Sure enough, John Brown is condemned to the hangman’s noose. Rosalie was quite wrong to think no white man would die to bring about the end of slavery.

—

On November 19th, at about six p.m., Virginia governor Henry Wise receives an urgent telegram from the colonel tasked with guarding Brown. Five hundred soldiers must be sent immediately to Charlestown as an armed force of abolitionists is marching to Brown’s rescue. It seems the North admires the man. Several Northern states have petitioned for mercy.

Wise has been smarting for weeks over the fact that he and his state militia were not the ones to retake the armory. He blames President Buchanan for not informing him immediately of the attack. He plans on being the next Democratic nominee for the presidency. That battle would have been just the thing.

But now he has this second chance. Within the hour, the bells in Capitol Square have rung the muster and the militias are gathering. So is the rest of the city. Crowds line the streets, cluster at the telegraph offices and the train depot. Another three hundred abolitionists are added to the rumored army. All is confusion and chaos, marching bands and waving handkerchiefs. One thing is clear. The theaters will be mostly empty this evening. All of Richmond is out to see the militias off. And this is the moment when John enters the story.

—

He tells Asia all about it when next he visits. It’s been a long time since she’s seen him so excited and also so serious about anything. Mostly he’s just her brother, but occasionally Asia really looks at him. How can Jean resist? He’s so handsome, his bright eyes, his animated face. “It’s a wonderful thing,” he says, “to be right in the middle of something so momentous. To feel that you’ve touched history and history has touched you.” Asia can see what he’s feeling though she’s never felt it herself. When has she ever touched history?

Outside, it’s dark and the wind is loud. Sleeper is at the theater, Rosalie and Mother have gone to bed. Asia had also retired, but then risen again as she’s being kicked and punched from the inside and can’t sleep. She finds John downstairs, sitting in the lamplight of the parlor, his hands cupped behind his head. His face is a harlequin mask, half lit, half dark.

She and John haven’t had a moment alone together so she doesn’t begrudge her lack of sleep. She lies on the sofa, stretching out to give the baby more room. The thought of her as a mother makes John laugh—she can’t imagine why nor can she say exactly why she likes his amusement. Maybe it’s his insistence on seeing her as the same person she’s always been.