John Brown the Hero: Personal Reminiscences :: XVI The Osawatomie Battle

XVI The Osawatomie Battle

THE engagement at Sugar Mound (also called Middle Creek) took place on Monday, the 25th of August. Five days later, on Saturday, August 30th, was fought the really famous battle of Osawatomie, the Bunker Hill of the Kansas struggle.

In the early dawn of that day some four hundred of the enemy, well mounted and equipped,—with their bayonets glistening in the morning sun,—bore down upon the devoted town and its stanch defenders. There, in that day's notable battle, John Brown showed that he possessed real military talent. In this case he was acting on the defensive, and manifested coolness and caution equal in effectiveness to the dash and daring displayed on other occasions.

To our settlement on the South Pottawatomie, the same thing occurred on this memorable occasion as on the earlier one already described. A rider came up the creek twenty miles, asking for our aid.

This time the messenger was sent by Brown himself, and there was a similar ready and willing response to the call, even though we had so lately arrived home. There was the same eager hurrying to and fro to get our force together, the same quick preparations, hasty leave-taking, setting out at dusk, and the like night-march. We made all possible haste to the rescue.Before midnight, however, when we had covered only half the distance to our friends in distress, a scout met us with unwelcome news, which, to our dismay, ran: "Battle at Osawatomie, John Brown killed, Free State men defeated, and the town burned to ashes." Moreover, our informant thought it probable that the victors were on their way to lay waste our settlement.

The only thing now to be done was to return to our homes, and to make ready, if the need came, to defend them. One prior thing it was decided it would surely be well to do, namely: dispatch two scouts to our friends at the scene of disaster and get accurate information of their fate or fortune.

The choice fell upon the two brothers, the writer and his older brother, and for the reason (comforting to them) that, being the youngest men, with none dependent upon them, their loss, were they killed, would be less to the community than the loss of older men. And besides, one of them was good at "finding the way" and the other had won a reputation for extra courage and trustiness in emergencies. We were assigned, to say the least, a rather delicate and hazardous duty, and probably there were few men in the company that night anxious or willing to undertake it.

Bidding our comrades adieu, we mounted two of our best horses and proceeded on through the night. Being obliged, for safety, to avoid both the "open" and the main road, we could make our way but slowly, and so did not reach the vicinity of Osawatomie till daylight. We kept in hiding during the day, spying around the city of desolation and trying to learn of the presence of foes or if any of our friends were still alive. After nightfall we cautiously approached the log-cabin on the outskirts of the town, where, if anywhere, we knew we should most likely find friends. It was the home of the Adairs, relatives of John Brown.

There we learned from them the story of recent events. Captain Brown had not been killed, as was reported, though he was wounded; but there in that humble cottage, folded in the embrace of death, lay one of his sons, the tall, handsome Frederick Brown, as noble-looking as he was noble of soul, the fourth of that now historic band of six hero-sons, worthy scions of their hero-father.

As the Pro-slavery invaders were marching into Osawatomie, two of their scouts, at some distance from the town, met this son of Brown with a companion named Garrison, and in cold blood, without provocation, shot down the unarmed men. Their whole force of four hundred or more horsemen then trampled over the bodies, leaving them to lie there all day in the hot August sun.

Late that same night, Sunday evening, as we lingered in conversation with the family, the old father, having learned of the death of his son, returned to take a last look at his remains. Here again, surely, was a scene for a painter, in that lowly cabin that night. If a picture of it, as those bright young eyes saw it in all its realistic setting and color, could have been faithfully depicted on the artist's canvas, and thus preserved for us to-day, it could not fail to be of more than common historic interest.

Interior of the Adair Log Cabin.As Brown bent over the lifeless form of his boy, there was not a word of complaint from his lips, nor any look of revenge on his face,—only deep, silent grief, and falling tears, and humble submission to the Almighty will. Then he hurried away to the morrow's duty, after expressing his wishes as to the disposal of the remains of his son.

Yes, one thing more, doubtless. He carried away in his heart that night a deeper abhorrence of the institution which had virtually inspired the blow and aimed the bullet that had ended that young life. The scene in that lowly cabin that night was to remain, at any rate, ineffaceable in the memory of the few who were witnesses to it.

On the opposite page is given an interior view of the Adair log-cabin, taken while Mr. Adair was still living, and representing him sitting in his accustomed chair in the main room of the house,—the room where lay the body of Brown's son, Frederick, and where the father sadly viewed it.

The battle of Osawatomie was surely a remarkable engagement. Brown, with a handful of men hastily gathered together and placed in position, kept long at bay more than ten times their number. The stand was made in the edge of the timber, on the near bank of the river. "There," said Brown modestly in his account of the battle, "we had exceptional opportunity to annoy the enemy."

The first onslaught of their foes, who marched gaily as if to sure victory, was met by a steady, determined fire from Brown and his men, so destructive as to make the ranks of their assailants reel, break, and then hastily retreat. Again and yet again they re-formed their broken lines, and renewed the attack, suffering terrible punishment each time, till their leaders could rally them no longer.

At that time the gallant little band of defenders, out of ammunition and with their ranks sadly thinned, thought it wise to retire across the river. Their foes, crippled and shattered, had no heart to follow, and the battle ended. It only remained for spite and revenge to find vent in the burning of the town.

We need not recite details here; they are matters of history. And yet some uncertainty has hung over that engagement. The invaders, in the chagrin and shame of their more than failure, proceeded to conceal or falsify the facts. And never was there greater temptation to falsification. The certainty of Brown's annihilation at their hands they had loudly trumpeted beforehand, but their own defeat had occurred instead.

The account of the battle written soon after by Brown to his family was near to the truth, and is borne out by all reliable testimony. About thirty of the assailants were killed, and the usual ratio of wounded would be some seventy-five or eighty.

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