One night in January, 1858, Douglass was working late in the shop. The house was still, locked in the hard fastness of a winter night. Outside, great slow white flakes were falling, erasing the contours of the street beneath a blanket that rounded every eave, leveled fences and walks, and muffled every sound. But he heard the light tapping on the window pane and instantly put out the light. There must be no light to throw shadows when he opened the door upon one of his fugitives. But even without a light he recognized the muffled figure.
“John Brown!” Douglass’ low voice sang a welcome.
He drew him in and brushed the snowflakes off. He lit the lamp with hands that trembled. Then he turned and looked at this man who had proved that he hated slavery more than he loved his life, his good name, or his sons. Even the little flesh he used to have was burned away. Yet one could see that all his bones were granite, and bright within the chalice of his mortal frame his spirit shone, unquenchable.
“You’re safe, John Brown!” It was a ridiculous thing to say, and John Brown rewarded him with one of his rare smiles—the smile few people knew he had, with which he always won a child.
“Yes, Douglass, now I am free to carry out my mission.”
Douglass’ heart missed a beat. John Brown had not sought him out as a fugitive, he had not come to his house to hide away—not John Brown!
“Frederick is dead.”
The words came with blunt finality, but a spasm of pain distorted the old man’s face.
“Oh, John! John!”
Douglass gently pushed him into the armchair, knelt at his feet, pulled off the heavy boots, then hurried away to bring him food. He ate as one does whose body is starving, gulping down unchewed mouthfuls with the warm milk.