• We have updated our Community Code of Conduct. Please read through the new rules for the forum that are an integral part of Paradox Interactive’s User Agreement.
Sah-weet!


Methinks that Sherman, Grant and our gallant company of U.S. Marines will be heard from again just before dawn. Sleep well John Brown, your freedom is about to come to an end, and perhaps your life!
 
Director, you're just the guy to insert a train into the story, here! Write what you know.

That scene with the engineer falling wounded with the whistle and throttle in hand tickles some memory, but I'm not remembering very well.... Is this an homage to some classic railroad lore, or is it just a poignant moment of your own creation? ;)

Rensslaer
 
And the stage is set. Wonder if this early arrangement will leave Grant and Sherman more prepared for their next co-operative actions?

Vann
 
Whether or not Grant is a drunkard, he seems in control of himself and the situation here. He quickly analyzes the situation and comes up with a simple, aggressive plan. Not exactly a subtle plan, but one with a good chance of success.

One thing that surprises me somewhat is that Grant/Sherman do not even consider the option of negotiating with the bandits. Sure, John Brown and Company have placed themselves outside of the law with their ill-advised action, sure to infuriate the South and incense the Federal government, but I'm slightly surprised that this is treated as a purely military matter. Oh well, I guess that's what happens when you send soldiers to investigate. :) Presumably, Abe has thought things through in Washington and decided that the military option was the correct one.

Now that the train has barreled past the armory and Brownites have opened fire on it, the die is truly cast. I expect some fairly intense fighting, once the Marines are deployed. Perhaps, realizing their hopeless situation, John Brown and his men will blow up the armory with themselves inside, in a last act of defiance?
 
Grant appears to have a fair idea of the situation - Sherman less so.
 
stnylan:

He’d [Grant] gotten into combat in the Mexican War, which was more than Sherman could claim...
I guess Grant's combat experience is showing in his willingness to tackle the situation head-on, despite not having full information of the events (though his assumptions are sound). Since the quote above is from Sherman's thoughts, it's logical that Sherman would defer to Grant when it comes to actual violence. Methinks. :)
 
Everyone’s favorite command duo might soon be fighting against much more than John Brown…
 
True indeed Stuyvesant, though I think what I meant (and I know my laconic remark hardly aided comprehension! :) ) is that Grant seems to show a greater awareness of the situation and the place. I am a little surprised that Sherman is relatively ignorant about such an important military station in fairly close proximity to DC.

I admit, my own prejudices might be behind that, as irl I find Grant to be a considerably superior general and man than Sherman. :)
 
Draco Rexus - we have another 'famous' character to be heard from... Harpers Ferry is quite the spot to visit, it seems. :D

Rensslaer - actually I tried hard to find out how Lee and Stuart got their Marines into town, but had little success. There really is only one way in from the east, and that's by railroad...

I wanted Grant to not speak much while Sherman does all the fidgeting ( :D ). But as usual the characters have begun dictating the dialogue, so we'll just have to go where it all leads I suppose. ;)

The wounded engineer is my own creation as far as I know... for drama I wanted the train to go past with whistle screaming, but you wouldn't do that on purpose if you needed all your steam for speed. Railroad tradition does have it that the engineer is the last man off the train... I am reminded of the time in 1953 a mammoth GG1 electric locomotive was headed into Union Station with cars in tow, making about 80 mph. The brakes on the rear 2/3 of the train failed... The engineer stayed in the cab on the air horn, braking the engine as hard as he could. He got her down to 35 mph and bought enough time for the passenger section of Union Station to be evacuated. Seconds later the train hit the end of the tracks, came through the wall and halfway across the concourse before the floor gave way, dropping the engine into the lower (commuter train) level. Amazingly, no-one was killed though 50+ were wounded. The engine was so well built it was cut into pieces, hoisted out, welded back together and put back into service! That engineer stayed at his throttle and lived to tell about it... others, like Casey Jones (of Mobile, btw) were not so fortunate.

Vann the Red - I think you can safely say this operation will teach them each a little about the other... and about themselves.

J. Passepartout - I incline to the view that he wasn't a drunk in the usual sense. But whenever he got really depressed or lonely, or took a drink to be 'one of the boys' he just could not stop. So I think he was a binge drinker, not an 'everyday' alcoholic. That probably has a genetic component - susceptibility to addictions in general probably does - and as Grant was born before 1836 his genetic makeup is the same as in our history.

