The city of San Francisco had sprung up almost overnight. In 1835 a Captain Richardson had landed on the shore of Yerba Buena Cove, and built a hut of four redwood posts, covered by a sail. Five years afterward this village of Yerba Buena contained about fifty people and a dozen houses. In 1846 the American war-ship Portsmouth anchored there, and her captain raised the "Stars and Stripes" on the Plaza. At that time there were not more than fifty houses and two hundred people. When the town became American the Plaza was renamed Portsmouth Square, and a year later the settlement was christened San Francisco. That was in January, 1847; and by midsummer of 1849 the town had become a city. It was an odd place to look at. The houses were made of rough unpainted boards, with cotton nailed across the walls and ceiling in place of plaster; and many a thriving business was carried on in canvas tents. There were few homes. The city was crowded; but most of the population did not intend to stay. They came to buy what they needed, or sell what they brought with them, and then hasten away to the mines. So many eager strangers naturally drove the prices up enormously, especially when it seemed as though gold could be had for the taking. The restaurants charged three dollars for a cup of coffee, a slice of ham, and two eggs. Houses and lots sold for from ten thousand to seventy-five thousand dollars each, and everything else was in proportion. What happened in San Francisco also happened in many other California towns. Sacramento was the result of the gold-craze. Speculators bought large tracts of land in any attractive place, gave it a high-sounding name, and sold city lots. Many of these so-called cities, however, shriveled up within a year or two. The seaports flourished because they were the gateways through which the newcomers passed in their rush to locate in the gold country.
These seaports became the goal of merchants everywhere. Necessary articles were so scarce that they were shipped long distances. Flour was brought from Australia and Chili, rice and sugar from China, and the cities along the Atlantic provided the dry-goods, the tools, and the furniture. At one time a cotton shirt would sell for forty dollars, a tin pan for nine, and a candle for three. But on the other hand cargoes of goods that were not needed, silks and satins, costly house-furnishings, were left on the beaches and finally sold for a song.
From the seaports the new arrivals hurried either up the Sacramento and the Feather Rivers to the northern gold fields, or up the San Joaquin to the southern country. Usually they were guided by the latest story of a rich find, and went where the chances seemed best. Several men would join forces and pitch their tents together, naming their camp Rat-trap Slide, Rough and Ready Camp, Slap-jack Bar, Mad Mule Gulch, Git-up-and-Git, You Bet, or any other name that struck their fancy. There were no laws to govern these little settlements, and the men adopted a rough system of justice that suited themselves. But as the numbers increased it was evident that California must have a better form of government, and steps were taken to have that rich stretch of land along the Pacific admitted as a state to the United States.
In three years California had grown from the home of about two thousand people to the home of eighty thousand. The finding of gold had changed that almost unknown wilderness into a thriving land in the twinkling of an eye. Railroads were built to reach it, and more and more men poured west. Some men made great fortunes, but more in a few months abandoned their claims and drifted to the cities, or made their way slowly back to the eastern farms and villages from which they had set out. The Forty-niners, as the gold-seekers were called, found plenty of adventure in California, even if they did not all find a short-cut to wealth.
One of the beautiful names that the Japanese have given to their country is "Land of Great Peace," and at no time was this name more appropriate than in the middle of the nineteenth century. Two hundred years before the last of the civil wars of Japan had come to an end, and the people, weary of years of bloodshed, had turned delightedly to peaceful ways. The rice-fields were replanted, artisans returned to their crafts, shops opened again, and poets and painters followed the call of their arts. The samurai, or warriors, sheathed their swords, though they still regarded them as their very souls. They hung their armor in their ancestral halls, and spent their time in sport or idleness. The daimios, or nobles of Japan, lived either in the city of Yedo or at their country houses, taking their ease, and gradually forgetting the arts of war on which their power had been founded. All the people were quite contented, and had no desire to trade with the rest of the world. As a matter of fact they knew almost nothing about other countries, except through English or Russian sailors who occasionally landed on their coasts. Japan was satisfied to be a hermit nation.
On the afternoon of the seventh day of July, 1853, or the third day of the sixth month of Kayéi, in the reign of the Emperor Koméi, the farmers working in the muddy rice-fields near the village of Uraga saw a strange sight. It was a clear summer afternoon, and the beautiful mountain Fuji, its cone wreathed in white clouds, could be seen from sea and shore. What startled the men in the fields, the people in the village, and the boatmen in the harbor, was a fleet of vessels coming to anchor in the bay of Yedo. These monsters, with their sails furled, although they were heading against the wind, were shooting tongues of smoke from their great black throats. "See the fire-vessels!" cried the Japanese to each other. When the peasants asked the priests where the monsters came from the wise men answered that they were the fire-vessels of the barbarians who lived in the West.
The monsters were four ships of the United States navy, the Mississippi, Susquehanna, Plymouth, and Saratoga, all under command of Commodore Matthew Calbraith Perry. The fleet dropped anchor in the wide bay, forming a line broadside to the shore. The gun-ports were opened, and sentries set to guard against attack by pirates, or by fire-junks. As the anchors splashed in the water rockets shot up from one of the forts on shore signaling to the court at Yedo that the barbarians had reached Japan.
The town of Uraga was usually not a very busy place, and the government officers spent their time drinking tea, smoking, and lounging in the sun, and occasionally collecting custom duties from junks bound to other harbors. But there was a great bustle on the day the strange ships arrived. The chief magistrate, or buniō, his interpreter, and suite of attendants, put on their formal dress of hempen cloth, and fastened their lacquered ornamented hats to their heads; with two swords in each belt, the party marched to the shore and boarded their state barge. Twelve oarsmen rowed it to the nearest foreign ship, but when they tried to fasten ropes to the vessel so that they might go on board, the barbarians threw off the ropes, and gestured to them to keep away.
The Japanese officer was surprised to find that, although he was gorgeously robed, and his companions carried spears and the Tokugawa trefoil flag, the barbarians were not at all impressed. They told him, through an interpreter, that their commander wished to confer with the governor himself. The officer answered that the governor was not allowed to board foreign ships. After some further discussion the surprised Japanese was permitted to climb the gangway ladder and meet the barbarians on the deck of their vessel.
Commodore Perry knew that the Japanese loved mystery, high-sounding names, and ceremonies, and so he stayed in his cabin and would not show himself to the visitors. A secretary carried his messages, and explained that the mysterious commodore had come on a friendly mission and bore a letter from the President of the United States to the Emperor of Japan, which he wished to present with all proper ceremony. He declined to go to Nagasaki, and insisted that he should remain in Yedo Bay, and added that although his visit was entirely friendly, he would not allow any inquisitive sightseers to prowl about his fleet. Very much impressed with the power of this hidden barbarian, the Japanese officer immediately ordered all the small boats, the punts and sampans that had gathered about the fleet, to row away.
The officer and his body-guard returned to shore, and told the villagers that the visitors were very remarkable men, who were not at all impressed by their costumes or weapons. The Japanese had no such title as commodore in their language, and they referred to Perry as Admiral, and credited him with almost as much majesty as their own hidden Mikado, or as the mighty Shogun.
