Abel Bowman barely noticed the low, angry rumble of distant thunder. Picking idly with his fork at the meal of corn mush, mashed plums, and strips of buffalo jerky that his mother had managed to scrape together, he made his decision.

“Ma, I can do it, and I’m going to do it. Will you just stop fretting?”

Abel was sick of being coddled like a five-year-old. Enough of being cooped up in his family’s one-room log cabin on the windswept, northeastern Kansas prairie outside town. The time had come for a change in his life—a big one.

Eyes flashing, Ma glared at him from across the table. “I’m telling you, I just don’t like the sound of it. Dan, you really gonna let your son go along with those men?”

Abel’s father put his spoon down slowly. Surprisingly, instead of launching into his usual fit of temper, he reached over and placed his hand on his wife’s forearm.

“It’s all right, Kate. The boy’s sixteen, built like he’s twenty. High time we let ’im do a man’s duty.”

Ma jerked her arm away. “Don’t see how a ‘man’s duty’ calls for participating in this kind of nonsense. Honestly, Dan, I can’t help thinking this Mr. Brown fellow’s up to no good, regardless of all his highfalutin words and ideas. You really want Abel to help him and his sons out tonight?”

Abel rolled his eyes and gawked at his father in exasperation. Ma just never knew when to stop. But tonight, for once, it was clear Pa had no intention of allowing himself to be rattled by her constant second-guessing.

“I’ve told you before, Kate,” he said softly, “and I’ll tell you again. There’s not one boy wanting to become a man in this Kansas Territory who can sit at home, doing nothing in the face of all we seen happen around here lately. And no boy who’ll know what to do without someone like Mr. Brown teaching him.”

Pa couldn’t have put it better, Abel thought. His family—like many others in Kansas who opposed slavery and wanted to see the Territory admitted to the Union as a free state—was living constantly on the edge of fear. It had been that way ever since the proslavery Border Ruffians from neighboring Missouri had begun infiltrating the Territory a couple of years ago. The Ruffians were happy to put their vicious methods on display for all to see. And according to Pa, there was only one man in the local area showing any real willingness to stand tall for the Free-Staters in opposing their intimidation: Mr. John Brown, the strange, new neighbor who’d recently arrived from New England to support his five sons who had settled earlier in the area.

“Well, that may be,” Ma retorted, “but you know those Ruffians aren’t likely to take kindly to Free-Stater boys trying to become men with Mr. Brown’s help.”

Abel slammed his hand down on the table. “Ma, you can’t keep on protecting me forever! I can fend for myself now.” He uttered a foul word—under his breath, or so he thought.

“You watch your language, young man!” Ma hollered. “And don’t act so cocksure of yourself. You want to end up like those poor boys from Lawrence?”

Abel sat back in his chair, folded his arms, and sighed. On that point, he knew his mother had some good reason for concern. The Bowmans and other local families had been shocked at the reports received two days ago from the nearby city. Not only had a Ruffian-led gang burned down two abolitionist newspaper offices and the house of the city’s Free-Stater militia leader, but there were rumors that they’d also seized and cruelly bullwhipped two local teenage boys they claimed were somehow trying to interfere. Shouting racial slurs and other obscenities, they’d then rampaged through the town, threatening even worse consequences to come for antislavery proponents. No question, the Ruffians were not the ordinary breed of local troublemakers.

Pa took up the defense. “That’s exactly the problem, Kate. Unless somebody faces up to them, Abel and other Free-Stater boys like him’ll always be trembling in their boots every time a Ruffian happens to cross their path. And up to now, we all know Mr. Brown’s the only one around here who’s seemed willing and able to confront those thugs, talk sense, and put the fear of God in ’em. We all heard him speak at the rally last Saturday, dressing down that proslavery idiot. There isn’t anybody who can talk to people of that ilk like John Brown can, I guarantee it.”

“Well then,” Ma shot back, “why can’t we just let Mr. Brown and his people take care of the Ruffians themselves, without our Abel’s help?”

“Because, Kate, there comes a time when Free-Stater families can’t just sit back and let others do our unpleasant work for us. It just ain’t right.”

Pa pushed his chair back and rose slowly and painfully from the table. Favoring the badly healed leg wound he’d received in the Mexican–American War, he hobbled over to the hearth. He refilled his mug with hot coffee from the smaller kettle, then sat down again in his high-backed rocking chair by the cabin’s single window.

Abel watched his father closely while his mother, clearly unhappy with her husband’s view of the situation, clanked the dishes together and carried them to the washtub.