Stuyvesant - so far Grant and Sherman have been mostly concerned with how to get into Harpers Ferry alive. They do intend to negotiate with John Brown, as we will see in the next update (almost ready). Historically the gov't sent JEB Stuart with orders for RE Lee at Arlington, and those two took a company of Marines to the Ferry.

OK. The REAL purpose of this side-track is to explain that I blew up the small arms factory in Virginia while Virginia was considering secession. But - BUT - I haven't written the actual assault on the arsenal yet and literally don't know if it will go up now or later. it is a terrible thing when you allow yourself to be pushed around by fictional characters, but that's what happens when I write.

Historically Sherman DID defer to Grant even when Grant was junior to him - see the Ft HEnry/Donelson campaign. Here I like to think they're just trying to win, without much regard for who gets to be in charge.

stnylan - I wanted Grant to come off as the shy thinker and Sherman as the hyper-active man of action, but as I said above they insist on going their own way. :D

As Sherman has been out of the Army for at least 5 years, and as only ordinance specialists would be posted to the arsenal, it is not unusual for Sherman to know little about the layout. Grant has been there either with Winfield Scott or on his behalf. Sherman probably know the layout of the Presidio quite well, though.

One thing everyone agreed on: Grant wrote the clearest, least ambiguous orders of anyone in the army. He also wrote like Mozart - steadily, without correction and usually without last-minute changes. To me that speaks of a disciplined, organized and focused mind, and probably a genius (in the Greek sense) for war.

Fulcrumvale - There could be some truth to that, but it depends on whether or not a war brews up. With Sherman installed at West Point he might find it hard to get a field command in any case.
 
I found this a few days ago and I'm still reading my way through it. All I can say is - wow.
I don't know whether to be more impressed by how much real American history and politics you manage to work into the story, or by how you make it all come together so smoothly that you barely see the strings.

Having checked the end to see it's eligible, I say this is more than worthy of a WritAAR of the Week nomination.

Congratulations, Director!

Now, back to reading....
 
As far as I could tell, in our timeline, the militia were able to 'convince' Brown's men to seek shelter in the armory firehouse over the course of the first day. Thus, by the time the marines arrived, the station was quite safe to disembark at.

Timeline:
Evening -- Brown and his men enter town and capture the armory by threatening the single night watchman.

Night -- They begin rounding up hostages from the town and nearby farms.

1:00AM -- An eastbound B&O train passes through town, the train's baggage master tries to warn the passengers and is killed by Brown's men.

Morning -- News reaches Washington DC of the raid. Militia and townspeople engage the raiders from the heights of the town. Several men are killed.

Noon -- Militia seize the bridge. Brown and his men seek shelter in the engine house, which the militia then surrounds.

Afternoon -- Now trapped, Brown attempts to parley with the militia, but his emmissaries are shot while under a white flag.

Evening -- The US marine contingent arrives and takes over the situation from the militias.

Morning -- After an attempt to have Brown surrender, the Marines storm the engine house and capture Brown and seven men.

Hope that clarifies some things...

Now, I'm intrigued to know whether the wounded engineer can stop the train in time...
TheExecuter
 
merrick - Coming from you,sir, that is high praise indeed. Sorry for the lack of updates but work - and work - and did I say work? - has prevented my spending much time at the keyboard. Up next however are several updates, to make up for it (I hope).

Thank you for the award. The honor is deeply felt and profoundly appreciated.

TheExecuter - Thank you for the timeline, it was indeed helpful.

And now, to answer your question...
 
Sherman looked around with unbelieving eyes. While he and Grant had walked a short way up the hill to scout the ground around the armory the Marines had settled into a perfect little camp. Bedrolls were lined in meticulous rows and muskets were stacked in pyramidal sheaves. Best of all, coffee bubbled over a campfire whose light was shielded from the enemy by a tumbled wall. The wounded were bedded down comfortably on pallets along the railroad station platform. There were only four injured, counting the locomotive engineer, and none dead, a fact attributable to the relative positions of the combatants. Lying prone at ground level the bandits had been forced to shoot upward at a steep angle, so that most of their bullets had gone into the roofs of the cars. The contrary was also true; Sherman thought it likely the Marines had not aimed low enough, and doubted they had done much to their opponents in return but whistle bullets over their heads.

