John Lothrop Motley - "History of the United Netherlands, 1587"

Fred M. White - "The Mystery of the Four Fingers"

Roy Benson, Jr. - "The Biography of a Rabbit"

Charles Franklin Carter - "Old Mission Stories of California"

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PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Man in Gray

T >> Thomas Dixon >> The Man in Gray




Stevens had better luck. His party had encountered David Cruise, a
man who was rash enough to resist. He was an old man, too, of quiet,
peaceable habits and exemplary character. He proved to be the man who
didn't know how to submit to personal insult.

He owned but one slave who did the cooking for his family. When Stevens
broke into his house and demanded the woman, he indignantly refused to
surrender his cook to a gang of burglars.

The ex-convict, who had served his term for an assault with intent to
kill, didn't pause to ask Cruise any questions.

His revolver clicked, a single shot rang out and the old man dropped on
the floor with a bullet through his heart.

Passing the body, Stevens looted the house. He made the largest haul of
the night. He secured four oxen, eleven mules, two horses, and a wagon
load of provisions. Incidentally he picked up a valuable mule from a
neighbor of Cruise as they passed his house on the way to join Brown.

When Stevens reported the murder and gave the inventory of the valuable
goods stolen, "Shubel Morgan" stroked his long gray beard and spoke but
one word:

"Good."

In his grim soul he knew that the blood stain left on Cruise's floor
would be worth more to his cause than all the stolen jewelry, horses and
wagons. Its appeal to the East would be the one secret force needed to
rouse the archaic instincts of his pious backers. They would deny with
indignation the accusation of murder against his men. They would invent
the excuse of self-defense. He did not need to make it. From the deeps
of their souls would come the shout of the ancient head-hunter returning
with the bloody scalp of a foe in his hand. Brown felt this. He knew it,
because he felt it in his own heart. He was a Puritan of Puritans.

With deliberate daring the caravan moved back into the Territory. For
the moment the audacity of the crime stunned the frontier. He had
figured on this hour of uncertainty and amazement to make good his
escape. He knew that he could depend on the people along the way to Iowa
to protect the ten slaves which he had brought out of Missouri.

The press of Kansas unanimously condemned the outrage. Brown knew they
would. He could spit in their faces now. He was done with Kansas. His
caravan was moving toward the North; his eyes were fixed on the hills of
Virginia.

His experiment had been a success.

The President of the United States, James Buchanan, offered a reward
of $250 for his arrest. The Governor of Missouri raised the reward to
$3,000. The press flashed the news of the daring rescue of ten slaves by
old John Brown. He regained in a day his lost prestige. The stories of
the robberies which accompanied the rescue were denied as Border Ruffian
lies, as "Shubel Morgan" knew they would be denied.

His enterprise had met every test. He got his slaves safely through to
Canada and started a reign of terror. The effect of the raid into a
Slave State had tested his theory of direct, bloodstained action as the
solution and the only solution of the problem.

The occasional frowns of pious people on his methods caused him no
uneasiness or doubt. He was a man of daily prayer. He was on more
intimate terms with God than his critics.

The one fly in the ointment of his triumph was the cold reception given
him by the religious settlement at Tabor, Iowa. These good people had
treated him as a prophet of God in times past and his caravan had headed
for Tabor as their first resting place.

He entered the village with a song of triumph. He would exhibit his
freed slaves before the Church and join with the congregation in a hymn
of praise to God.

But the news of his coming had reached Tabor before his arrival. They
had heard of the stealing of the oxen, the horses, the mules, the
wagons.

They had also heard of the murder of David Cruise. Brown had denied the
Pottawattomie crimes and they had believed him. This murder he could
not deny. They had not yet reached the point of justifying murder in an
unlawful rescue. These pious folks also had a decided prejudice against
a horse thief, however religious his training and eloquent his prayers.

When his caravan of stolen wagons, horses and provisions, moved slowly
into the village, a curious but cold crowd gazed in silence. He placed
the negroes in the little school house and parked his teams on the
Common.

The next day was Sunday and the old Puritan hastened to church with his
faithful disciples. Amazed that he had received from the Rev. John
Todd no invitation to take part in the services, he handed Stevens a
scribbled note:

"Give it to the preacher when he comes in."

Stevens gave the minister the bit of paper without a word and resumed
his seat in the House of God.