To an extent, he could understand her reaction. It wasn’t like Pa to express such confidence in the capabilities of a man he’d met only once—at last month’s outdoor supper hosted by the local Baptist church where, years before, in response to the fire and brimstone warnings of the visiting preacher and a strong sense of God’s call on his heart, young Abel had come to believe and trust in Christ as his Lord and Savior. Yet here Pa was now, staring serenely out the window at the gathering evening storm, expecting the imminent arrival of that same man to shepherd Abel—his only child—on a potentially dangerous mission involving some kind of “discussions” with a couple of local proslavery families.

On the other hand, who could deny that Pa had plenty of army experience in judging the characters and abilities of his superior officers? There was no doubt he’d carefully considered Brown’s qualifications in that light and had judged him positively. Otherwise, he would never have agreed to Abel’s involvement.

Besides, hadn’t Mr. Brown assured Pa yesterday that tending some horses during the discussions would be Abel’s only required support task? Abel would be back by tomorrow night, safe and sound. His parents could then rest proudly, knowing they’d contributed their son’s services to a worthy cause, a “God-ordained purpose,” according to Mr. Brown. Abel could also rest knowing he’d taken a big step toward becoming the kind of man he’d always wanted to be: a man of courage and conviction, just like Pa. Yes, the rewards were clear … and he could hardly wait for this exciting mission to begin.

Lightning, followed by a loud clap of thunder, signaled the evening storm had nearly arrived. Seconds later, Abel nearly jumped out of his chair at the sound of the loud pounding at the cabin’s front door.

“He’s here,” Pa muttered as Ma folded her arms and stared at him coldly. “Go greet him, boy.”

Abel crossed the room. He lifted the latch and opened the door, recoiling at the sight of the tall, slightly stooped, narrow-shouldered man now standing in front of him with hat held politely in both hands. It wasn’t the man’s wiry, gaunt physique that sparked Abel’s reaction so much as his dark, severely chiseled face featuring a firmly set wide mouth and square jaw. Most unnerving of all were his piercing, steely blue-gray eyes that seemed to bore in on Abel with unwavering intensity.

Abel averted his own gaze, cowed to feel the very core of his soul probed by a man with such a stern, eagle-like countenance.

