‘Everything moves in sublime harmony in the government of God. Not so with us poor creatures. If one star is more brilliant than the others, it is continually shooting in some erratic way into space.’- John Brown
Things which are not were not strongly embedded in the mind of John Brown as they slipped the noose about his hairy neck. Were there regrets? Of course. But not related to those events which had led most directly to this moment. As the rope was tightened & the sack placed over his head the last human being he saw was a young non-commissioned officer in a Virginia Militiaman’s uniform. All that passed between the 2 men, at least knowingly, was the look of their eyes into each others’. There was the need to look further, & that to look away. Rare had it been that the fiery would-be Liberator would gaze into a set of eyne as intense, yet unfocused, as his own had been until a few weeks ago. It was not as if he feared the gaze of the younger man, just that he noticed it until the last second before the sack dampered his world.
In those few seconds before the release of the floor beneath him, which would make his wicked world the problem of others, & the inhalation of his 1st sack-ridden breaths the white-haired son of Connecticut Abolitionists wondered whether the ferocity of the other man’s gaze was 1 of approval or disdain. Or had he just imagined it all? He had never been able to tell such things with much accuracy- reality & dream, intent & happenstance were to him the same. & all of it was God. For example, not long after he fled Kansas a few years earlier, after the holocaust at Osawatomie, he was being shuttled between the homes of the many Boston Brahmins who financed his secret forays against bondage, when he was 1st introduced to William Lloyd Garrison- 1 of the 1st Abolitionist voices whose words had stirred the young John Brown from lethargy, a man who himself had nearly been lynched by a mob for his views, but who had preached staunchly against violence & had declared John Brown, himself, a liability to the cause, a man whose known violence only portended more violence- whom he expected to be some genteel little minister. He was wrong. John Brown had never incurred the presence of such a man before. Although Garrison barely made excess motions he was a man who could whirl lightning with the very focus of his gaze. A word could linger hours in the cilia of dream. But he bore right through John Brown- & argued his case to near-convincing stature- who needed a few seconds to recover his wits & deliver his equally impassioned case for coordinated & effective violence. He told Garrison of his years as a shepherd boy, & how so totally the flock depended upon his guidance. Without him they were as good as dead against the depravities of the indifferent world. To them, he told Garrison, he must have been a god, himself. A force capable of finding food when no known sheep method proved right, a being who could smite the very carnal elements themselves- wolves & bears who might harm a lamb.
Garrison chided John Brown for his imputation of godhead, but the son of the good Calvinists Owen & Ruth Brown asked Garrison if he had ever seen slavery? The journalist responded that as a boy he had seen the slave markets in New York- before they were banned. & he had seen those that still exist when he ventured south. It was these depravities that had forced him to raise the pen which 1st persuaded John Brown! Then John Brown repeated his question- with a but. ‘But, have you ever really seen slavery?”
Garrison was nonplussed. What did he mean by such a question? John Brown then told the tale of when he was 12 years old & left with the task of driving his family’s flock north through unknown areas of Ohio & Michigan. For several days & nights the 100 mile sojourn was. He happened upon the farm of a man who greeted the young shepherd with grace & warmth. Cold, from the night, he offered him food, drink, & lodging, as well as a pen for his flock to spend the night. While his father had taught him to be wary of another man’s charity, John Brown was a tired & hungry boy. The farmer even had his slave- a boy not much older than he was- draw a bath for him. As he bathed the slave boy asked if he needed a towel. John Brown said he could get 1 off the wall if he needed 1. The slave boy got it for him. Although he thanked the slave boy he asked why he felt he needed to get it even though he had said the slave need not have done so? The slave boy grew a fear in his gaze that John Brown had never seen. Seeing that John Brown expected an answer the slave boy said he needed to go & prepare supper for him & his master. At supper John Brown devoured as much as he could, & thanked the farmer. But the farmer was dissatisfied with the lack of tenderness of the beef in his stew. As the slave boy apologized the farmer went in to a rage & beat him mercilessly with a metal fireplace spade. Barely able to move, the slave boy was nonetheless ordered to remove the stew & apologize for embarrassing the farmer in front of his guest. He did so. So did the farmer. John Brown had never seen a slave up close before. He wondered why he was the 1 the farmer apologized to, & not the slave boy. That night was 1 of the worst nights in John Brown’s short life. The sound of the metal spade off the slave boy’s skull stuck with him. By the morning he needed to put as much land between him & the farm as possible. As he left the slave boy did not lift his eyes to John Brown. He said goodbye to him & vowed that the sound of that spade would ever be a clarion. The slave boy only said goodbye after being spoken to by John Brown. Still, Garrison was puzzled. Of course, he had heard of depravities such as that- again, so what? John Brown asked him if he had ever heard such a sound as that which came from the slave boy’s skull? Garrison paused. John Brown knew he had not heard.
