James McBride - The Good Lord Bird

“There weren’t but two guards,” Oliver said. “We took them by surprise. We sprung the trap perfect.”

We brung the prisoners into the Engine Works Building, the entrance guarded by two of the Old Man’s soldiers, and when we walked in, the Captain was busy giving orders. When he turned and seen me walk in, I thought he’d be disappointed and angry that I disobeyed his orders. But he was used to crazy conglomerations and things going cockeyed. Instead of being angry, the expression on his face was one of joy. “I knowed it. The Lord of Hosts foresees our victory!” he declared. “Our war is won, for our good omen the Onion has returned! As the book of Isaiah says, ‘Woe to the wicked. And say ye to the righteous that it shall be well with him!’”

The men around him cheered and chuckled, except, I noted, O. P. Anderson and the Emperor. They was the only two colored in the room. They looked just plain fertilized, put out, right unnerved.

The Old Man clapped me on the back. “I see you is dressed for victory, Onion,” he said, for I still had my gunnysack with me. “You come well prepared. We is headed for the mountains shortly. Soon as the colored hives, we will be off. There is a lot of work yet ahead.” And with that he turned away and begun giving orders again, tellin’ someone to go get the three men at the farm to ready a nearby schoolhouse to gather in the colored. He was just plumb full of orders, tellin’ this one to go this way and the other one to go that way. There weren’t nothing for me to do, really, except to set tight. There was already several eight or nine prisoners in the room, and they looked downright glum. Some of them were still shaking the sleep out their eyes, for it was near two a.m. and they’d been woken in some form or fashion. To my recollection, of them that was in the room was a husband and wife seized when taking a shortcut home through the armory from the Gault tavern in town, two armory workers, two railroad workers, and a drunk who lay asleep on the floor most of the time, but woke up long enough to declare that he was the cook at the Gault House tavern.

The Old Man ignored them, course, marching past them, giving orders, just happy as you please. He was as peachy as I’d ever seen him, and for the first time in a long while, the wrinkles in his face creaked and twisted amongst themselves and wrapped around his nose like spaghetti, and the whole conglomeration broke open into a look of—how can I say it—downright satisfaction. He weren’t capable of a smile, not a true, wide-open, get-your-drawers-out-the-window smile, showing that row of them gigantic, corn-colored front chompers of his I seen from time to time when he chewed bear or pig guts. But he was one hundred percent stretched out in terms of overall satisfaction. He had accomplished something important. You could see it in his face. It hit me heavy then. He had actually done it. He had taken Harpers Ferry.

When I look back, it hadn’t taken him more than five hours to do the whole bit from soup to nuts. From the time they walked in there at nine o’clock until that moment the train arrived just after one a.m., was five hours total. It went off smooth as taffy till I got there. They cut the telegraph wires, overcome two old guards, walked past two saloons that was well lit full of Pro Slavers, and walked dead into the armory. That armory covered quite a bit of ground, a good ten acres, with several buildings that done various facets of the rifle-making business, barrels, muskets, ammo, hammers, and so forth. They broke open every building in the grounds that was locked and took ’em over. The main one was Hall’s Rifle Works. The Old Man stuck his best soldiers in there, Lieutenant Kagi and the colored man from Oberlin, John Copeland. A. D. Stevens, who was disagreeable but probably the best fighting soldier among his men, Brown kept with him.

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.”