“Good evening, son.” John Brown’s deep, metallic voice sent a shiver down Abel’s spine. “Looks like we got us a storm brewing tonight. You ready to help us do the Lord’s appointed work?”

~~~

Abel stood at the edge of the clearing, twenty yards back from the cabin belonging to the first of the families on John Brown’s list to be visited tonight. A strong breeze off the Pottawatomie Creek blew suddenly through the surrounding woods, sparking a spasmodic trembling that coursed through his entire body. Strangely, the confidence and bravado he’d felt earlier this evening seemed to be fading quickly. Please, Mr. Brown, just hurry up and get this thing over with, before I turn chicken and bolt.

Brown knocked loudly on the cabin’s front door as the seven other men supporting tonight’s mission, including four of Brown’s adult sons, gathered close behind him, lanterns or pistols in hand. “Come on out now, Mr. Doyle. You and your boys.” His voice left no room for compromise.

Abel gripped the reins of the men’s horses and held his breath, praying for a quick and appropriate response from someone inside. It was nearly 11:00 p.m. God alone knew who or what the Doyles imagined was descending upon them at this odd hour.

Brown pounded once again.

No response. Things seemed too quiet, the silence broken only by residual drippings from the early evening storm and the haunting song of a distant whip-poor-will.

Finally: the sound of a bolt being lifted. The door cracked open.

“Who the hell are you to be botherin’ my family this time o’ night?” a grumpy voice snarled from behind the door.

“John Brown, Captain of the Northern Army. It’s the night of reckoning, Mr. Doyle, and we need to talk.”

“John . . . who? Oh, yeah, I heard ’bout you. You’re one o’ them New England abolitionists, ain’t ya? I can smell your type a mile off. I’m tellin’ ya now, mister, get off my property . . . ’fore I blow your rotten head off!”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to try that, Mr. Doyle,” Brown replied calmly. “We don’t want any trouble, but as you can see, we’re well prepared to defend ourselves.”

The door cracked open a bit wider for a moment, then it shut. A long pause ensued. Abel could hear what sounded like frantic voices arguing with each other inside the cabin. The door at last opened wide. Mr. Brown and three others barged their way inside. Less than a minute later, at gunpoint, James Doyle and three of his sons emerged one by one into the light of the lantern held by John Brown’s third-born son, Owen. As the Doyles stood together in front of the doorway, it occurred to Abel that he’d never seen such a drab, slovenly looking bunch.

“All right, now we’re all outside. So what exactly are you here for, Mr. Brown?” James asked, sounding far less cocky than before.

“Mr. Doyle,” Mr. Brown responded firmly, “you know good and well your irresponsible speech and actions have helped to heat up every proslavery settler and Border Ruffian in this area. Your sons have threatened Free-Staters with guns to keep them away from the polls. Because of people like you, God-fearing antislavery Kansas men are being murdered, their properties destroyed, and their wives and children threatened. All so you can ensure Kansas will become a state that keeps the colored man in chains and misery forever. For too long, Free-Staters have shied away from resisting. But that all ends tonight, Mr. Doyle. The Northern Army is here to take you prisoner.”

Doyle’s body stiffened. “Mister,” he spouted indignantly, “you got it all wrong. Me and my boys, we never threatened nobody. You talk like we’re some kind o’ rich plantation owners, runnin’ our slaves into the ground! Why, we’re just poor folk from Tennessee. Ain’t rich enough to own no slaves. And we sure don’t got time or interest to be baitin’ the antislavery crowd like you’re accusing us of. Right, boys?”

All three of Doyle’s sons nodded vigorously in wide-eyed unison.

Brown’s voice took on a harder edge. “You’re lying, sir, and you know it. It’s on record at the Lawrence courthouse that you and your sons are all members of the proslavery Law and Order Party and have participated in those recent voter intimidation actions by the Ruffians. Now accept your lot as our prisoners—come along without resisting, and you have my promise you won’t be hurt.”

Doyle cocked his head back as if momentarily confused, then looked at his sons and smiled resignedly. “Well, boys, Captain Brown here’s convinced he has something on us. Guess there’s no use for us trying to deny it.” Turning back toward Brown, Doyle bowed slightly with open arms. “All right, sir, fair ’nough. We surrender. Go ahead—take us prisoner, whatever the hell that means. But I guarantee, you’ll never get away with this. Every single Ruffian in this state’ll be hot on your tail within five seconds once word gets out we’re missing.”

Mr. Brown smiled pleasantly. “Why, thank you, Mr. Doyle. I was hoping you’d see it our way. And I’m so glad you admitted to your admiration for the Ruffians. That serves to confirm my accusations against you, doesn’t it? But don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you and see that you get a fair trial real soon. If the Ruffians find us, before that, so be it. We’ll deal with them as we need to. Now, gentlemen, it’s high time we all get going. Where are your horses, Mr. Doyle?”

“Left ’em grazin’ out on the prairie—back down the road a little ways, near the woods.”

“Let’s go find them, then. You’re going to need ’em.”

The men fell in line and began to walk past Abel, Mr. Brown in the lead followed by the Doyles, with the pistol-wielding Owen along with his three brothers and the rest of Brown’s men bringing up the rear.

“Just wait here with our own horses, son,” Mr. Brown said as he passed by with an oddly serene smile on his face. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

Abel nodded, breathing a sigh of relief that things were wrapping up so peacefully. A loud shriek caused him to jump and the other men to stop dead in their tracks.

“James Doyle, didn’t I tell you nothin’ good would come from the course you been takin’?” Doyle’s wife ran up to her husband and threw herself in his arms, pulling him aside and crying hysterically.

“Hush now, Mother, hush,” said Doyle softly. “Everything’ll be all right.” Cradling his wife, Doyle called out toward the front of the group, “Hey, Mr. Brown, got a question for you.”

Brown peered at him intently. “What’s that, sir?”

“What makes you New England do-gooders think you’re so much better than the rest of us?”

Abel’s jaw dropped. Was Doyle crazy, asking such a question in his position? He must be counting on Mr. Brown’s promise of good treatment.

Even in the dim moonlight, Abel could see Brown’s face contort. “Now what would make you ask such a thing, Mr. Doyle?”

