A fanatic? Possibly. Who else but a just man could plan to overthrow the stable, conservative government of these United States with a mere handful of men? Glory to John Brown! Glory on high! I believe in the Golden Rule, sir, and the Declaration of Independence. I think they both mean the same thing. Better that a whole generation should pass off the face of the earth—men, women and children—by a violent death, than that one jot of either should fall in this country. (The words of John Brown in the year 1857.) Let us not forget that the number of Liberators who took possession of the town of Harper’s Ferry was only twenty-two, of whom seventeen were whites. A few men in the right, and knowing they are, can overturn a king, said John Brown. With twenty men in the Alleghenies he was certain he could smash Slavery in two years.
Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow. There you have John Brown in a nut-shell. A fanatic? More than likely. The sort who said: A man dies when his time comes, and a man who fears is born out of time. If he was indeed a fanatic, he was a unique one. Is this the language of a fanatic?—Do not allow anyone to say that I acted from revenge. I claim no man has a right to revenge himself. It is a feeling that does not enter into my heart. What I do, I do for the cause of human liberty, and because I regard it as necessary. Compromise was not in his nature. Nor palliation. He was a man of vision. And it was a great, great vision which inspired his mad behavior. Had John Brown taken over the helm the slaves would really be free today—not only the black slaves but the white slaves and the slaves of the slaves, which is to say, the slaves of the machine.
The ironic thing is that the great Liberator came to a disastrous end because of his overwhelming sense of consideration for the enemy. (That was where his real madness lay!) After forty days in chains, after a mock trial during which he lay on the floor of the court-room in his blood-soaked, sabre-torn clothes, he went to the gallows, with head erect, standing there on the trap blindfolded, waiting, waiting, (though his one and only request had been to get done with it quickly) while the gallant military men of Virginia performed their interminable and asinine parade manoeuvres.
To those who had written him towards the end, asking how they might aid him, John Brown had replied: Please send fifty cents a year to my wife in North Elba, New York. As he made his way to the gallows he shook hands in turn with each of his comrades, handing them each a quarter with his blessing. That’s how the great Liberator went to meet his Maker…
The gateway to the South is Harper’s Ferry. You enter the South by way of the Old Dominion. John Brown had entered the Old Dominion to pass into life eternal. I acknowledge no master in human form, he said. Glory! Glory be!
One of his contemporaries, almost as famous in his own way, said of John Brown: He could not have been tried by his peers, for his peers did not exist. Amen! Alleluia! And may his soul go marching on!
14
I’m now going to sing of The Seven Great Joys. This is the refrain:
Come all ye out of the wilderness
And glory be,
Father, Son and the Holy Ghost
Through all eternity.
We will sing it often as we writhe like snakes in the sultry bosom of the South…
Asheville. Thomas Wolfe, who was born here, was probably composing Look Homeward, Angel! at the time of our entry. I had not even heard of Thomas Wolfe. A pity, because I might have looked at Asheville with different eyes. No matter what anyone says of Asheville, the setting is magnificent. In the very heart of the Great Smokies. Ancient Cherokee land. To the Cherokees it must have been Paradise. It is still a Paradise, if you can view it with a clear conscience.
O’Mara was there to usher us into Heaven. But once again we were too late. Things had taken a bad turn. The real estate boom was over. There was no publicity job awaiting me. No job of any sort. To tell the truth, I felt relieved. Learning that O’Mara had put a little money aside, enough to tide us over a few weeks, I decided that it was as good a place as any to stay a while and write. The only drawback was Mona. The South was not to her liking. I had hopes however, that she would adjust herself. After all, she had rarely set foot outside New York.
According to O’Mara, there was a ranger’s cabin which we could make use of indefinitely, rent free, if we liked the place. An ideal spot, he thought, for me to write in. Only a short distance out of town it was, up in the hills. He seemed eager to see us move in immediately.
It was nightfall when we got to the foot of the hill, where we were to obtain the keys for the cabin. With the aid of an over-grown idiot we rode up on mule-back, in pitch darkness. Just Mona and myself, that is. As we slowly and laboriously ascended we listened to the roar of the mountain torrent rushing beside us. It was that dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of you. It took us almost an hour to get to the clearing where the cabin stood. Hardly had we dismounted when we were assailed by swarms of flies and mosquitoes. The idiot, a gangling, gawky lad who never opened his mouth, pushed the door in and hung the lantern on a cord dangling from a rafter. Obviously the place hadn’t been inhabited for years. It was not only filthy, it was infested with rats, spiders and all manner of vermin.
We stretched out on the two cots side by side; the idiot lay on the floor at our feet. I was aware of the unpleasant sound of bats swooping about over our heads. The flies and mosquitoes, disturbed by our intrusion, attacked us mercilessly.
Despite everything, however, we succeeded in falling asleep.
It seemed to me I had hardly closed my eyes when I felt Mona clutching my arm.
What is it? I muttered.
She leaned over and whispered in my ear.
Nonsense, I said, you were probably dreaming.
I tried to fall back to sleep. In an instant I felt her clutching me again.
It’s him, she whispered, I’m sure of it. He’s feeling my leg.
I got up, struck a match, and took a good look at the idiot. He was lying on his side, his eyes closed, still as a stick.
You’re imagining things, I said, he’s sound asleep.
Just the same I thought it better to be on the alert. A dumb gawk like that had the strength of a brute. I struck another match and took a quick look about to see what I might use as a weapon should he really get out of hand.
At daybreak we were all wide awake and scratching like mad. The heat was already stifling. We sent the boy to fetch a pail of water, dressed hurriedly, and decided without delay to clear out. While waiting for the goon to pack we inspected the spot more closely. The cabin was literally smothered by trees and brush. No view whatever. Just the sound of running water and the insane twittering of birds. I recalled O’Mara’s parting words when we started up the goat path—Just the place for you … an ideal retreat!
Descending, again on mule-back, we observed with a shudder what a narrow escape we had had. One little slip and we would have been done for. Before we had gone very far we dismounted and followed on foot. Even thus it was a ticklish feat to keep from slipping.
At the bottom we were presented to all the members of the family. There were over a dozen kids running about, most of them half-naked. We inquired if we might have breakfast with them. We were told to wait, they’d call us when ready. We sat down on the steps of the porch and waited glumly. By now—it was not yet seven—the heat was almost intolerable.
When they called us in we found the whole family congregated about the table. For a moment I could scarcely believe my eyes: all those black spots that peppered the food, were they really flies? At each end of the table stood two youngsters busily engaged in brushing away the flies with dirty towels. We sat down, all together, and the flies settled in our ears, eyes, nose, hair and teeth. We sat in silence for a moment while the venerable patriarch said grace.
The very first blessing that Mary had
Hit was the blessing of one,
To think her little Jesus
Was God’s only Son,
Was God’s only Son.
The repast was a bounteous one—grits, bacon and eggs, corn bread, coffee, ham, flapjacks, stewed pears. All for twenty-five cents per head. No extra charge for the flies.
O’Mara was a bit put out to see us back so quick. No guts, he said glumly.
Yon know I hate flies, was all I could say.
As luck would have it, we went to a restaurant that evening which had just opened. In West Asheville. The owner, Mr. Rawlins, had been
