From The Lost Notebook of Mary Day Brown, Elba, New York, late evening, December 6, 1859
(5 days after the hanging of my husband John Brown.)
This morning they began to arrive. First one
in a small wagon, his young son
beside him. Then an entire
family, three children, father
mother, grandmother.
Even some we had
helped on to Canada. I stood
in my doorway, as the tract around the house
filled with horses, wagons, those who
had walked. Mr. Epps was nearby,
Mr. Riddick, silent as always.
I will not weep.
All day, the crowd grew, many wearing black armbands,
mostly the negroes & there were
hundreds—& a number
of whites as well. There was little talk. Whispers
as someone moved to make room.
Dusk settled upon us; campfires flared—
huge stars, the ground
a hard sky. Somewhere, someone
began to sing:
My Lord what a Morning
My Lord What a Morning
Oh My Lord, what a Morning
when the stars begin to fall.
People stood, swaying, firelight flickering.
It was a song well known,
their voices came together, a keening sound.
A sole harmonica,
far back in the crowd. I could hear the horses snorting,
the rustle of animals in the woods.
The words, no, the feeling inside the words, for him, made
me tremble. I had to sit. His chair,
where he liked to rest
as the sun went down.