No one was expecting the haggard dark man who descended from the train at North Elba. He could not find a driver to take him up to John Brown’s house. But from the livery stable he secured a horse. And so he rode up through the Indian Pass gorge, between two overhanging black walls, and came out under tall, white clouds above wine-colored mountains rising in a blue mist. And there beside a still, green pool, reflecting a white summit in its depths, he saw the house, with its abandoned sawmill.
Mrs. Brown exhibited no surprise when he stood before her. Her husband’s strength sustained her now. John Brown and the sons that she had borne were no longer hers. They belonged to all the peoples of the world. She greeted Frederick Douglass with a smile.
“I’ve been expecting you. Come in, my friend.” She talked quietly, transmitting to him John Brown’s final words and admonitions. Then she rose. “He left something for you.”
“Oh—John!” Until that moment he had listened without interrupting, his eyes on the woman’s expressive face. The words broke from him unbidden.
At her gesture, he followed her up the bare stairs and into the bedroom that had been hers and John Brown’s. The roof sloped down; he had to stoop a little, standing beside her before the faded, furled flag and rusty musket in the corner. She nodded her head, but could not speak.
“For me?” Douglass’ words came in a whisper.
“He wanted you to have them.” She had turned to the chest of drawers and handed him an envelope.
“He sent this in one of my letters. I was to give it to you when you came.”
His hands were trembling as he drew forth the single white sheet on which were written two lines.
“I know I have not failed because you live. Go forward, and some day unfurl my flag in the land of the free. Farewell.” And then was sprawled, “John Brown.”