Then there was Frederick Douglass- the freedman & ex-slave- the man whom John Brown thought the sine qua non of his race- & by that he meant not just the Negro race. Maned as if a lion, dapper in ways that John Brown could never even aspire, he was sure- just some weeks earlier- that Douglass would join him at Harper’s Ferry. How could he not? He had met Dangerfield Newby- another ex-slave- & knew that his own family was to be sold south to Louisiana if the revolt did not happen. He had met Lewis Leary, whose ancestors were Irish, black & Croatoan- the Indians of Lost Roanoke, from amongst America’s lowest classes, & seen the passion that was within. Even Douglass’s own aide-de-camp, another ex-slave, Emperor Green, was persuaded that very eve to join John Brown’s cause. Surely Douglass would follow? & what of the white men who were willing to die for the end of an evil they themselves would never suffer? Aaron Stevens, a Mexican War veteran, veteran of Bleeding Kansas, & a Puritan- but 1 who would kill his evils. If a man of such faith could see the rectitude of the raid, surely Douglass could? Even Stewart Taylor- a man not of this country, but a Canadian- had seen the necessity. & if all that were not enough to sway Douglass surely the venture of his own & his son’s lives should sway him? But, where Garrison had bored through John Brown & vice-versa, & each seen & heard differing things, Douglass- a man of considerable intensity himself- met John Brown’s plans with a kind of gentle pat of parting on the back. He simply stated why he felt the raid would backfire, & endanger the very cause of Abolition. As they parted, John Brown knew that Douglass was wrong- on all but 1 account. The raid would never succeed militarily- but now John Brown knew it need not in order for success to come. John Brown knew that the blood of his brave band would shock the nation. John Brown listened well to Frederick Douglass’s objections, but took note that Douglass was a man who had made himself through the press- even down to his very name! He had an ability to persuade, that if lost in the raid, would be a far greater tragedy than his own life’s loss- he a debtor, rebel, & wanted killer. Douglass could succeed only by living. John Brown could succeed only by dying. As Douglass argued with the very eloquence of a Thoreau or Emerson John Brown realized that a man such as himself- a man of short commands & stout verbs- could yet use the press, himself, but not as Douglass had. This thought wound its way through his brain until it was time for him & the African orator to part. John Brown thanked Douglass for his words & support, but while not fully understanding his or Douglass’s own mutual reluctances toward the other’s views, accepted it. He bade Douglass God’s mighty hand & the 2 men parted. Although Douglass had given him the keys to a greater victory than any mortal battle could render, John Brown was still confused of the earthly methods. Surely, Douglass’s eyes, just before he rode away on his steed, were eyes of agreement & fire- but they were not of his flames. John Brown had been wrong. But in that wrongness was a more important right. He had seen such things in the eyes of another man of conscience- the Mennonite Implacable Menschenbaum’s. This was the man whose Adirondack homestead was the last outpost on the Underground Railroad before Canada, the man whose abode John Brown would later pattern his own North Elba Adirondack commune.