The Rev. John Todd read the scrawl with a frown:

"John Brown respectfully requests the church at Tabor to offer public
thanksgiving to Almighty God in behalf of himself and company: _and of
their rescued captives, in particular_, for His gracious preservation
of their lives and health: and His signal deliverance of all out of the
hands of the wicked. 'Oh, give thanks unto the Lord; for He is good: for
His mercy endureth forever.'"

The Rev. Dr. King was in the pulpit with the militant preacher Todd that
day and the perplexed man handed the note to King.

The two servants of Christ were not impressed with the appeal. The words
Brown had marked in italics and his use of the Psalms failed to rouse
the religious fervor of the preachers. They knew that somewhere in the
crowd sat the man who had murdered Cruise and stolen those horses. They
also knew that John Brown had approved the deeds of his followers.

Todd rose and announced that he had received a petition which he could
not grant. He announced a public meeting of the citizens of the town in
the church the following day to take such action as they might see fit.

When Brown faced this meeting on Monday he felt its hostility from the
moment he rose. He made an excuse for not speaking by refusing to go on
when a distinguished physician from Missouri entered the church.

Brown demanded that the man from Missouri be expelled. The citizens of
Tabor refused. And the old man sullenly took his seat.

Stevens, the murderer, sprang to his feet and in his superb bass voice
shouted:

"So help me, God, I'll not sit in council with one who buys and sells
human flesh."

Stevens led the disciples out of the church.

At the close of the discussion the citizens of Tabor unanimously adopted
the resolution:

"_Resolved_, That while we sympathize with the oppressed and will do all
that we conscientiously can to help them in their efforts for freedom,
nevertheless we have no sympathy with those who go to slave states to
entice away slaves and take property or life, when necessary, to attain
this end.

"J. SMITH, _Sec. of Meeting._" Tabor, Feb. 7, 1857.

John Brown shook the dust of Tabor from his feet after a long prayer to
his God which he took pains to make himself.

At Grinnell, Iowa, his reception was cordial and he began to feel the
confidence which his exploit would excite in the still more remote East.
His caravan had moved Eastward but fourteen days' journey from Tabor
and he had been received with open arms. The farther from the scene of
action Brown moved, the more heroic his rugged patriarchal figure with
its flowing beard loomed.

On reaching Boston his triumph was complete. Every doubt and fear had
vanished. Sanborn, Higginson, Stearns, Howe, and Gerrit Smith, in a
short time, secured for him more than four thousand dollars and the
Great Deed was assured.



CHAPTER XXVII


While Brown was at work in the North collecting money, arms and
ammunition, Cook was quietly completing his work at the Ferry. He
fought the temptation to take Virginia with him on his trips and then
succumbed.

The thing that decided it was the fact that she knew Colonel Louis
Washington and had been to Bellair. She promised to introduce him.

To make sure of Brown's quixotic instructions about the sword and
pistols he must make the trip. The drive in the snug little buggy along
the river bank was a red letter experience in the young Westerner's
life.

Seated beside the modest slip of a Southern girl chatting with vivacity
and a happiness she couldn't conceal, the man forgot that he was a
conspirator in a plot to deluge a nation in blood. He forgot the long
nights of hiding in woods and ravines. He forgot dark deeds of sacking
and robbery. He was just a boy again. The sun was shining in the glory
of a sweet spring morning in the mountains. The flowers were blooming in
the hedges. He smelled the wild cherry, blackberry and dewberry bushes.
Birds were singing. The new green of the leaves was dazzling in its
splendor. The air was pure and sweet and sent the blood bounding to the
tips of his fingers.

He glanced at the soft red cheeks of the girl beside him and a great
yearning for a home and babies and peace overwhelmed him. His lips
trembled and his eyes filled with tears. He rebelled against the task to
which he had put his hand.

"Why so pensive?" she asked with a laugh.

"Am I?"

"You haven't spoken for a mile."

"I'm just so happy, I reckon," he answered seriously.

He remembered his grim task and threw off the spell. He must keep a
cool head and a strong hand. He remembered the strange old man to whose
"Constitution" he had sworn allegiance in Canada and began to talk in
commonplaces.

To the girl's romantic ears they had meaning. Every tone of his voice
fascinated her. The mystery about him held her imagination. She was sure
it was full of thrilling adventure. He would tell her some day. She
wondered why he had waited so long. He had been on the point of telling
his love again and again and always stopped with an ugly frown. She
wondered sometimes if his life had been spoiled by some tragedy. A
thousand times she asked herself the question whether he might be
married and separated from a wife. He had lived in the North. He had
told her many places he had seen. People were divorced sometimes in the
North. She dismissed the thought as absurd and resigned herself again to
the charms of his companionship.

