So the night wore away, indecisive and strange. The raiders stuck by the arsenal, waiting perhaps For a great bell of jubilation to toll in the sky, And the slaves to rush from the hills with pikes in their hands, A host redeemed, black rescue-armies of God. It did not happen. Meanwhile, there was casual firing. A townsman named Boerley was killed. Meanwhile, the train Passed over the bridge to carry its wild news Of abolition-devils sprung from the ground A hundred and fifty, three hundred, a thousand strong To pillage Harper’s Ferry, with fire and sword. Meanwhile the whole countryside was springing to arms. The alarm-bell in Charlestown clanged “Nat Turner has come.’ Nat Turner has come again, all smoky from Hell, Setting the slave to murder and massacre!” The Jefferson Guards fell in. There were boys and men. They had no uniforms but they had weapons. Old squirrel-rifles, taken down from the wall, Shot guns loaded with spikes and scraps of iron. A boy dragged a blunderbuss as big as himself.