Grant strode up beside him and took in the little domestic scene with lifted eyebrows – from the imperturbable Grant a sign of complete astonishment. A Marine corporal had heard the sentry issue a challenge to the army officers as they approached the camp and was waiting to intercept them. He ordered the men around the campfire to attention, but Sherman silenced him with a look and a wave. “As you were, men, as you were. We’re here to fight, not to march a parade ground review.”

“Would the Colonels care for some coffee, sir?”

Grant nodded. “Yes, and thank you, but we have no cups.”

“There was a case of them in the station, sir – an open case,” the corporal amended hastily. “Railroad mugs for the canteen.”

Sherman opened his mouth, closed it and visibly changed his mind. “See that any, um, borrowed property gets put back where it was, will you please, Corporal…”

“Jenkins, sir.”

“No first name?”

“Arbuthnot, sir.” The corporal flushed; Sherman concluded he was regularly teased about his name and didn’t care much for the teasing or the name.

“Well then, Corporal Jenkins, where might I find Captain Ruediger?”

“He took a file to a position covering the arsenal from the west, sir.”

“Good for him.” Grant’s voice made Sherman start; he had focused so completely on the corporal that he had forgotten Grant’s presence at his elbow. “And thank you for the coffee, Corporal.” Grant took a meditative sip and winced. “That is strong. Corporal, set parties to finding something we can use as a battering ram, if you please, and then come back here. We have a job for you, if you’ll take it and if your captain agrees.”

“A job?” Sherman muttered as Corporal Jenkins pattered away. “You make it sound like we’re opening a bank.”

“We can’t give orders to Marines. The best we can do is to make suggestions, but I think Ruediger is bright enough to take them. The job… This is going to be close enough to cracking a safe, I think; the main armory doors are solid enough to serve a vault. They are thick wood, strapped with iron; probably chained shut, or barred. Either way we need help getting them open and a battering ram should be the easiest to make. We need intelligence: which building these bandits are in, and who they are, and how many of them there are. The easiest way to find out is to send someone under a parley to take a look.”

Sherman snorted. “You don’t sound like you expect these rascals to give up, Sam. I don’t, myself, but I’m just naturally of the suspicious type… Look there, walking up the road. He looks like someone who might know something. At least I hope so.”

The man in question was taller than Grant but not quite up to Sherman’s height. He was as thin as a beanpole, and his long thin face and long center-parted black hair gave the appearance of a scarecrow, a resemblance enhanced by his dusty and battered black sack suit. “I am Gordon Whitlow,” he announced, drawing himself up to his full height. “The mayor of Harpers Ferry,” he continued petulantly when neither officer spoke.

“Ah, Mister Mayor,” Grant said. “There are a few things we’d like to ask you.”

“Well I must say there are a few things I’d like to ask of you,” the mayor sniffed. “For one, where you have been? As you can see these wild men have completely destroyed the town… completely destroyed the town,” he repeated, as though convinced the other men did not believe him despite the evidence of their eyes. It might have been an exaggeration to call the town destroyed, but the mayor was not the sort to use an understatement.

Grant continued as smoothly as if the mayor had not spoken. “We need to know everything and anything about these men, if we are to have any chance of helping you. Do you know how many there are, or perhaps who is their leader?”

The mayor goggled. “John Brown, of course! Old ‘Kansas’ Brown, the mad dog himself, come with an army to set our slaves at our very throats while you stand there and do nothing! Don’t any of you Yankees care at all about the threat that imperils our very lives, our lives and the virtue of our wives and daughters? I must say I expected Washington to take this slave rebellion seriously! Not to send a mere two men and a scattering of boys!”

Sherman looked about curiously. “Slave rebellion? I haven’t so much as seen a slave since we left Maryland, sir, so I have no idea what you mean. The men who fired upon us last night were white enough! The government is in any case more concerned at present with a rebellion of a different sort.”

“I dare say if Virginia had had the sense to join the Confederacy we would not be in this fix, abandoned to the animal impulses of an army of maddened slaves! I am certain the Confederate Army would have never allowed this situation to occur. Those men know how to treat an uprising! The rebels would be swinging from the trees yonder!”