Colonel Washington was delighted to see again the daughter of an old
friend. Her father had been his companion on many a hunting and fishing
trip.

Virginia introduced her companion.

"My friend, Mr. John Cook, Colonel Washington."

The colonel extended his hand cordially.

"Glad to meet you, young man. A friend of Virginia's is a friend of
mine, sir."

"Thank you."

"Walk right in, children, sit down and make yourselves at home. I'll
find that damned old lazy butler of mine and get you some refreshments."

"Let's sit outside," Virginia whispered.

"No," Cook protested. "I want to see the inside of a Washington home."

The Colonel waved his arm toward the house.

"With you in a minute, children. Walk right in."

"Of course, if you wish it," the girl said softly.

They entered the fine old house, and sat down in the hall. Cook smiled
at the easy fulfillment of his task. Directly in front of the door, set
in a deep panel, was the portrait of the first President. On the right
in a smaller panel hung the sword which Frederick the Great had given
him. On the other side, the pistols from the hands of Lafayette. A tiny,
gold plate, delicately engraved, marked each treasure.

Virginia showed him these souvenirs of her country's history. She spoke
of them with breathless awe. She laughed with girlish pride.

"Aren't they just grand?"

Cook nodded.

He felt guilty of treachery. A betrayal of Southern hospitality in
this sweet girl's presence! He ground his teeth at the thought of his
weakness the next moment.

Colonel Washington appeared through the door from the dining room. He
was followed by his ancient butler, bearing a tray filled with drinks.

The Colonel served them with his own hand. The negro grinned his welcome
to the guests. At the sight of a slave, Cook was himself again. His jaw
closed and his eye flashed. He was once more the disciple of the Man of
the Blood-Feud.

Washington handed a tall glass to Virginia.

"Your lemonade, young lady. I know your taste and approve."

He bowed low and gave her the drink.

He took two glasses of mint juleps, one in each hand.

"Mr. Cook, the favorite drink of these mountains, sir, as pure as its
dews, as refreshing as its air--the favorite drink of old Virginia. To
your good health, sir!"

Cook's head barely moved and he drank in silence.

He held his mood of reserve on the drive home. In vain the girl smiled
and coaxed his dreary spirits. He refused to respond. They passed the
same wonderful views, the same birds were singing, the same waters
foaming and laughing over the rocks below. The man heard nothing, saw
nothing, save a vision inside his raging soul. He saw men riding through
the night to that house. He saw black hands grip iron pikes and knock at
the door of its great hall.

There was a far-away look in his keen eyes--eyes that could sight a
rifle with deadly aim.

The slender girl nestled closer in wonder at the veil that had suddenly
dropped between them. The fires of youth and passion responded for a
moment to this instinctive stir of his mate. Resistance was agony. His
arm moved to encircle her waist. He turned in an impulse to kiss her
lips and whisper the mad things his heart was saying.

He caught himself in time.

What had he to do with this eternal call of the human heart to love and
be loved? It meant home, it meant tenderness. It meant peace and good
will to every living thing. He had come to kill, not to love; to
destroy, not build homes.

Again he rebelled against his hideous task. And then he remembered John
Brown and all for which he stood. His oath crashed through his memory.
He resolved to put every thought of tenderness, beauty, and love under
his feet and trample them. It was the only way to save himself and this
girl.

It would be hard--but he would do it. For an entire week he did not
speak to her except in monosyllables. He made no effort to hide his
decision. He wanted her to see and know the firm purpose within his
heart.

Her eyes followed him with a look of dumb anguish. If she had spoken in
reproaches he would have fought and withstood her. Her silence was more
than he could bear.

On the sixth day of his resolution he saw that she had been crying. She
smiled and tried to hide it, but he knew. He would go for a walk to the
Heights and cheer her up a bit. It wasn't necessary to be brutal.

Her brown eyes began to smile again. They walked over the Heights and
down a steep pathway among the rocks to the river's edge and sat down on
a boulder worn smooth by the waters of the spring floods.

The ripple of the current made soft music. They were silent for a long
time and then she turned toward him a tender, questioning gaze. In spite
of her effort to be strong a tear stole down the firm young cheek.

"What have I done to make you angry?"

"Nothing," he answered in a whisper.

"What's the matter, then?"

He took her hand and held it in a cruel grip before he spoke. His words
came at last in passionate pleading.