The western coast of Japan was much excited that night. Rockets from the forts, and huge watch-fires on the cliffs, told the whole country that a most unusual event had happened. The peasants set out their sacred images, and prayed to them as they had not done in years. It was evident that the gods of Japan were punishing the people for their neglect by sending these great fire-vessels to disturb the coast. To add to the general excitement a wonderful light appeared in the sky about midnight, spreading a pale red and blue path across the heavens, as though a dragon were flying through space. Priests and soothsayers made the most of this display of Northern Lights, and pointed out that the fire-vessels, clearly revealed in the harbor, must have something to do with the strange omen.
The governor of Uraga himself, with a retinue of servants, all clad in embroidered gowns and lacquered helmets, and each carrying two swords, went out to the flag-ship next morning. He had evidently overlooked the fact that the barbarians had been told on the day before that the governor could not pay such a visit to their fleet. The governor was used to being received with a great deal of attention, and to having people bow to the ground as he went by; but on the deck of the Susquehanna the sailors looked at him with simple curiosity, and when he asked to speak with the mysterious admiral, he was told that he would only be allowed to speak with the captains. These men said that their commander would only wait three days for an answer from Yedo as to whether the Mikado would receive the letter of the President. They showed him the magnificent box that held the letter, and the governor's curiosity grew even greater. When he left the flag-ship he had promised to urge the Americans' cause.
Next day, the men dressed in silk and brocade, painted helmets, and gleaming sashes, eager to visit the ships again, were surprised to learn that the barbarian prince would transact no business. His interpreter declared that it was a day of religious observance, known as Sunday. The people on shore heard the sailors of the fleet singing hymns, a strange sound in those waters. Hastily the Japanese offered new presents at the shrines of their own gods to ensure protection from the barbarians. 8 By now the hermit people thought they might have to guard themselves, and began to build earthworks along the shore. Farmers, fishermen, shopkeepers, women, and children were pressed into service. Rude embankments were thrown up, and enormously heavy brass cannon were placed at openings. The old samurai, who had almost forgotten warfare, sought out their weapons, and gathered their troops. Their armor consisted of jackets of silk, iron and paper. Their arms were old matchlocks and spears. They could have fought each other, but they were several hundred years behind the barbarians in military matters. On the hills they set up canvas tents, with flags bearing flaming dragons and the other emblems of their clans. In the days of their civil wars bright-colored trappings had played an important part.
Yedo was then the chief city of Japan. When Perry arrived in 1853 it was the home of the Shogun Iyéyoshi, who was the real ruler of the land, although the Mikado was called the sovereign. Yedo had been the home of a long line of Shoguns of the Tokugawa family who had ruled the country, calling themselves "Tycoons." They had built up the city, and filled it with palaces and temples that had never been equaled in magnificence. The people of Yedo, numbering over a million, were greatly excited when they heard of the fleet of war-ships lying in their great bay. The Shogun, his courtiers and his warriors bestirred themselves at once. Soldiers were summoned, armor polished, swords unsheathed, castles repaired, and everything possible done to make an impression on the strangers.
The chief men knew that they could not oppose this foreign admiral. Once they had had war-vessels of their own, but years of peace had reduced their navy, and they could not defend their coasts. The Shogun was afraid that the admiral might insist upon seeing the Mikado at Kiōto, and that would be a great blow to his own dignity. After hours of debate and discussion he chose two daimios to receive the letter of the American President, Millard Fillmore, and sent word to all coast towns to man their forts.
Perry had played the game well, and so far had allowed no Japanese to see him. He wanted to make a treaty with Japan, and he knew that to succeed he must impress this Oriental people with his dignity. He allowed his captains and two daimios to arrange a meeting to be held at a little town called Kurihâma, near the port of Uraga. Each side had tried to outdo the other in politeness. The American captains had received the Japanese officers with great respect, had served them wines, and seated them in upholstered armchairs. The Japanese regretted that they could not provide their guests with armchairs or with wine on shore, but the visitors assured them that they would be willing to adopt Japanese customs.
By July 13th the scene for the meeting was ready. Hundreds of yards of canvas, with the Tokugawa trefoil, had been stretched along the road to Kurihâma. Hundreds of retainers, clad in all the colors of their feudal days, were gathered about the tents, and on the beach stood as many soldiers, glittering in their lacquered armor. The American officers were almost as brilliantly dressed as the Japanese. They wore coats with a great many bright brass buttons, and curious shaped hats cocked on their heads. They brought musicians with them who played on cornets and drums, and the music was quite unlike anything the natives had ever heard before. Three hundred of the barbarians landed and marched from the beach to the main tent, while the eager-eyed people lined the road and wondered at their strange appearance.
Two or three big sailors carried the American flag, and back of them came two boys with the mysterious red box that had been shown to the officers of the port. Back of them marched the great commodore, clad in full uniform, and on either side of him strode a black man armed with a large sabre. Many of the Japanese had never seen a white man before, and still fewer had ever looked upon a negro. They were therefore very much impressed by the procession.
The officers of the Shogun received their magnificent visitor at the door of the pavilion. After greetings the two boys handed the box to the negro guards, who opened the scarlet cloth envelope and the gold-hinged rosewood cases, and laid the President's letter on a lacquered stand brought from Yedo. A receipt for the President's letter was then handed to the commodore, who said that he would return to Japan the next spring, probably in April or May. The meeting lasted half an hour, and then, with the same pomp and ceremony, the Americans returned to their ships.
For eight days the fleet remained in the bay. One party of sailors landed, but made no trouble, and was actually so polite that the people offered them refreshments of tea and fruit. At close range the barbarians were not so terrifying as the natives had thought them at first, and when they embarked for their fleet the people urged them to come back again. On July 17th the war-ships steamed away, leaving the cliffs covered with people, who gazed in astonishment at vessels that had no canvas spread, but were driven entirely by fire.
Perry's object in visiting Japan was to obtain a treaty that would allow trade relations between the United States and this hermit nation. He wanted to give the Japanese people time to consider President Fillmore's letter, and so he planned to keep his squadron in Eastern waters until the following spring, when he would return to learn the result of his mission at Yedo. There was much of interest to him in China, and he spent the autumn and part of the winter making charts of that coast, and visiting ports where American merchants were already established.
Meantime the letter of the American President had caused great excitement in Japan. Almost as soon as Perry left a messenger was sent to the Shinto priests at the shrines of Isé to offer prayers for the peace of the empire, and to urge that the barbarians be swept away. A week later the Shogun Iyéyoshi died, and left the government at odds as to what to do.
Some of the daimios remembered the military ardor of their ancestors, and wanted to fight the barbarians, rather than make a treaty with them. Others thought that it would be madness to oppose an enemy who had such powerful ships that they could capture all the Japanese junks, and destroy the coast cities. One powerful nobleman declared that it would be well for Japan to meet the barbarians, and learn from them how to build ships and lead armies, so that they would be able in time to defeat them at their own arts. The Mikado had little to do in the discussion. The actual ruler was the new Shogun Iyésada, son of the former Shogun.