Doyle kept gently stroking his wife’s back. “Guess it’s just that, try as I might, I can’t figure why you abolitionist people get so riled up over the s’posed bad treatment of slaves in the South, especially when I hear most northerners—even most Kansas Free-Staters—agree they’re an inferior breed. Only difference between North and South, far as I can tell, is the South offers steady, honest, hard work for ’em—work they’re good at when they’re not loafing or running off.”

“Your wrong, Mr. Doyle. As God created all men equal in his sight, the negro is not inferior. And regardless, the man who owns slaves certainly has no justification before God to mistreat them in the manner that the South has long been doing.”

“Well then,” Doyle retorted in a slightly mocking tone, “seein’ as we’re your prisoners, I sure am glad to confirm that we don’t own no slaves, so obviously we ain’t mistreating any. But if I did own some, I can assure you I wouldn’t hesitate to whip any lazy good-for-nothings every day if that’s what it took to make ’em do the work I was feeding and sheltering ’em to do. It’s only fair justice. That’s all I got to say, and I guarantee I ain’t afraid to tell it to whatever judge your takin’ us to.”

Abel felt the blood surge to his face. Come on, Mr. Brown, smash his face with your pistol butt!

Brown stared hard at Doyle, saying nothing for several seconds. “If that’s what you believe, Mr. Doyle, then let it be so,” he said finally. “Let’s go.”

Abel’s jaw dropped. That’s it? Mr. Brown’s gonna let that no-good yokel get away with talking like that?

Doyle’s wife, her face stricken with terror, pulled on her husband’s arm and whispered something in his ear. Whatever she’d said, he stared at her intently then nodded and patted her hand.

“All right, Mr. Brown, all right. We’ll go with you. Just one last question.”

“One last question? Then ask it, sir.”

For the first time, Doyle’s voice seemed to tremble slightly. “You believe in the Lord Jesus our Savior?”

Brown hesitated. “Yes, Mr. Doyle . . . I certainly do. Why do you ask?”

Doyle pulled his wife closer. “Well, if that’s the case, whatever sins you think me and my boys might be guilty of, I just hope you’ll remember Christ alone is our only righteous judge.”

Abel recoiled. A professing Christian? Seriously? He felt a momentary stab of guilt for wishing Doyle physical harm, even if the man’s views on slavery were obviously misguided and despicable. But why would Doyle be making such a point about Christ? Was it a manipulative appeal for understanding and leniency?

Mr. Brown gazed up at the sky and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, then returned his gaze to Doyle. “I have just prayed that the Lord will soon make his righteous judgment in this matter known to all of us, Mr. Doyle.”

Mrs. Doyle grabbed the arm of her youngest son. “Please, Mr. Brown, sir, let my boy John stay back here with me and my daughter. He’s only sixteen.”

Brown looked at the boy and smiled sympathetically. “Of course, ma’am. No need for every man from this house to lose more sleep than necessary tonight. Go with your mother, son.”

It was a kind gesture, Abel thought, as he watched Mrs. Doyle and her youngest son return to the house while the men resumed their walk off into the dark. Mr. Brown certainly seemed to have an admirable inclination for mercy.

Ten minutes passed. Abel continued to wait by the house as Mr. Brown had requested, holding the reins of the horses and wondering how much longer it would take the others to return with the Doyles’ steeds so they could all move on together. He glanced up through the branches at the half-moon that had suddenly emerged from behind some clouds. Bitter anger and frustration began to overwhelm him. Mercy had its limits. The Doyle men—especially the father, given his unrepentant, arrogant attitude—shouldn’t be getting off as easily as Mr. Brown was apparently planning.

Abel peered down the dark path. He noticed someone returning but couldn’t tell who. He blinked hard and squinted, but even that didn’t help. Whoever it was, they were running quickly and deliberately toward him.

Owen Brown’s excited voice crackled through the dark stillness. “Kid, tie the horses to the tree, quick—we need your help!”

“W-What? What’s goin’ on, Owen?”

Owen didn’t reply. He walked over to one of the horses that had a large burlap satchel attached to its saddle, reached in, and pulled something out. Abel gasped at his first sight of the two-foot-long, brass-hilted broadsword that gleamed in the moonlight. Owen held it up and ran his finger along one side of the double-edged blade.

“Having more trouble than we figured with the Doyles, Abel. Father says the Lord’s told him that the time has come—the inevitable war needs to begin. He said to ask if you’d be willing to help us teach the proslavery crowd a lesson. How about it, kid? Want to partake in the Northern Army’s first strike against the abomination of slavery?”

Abel gulped, his mind torn and his body trembling with a strange mixture of elation and dread over Owen’s proposal and his apparent means for carrying it out. He opened his mouth to reply but was unable to speak.

Owen seemed to recognize his dilemma. “There are times in history, kid,” he said softly, “when the evil in the land rises to such a level that God requires his true followers to confront it—without timidity and with no reservations. We’ve reached such a point.”

Abel looked down at the ground, scuffing it with his foot as he wrestled with Owen’s provocative words in light of what Abel knew from the Bible about the nature of God and Jesus. He recalled God describing himself as slow to anger, merciful, and abounding in love. And yet . . . had not even the loving Christ, in his righteous anger, violently overthrown the tables of the corrupt temple moneychangers and said to his followers that he had come not to bring peace, but a sword?

Owen shrugged impatiently. “What’s it going to be, Abel? I gotta get back now.”

Abel let out his pent-up breath. The time to prove himself, to stand tall and firm against the doers of evil, had come. He grinned weakly back at Owen. “I’ll help you, sir. What do I need to do?”

Owen reached into the satchel and pulled out two more broadswords, handing them to Abel. “Bring these along, just in case we need ’em to calm the Doyles down. The Lord’s Glory will be praised tonight, Abel!”

Abel gripped the two swords in his hands. Each felt like it weighed at least ten pounds. He swallowed hard, then started to follow Owen down the path. No more hanging back. He would aid the fight for a noble cause—as any real man should.

Yes, Abel thought, Owen’s right . . . the Lord’s Glory will be praised tonight, indeed!

Pa would be proud of him.

