Brown watched them come. One hand was on his carbine. The other felt the pulse of his dying son. “Sell your lives dear,” he said. The rifle-shots Rattled within the bricked-in engine-room Like firecrackers set off in a stone jug, And there was a harsh stink of sweat and powder. There was a moment when the door held firm. Then it was cracked with sun. Brown fired and missed. A shadow with a sword leaped through the sun. “That’s Ossawattomie,” said the tired voice Of Colonel Washington. The shadow lunged And Brown fell to his knees. The sword bent double, A light sword, better for parades than fighting, The shadow had to take it in both hands And fairly rain his blows with it on Brown Before he sank. Now two marines were down, The rest rushed in over their comrades’ bodies, Pinning one man of Brown’s against the wall With bayonets, another to the floor.