"Oh, dear little girl, can't you see how I've been fighting this thing
for months--how I've tried to keep away from you and couldn't?"

"Why?"

She breathed the question leaning so close that her lips framed a kiss.

"I can't tell you," he said.

"But you must! You must!" she pleaded.

Tears were in his eyes now. He looked away.

"A gulf separates us, child."

"How can it?" she whispered tenderly.

"It's just there!"

"Can't you cross it?"

"No."

She drew her slender body erect with an effort. She tried to speak twice
before she succeeded.

"You--are--married--then?"

"Oh--no--no--not that--no!"

She bent close again, a sweet smile breaking through her tears.

"Then you can tell me what it is."

"I couldn't tell it, even to my wife."

Her brow contracted in a puzzled look.

"It's nothing low or dishonorable?"

"No. And it belongs to the big things of life-and death."

"And I cannot know this secret?"

"You cannot know. I have taken an oath."

"And it separates us?"

"Yes."

"But why--if--you--love--me--and I love--you--"

She paused and blushed scarlet. She had told a man her love before he
had spoken. But he _had_ spoken! His voice, his tears, his tones had
told her.

He looked at her a moment, trembling. He spoke one word at a time as if
he had no breath to finish the sentence.

"It's--sweet--to--hear--your--dear--lips--say--that--you--love--me--God
knows I love you--you-dear-little-angel-sent-from heaven! I'm not worthy
to touch your hand and yet I'm crushing it--I can't help it--I can't-I
can't."

She slipped into his arms and he crushed her to his heart.

"I love you," she whispered. "I can trust you. I'll never ask your
secret until you wish to tell me. Just love me, forever. That's all I
ask."

"I can do that, and I will!" he answered solemnly.

They were married the next night in the parsonage of the Methodist
Church of which she was a member. And the foundation was laid for a
tragedy involving more lives than one.



CHAPTER XXVIII


From an old log farmhouse on the hills of Maryland,--overlooking the
town of Harper's Ferry, the panther was crouching to spring.

For four months in various disguises Brown had reconnoitered the
mountains around the gorge of the two rivers. He had climbed the
peak and looked into the county of Fauquier with its swarming slave
population. Each week he piloted his wagon to the town of Chambersburg,
Pennsylvania, thirty-five miles back in the hills.

The Humanitarians through their agents were shipping there, day by day,
the powder, lead, guns, knives, torches and iron pikes the Chosen One
had asked.

These pious men met him for a final conference in the home of Gerrit
Smith, the preacher philanthropist of Peterboro.

The canny old huntsman revealed to them just enough to excite the
unconscious archaic impulse beneath the skin of culture. He told them
that he was going to make a daring raid into the heart of the Old South
and rescue as many of the "oppressed" as possible. They knew that the
raid into Missouri had resulted in murder and that he rode back into
Kansas with the red stains on his hands.

Brown gained their support by this carefully concealed appeal to their
subconscious natures. As the crowd of eager faces bent close to catch,
the details of his scheme, the burning eyes of the leader were suddenly
half closed. Silence followed and they watched the two pin points of
light in vain.

Each pious man present caught the smell of human blood. Yet each pious
man carefully concealed this from himself and his neighbor until it
would be approved by all. Had the bald facts behind the enterprise been
told in plain English, religion and culture would have called a
halt. The elemental impulse of the Beast must therefore be carefully
concealed.

Every man present knew that they were sending Brown on a man-hunt. They
knew that the results might mean bloodshed. They knew, as individuals,
exactly what was being said and what was being planned. Its details
they did not wish to know. The moral significance--the _big_ moral
significance of the deed was something apart from the bloody details.
The Great Deed could be justified by the Higher Law, the Greater Glory
of God. They were twisting the moral universe into accord with the
elemental impulse of the brute that sleeps beneath every human skin.

The Great Deed about to be done would be glorious, its actors heroes and
martyrs of a Divine Cause. They knelt in prayer and their Chosen Leader
invoked the blessings of the Lord of Hosts upon them and upon his
disciples in the Divine Cause.

The hour of Action was now swiftly approaching. Cook had become a book
agent. With his pretty Virginia wife his figure became familiar to every
farm, in the county. He visited every house where a slave was to be
found. He sold maps as well as books. He also sketched maps in secret
when he reached the quiet of his home while his happy little bride sang
at her work.

He carefully compiled a census of slaves at the Ferry and in the
surrounding country. So sure had he become of the success of the blow
when it should fall, that he begged his Chief to permit him to begin
to whisper the promise of the uprising to a few chosen men among the
slaves.