While Commodore Perry was cruising along the coast of China he heard that French and Russian merchants were planning to visit Japan. He was afraid that his country might lose the benefits of his visit unless he could obtain a treaty before these other countries did. Therefore, although a midwinter cruise to Japan was difficult and dangerous, he determined to risk this and return at once. Four ships set sail for Yedo Bay February 1, 1854, and a week later the commodore followed with three others.
In the city of Yedo the new Shogun was very busy preparing either for peace or war. A long line of forts was hurriedly built on the edge of the bay in front of the city. Thousands of laborers were kept at work there, a great number of cannon were cast, and shops worked day and night turning out guns and ammunition. An old law had directed that all vessels of a certain size were to be burned, and only small coasting junks built. This law was repealed, and all the rich daimios hurriedly built war-ships. These ships flew a flag representing a red sun on a white background, and this later became the national flag of Japan. A native who had learned artillery from the Dutch was put in charge of the soldiers; old mediæval methods of fighting were abandoned, and artillery that was somewhat like that of European countries was adopted.
In spite of all this bustle and preparation, however, the Shogun and his advisers thought it would be wisest for them to agree to a treaty with the United States. Therefore a notice was issued on December 2, 1853, which stated that "owing to want of military efficiency, the Americans would, on their return, be dealt with peaceably." At the same time the old practice of Fumi-yé, which consisted in trampling on the cross and other emblems of Christianity, and which had been long practiced in the city of Nagasaki, was abolished.
Some men in the country were insisting that the time had come for the Japanese to visit the West, and learn the new arts and trades. One of these was a scholar, Sakuma, who urged the government to send Japanese youths to Europe to learn shipbuilding and navigation. The Shogun did not approve of this idea; but a pupil of the scholar, named Yoshida Shoin, heard of it, and decided to go abroad by himself. Sakuma gave him money for his expenses, and advised him how he might get passage on one of the American ships, when the fleet should return to Japan.
As soon as the Shogun learned that Commodore Perry was about to return he chose Hayâshi, the chief professor of Chinese in the university, to serve as interpreter. The Americans had used Chinese scholars in their communications with the Japanese, and Hayâshi was a man of great learning and courtly manners. The Shogun also found a native who understood English, although the Americans did not know this. This man, Nakahama Manjiro, with two companions, had been picked up at sea by an American captain, and taken to the United States, where he obtained a good education. He and his two mates then decided that they would return to their native land, and went to Hawaii, where they built a whale-boat, and then sailed for the coast of China on board an American merchantman. In time the wanderers reached home, and when the Shogun heard of Manjiro's travels he made him a samurai, or wearer of two swords. The whale-boat that he had built was used as a model for others, and the traveler taught his friends some of the knowledge of the Western people.
On February 11, 1854, the watchmen on the hills of Idzu saw the American fleet approaching. Two days later the great war-ships of the barbarians steamed up the bay. The seven vessels dropped anchor not far from Yokosŭka, and the captain of the flag-ship received visits from the governor and his interpreters. Again the same exaggerated forms of politeness were observed, and presents of many kinds, fruits, wines, and confectionery, were exchanged. The Japanese suggested that Perry should land and meet them at Kamakura or Uraga, but the commodore replied, through his captain, that he should stay where he was until the Japanese had decided what they would do. He gave them until February 21st to decide about the treaty.
Boats were sent out from the fleet daily to make surveys of the bay, but none of the crews were allowed to land. At length the Japanese stated that they were ready to treat with the American officers, and Captain Adams was sent to Uraga to inspect the place where the fleet was to anchor, and the new building in which the treaty was to be signed. The captain, with his aides, entered the hall of reception, and was met by a daimio named Izawa. The daimio was fond of joking. After many polite greetings Captain Adams handed the nobleman a note from Commodore Perry. Izawa took out his great spectacles, but before he put them on he folded up his large fan with a loud snap. The Americans, alarmed at the noise, clapped their hands to their revolvers. Izawa could not help laughing at their confusion, but quickly adjusted his spectacles, and after reading the note, said that he was much gratified at the commodore's greeting. Rice and tea, cake and oranges were served the guests. A long argument followed. Captain Adams said that the building was large enough for simple talking, but not for the display of presents; and that Commodore Perry would much rather go to the city of Yedo. The Japanese answered that they much preferred that the meeting should take place at Uraga or Kanagawa. The debate, carried on through Chinese interpreters, was a lengthy one.
Two days later the commodore moved his fleet ten miles farther up the bay. From here his crews could see the great temple-roofs, castles, and pagodas of Yedo itself, and could hear the bells in the city towers. This advance of the fleet convinced the Shogun that Perry meant to go to Yedo. Some of his court had thought that it would be a national disgrace if the barbarians were permitted to enter that city, but the government now decided to yield the point, and suggested a place directly opposite, at Yokohama, for the place of treaty.
No such scene had ever been witnessed in the hermit land of Japan as the one that took place there on the morning of March 8, 1854. The bay of Yedo was covered with great state barges and junks with many-colored sails. On shore were hundreds of soldiers, the servants of the great daimios, dressed in the gorgeous costumes of earlier centuries. Held back by ropes were thousands of country people who had gathered from all over that part of Japan to see the strange men from the West. Everywhere was color. Tents, banners, houses, and the costumes of men, women and children blazed with it. The American sailors in all their voyages in the East had never seen such a brilliant picture.
Perry was not to be outdone. His men left the ships to the noise of cannon that echoed and re-echoed along the shore. Twenty-seven boats brought five hundred men, and as soon as they landed the marines formed a hollow square, while three bands played martial music. The great commodore, now looked upon by the Japanese with awe, embarked from the Powhatan in his white gig; more guns were fired; more flags waved; and with great pomp, Perry landed on the beach. His object was to impress the hermit people with the dignity of his nation.
A number of meetings followed before the treaty was completed. The Americans insisted that vessels in need of wood, coal, water, or provisions should be allowed to get them from shore, and that the Japanese should care for shipwrecked sailors. They also wanted the two ports, Shimoda and Hakodate, opened to them. The Japanese were willing, provided they would not travel inland farther than they could return the same day, and that no American women should be brought into the country. But when the Japanese objected to the arrival of women, Commodore Perry threw back his cloak and exclaimed, "Great heavens, if I were to permit any such stipulation as that in the treaty, when I got home the women would pull out all the hairs of my head!" The Japanese were surprised at Perry's excitement, thinking that they must have offended him greatly. When the interpreters explained what he had actually said, however, both sides laughed and continued peacefully. They grew more and more friendly as the meetings progressed. They dined together and exchanged gifts. The Americans liked the sugared fruits, candied nuts, crabs, prawns, and fish that the Japanese served in different forms, while the hermit people developed a great fondness for the puddings and champagne the Americans offered them. When it came to gifts, the eyes of the Japanese opened wide at the many surprising things the barbarians had invented. They were delighted with the rifles, the clocks, the stoves, the sewing-machines, the model of a steam locomotive, and the agricultural tools, scales, maps, and charts that Perry had brought to the Mikado. These presents were to open the minds of the Japanese to the march of progress in the rest of the world; and to teach them the uses of steam and electricity, the printing-press, newspapers, and all the other inventions that were products of Europe and America.
