail Man hive the bees?”
“Why, yes he did, Captain.”
O. P. Anderson and the Emperor, the two Negroes, they come over when they heard me answer to the affirmative.
“You sure?” O.P. said. “You mean the colored came?”
“Bunches.”
The Old Man was mirthful. “God hath mercy and delivered the fruit!” he said, and he stood up, bowed his head, and held his arms outward, palms up, got holy right there. He clasped his hands in prayer. “Didn’t He say, ‘Withhold not good from them to whom it is due,’” he near shouted, “‘when it is in the power of thine hand to do it’?” and off he went, prowling his thanks ’bout the book of Ecclesiastes and so forth. He stood there burbling and mumbling the Bible a good five minutes while O.P. and the Emperor chased me ’round the room, asking questions, for I walked away then. I just wanted to avoid the whole thing.
“How many of ’em was it?” O.P. asked.
“A bunch.”
“Where they at?” the Emperor asked.
“Up the road.”
“They run off?” O.P. asked.
“I wouldn’t call it running,” I said.
“What would you call it, then?”
“I calls it a little misunderstanding.”
O.P. grabbed me by the neck. “Onion, you better play square here.”
“Well, there was some confusion,” I said.
The Old Man was standing nearby, mumbling and murmuring deep in prayer, his eyes closed, babbling on, but one of his eyes popped open when he heard that. “What kind of confusion?”
Just as he said that, there was a loud knock on the door.
“Who’s inside there?” a voice shouted.
The Old Man runned to the window, followed by the rest of us. Outside, at the front door of the engine house was two white fellers, railroad workers, both of ’em looked drunk to the point of sneezing gut water, probably had just walked out the Gault House tavern on nearby Shenandoah Street.
The Old Man cleared his throat and stuck his head through the window. “I’m Osawatomie John Brown of Kansas,” he declared. He liked to use his full Indian name when he was warring. “And I come to free the Negro people.”
“You come to what?”
“I come to free the Negro people.”
The fellers laughed. “Is you the same feller that shot the Negro?” one asked.
“What Negro?”
“The one over yonder in the railroad yard. Doc says he’s dying. Said they saw a nigger girl shoot him. They’re plenty hot ’bout it. And where’s Williams? He’s supposed to be on duty.”
The Old Man turned to me. “Someone shot over there?”
“Where’s Williams?” the feller outside said again. “He’s supposed to be on duty. Open this damn door, ya fool!”
“Check with your own people about your man,” the Old Man shouted back through the window.
O.P. tapped the Captain on the shoulder and piped up, “Williams is in here, Captain. He’s one of the armory guards.”
The Old Man glanced at the guard, Williams, who sat on a bench, looking glum. He leaned out the window. “Pardon me,” he said. “We got him in here.”
“Well, let him out.”
“When you let the Negro people go, we’ll let him out.”
“Quit fooling, ya sawface idiot. Let him out.”
The Old Man stuck his Sharps rifle out the window. “I’ll thank you to take your leave,” he said, “and tell your superiors that Old Osawatomie John Brown’s here at the federal armory. With hostages. And I aims to free the Negro people from their enslavement.”
Suddenly Williams, the armory guard who was setting along the wall bench, got up and stuck his head out a window near him and hollered, “Fergus, he ain’t fooling. They got a hundred armed niggers in here, and they got me prisoner!”
I don’t know but that them fellers saw one of their own yelping out the window, or if it was what he said ’bout them armed coloreds, or if it was the Old Man’s rifle that done it, but they scattered in quick time.
In ten minutes, fifteen fellers was standing out there at a safe distance, mostly drunks from the Gault House saloon across the street, haggling and arguing among themselves, for only two of ’em had weapons, and in every building they’d run to inside the armory gates to fetch a gun from, they found a rifle pointed out the window at them with someone tellin’ them to get the hell off and away. One of them broke off from the rest gathered out front, tiptoed close enough to the front door of the engine house to be heard, and shouted, “Quit fooling and let Williams the hell out, whoever you is, or we’ll fetch the deputy.”
“Fetch him,” the Old Man said.
“We’ll fetch him, all right. And if you so much as touch our man, you cracker-eatin’ snit, we’ll bust a hole in you big enough to drive a mule through.”
Stevens growled, “I had enough of this.” He stuck his carbine through the window and busted off a charge over their heads. “We has come to free the Negro people,” he shouted. “Now spread the word. And if you don’t come back with some food, we’ll kill the prisoners.”
The Old Man frowned at Stevens. “Why’d you say that?”
Stevens shrugged. “I’m hungry,” he said.
We watched the men scramble out the gate, busting off in every direction, running up the hill into the village and the heights of jumbling, mashed-up houses that set beyond it, hollering as they went.
Well, it started slow and seemed to stay slow. Morning come, and outside the armory walls by the dawn’s light, you could see the town waking up, and despite all that yelling from the night before, not a soul among them seemed to know what to do. People walked back and forth up and down the street to work like it weren’t nothing, but at the train station, there was some growing activity. Several gathered there, I reckon, wondering where the engineer and coal man was, for the B&O locomotive engine sat there dead in the water, the engine quit, dried up, for it was plumb out of water and the engineer was gone from it, being that he and the coal man was our prisoners. Next to the Gault House, there was general confusion, and at the Wager House next to that—that was a saloon and hotel just like the Gault—there was some milling around as well. Several of those ’bout was passengers who got off the train and wandered up to the station, wondering what had happened. Several passengers held their luggage, motioning and gesturing and so forth, and I reckon they was tellin’ different stories, and I heard tell that several had murmured they seen a bunch of Negroes running off out the baggage car. But there was a festive atmosphere to the whole thing, to be honest. Folks standing ’round, gossiping. In fact, several workmen walked past the crowd, straight into the armory gate that morning to go to work, thinking nothing of it, and walked right into the barrels of the Captain’s men, who said, “We has come to free the Negro. And you is our prisoner.”