This was too much for Sherman; Grant seized his coat sleeve but Sherman shook him off and took a rapid two steps forward, all color drained from his face so that his freckles stood out like blood-spots on a skull. “If you had joined the Confederacy, sir, it would be you swinging from yonder trees just now, and if I have the least cause to suspect…”

Grant maneuvered himself between the raging Sherman and the recoiling Whitlow. “Why don’t you step over here by the fire, Mister Mayor, and have a cup of coffee. I’m sure you can tell us what we need to know.” A quick glance over Grant’s head convinced the mayor that he had an urgent need to be some place that Sherman was not, and so he allowed himself to be led away by the arm, with many a wary backward glance, to the fire.



“I don’t want to walk into that mess,” Sherman grumbled, “but I like letting you go even less. We could send Captain Ruediger, I suppose.”

“If we can resolve this without anyone else getting killed, I think we should make the attempt,” Grant repeated patiently. “And so we must at least try to negotiate. Jenkins is old enough to carry a message and take care of himself; he was old enough to enlist, after all. If either one of us goes down there Brown’s men could be tempted to take us hostage. That would be… embarrassing to the government.”

“Jenkins is young enough to be my son, or yours,” Sherman riposted, then shrugged. “We could lose a lot of men if we don’t know what we’re up against; that’s certain. Poor deluded fools are like rats in a trap, Grant – they can’t get out. Ruediger has Marine sharpshooters spread out across the hill and there are enough civilians with rifles alongside them to close off any escape to the north or west. If they have any sense they’ll surrender.” He snorted. “If they had any sense they wouldn’t have come here in the first place.”

Grant nodded. “Here comes more company. I’ll speak to them if you’ll send for Jenkins and Ruediger.” The two Army officers had been conversing beside a tumbled-down shed of a sort, valuable now for the cover it would provide if a sniper at the armory should decide to test his aim. Sherman shrugged and set off for the campfire by the station.

A group of horsemen were trotting down Washington Street, seemingly oblivious to the danger that a sniper in the armory could pick them off like squirrels on a fence. Grant breathed a sigh of relief as they dismounted behind the half-burned ruins of a house and came up to his impromptu command post on foot.

“Lieutenant James Stuart, sir, First US Cavalry, on leave,” the leading man said, smiling through a thick, neatly trimmed black beard. “I heard of this affair last night and have come to offer my services.”

Grant smiled and opened his battered overcoat to show the blue tunic beneath. “Colonel Ulysses Grant, detached duty. Colonel William Sherman is down the hill, yonder. We came up from Washington with a company of Marines.”

Stuart clicked through a perfect salute, his two companions matching his motions with less grace. “Colonel Grant, may I have the honor to present Captain Thomas Butler and Lieutenant Phillip Tunstall of the 3rd Virginia Infantry, a company of which will be coming up the road behind us in the afternoon.”

Grant snapped off an answering salute and everyone relaxed. “Sherman told me the militia would be here. I am glad to see you gentlemen, make no mistake about that. As you have seen, the town was damaged by fire yesterday, and the inhabitants are now in the hills behind you. Perhaps you passed some of them on your way here? The bandits number a few score, I am told, certainly less than fifty, and they have taken refuge in the arsenal works. Their leader is John Brown.”

That name brought forth imprecations from the three Virginians to the effect that they wished Brown a painful death. Grant made no direct answer to this but instead continued with his briefing. “As Brown’s men are securely pinned down in the arsenal and have no prospect of escape by day, we propose to send an officer under a flag of parley to demand their surrender. If they will not see reason, the officer will conclude the parley and give a signal, at which the Marines will storm the building through the open door. As the doors are very strong, and likely chained shut, some subterfuge is necessary to get them open.”

Stuart grinned, changing from sober man to mischievous boy in an instant. “I will do it!” he cried. “Tell me you have not promised the honor to another, Colonel!”

Grant inclined his head. “I believe we should go speak to Colonel Sherman.”

Stuart paused. “I confess I must inquire who might be the superior officer, sir? I apologize deeply for my ignorance.”

“I say he is, and he thinks I am,” Grant muttered. “So far we’re just working it out.”
 