In exchange, the art-loving people of Japan gave their visitors beautiful works in bronze, lacquer, porcelain, bamboo, ivory, silk, and paper, and great swords, spears and shields, wonderfully inlaid and decorated, that were handed down from their feudal days.
While the fleet stayed Japanese spy-boats kept watch in the bay, to see that their young men did not board the foreign ships in their desire to see something of the world. Time and again the young Yoshida Shoin and a friend tried to break through the blockade, but every time they were sent back to shore. At last the two left Yedo for the port of Shimoda.
The Americans set up telegraph poles, and laid rails to show the working of the model locomotive. They gave an exhibition of the steam-engine. This caused great excitement in the country near Yedo, and every one who could went to see the strange performance. Already there was a struggle between those who were eager to learn the inventions of the Americans, and those who were afraid that the new ideas would spoil old Japan. Many an ambitious youth stared at the Mikado's presents, and tried to learn more of their secrets from the sailors on their way to or from the fleet.
The treaty was signed on March 31, 1854, and agreed that shipwrecked sailors should be cared for, provisions needed by ships should be obtained in the ports, and American vessels allowed to anchor in the two harbors of Shimoda and Hakodate. Actual trade was not yet allowed, nor were Americans to be permitted to reside in Japan. The hermit nation was not at all eager to enter into competition with other countries, nor to allow foreigners to trade with her. Commodore Perry knew, however, that even the slight terms he had gained would prove the beginning of the opening up of Japan to the rest of the world.
April 18, 1854, Perry left the bay of Yedo for Shimoda, and there the fleet stayed until early in May. While the squadron was there two Americans, who were botanizing on land, met the youth Yoshida Shoin and his friend. The young Japanese gave the Americans a letter, but seeing some native officers approaching, he and his friend stole away. A few nights later the watch on the war-ship Mississippi heard voices calling, "Americans, Americans!" They found the two Japanese youths in a small boat, and took them on board. Paper and writing materials were found hidden in their clothes, and they explained that they wanted to go with the fleet to America, and write down what they saw there. The commodore, however, felt that he was in honor bound to send the two young men back to their homes; and did so. Yoshida later came to be one of the leaders of the new Japan that ended the long line of Shogun rulers, and made the Mikado the actual emperor.
The fleet cruised from one port to another, now well received by the people, who had forgotten their fear of the barbarians' fire-vessels. The governors of the different provinces gave presents to Perry, among them blocks of native stone to be used in building the great obelisk that was rising on the banks of the Potomac River in memory of Washington. On July 17th the last of the squadron left Napa for Hong Kong.
The Americans had shown the Japanese that they were a friendly people, with no desire to harm them. A race that had lived shut off from the rest of the world for so many centuries was naturally timid and fearful of strange people. From time to time European ships had landed in Japan, and almost every time the sailors had done injury to the natives. Perry, however, convinced them that the United States was a friend, and the treaty, slight though its terms were, marked the dawn of a new era in Japan. Like the sleeping princess, she woke at the touch of a stranger from overseas.
Off the far northwestern corner of the United States lie a number of small islands scattered along the strait that separates the state of Washington from Vancouver Island. One of these goes by the name of San Juan Island, a green bit of land some fifteen miles long and seven wide. The northern end rises into hills, while the southern part is covered with rich pastures. In the hills are coal and limestone, and along the shore is splendid cod, halibut, and salmon fishing. In the year 1859 a farmer named Hubbs pastured his sheep at the southern end of San Juan, and had for a neighbor to the north a man in the employ of the English Hudson's Bay Company, whose business it was to raise pigs. The pigs throve on San Juan, and following their fondness for adventure left Mr. Griffiths' farm and overran the whole island. Day after day Hubbs would find the pigs grubbing in his pasture, and finally in a moment of anger he warned his neighbor that he would kill the next pig that came on his land. Griffiths heard the warning, but evidently the pigs did not, for the very next day one of them crossed the boundary line and ventured into Mr. Hubbs' field. Here it began to enjoy itself in a small vegetable patch that Mr. Hubbs had planted. As soon as he saw the trespasser Hubbs went for his gun, and returning with it, shot the intruding pig.
When Griffiths found his dead pig he was as angry as Hubbs had been, and he immediately set out in his sailboat and crossed the strait to Victoria, a little city on Vancouver Island, where officers of the British Government had their headquarters. He stated his case, and obtained a warrant of arrest for his neighbor Hubbs. Then he sailed back to San Juan with the constable, and going to his neighbor's house read the warrant to him. Hubbs indignantly replied that he was an American citizen, and did not have to obey the order of the English officer. Thereupon the constable left the house, vowing that he would return with a force of men and compel the farmer to obey him.
Mr. Hubbs was a shrewd man, and believed that the constable would be as good as his word. As soon as he had left Hubbs therefore sent a note to Port Townsend, which was in Washington Territory, asking the United States officers there to protect him from arrest for killing his neighbor's pig. When he received the note General William S. Harney, who was in command, ordered Lieutenant-Colonel Casey to take a company of soldiers and camp on San Juan Island to protect Mr. Hubbs.
Now that thoughtless pig had actually lighted a fuse that threatened to lead to a very serious explosion. As it happened San Juan lay near the middle of the Strait of Juan de Fuca and commanded both shores. The people at Victoria could see the American soldiers setting out in their boats from Port Townsend, and landing on the green island. So long as it had been the home of a few farmers San Juan had caused little concern, but now that troops were camping upon it it presented quite a different look. Victoria was all excitement. The governor, Sir James Douglas, heard the news first, and then Admiral Prevost, who was in command of some English war-ships anchored in the little bay near the city. The admiral was very angry and threatened to blow the Yankees off the island. He gave orders to move his fleet to one of the harbors of San Juan, and his cannon were ready to fire shot over the peaceful fields, where sheep and pigs had divided possession. Sir James Douglas, the governor, however, was a more peaceful man. He persuaded the admiral not to be in a hurry, but suggested that it would be wise to have a company of British regulars camp somewhere on San Juan. This would serve as a warning to the United States troops. Accordingly Captain Delacombe was sent over, and pitched his tents on the northern end of the island that belonged to the Hudson's Bay Company.
As a result of the pig having trespassed in Mr. Hubbs' vegetable patch, the flag of the United States flew above the tents on the southern part of San Juan, and the British flag over the tents on the northern end. Mr. Hubbs was left in peace, and Mr. Griffiths went on raising pigs; but the people in Victoria shook their fists across the strait at the people in Port Townsend, and in each of those cities there was a great deal of talk about war. The talk was mostly done by men who had nothing to do with the army. The soldiers on the little island soon became the best of friends, and spent their time in field sports and giving dinner-parties to each other.
