At eight o'clock on Sunday night, the sixteenth of October, 1859, John Brown drove his one-horse wagon to the door of the rude log house in which he had hidden with his disciples for four months.
It was a damp, chill evening of mid fall. Heavy rain clouds obscured the stars and not a traveler ventured along the wind-swept roads. From the attic were loaded into the wagon crowbars, sledge hammers, iron pikes and oil-soaked faggots.
The crowbars and sledge hammers might be used on the gates or doors. There could be no doubt about the use to which the leader intended to put the pikes and torches.
When the wagon had been loaded the old man summoned his faithful son,
Owen.
"Captain Owen Brown," the steel voice rang, "you will take private Barclay Coppoc and F.J. Merriam and establish a guard over this house as the headquarters of our expedition. Hold it at all hazards. You are guarding the written records of our work, the names of associates, the reserves of our arms and ammunition. We will send you reinforcements in due time."
Owen saluted his commander and the two privates under his command took their places beside him.
Brown waved to the eighteen men standing around the wagon.
"Get on your arms, and to the Ferry!"
They had been ready for hours, eager for the Deed. Not one among them in his heart believed in the wisdom of this assault, yet so grim was the power of Brown's mind over the wills of his followers, there was not a laggard among them.
Brown drove the wagon and led the procession down the pitch-black road toward the town. The men fell in line two abreast and slowly marched behind the team.