They reached the Maryland bridge of Harper’s Ferry That Sunday night. There were twenty-two in all, Nineteen were under thirty, three not twenty-one, Kagi, the self-taught scholar, quiet and cool, Stevens, the cashiered soldier, Puritan-fathered, A singing giant, gunpowder-tempered and rash. Dauphin Thompson, the pippin-cheeked country-boy, More like a girl than a warrior; Oliver Brown, Married last year when he was barely nineteen; Dangerfield Newby, colored and born a slave, Freeman now, but married to one not free Who, with their seven children, waited him South, The youngest baby just beginning to crawl; Watson Brown, the steady lieutenant, who wrote Back to his wife, “Oh, Bell, I want to see you And the little fellow very much but must wait. There was a slave near here whose wife was sold South. They found him hanging in Kennedy’s orchard next morning. I cannot come home as long as such things are done here. I sometimes think that we shall not meet again.”