No part of the boundary line of the United States has given more trouble than that in the northwest. The Hudson's Bay Company had once claimed practically all of what was known as Oregon Territory for England, but after Marcus Whitman brought his pioneers westward the Hudson's Bay Company gradually withdrew, and left the southern part of that land to the United States. For forty years the two countries had disputed about the line of division, and the political party that was led by Stephen A. Douglas had taken as its watchword, "Fifty-four, forty,—or fight!" which meant that unless the United States should get all the land up to the southern line of Alaska, they would go to war with England. Fortunately President Polk was not so grasping, and the boundary was finally settled in 1846 on latitude forty-nine degrees. That was a clear enough boundary for most of the northwest country, but when one came close to the Pacific the coast grew ragged, and was dotted with little islands. Vancouver was by the treaty to belong to England, and the agreement said that the boundary at this corner should be "the middle of the channel." Now it happened that San Juan and its small neighbors lay midway between the two shores, and the treaty failed to say which channel was meant, the one on the American or the one on the British side of San Juan.
As a matter of fact this question of the channel was very important for the British. It would lead them to the coast of Canada, or the United States to Alaska. The one to the west, called the Canal de Haro, was much straighter than the other, and deep enough for the largest war-ships. Naturally the United States wanted the boundary to run through this channel, and the British equally naturally wanted the boundary to run through the opposite channel, called Rosario Strait, because midway between lay the little island, which would make a splendid fortress, and might prevent the passage of ships in case of war between the two nations. So long as the islands were simply pasture lands the question of ownership was only a matter for debate, but when the pig was killed, and the troops of both countries camped on San Juan the question became a much more vital one.
News of what had happened on San Juan was sent to Washington and to London; and General Winfield Scott hurried by way of Panama to Mr. Hubbs' farm. He found that all the United States troops on that part of the coast that could be spared had been crowded on to the southern part of the island. This seemed unnecessary, and General Scott agreed with Sir James Douglas that only one company of United States and one of British soldiers should stay in camp there. The little island thus became the scene of what was known as "a joint military occupation." In the meantime there were many lengthy meetings at Washington and London, and the two countries decided that they would leave the difficult question of the boundary line to arbitration. So the statesmen at Washington drew up papers to prove that the right line lay in the middle of the Canal de Haro, and statesmen at London drew up other papers to show that the correct line was through the middle of Rosario Strait, which would give them San Juan and allow their ships to sail in perfect safety between the islands and the Vancouver shore. The statesmen and lawyers took their time about this, while the soldiers amused themselves fishing for cod and salmon, and the farmers cared for their sheep and pigs as peacefully as in the days before Hubbs had shot Griffiths' pig.
After some time the two nations decided to ask the Emperor of Germany to decide the question of the boundary line. The Emperor appointed three learned men to determine the question for him. They listened to the arguments of both sides, and after much study made their report to the Emperor, who gave his decision on October 23, 1872, and handed a copy of it to Mr. Bancroft for the United States, and to Lord Odo Russell for England. His decision was that the claim of the United States was correct, and that the middle of the Canal de Haro should be the boundary of that northwestern corner. This gave San Juan to the United States, much to the disappointment of the people of Vancouver Island, who knew that a fort on that little strip of land could control all navigation through the Strait of Juan de Fuca. One month after the decision was given the British troops cut down their flagstaff on the northern end and left San Juan.
San Juan lies opposite the city of Victoria, which has grown to be one of the largest ports of British Columbia. Instead of lessening in importance the island has grown in value, because that part of the country has filled up rapidly, and both sides of the line are more and more prosperous. The question of who should own San Juan would have been decided some day, but it was that prowling pig that brought matters to a head, and for a few weeks at least threatened to draw two countries into war. On such slight happenings (although in this case it was a very serious matter for the pig) often hang the fates of nations if we trace history back to the spark that fired the fuse.
In the days when Kansas was the battle-ground between those men who upheld negro slavery, and those who attacked it, a man named John Brown went from the east to that territory. Several of his sons had already gone into Kansas, and had sent him glowing accounts of it. Many New England families were moving west by 1855, and building homes for themselves on the splendid rolling prairies across the Mississippi. John Brown, however, went with another purpose. The years had built up in him such a hatred for negro slavery that it filled his whole thoughts. Kansas was the field where slave-owners and abolitionists, or those who opposed slavery, were to fight for the balance of power. Therefore he went to Kansas and made his home in the lowlands along the eastern border, near a region that the Indians had named the Swamp of the Swan.
There were a great many men in Kansas at that time who had no real convictions in regard to slavery, and to whom the question was one of politics, and not of religion, as it was to John Brown. Those were days of warfare on the border, and men from the south and the north were constantly clashing, fighting for the upper hand in the government, and taking every possible advantage of each other. Five of John Brown's sons had already settled in Kansas when he came there with a sick son and a son-in-law. Early in October, 1855, they reached the home of the pioneers. They found the houses very primitive, small log shanties, the walls plastered with mud. The father joined his boys in getting in their hay, and set traps in the woods to secure game for food. But trouble was brewing in the town of Lawrence, which was the leading city of Kansas. Word come to the Swamp of the Swan that men who favored slavery were marching on the town, intending to drive out the free-state Northerners there. This was a direct call to John Brown to take the field. His family set to work preparing corn bread and meat, blankets and cooking utensils, running bullets, and loading guns. Then five of the men set out for Lawrence, which was reached at the end of a twenty-four hours' march.
The town of Lawrence, a collection of many rude log houses, was filled with crowds of excited men and women. John Brown, looking like a patriarch with his long hair and beard, arrived at sundown, accompanied by his stalwart sons armed with guns and pistols. He was at once put in charge of a company, and set to work fortifying the town with earthworks, and preparing for a battle. In a day or two, however, an agreement was reached between the free-state and the slave-state parties, and immediate danger of warfare disappeared. Satisfied with this outcome, Brown and his sons took to the road again, and marched back to their home. There they stayed during the next winter. In the cold of the long ice-bound months, the passions of men lay dormant. But with the coming of spring the old feud smouldered afresh.
Bands of armed men from the South arrived in Kansas, and one from Georgia came to camp near the Brown settlement on the Swamp of the Swan. On a May morning John Brown and four of his sons walked over to the new camp to learn the Georgians' plans. He had some surveying instruments with him, and the newcomers took him for a government surveyor and therefore a slave man, for almost every official that was sent into Kansas held the Southern views. Pretending to be a surveyor, the father directed his sons to busy themselves in making a section line through the camp. The men from Georgia looked on, talking freely. Presently one of them said: "We've come here to stay. We won't make no war on them as minds their own business; but all the Abolitionists, such as them Browns over there, we're going to whip, drive out, or kill,—any way to get shut of them!" The strangers went on to name other settlers they meant to drive out, not suspecting who their listeners were, and John Brown wrote every word down in his surveyor's book. A few days later the Georgians moved their camp nearer to the Brown settlement, and began to steal horses and cattle belonging to the free-state men. Brown took his list, and went to see the men whose names were on it. They held a meeting, and decided that it was time to teach the "border ruffians," as such men as the Georgians were called, a lesson. News of the meeting spread rapidly, and soon it was generally known that the free-state men about Osawatomie, which was the name of the town near which the Browns lived, were prepared to take the war-path.
