John Brown’s passion matched his.
“And when I rode down into the marshes of Kansas it was an attack! You did not condemn then! Here we merely force our way through a passage!”
“This is treason! This is insurrection! This is war! I am not with you!”
The old man’s voice cut like a whip.
“So! You have escaped so far from slavery that you do not care! You have carried the scars upon your back into high places, so you have forgotten. You prate of treason! You are afraid to face a gun!”
Douglass cried out in anguish. “John! John! For God’s sake, stop!”
He stumbled away, sank down on a rock and buried his face in his hands. Some time later he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and Brown’s voice, softened and subdued, came to him.
“Forgive an old man, son.”
Douglass took the hand in his and pressed it against his face. The old man’s hand was rough and knotty, but it was very firm.
“This is no time for soft words or for oratory,” he said. “We have a job to do. Years ago I swore it—that I would do my part. God has called me to lift his crushed and suffering dark children. Twenty-five years have gone by making plans. Now unless I move quickly all of these years will have been spent in vain. I will take this fort. I will hold this pass. I will free the slaves!”