Lieutenant Stuart walked slowly across the street, carrying a piece of a white bedsheet tied to a short pole. It was just past mid-morning and the sun’s heat was penetrating into the deep valleys along the rivers, warming the stones without much affecting the pools of colder air in the shrinking shade. The rivers chuckled expectantly, as bullies do when anticipating a cruel joke; aside from that, the town was silent. Thin wisps of smoke still curled from ash-piles that had been houses two short days ago, and a smell of burning clung to everything.

The town was silent; not even birds sang in the trees. Elegant cavalry boots crunched in the dust gravel of Washington Street – or was it Potomac? Stuart had been told but could not remember; his concentration was entirely focused on the taking of slow, short steps, on keeping his crude parley flag clearly visible, and on the door ahead. From the raised curb by the burned-out hulks of buildings to the dirty-gray arsenal walls was at least thirty feet of hard-packed soil and gravel, but to Stuart it seemed wider than the river beyond. He heard the shouts of the sentries, then the running feet of men answering the alarm. The windows in the side of the buildings were tightly shuttered but he had no doubt they could be thrown open at a moment’s notice, freeing the men behind to pour out a fusillade. It was useless to wonder if those brigands were armed, situated as they were in one of the largest stores of muskets in North America.

Just ahead now was his goal, a pair of doors in a rounded archway. His slow, careful steps ceased and he stood for a moment, feeling somewhat foolish. If the brigands did not understand that he had come to negotiate… But there, someone was calling out. Stuart brought his free hand to his ear. “What? I cannot hear you. I have come to offer terms, if you care to hear them.” To the shouted reply Stuart merely cupped his ear again and shrugged. Whether he could actually make out what they were saying was immaterial; the doors must open.

Instead a small window banged open. “Careful, there,” Stuart shouted. “We shall want our factory back unharmed, you know.” That sally brought a brief murmur of nervous laughter from the men inside.

“What do you offer?” A man’s voice, deep and rough. Not a trained speaker.

“I’m not disposed to stand here in the street and be shouted at,” Stuart said equably, pitching his voice a bit softer than usual. “I give you my word of honor as an officer and a gentleman that I am here to offer honorable terms.”

The window slammed shut. Voices argued heatedly. Stuart wished he had brought a canteen of water. Brandy would be better, but that was for later… should there be a later. These fools didn’t seem disposed to do anything but argue amongst themselves. He filled his lungs. “Halloo! You there! If you won’t talk, I’m not standing here in the street!” He turned to go.

As if on cue there was a clang as the crossbar hit the ground and a groan as the doors swung open. The open space of the arsenal was a black mouth beyond, unrelieved save where the sunlight cut wedges of light into the dusty floor. “Come on in, then,” the voice bellowed. A tiny smile concealed by the curls of his beard. Stuart turned and strode forward to the doorframe before halting.

“Now we can hear each other,” he said with casual cheer. “May I ask to whom I should address my comments?”

“First you want to come in, then you don’t,” the voice rasped. A man moved forward a step, not far enough into the doorway to be a target. “If you’ve come to speak, you may do so.”

“He should be taken to B… to the old man,” another argued. Stuart sensed this was the root of the earlier argument.

“I will gladly speak to John Brown,” he said, and noted the ripple of consternation when he said the name. “It is no secret to us who is here, or why. It is no revelation to you that you cannot escape. No slave rebellion has occurred, and no-one is coming to rescue you.”

“Enter, then, and speak us,” the other growled.

“Gladly. But the doors must remain open while I am inside. If they close it will signal that I am your prisoner, and all negotiations will cease. You will be starved out, if no other means will serve.”

“Bah. We fear nothing from you. Enter, and upon my word you shall be safe herein so long as you do not seek to harm us.”

Taking a deep, and as he hoped an unobtrusive, breath, Stuart strode determinedly forward. He was instantly flanked by two men with pistols, but he ignored them, staring straight ahead and allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. His escorts hurried him down long halls lined with incomprehensible machinery, bulky things that vanished into the gloom of the ceiling and merged into piles of materials at the verges. Baulks of timber, barrels of chemicals, rosins and tar, piles of cordage and heaps of hemp bagging were seemingly everywhere. At last they approached another double door, this one at the end of the mill house rather than at the side. The short distance to the next building had been secured by crates and stacks of timber; there was no chance a man passing through could be hit by a sniper on the hills above.