~~~

Three days later, after a long day planting corn and cotton in the field while his father went to town for supplies, Abel sat exhausted on the ground with his back propped against the outside wall of the cabin just beside the front door. He dreaded Pa’s return, knowing he’d probably be upset to have heard in town the first official accounts of what had happened last Saturday night.

Before long, Pa rode up, dismounted, and tied his horse to the rail. Sure enough, he had a newssheet with him, folded and tucked under his arm. Pa walked up and threw the paper into Abel’s lap. “Read that,” he said sternly.

It was one of the local proslavery publications. Abel unfolded the paper and read the short article just under the headline on the first page:

POTTAWATOMIE MASSACRE

Near midnight on May 24, the homes of three innocent Kansas families were invaded by an abolitionist gang bent on spreading their prejudiced message concerning the supposed evils of slavery in the most venomous fashion imaginable. The Doyle family men were the first victims to be murdered in cold blood, each suffering horrible wounds inflicted by heavy swords. James Doyle, the father, was found in the creek, stabbed through the chest and shot in the head. One of his sons had his fingers and arms severed and his skull split, apparently from trying to fend off blows. Another son had been stabbed through the head, jaw, and side. The other two families encountered similar fates. A total of five brave settlers lost their lives to the senseless violence of the abolitionist gang led by a man referred to as “Captain John Brown,” and which is still on the loose. More details will follow in the next edition.

Abel gulped and peeked up hesitantly at his father, fearing his reaction.

Pa’s face was like granite. “Like you said—you were just tending the horses, that’s all . . . right, son?”

Abel averted his eyes. The blood drained from his face as he tried to subdue the bile that begged to erupt from this throat. “Pa . . . I . . .”

“Right, son?”

“Of course, Pa. Did just what I was told.”

Pa nodded and smiled. “If that’s the case, then I’m proud of you, boy.” He brushed past Abel and went inside.

Abel closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. Finally forcing himself to rise, he walked to the small storage shed adjoining the barn and went inside. The light was dim, and he could barely see. He stood on his toes, reached up, and moved his hand along the top shelf at the rear of the shed, wondering whether Pa might have already discovered and—for Abel’s own good—removed what he was now searching for.

His hand found it . . . in exactly the same spot he’d laid it two nights ago after returning from the mission. He grasped the handle of the heavy, cold object and pulled it down from the shelf. Dried blood covered three-quarters of the blade; he’d never given a thought to washing it off before hiding it away. He moved his fingers along the blade’s edge, marveling at its sharpness.

Something about the feel of the handle caught his attention. He turned it over and noticed what appeared to be an engraving of some type that was difficult to make out in the darkness. Holding the heavy weapon’s blade with his left hand and the butt of the handle with his right, he raised it to the level of the room’s small, dirt-smeared window through which some late afternoon light barely managed to filter. The handle’s finely etched engraving suddenly came into clear focus:

GLORY.

 The word stared back at him like some divinely inspired inscription on the head of a tombstone. The third “letter,” artistically carved to appear as some sort of radiance-projecting human or divine eye, seemed to bore straight into his own with a message that made his heart want to burst with emotion.

Abel’s throat constricted and his chest heaved with sobs. With both hands, he drew the sword reverently to his lips and kissed the blood-crusted blade.

There was no doubt about it. God and John Brown had called him to a grand new purpose in life—one which, from this day forward, he must never try to avoid.