They set out together, stopping over in New York City with a Reverend James Glocester. Upon hearing where they were going, Mrs. Glocester pressed ten dollars into Douglass’ hand.
“Give it to Captain Brown, with my best wishes,” she said.
They sped southward past the waving, green fields and big, white farms of prosperous Dutch farmers. Douglass sat by the window with his massive head sunk forward, not looking out. Then the train curved into the Blue Ridge Mountains where the pine-covered hills begin, and stopped at Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. The first man at the depot whom they asked directed them to Watson, the barber.
He stood looking after the two Negroes as they strode down the platform.
“Damned if they don’t walk like they own the earth!” he grunted.
Watson called to his boy when they stepped into his shop. He took them to his house, where his wife greeted the great Frederick Douglass and his friend with much fluttering.
“Make yourselves at home,” said the barber. “As soon as it is dark I will drive you out to the old stone quarry. That’s the place, but we must wait until dark.”
They left the wagon and its driver on the road and climbed up to the quarry. All about them the rocks loomed like great stone faces in the moonlight. And when John Brown stepped out of the shadows, it was as if a rock had moved toward them. His old clothes, covered with dust; his white hair and hard-cut face, like granite in the moonlight; his strained, worn face with the two burning coals that were his eyes. Douglass’ heart missed a beat. Something was very wrong.
“What is it, John Brown? What has happened?”
The old man looked at him without speaking. He studied the brown face almost as if he had not seen it before. Then he spoke briefly.