The next building was no better lit, for the few windows were tiny and set very high overhead, but even in the dimness Stuart could tell it was a warehouse for the finished product and not a continuation of the rifle works. Rough pine crates were piled head-high or higher, in even blocks separated by cross-passages. Here in the main hall were the personal belongings that had been missing in the rifle works; Brown and his men had forted up first in the warehouse, which lacked the vulnerable ground-level windows of the larger manufactory. Here, crates had been arranged into a crude throne, the splintery pine covered in blankets. Seated on it was a man of slight stature but impressive mien, with burning eyes staring from hollowed sockets above a mouth clenched in determination. Stuart did not doubt for an instant that this was indeed John Brown.

The negotiations were swift; Stuart proposed that the raiders should immediately quit the facility in exchange for their lives and Brown immediately rejected the idea of surrender. Left to themselves, or approached in less public circumstances, Stuart thought the old man’s followers would have been glad to quit the game. But none of them would break ranks with him, and while Stuart despised their cause he admired their stubborn devotion.

The return to the entrance took more time than the discussion. At the door, Stuart removed his hat and wiped his brow with a bright red kerchief. Replacing the hat, he turned to his escort and said, “I suppose this parley to be over. Is that how you see it?” And when the other man nodded, Stuart slugged him as hard as he could, a vicious right jab to the jaw, and threw himself at the doorman. Their surprise lasted just long enough for the Marines to burst from cover and come pounding across the street; just long enough for Stuart to go down in a heap under three other men, hat flying. Scattered shots rang out and Marines went down, but it was not enough to stop their charge into the building. Laying about them with truncheons and cutlasses they quickly overpowered the defenders. The few who escaped were hotly pursued down the lanes between machines.

Once Brown’s men had been removed from the pile atop Stuart, two Marines helped him to his feet. Despite his wounds, including a bullet hole in the muscle of one arm, Stuart was in gleeful good spirits. “We have them!” he boasted. “As neat a trick as I ever did…”

From outside the arsenal came shouts; from inside it the drumming of urgent feet as Marines came back in full retreat, screaming, ‘Fire!” Stuart blocked one side of the doorway while fresh-faced Captain Ruediger stopped the other. “Rally on me,” the Marine cried. “All Marines must rally!” Then Sherman came through the door at a run, flanked by Grant. “Ruediger – take your men outside, find the fire pumps, but leave me a dozen! You men – follow me!” And away they went, back into the gloom of the machinery house, from the end of which could be seen a flickering glow.

Grant paused long enough to grab Stuart by the arm. “Are you injured?”

“No more than a scratch, sir.”

“You’ve done well! Go and get that tended to.”

“I can still run faster than you, sir,” Stuart laughed, and then they were off, the short-legged Grant giving a surprisingly good account of himself. At the end of the building the doors were open into the warehouse beyond, which was now filled with a roaring fire, fueled by the raw pine of the musket crates. Sherman and the Marines were dragging flammables away from the doors while outside another group was dragging hoses to connect to hand-powered pumps. Grant pulled up when he saw the inferno beyond, but Stuart dove in, emerging soon after with the smouldering body of John Brown slung across his shoulders.



In the end, the warehouse was lost but the rifle works and the powder magazine were both saved. Virginia Governor John Letcher arrived by train once the telegraph was restored, and angrily demanded that Brown and his men be turned over to him for trial in a Virginia court. Sherman and Grant resisted his hectoring, insisting instead that the offenses had occurred on federal property and that therefore the federal government should have jurisdiction. A peremptory telegram from Attorney General Douglas decided the issue: Brown, no matter how badly burned, must be removed to Washington, DC for trial. Should he somehow be acquitted, Virginia could then take issue with him over the destruction of private property in Harpers Ferry.

The trial was swiftly arranged and conducted, with Chief Justice Roger Taney presiding and all of the pertinent parties on hand to bear witness. It was soon apparent that Brown had no intention of trying to prove his innocence, instead sitting quietly through the short proceedings. After the sentencing – death – he made a short statement, and was then led back to his cell to await his execution. Other survivors of the raid, barely a dozen, would also be sentenced to die. The sentences were carried out scarcely five days later, the men being hung by the neck until dead from a gibbet erected at the Navy Yard.