But as that last glint of light from this world blindered John Brown he wondered the gaze of that young man whose narrowed vision seemed to augur things that John Brown could never know. It was over. As the old murderer had paid for his pleasures the young man, the ‘officer’ walked slowly from the gallows. A part of him wanted to lance the still warm corpse with a bayonet- but he had none. In fact, the man in the officer’s uniform was not in the military at all- but a professional actor. He was merely playing a part- as he had done all his life. He had borrowed the uniform as a favor from a fan of his work, just as he had borrowed his ideas & morals. He told the fan that he was going to use it in a show, but instead snuck in that day just to see the hanging of the traitor. His name was also John- John Wilkes Booth. He had desired to follow in the footsteps of his father since before his memory was a thing. His father had come to America nearly 40 years before- from England- & made his name 1 of the greatest in the theater. Junius Brutus Booth played to packed auditoria & rapturous applause. As a child he & his brothers would learn Shakespeare & Marlowe by heart. Edwin never loved the stage, as much, but John-John (as John Wilkes Booth was called) & Junius, Jr. (always called Junior) did. They enacted plays that they wrote from the ages of 3 or 4, yet always seemed to fail in the estimation of their father- especially John-John.
Still, it was John Wilkes Booth, not his brothers, who determined to carry out his father’s legacy- & move beyond it. After a string of early failures, in which he was constantly dissuaded from the profession, he had made it big. John Wilkes Booth was, by the death of John Brown, 1 of the most recognized stage names in all of America. Still, there was something missing. Whereas John Brown had trouble discerning the sort of fire in each man’s eyes, John Wilkes Booth had a far greater trouble- he could not discern the human in another man’s gaze. His gaze had unwittingly reminded John Brown of that farmer’s gaze at the slave boy years earlier when the stew had not been good enough, although the pile up of last second thoughts in a dying man’s life had not allowed John Brown that satisfaction of knowing why he was drawn to & repulsed by the eyes of John Wilkes Booth. His resentments over his lack of immediate acceptance- either in to the acting world or his father’s own graces- had darkened his own gaze. John Wilkes Booth often let out his frustrations with trips to saloons & bordellos. Only wrapped within a woman’s fleshly heat did John Wilkes Booth sense that life may have something more in store for man- or a man such as himself. A few days earlier he had snuck in to the jail where John Brown was being held- his borrowed uniform had served him well. He stood outside the bars as the old prophet slept, cocked the gun he had stolen from a neighbor’s home & had a clear shot at the traitor. Then, something happened. The rage within seemed to simmer. Or perhaps it was a skein of logic? Why be charged with murder himself, when in a few days the state would do it for him? & why the rage against this man he never knew & a cause that was not his, anyway? The very asking of these questions saw the arousal of the night watchman, so John Wilkes Booth retreated to the shadows, made his way out back, tossed the gun in a pile of garbage, until this day. It was a time he had waited for his whole life it seemed. Still, the reason why eluded him. Why did he feel satisfaction whenever he saw a Negro whipped? Why did he laugh when he heard tales of Nat Turner, Amistad, & other failed slave attempts at freedom?
None of that seemed to matter, now- because the old man was dead, & with him the dreams of Negro liberty & equality. That night John Wilkes Booth got drunk & found himself the most expensive whore in Richmond, Virginia. When he woke the next morning he paid for his pleasures with a hangover & a burning soreness when he pissed. Embarrassed over his shameful debaucheries, & their resultant pains, John Wilkes Booth decided he would hide it all from his life & family. He would become an expert at hiding, & as his pains increased, & his mind grew ever unclear, he sought out many areas from which to hide himself. In the company of other men who harbored such reasonless angers he would find kinship. In a few years he would need to hide more of himself than any man in the nation. But, as an actor- a Star!- this would be an easy consumption.
The night he shot the President of the United States of America dead John Wilkes Booth hid in another pile of garbage not far from where he had tossed the stolen gun a few years earlier & wondered who would be looking up at him in those last moments when they placed a sack over his eyes. As he looked down, into the future, he saw 2 eyes burning up at him, as his did at the old Abolitionist’s eyes. They were intense & glowing, but their gazer was not human. Even though he was hobbled with a broken leg his instinct said kick- & he did. The rat went flying backwards, for over a century until it landed on top of a dead baby.