The old bitter feelings flamed up again in May of 1856. On the twenty-first of the month, a band of slavery men swept down on the town of Lawrence, and while the free-state citizens looked on, sacked and burned the place. John Brown and his sons hurried there, but when they reached Lawrence the houses were in ashes. He denounced the free-state men as cowards, for to his ardent nature it seemed an outrage that men should let themselves be treated so by ruffians. When a discreet citizen said that they must act with caution John Brown burst out at him: "Caution, caution, sir! I am eternally tired of hearing that word caution—it is nothing but the word for cowardice!" There was nothing for him to do, however, and he was about to turn toward home when a boy came dashing up. He reported that the ruffians in the Swamp of the Swan had warned all the women in the Brown settlement that they must leave Kansas by Saturday or Sunday, or they would be driven out. The women had been frightened, and taking their children, had fled in an ox-cart to the house of a relative at a distance. The boy added that two houses and a store near the settlement had been burned.
Those were dark days on the border, days that hardened men's natures. Such a man as John Brown felt that it was his duty to stamp out the pest of slavery at any cost. He turned to his sons and to some German friends whose homes had been burned. "I will attend to those fellows," said he. "Something must be done to show these barbarians that we too have rights!" A neighbor offered to carry the little band of men in his wagon. They looked to their guns and cutlasses. Peace-loving people in Lawrence grew uneasy. Judging from Brown's expression, they feared that he was going to sow further trouble.
Eight men drove back to the Browns' settlement, and found that the messenger's story was correct. They called a meeting of those who were to be driven out of Kansas, according to the ruffians' threats. At the meeting they decided to rid the country of the outlaws, who had only come west to plunder, and some of whom had been employed in chasing runaway slaves who had escaped from their masters. Their plans made, Brown's band rode to a little saloon on the Pottawatomie Creek where the raiders made their headquarters. Within an hour's walk were the men's cabins. Members of Brown's band stopped at the door of each cabin that night, and asked for the men they wanted. If the inmates hesitated to open the door it was broken open. Two of the men on their list could not be found, but five were led out into the woods and killed. It was a horrible deed, barbarous even in those days of bloodshed. But Brown's men felt that they were forced to do it.
John Brown thought that this one desperate act might set Kansas free; but it only marked the beginning of a long and bloody drama. As soon as the facts were known he and his sons became outlaws with prices on their heads. Even his neighbors at Osawatomie were horrified at his act. Two of his sons who had not been with him were arrested, and the little settlement became a center of suspicion. The father withdrew to the woods, and there about thirty-five men gathered about him. They lived the life of outlaws, and neither slave-state nor free-state officers dared to try to capture them. By chance a reporter of the New York Tribune came on their camp. He wrote: "I shall not soon forget the scene that here opened to my view. Near the edge of the creek a dozen horses were tied, all ready saddled for a ride for life, or a hunt after Southern invaders. A dozen rifles and sabres were stacked against the trees. In an open space, amid the shady and lofty woods, there was a great blazing fire with a pot on it; a woman, bareheaded, with an honest sunburnt face, was picking blackberries from the bushes; three or four armed men were lying on red and blue blankets on the grass; and two fine-looking youths were standing, leaning on their arms, on guard near by.... Old Brown himself stood near the fire, with his shirt sleeves rolled up, and a large piece of pork in his hand. He was cooking a pig. He was poorly clad, and his toes protruded from his boots. The old man received me with great cordiality, and the little band gathered about me."
This band, living in forest and swamp, was always ready to strike a blow for the free-state cause. The slavery men were getting the upper hand, and Northern families who had settled in Kansas began to look to John Brown for protection. The "border ruffians" grew worse and worse, attacking small defenseless settlements, burning homes and carrying off cattle. Sometimes it was only the fear of retaliation from Brown's company that kept the raiders from still greater crimes. Occasionally they met; once they fought a battle at Black Jack, and twenty-four of the enemy finally surrendered to nine of Brown's men. One of the leader's sons was badly wounded, and the father had to nurse him in the woods.
Affairs grew worse during the summer. The vilest scum of the slave states poured into Kansas, and the scenes on the border grew more and more disgraceful. There were pitched battles, and at last the governor of the territory, thoroughly scared, surrendered his power into the hands of the slave-holders, and fled for his life. The slave-state men thought that the time had come to strike a blow that should settle the question in Kansas permanently. They prepared to gather an army in Missouri, intending to cross into Kansas, and so terrify settlers from the North that they would make no further resistance. Conditions looked desperate to John Brown, and he left the territory for a short time to see what he could do to get help for his cause.
A large band of emigrants from the North were on the march toward Kansas, and Brown rode to meet them. The emigrants had heard of him, and welcomed him to their midst. He encouraged them and urged them to fight for freedom, and went on his way hoping to rouse more free-state men to enter Kansas.
The East was now thoroughly awake to the lawless situation on the border, and a new governor, Geary by name, was sent out from Washington. Meetings were held in the large cities, and money, arms, and men began to pour into Kansas. Several hundred men from Missouri attacked Osawatomie, which was defended by Abolitionists, and a battle followed. John Brown was there, and when his party won the day he gained the nickname of "Osawatomie Brown," by which he was generally called thereafter.
Fired by this success, the leaders of the free-state army planned to capture Lawrence. The new governor feared that such an act would mean the beginning of a general civil war, and did his best to prevent it. He succeeded in this. The free-state men were divided into two parties, those whose aim was to have Kansas admitted to the Union as a free state, and those who, like John Brown, were bent on abolishing slavery throughout the United States. Governor Geary assured the former men that Kansas would be free soil, and he tried to induce Brown to leave that part of the country for a time in the interest of peace. Brown was willing to do as Governor Geary wished, thinking that Kansas was safe for the present. He wanted to turn his attention to other parts of the country, where he thought he was more needed. In September, 1856, he started east with his sons. He was now a well-known figure, hated by all slave-owners, a hero to Abolitionists, and distrusted by that large number of men whose object was to secure peace at any cost.
There were many people in the North at that time who were helping runaway slaves to escape from their masters, and in certain parts of the country there were stations of what was called the "Underground Railroad." Negroes fleeing from the tyranny of Southern owners were helped along from one station to another, until they were finally safe across the Canadian border. The law of the country said that negro slaves were like any other form of property, and that it was the duty of citizens to return runaways to their masters. There were also scattered through the border states a number of men whose business it was to catch fugitive slaves and take them back south. These men were usually of a brutal type, and the poor refugee who fell into their clutches was made to suffer for his attempt at escape. Story after story of the sufferings of slaves came to John Brown's ears, and he felt that it was his duty to throw himself into the work of the Underground Railroad, and help as many slaves as possible to cross into Canada.