The old man's eyes; flamed with anger.

"You have not done this already?" he growled.

"No--no."

"You swear it?"

Brown had seized Cook by both arms and searched his eyes for the truth.
The younger man was amazed at the volcanic outburst of anger.

"A hundred times I've told you, Cook, that you talk too much," he went
on tensely. "You mean well, boy, but your marriage may prove a tragedy
in more ways than one."

"It has proven my greatest weapon."

"If you're careful, if you're discreet, if you can control your foolish
impulses. I've warned you again and again and yet you've been writing
letters--"

Cook's eyes wavered.

"I only wrote one to an old girl friend in Tabor."

"Exactly. You told of your marriage, your happiness, your hopes of a
great career--and I got a copy of the letter."

"How?"

"No matter. If I got it, somebody else could get one. Now will you swear
to me again to obey my orders?"

The burning eyes pierced his soul and he was wax.

"Yes. I swear!"

"Good. I want a report from you daily from now on. Stop your excursions
into the country, except to meet me in broad daylight in the woods this
side of our headquarters. You understand?"

"Yes. You can depend on me."

Brown watched him with grave misgivings. He was the one man on whom
he depended least and yet his life and the life of every one in his
enterprise was in his hands. There were more reasons than one why he
must hasten the final preparations for the Deed.

The suspicions of the neighbors had been roused in spite of the utmost
vigilance. He had increased his disciples to twenty men. He had induced
his younger son, Watson, to leave North Elba and join them. His own
daughter, Annie, and Oliver's wife had come with Watson, and the two
women were doing the work for his band--cooking, washing, and scrubbing
without a murmur.

The men were becoming restless in their close confinement. Five of them
were negroes. Brown's disciples made no objections to living, eating
and sleeping with these blacks. Such equality was one of the cardinal
principles of their creed.

But the danger of the discovery of the presence of freed negroes
living in this farmhouse with two white women and a group of white men
increased each day.

The headquarters had a garrulous old woman for a neighbor. Gradually,
Mrs. Huffmeister became curious about the doings at the farm. She began
to invent daily excuses for a visit. They might be real, of course, but
the old man's daughter became uneasy. As she cleaned the table, washed
the dishes and swept the floors of the rooms and the porch, she was
constantly on the lookout for this woman.

The thing that had fascinated her was the man whom this girl called
father. His name was "Smith," but it didn't seem to fit him. She was an
illiterate German and knew nothing of the stirring events in Kansas. But
her eyes followed the head huntsman with fascinated curiosity.

At this time his personal appearance was startling in its impressive
power, when not on guard or in disguise. His brilliant eyes, his flowing
white beard and stooped shoulders arrested attention instantly and held
it. He was sixty years old by the calendar and looked older. And yet
always the curious thing about him was that the impression of age was on
the surface. It was given only when he was still. The moment he moved
in the quick, wiry, catlike way that was his habit, age vanished. The
observer got the impression of a wild beast crouching to spring.

It was little wonder that Mrs. Huffmeister made excuses to catch a
glimpse of his figure. It was little wonder that she had begun to talk
to her friends about "Mr. Smith" and his curious ways.

She had talked to him only once. She was glad that he didn't talk much.
There was an expression to his set jaw and lips that was repulsive.
Especially there was something chill in the tones of his voice. They
never suggested tenderness or love, or hope or happiness--only the
impersonal ring of metal. The agile and alert body of a man of his age
was an uncanny thing, too. The woman's curiosity was roused anew with
each glimpse she got of him until her coming at last became a terror to
the daughter.

She warned her father and he hastened his preparations. If the world
below once got a hint of what was going on behind those rough logs there
would be short shrift for the men who were stalking human game.

It became necessary for the entire party of twenty men to lie concealed
in the low attic room the entire day. Not more than two of them could be
seen at one time.

The strange assortment of ex-convicts, dreamers, theorists, adventurers
and freed negroes were kept busy by their leader until the eve of the
Great Deed. They whittled into smooth shape the stout hickory handles
for a thousand iron pikes, which Blair, the blacksmith of Collinsville,
Connecticut, had finally delivered. To these rude weapons the fondest
hopes of the head-huntsman had been pinned from the first. The slave
was not familiar with the use of firearms. His strong, black arm could
thrust these sharp pieces of iron into human breasts with deadly
accuracy. Brown saw that every nail was securely set in the handles.