In Virginia, Governor Letcher pronounced himself, ‘well satisfied, both with the firmness and promptness of the federal government.’ The reaction to Brown’s raid, trial and death in New England, however, was one of incredulity, revulsion and horror. Said Henry David Thoreau:

A man does a brave and humane deed, and at once, on all sides, we hear people and parties declaring, "I didn't do it, nor countenance him to do it, in any conceivable way. It can't be fairly inferred from my past career." I, for one, am not interested to hear you define your position. I don't know that I ever was or ever shall be. I think it is mere egotism, or impertinent at this time. Ye needn't take so much pains to wash your skirts of him. No intelligent man will ever be convinced that he was any creature of yours. He went and came, as he himself informs us, "under the auspices of John Brown and nobody else."

I wish I could say that Brown was the representative of the North. He was a superior man. He did not value his bodily life in comparison with ideal things. He did not recognize unjust human laws, but resisted them as he was bid. For once we are lifted out of the trivialness and dust of politics into the region of truth and manhood. No man in America has ever stood up so persistently and effectively for the dignity of human nature, knowing himself for a man, and the equal of any and all governments. In that sense he was the most American of us all. He needed no babbling lawyer, making false issues, to defend him. He was more than a match for all the judges that American voters, or office-holders of whatever grade, can create. He could not have been tried by a jury of his peers, because his peers did not exist.


Scarcely one week later a furtive, cloaked figure was led from a carriage through a side entrance to the White House, bringing with him news of desperate urgency.
 
Well that was a much quicker resolution to the 'rebellion' than I had anticipated....Very nicely done. I had expected more of a bloodbath with Grant and Sherman around...But it was handled with more diplomacy and aplomb than I had anticipated...Good thing Stuart had the marines nearby...that red kerchief was the perfect signal. Brown's revolt now being put down, the union can fully turn it's attention to the Confederacy...
 
Scarcely one week later a furtive, cloaked figure was led from a carriage through a side entrance to the White House, bringing with him news of desperate urgency.
I hate cliffhangers...
 
Brown as a bit quieter than I would have expected, but otherwise excellent. I've always wondered how Thoreau and his like would have regarded Brown had they met him.

Now you've left me wondering again, D. Naughty.

Vann
 
Fulcrumvale said:
I hate cliffhangers...
I do believe our beloved Directly is taking a page out of Storey's book. It seems to be just the thing that paramount practitioner of the cliffhanger might do.

A smoothly done thing, which should play well in at least some of the South. Whether this will have enough beneficial impact though is very difficult to say. And of course, New England is already a little restless.
 
Now I've managed to catch up with this AAR, I can actually comment. The "action sequence" at Harper's Ferry was a nice change of pace from the politicking. I see Jeb Stuart made it in time to (almost) play his historical role. Interesting that in your timeline John Brown chooses to make his move in 1861, with Virginia trembling on the brink of succession, rather than in 1859 when it still looked possible that the South would keep its hold on the Federal government for another cycle. Maybe he thought that the formation of the Confederacy would be the trigger for the popular uprising against slavery he was hoping for. In another man I'd suspect he was trying to push Virginia into succession, but that's not John Brown's way (or was someone playing him?)

Either way, it's all too realistic that the Raid has simply pushed the sides further apart. The gap has become too wide for anyone to bridge - the Federal government has moved swiftly and decisively to put down an anti-slavery rebellion - and the South still grumbles that Washington is too soft on the anti-slavers, while the Northern hardliners make a martyr of the rebel.

The one thing I can't quite grasp yet is what Frost's plan actually is. Sure, she finds the South more sympathetic (as I suspect Makearne does too), but she has to know how weak they are (militarily, worse off than in her home timeline, when they lost). And if she can somehow arrange a Southern victory, what then? Even the most fire-eating of Confederates doesn't want to conquer the North (it's hard to say, actually, what they did want, beyond the circular objective of promoting slavery to reinforce southern exceptionalism, and insisting on southern privileges in order to defend slavery), and it would be militarily impossible anyway. Or is Frost simply using the Rebellion as a lever to destabilise the US?