This work was not enough for him, however; he wanted to strike some blow at the slave-owners themselves. The Alleghany Mountain range was one of the main roads for fugitives, for there men could hide in the thick forests of the mountainside, and could make some show of defense when the slave-catchers and bloodhounds came in pursuit. John Brown knew this country well. He traveled through the North, talking with other men who felt as he did, and trying to work out a plan which should force the country to decide this question of negro slavery. At last he decided to make a raid into Southern territory, and free slaves for himself.
In the heart of the Alleghanies, and almost midway between Maine and Florida, is a great natural gateway in the mountains. Here the Potomac and the Shenandoah Rivers meet, and seem to force their way through the natural barrier. This pass is Harper's Ferry, and in 1859 it was the seat of a United States arsenal. To the south was a country filled with slaves, who looked to Harper's Ferry as the highroad to freedom. Not far from the arsenal rose the Blue Ridge Mountains, the heights of which commanded the pass. It was John Brown's plan to lead men from the Maryland side of the Potomac River to attack the arsenal, and when it was captured to carry arms and ammunition across the Shenandoah to Loudoun Heights in the Blue Ridge, and hide there. From here his band could make raids to the south, freeing slaves, and shielding them from their masters, while using the mountains for a shelter.
There were many other men in the United States bent on destroying slavery, but few so impulsive as John Brown. His plan was rash in the extreme, and even its success would have profited only a few slaves. But Brown was a born crusader. The men who followed him were all impulsive, and many of them were already trained in the rude ways of frontier life. They knew what he had done in Kansas, and were ready to fight on his side anywhere else. They had a real reverence for John Brown. The tall man with the long, almost white hair, keen eyes, and flowing beard was no ordinary leader. He had the power to convince men that his cause was just, and to hold them in his service afterward.
In June, 1859, John Brown, with two of his sons, and two friends, started south. He rented a farm about five miles from Harper's Ferry, in a quiet, out-of-the-way place. There were several cabins in the neighborhood, and as his followers gradually joined him, they occupied these shelters. A daughter kept house for him during the summer. The men farmed in the daytime, and planned their conspiracy at night. The leader did everything he could to win the friendship of his neighbors. He had some knowledge of medicine, and attended all who were sick. Frequently he preached in the little Dunker chapel near by. He was always ready to share his food or give the shelter of his roof to any travelers. Slowly he collected guns and ammunition, and late in September sent his daughter north, and arranged to make his attack. At first some of the other men objected to his plans. One or two did not approve of his seizing the government arsenal, and thought they should simply make a raid into Virginia as the slave-state men had formerly carried war into Kansas. Their leader, however, was determined, and nothing could turn him. Already he feared lest some suspicion of his purpose might have spread, and was eager to make his start. He set Sunday night, October 16th, as the time for the raid. That morning he called his men together and read to them from the Bible. In the afternoon he gave them final instructions, and added: "And now, gentlemen, let me impress this one thing upon your minds. You all know how dear life is to you, and how dear life is to your friends. And in remembering that, consider that the lives of others are as dear to them as yours are to you. Do not, therefore, take the life of any one, if you can possibly avoid it; but if it is necessary to take life in order to save your own, then make sure work of it."
At eight o'clock that night the old farm was alive with action. John Brown called: "Men, get on your arms; we will proceed to the Ferry." His horse and wagon were driven up before the door, and some pikes, a sledge-hammer, and a crowbar were put in it. John Brown pulled on his old Kansas cap, and cried: "Come, boys!" and they went into the lane that wound down the hill to the highroad.
Each of the band had been told exactly what he was to do. Two of the men were to cut the telegraph lines, and two others were to detain the sentinels at the bridge. Men were detailed to hold each of the bridges over the two rivers, and others to occupy the engine house in the arsenal yard.
The night was cold and dark. John Brown drove his one-horse farm-wagon, and the men straggled behind him. They had to cover five miles through woods and over hills before they came down to the narrow road between the cliffs and the Cincinnati and Ohio canal. Telegraph wires were cut, the watchman on the bridge was arrested, and the band found their way open into Harper's Ferry.
Their object was to seize the arms in the arsenal and rifle factory. They marched to the armory gate, where they found a watchman. "Open the gate," one of Brown's men ordered. The watchman said that he could not, and another of the band declared that there was no time for talk, but that he would get a crowbar and hammer from the wagon. He twisted the crowbar in the chain that held the gate, and broke it open; then leaving the watchman in the care of two men, the rest made a dash for the arsenal.
A great deal happened in a short time. Guards were overpowered, the bridge secured, and the river forded close to the rifle-works. Not a gun had to be fired, and both soldiers and civilians did as they were bid by the armed men. Others of the raiders hurried out into the country, and meeting some colored men, told them their plans, and the latter at once agreed to join them. Each of the negroes was sent at once to stir up the slaves in the neighborhood, and bring them to Harper's Ferry. The raiders then came to the house of Colonel Lewis Washington. They knocked on the door, and were admitted. Colonel Washington asked what they wanted. The leader answered, "You are our prisoner, and must come to the Ferry with us." The Virginian replied, "You can have my slaves, if you will let me remain." He was told, however, that he must go back with them; and so he did, together with a large four-horse wagon and some arms, guns, swords, and cartridges.
Others of the band had brought in more Virginia prisoners. An east-bound train on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad that reached Harper's Ferry about one o'clock in the morning was detained, and the passengers were kept there until sunrise. John Brown was in command at the arsenal, and the rest of his band were acting at different points. By morning the people of the village were all alarmed. They did not know what the raiders meant to do, but many of them fled to the mountains, spreading the news as they went.
In spite of some little confusion among his followers, practically all of John Brown's plans had been successful up to this point. He had captured the armory, and armed about fifty slaves. His next object was to get the store of guns and ammunition that he had left at his farm. Here came the first hitch in his plans. He ordered two of his men, Cook and Tidd, to take some of the freed slaves in Colonel Washington's wagon, and drive to the house of a man named Terrence Burns, and take him, his brother and their slaves prisoners. Cook was to stay at Burns's house while Tidd and the negroes were to go to John Brown's farm, load the guns in the wagon, and bring them back to a schoolhouse near the Ferry, stopping on the way for Cook and his prisoners. This the two men did; but they were so slow in getting the arms from the farm to the schoolhouse, a distance of not over three miles, that much valuable time was lost. Cook halted to make a speech on human equality at one of the houses they passed, and Tidd stopped his wagon frequently and talked with passers-by on the road. They had the first load of arms at the schoolhouse by ten o'clock in the morning, but it was four o'clock in the afternoon before the second load arrived. All the guns and arms should have been at the schoolhouse by ten o'clock, if the men had followed John Brown's orders strictly.
John Brown probably still intended to carry his arms, together with the prisoners and their slaves, up to Loudoun Heights, where he would be safe for some time, but his men were so slow in obeying his orders that the enemy was given time to collect. The train that had left Harper's Ferry that morning carried word of the raid throughout the countryside, and men gathered in the neighboring villages ready to march on Harper's Ferry and put an end to the disturbance. John Brown held thousands of muskets and rifles in the arsenal, while the men who were marching to attack him were for the most part armed with squirrel guns and old-fashioned fowling-pieces. The militia collected rapidly, and marched toward the Ferry from all directions. By noon the Jefferson Guards had seized the bridge that crossed the Potomac. Meantime John Brown had girded to his side a sword that had belonged to Lafayette, that had been taken from Colonel Lewis Washington's house the night before, called his men from the arsenal into the street, and said, "The troops are on the bridge, coming into town; we will give them a warm reception." He walked back and forth before the small band, encouraging them. "Men, be cool!" he urged. "Don't waste your powder and shot! Take aim, and make every shot count! The troops will look for us to retreat on their first appearance; be careful to shoot first."
The militia soon advanced across the bridge and up the main street. When they were some sixty or seventy yards away from the raiders John Brown gave the order to fire. Some of the militia fell. Other volleys followed; and the attacking party was thrown into disorder. Finally they were driven back to the bridge, and took up a position there until reinforcements arrived. As they retreated John Brown ordered his men back to the arsenal. In the lull of the firing nearly all the unarmed people who were still in the town fled to the hills.
It was now one o'clock in the afternoon, and the band of raiders could have escaped to Loudoun Heights. But their leader wanted to carry the guns and ammunition away with him, and to do this he needed the aid of the rest of his men. He sent a messenger to one of his followers named Kagi, who was stationed with several others on the bank of the Shenandoah, with orders for him to hold the place a short time longer. The messenger, however, was fired on and wounded before he could reach Kagi, and the latter's party was soon attacked by a force of militia, and driven into the river. A large flat rock stood up in the river, and four of the five raiders reached this. There three of them fell before the fire of bullets, and the fourth was taken a prisoner. In similar ways the number of John Brown's men was much reduced.
The leader realized the danger of the situation, and decided that his best chance of escape lay in using the prisoners he had captured as hostages for his band's safe retreat. He moved his men, and the more important of the prisoners, to a small brick building called the engine-house. There he said to his captives, "Gentlemen, perhaps you wonder why I have selected you from the others. It is because I believe you to be the most influential; and I have only to say now that you will have to share precisely the same fate that your friends extend to my men." He ordered the doors and windows barricaded, and port-holes cut in the walls.
The engine-house now became the raiders' citadel, and the militia and bands of farmers who were arriving at Harper's Ferry released the prisoners who were still in the arsenal, and concentrated all their fire on the band in the small brick house.
As the sun set the town filled with troops, and it was evident that the men in the fort would have to surrender. They kept up their firing, however, from the port-holes, and were answered with a rain of bullets aimed at the doors and windows. Both sides lost a number of men. Two of John Brown's sons had been shot during the day. Finally the leader asked if one of his prisoners would volunteer to go out among the citizens and induce them to cease firing on the fort, as they were endangering the lives of their friends, the other captives. He promised that if they would stop firing his men would do the same. One of the prisoners agreed to try this, and the firing ceased for a time.
More troops poured into Harper's Ferry, and presently Colonel Robert E. Lee arrived with a force of United States marines. Guards were set about the engine-house to see that John Brown and his men did not escape. Then Colonel Lee sent a flag of truce to the engine-house, and in the name of the United States demanded that Brown surrender, advising him to throw himself on the clemency of the government. John Brown answered that he knew what that meant, and added, "I prefer to die just here." Again in the morning Lee sent his aide to the fort. The officer asked, "Are you ready to surrender, and trust to the mercy of the government?" Brown answered, "No, I prefer to die here." Then the soldiers attacked, not with guns this time, but with sledge-hammers, intending to break down the doors. This did not succeed, and seizing a long ladder they used it as a battering-ram, and finally broke the fastenings of the main door. Lieutenant Green pushed his way in, and, jumping on top of the engine, looked about for John Brown. Amid a storm of bullets, he saw the white-haired leader, and sprang at him, at the same time striking at him with his sword. John Brown fell forward, with his head between his knees. In a few minutes all of the raiders who were left in the engine-house had surrendered to the government troops.
Of the band that had left the farm on Sunday night seven were taken prisoners, ten had been killed in the fighting, and six others had managed to make their escape. By noon of Tuesday, October 18th, the raid was over. John Brown, wounded in half a dozen places, lay on the floor of the engine-house; and the governor of Virginia bent over him. "Who are you?" asked the governor. The old man answered, "My name is John Brown; I have been well known as old John Brown of Kansas. Two of my sons were killed here to-day, and I'm dying too. I came here to liberate slaves, and was to receive no reward. I have acted from a sense of duty, and am content to await my fate; but I think the crowd have treated me badly. I am an old man. Yesterday I could have killed whom I chose; but I had no desire to kill any person, and would not have killed a man had they not tried to kill me and my men. I could have sacked and burned the town, but did not; I have treated the persons whom I took as hostages kindly, and I appeal to them for the truth of what I say. If I had succeeded in running off slaves this time, I could have raised twenty times as many men as I have now for a similar expedition. But I have failed."
The news of John Brown's raid spread through the country, and the people North and South were amazed and bewildered. They had grown used to hearing of warfare in the distant borderland of Kansas, but this was a battle that had taken place in the very heart of the Union. Men did not know what to think of it. John Brown appeared to many of them as a monstrous figure, a firebrand who would touch his torch to the tinder of slavery, and set the whole nation in a blaze. Newspapers and public speakers denounced him. They said he was attacking the foundations of the country when he seized the arsenal and freed slaves from their lawful owners. Only a handful of men had any good to say for him, and that handful were looked upon as madmen by their neighbors. Only a few could read the handwriting on the wall, and realize that John Brown was merely a year or two in advance of the times.
We who know the story of the Civil War and the abolition of slavery think of John Brown as a hero. We forget the outlaw and remember the martyr. If he was setting the laws of men at defiance he was also following the law that he felt was given him by God. His faith and his simplicity have made him a great figure in history. A man who met him riding across the plains of Kansas in the days of the border warfare drew a vivid picture of him. He said that a tall man on horseback stopped and asked him a question. "It was on a late July day, and in its hottest hours. I had been idly watching a wagon and one horse toiling slowly northward across the prairie, along the emigrant trail that had been marked out by free-state men.... John Brown, whose name the young and ardent had begun to conjure with and swear by, had been described to me. So, as I heard the question, I looked up and met the full, strong gaze of a pair of luminous, questioning eyes. Somehow I instinctively knew this was John Brown, and with that name I replied.... It was a long, rugged-featured face I saw. A tall, sinewy figure, too (he had dismounted), five feet eleven, I estimated, with square shoulders, narrow flank, sinewy and deep-chested. A frame full of nervous power, but not impressing one especially with muscular vigor. The impression left by the pose and the figure was that of reserve, endurance, and quiet strength. The questioning voice-tones were mellow, magnetic, and grave. On the weatherworn face was a stubby, short, gray beard.... This figure,—unarmed, poorly clad, with coarse linen trousers tucked into high, heavy cowhide boots, with heavy spurs on their heels, a cotton shirt opened at the throat, a long torn linen duster, and a bewrayed chip straw hat ... made up the outward garb and appearance of John Brown when I first met him. In ten minutes his mounted figure disappeared over the north horizon."